Amanda Scott (45 page)

She made no effort to dismount, waiting until Ewan jumped from his horse, put his hands at her waist, and swung her abruptly to the ground. Chuff and Pinkie soon stood beside her. When Pinkie’s small hand crept into hers, Mary gave it an encouraging squeeze.

Roughly, Ewan grabbed Mary’s shoulder and pushed her toward the stairs leading up to the main entrance. The wooden steps were icy, and she held tight to the rail with one hand and to Pinkie’s hand with the ether.

Behind her, Chuff muttered, “Ye needna shove a fellow. I’m going!”

“Mind your manners, brat,” Allan growled, “or you’ll feel my whip across your shoulders.”

Mary pressed her lips tightly together. To let Allan bait her into defending the children now could do no good. Besides, Chuff could take care of himself. He had shown that more than once over the past weeks. She could hear his feet clomping on the steps behind her.

Pinkie, clutching her cloak shut with her free hand, did not look back.

Moments later, they entered the castle, and Ewan urged Mary up the circular stone steps into the hall. She noted that the place looked just the same. Freshly lit candles, and a roaring fire on the hearth showed that the floor and paneling still needed polish. The big table in the center held congealed remnants of a meal served some time before, and the pointless lances in their racks made shadow patterns on the walls where light from the fire danced around them.

Ewan, coming to a stop beside her, said brusquely, “As you can see, lass, there is much for you to do here.”

“To what purpose?” she asked quietly.

“I’ve made you a widow, Mary Maclaine, but you’ll not be one for long. God intended you to be my wife, and so you shall be, just as soon as I can make proper arrangements. It will then be your task to see to the furbishing of your home.”

“This never will be my home,” she said between gritted teeth.

Before Ewan could reply, Allan said, “Let’s get on with it. I want to be away before Black Duncan’s men besiege us or this weather makes travel impossible.”

“They’ll not besiege us,” Ewan said. “None saw our faces but the lass here and the bairns, and even if they should suspect who planned the attack, no one remains with sufficient power to besiege this castle.”

“Argyll could,” Allan said sourly. “That’s why we didn’t kill them all.”

“Because all Campbell country would have risen if we had,” Ewan replied, “but the duke had no great liking for Black Duncan, and if you are thinking Rory Campbell will fly to avenge his death, think again. He’s a member of a high court, not a soldier. Moreover, by the time he and Argyll can put their heads together, the incident will be forgotten and the depths of winter full upon us. There will be nothing they can do then before spring, and if you think they’ll harbor strong feelings that long over Black Duncan’s fate, I say you are wrong.”

“Perhaps,” Allan said, “but I don’t want to be stuck here till spring, so make her tell you where the damned treasure lies, and make her tell you now.”

Ewan shook his head. “Language, language.”

“Don’t play your games with me, MacCrichton,” Allan snarled. “You don’t want me for your enemy, believe me. How will you make her work for us?”

Ewan glanced at Chuff and Pinkie, who were whispering together in the window alcove. “She cares more for those misbegotten brats than anyone should,” he said slowly. “I thought perhaps we might spit one and turn it slowly over the hall fire until—” He fell silent, smiling at Mary, letting her fill in the rest for herself.

She stiffened angrily. “If you think that by harming those children you can force me to do anything, Ewan MacCrichton, you had better think again. What you are suggesting is barbaric, and if you kill them, I promise I will let you kill me, too, before I will lift a finger to help you.”

“Ah, but we don’t mean to kill them, lass, only to roast them a wee bit. How long do you think you can bear to hear the wee one scream before you agree to do anything I command of you?”

Her blood chilled, but she faced him squarely. “If you still think I can call up my gift at will, you are a fool. And if you think the information you seek will come to me while I am distraught over the torturing of an innocent child, you are mad.”

“We’ll see. They are mighty dear to you, I think.”

“The gift visits me, Ewan,” she said, striving to sound calm. “It does not work by my command. I have not had a single vision in a year, and I might not have another for many years to come. If I could control it, or if it simply came whenever someone dear to me lay in danger, it would have warned me of Duncan’s death.” With a catch in her voice and a hope that God would forgive her the lie, she added firmly, “It did not so much as nudge me to expect any trouble.”

Ewan grimaced. Glancing at Allan, he said, “I hadn’t thought about that. Why did she not know about the ambush if she can call such things into her head?”

Allan shrugged. “Who is to say why it works or fails? I say she never loved Black Duncan enough to stir the Sight. How could she? The man was a menace. Don’t tell me that life with him was a pleasure for our Mary, for I won’t believe it. In fact, we know it was not. He cared more for another, and Mary frequently defied him, so why should her visions warn her about harm coming to him?”

“I did care for him,” Mary said, her throat aching. “I cared very much.”

“So you say now, when your future lies in jeopardy if you can’t make us believe the Sight ought to have saved him,” Allan said, jeering. “I see how it is, you know. You don’t want to stay here with Ewan. Well, that’s just too bad for you.”

“She’ll stay, right enough,” Ewan said, nodding.

“You should be glad he wants you,” Allan told her. “He’ll make you a good enough husband, and no one will even object that he should have waited a decent time after he takes you to his bed. Neither Rory nor Argyll will give a damn about you once you’ve lain with Ewan, nor will any court. It is not rape if others claim you went to him willingly, and they will. A host of them will, for we’ve seen to that.”

She believed him, and again chills shot up her spine. Even if her cousins, her aunt, Rory Campbell, and the Duke of Argyll all believed every word she told them, there would be nothing they or anyone could do after she had been with Ewan for months, lying with him as his wife. There were even those who would be willing to believe he had stolen her heart long before Duncan’s death, or that she had given it.

Allan was watching her, no doubt shrewdly judging her reaction to his words. The harsh look on his face relaxed. He said, “You know I’m right, Mary, lass, for I know you well.” He looked at Ewan. “She would give her life for those children if she believed her death would save them, you know. However,” he added looking slyly back at Mary, “while she may be unable to draw on her gift if you make her fret herself to flinders over
them,
what if we can arrange it so the only one she frets about is herself?”

Ewan frowned, and Mary felt herself tensing. She did not like to think she was a coward, but if Allan was thinking of roasting her over the fire in place of the children, she was certain they all would soon discover just how weak she was. Not that such brutality would help them in their quest, for she could scarcely have visions or report them if she was screaming her head off in agony.

Clearly Ewan thought the same, for he shook his head. “I’ve no objection to taking a few minutes to remind the lass that she must do as I tell her, but if you are suggesting I use the same techniques against her that Butcher Cumberland used to get information from his enemies, you’d best think again, Breck.”

Allan chuckled, no doubt reading Mary’s mind again. Just the mention of Cumberland had shaken her. Instantly, the images of her father, brother, and sister rose unbidden to her mind. That men could do such things to other men was horrid enough. That her sister had fallen victim still appalled her. That men could even think of doing such things to women and children in peacetime was much worse.

“I would never stoop to Cumberland’s methods unless I chanced to get the Butcher himself into my clutches,” Allan said. “Then I would forget the rules, and gladly. I was thinking that there are other, far more useful tools at our command.”

“And what tools might those be?”

“Use the lassie’s own greatest fear to stir her gift to action.”

“I do not follow your reasoning, man,” Ewan said impatiently. “Be plain. What would you have me do to her?”

Instead of answering directly, Allan said, “Before Culloden, Baron MacCrichton held the power of the pit and the gallows, did he not?”

“Aye, for centuries. The pit lies under yon rug by the stairway door.”

“It is entered from this level of the castle, then?”

“Aye, it is. There is no entry below, just walls six foot thick that help support the house. The trap door lies under the wee rug yonder. The pit beneath it is nigh onto twenty feet deep.”

“Dark is it?”

“Aye.” Looking bewildered, Ewan said, “Full dark with the trap shut.”

Mary’s skin began to crawl. She backed away from Ewan.

From the window, Chuff demanded, “What will ye do tae our Mary?”

Both men ignored him. They were watching Mary.

Ewan said, “Why did you want to know about the pit?”

“Because I happen to know,” Allan said, his mocking gaze fixed on Mary, “that dark, enclosed places terrify her. I’d wager my last meal that her gift will stir to life right quick if we drop her down that pit and leave her alone there overnight.”

Ewan was still watching Mary, and try as she did, she could not conceal her fear. It threatened to overwhelm her, making her palms feel so clammy that she wiped them on her cloak. Her lips felt dry and cracked, and despite her earlier attempt to force Duncan’s image from her mind, now she tried with all her might to recapture it. She failed, for she could think only about the dark threat of unending confinement in the pit.

Smiling, Allan went to the small rug, bent, and whisked it away from the trap door. Gripping an iron ring, he raised the trap. “I cannot even see the bottom,” he said. “Twenty feet, you say?”

“Aye, maybe thirty,” Ewan said. “Well, lass?”

She could not drag her gaze from the open trap door.

Allan called for a torch, and one of the men lit one for him at the fire. Plunging the flame into the pit, he said, “Are those bones I see below?”

Ewan laughed, a harsh dry sound. “Nay, we cleaned them out years ago. Don’t go frighting the lass more than we need. She’s as pale as dust, as it is.”

“What will ye do tae our Mary?” Chuff demanded again, fear making his voice shrill.

“You shut your mouth if you don’t want to feel the back of my hand,” Ewan snapped. “Take your sister and go upstairs or down to the kitchen. You don’t belong here in the hall with your betters. I’ll deal with you later, I will.”

“We’re as good as ye, laird. Flaming Janet said so! Our daddy and mam were handfasted, they were, and that’s as good as married, she said.”

“Not when they broke the handfast before you were born, it isn’t,” Ewan snarled, “and not when the parson never spoke words to make it right. Now go!”

“Mistress Mary and Himself were kind tae us,” Chuff said stoutly. “They didna mak’ us stay in the kitchen.”

“More fools they, then. I don’t want to hear your voice again, or see your face.” Ewan glanced at Mary, who had been wondering what had possessed the boy to challenge him, and why Chuff’s words had angered him so. “Pay him no heed, lass. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Moreover, it’s time for you to go down in that pit unless you’ve changed your mind about helping us.”

Allan had been watching her thoughtfully, and he said now, “It may well be, you know, that she’s already had a vision and failed to tell anyone about it. What about that, Mary? Mind, you tell us the truth now.”

Wordlessly, she shook her head. She would not tell them of her dreams.

Ewan said sharply, “Do you think she’s lying?”

Allan chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound. “I don’t know that she’s ever told a lie in her life,” he said, “but you can easily see that she can’t think about anything now but the deep, dark hole beside me. You’re for it, Mary, lass, unless you agree to help.”

“I won’t. I-I can’t.” For a moment, she wished that she could, but then the thought of what Allan meant to do with the treasure steadied her. She could not let him take it with him back to France. Even if a vision should come to her, she could reveal the treasure’s whereabouts only if she was willing to see England and Scotland at war again. Drawing a long breath, she said, “Do what you will.”

Allan dropped the trap door to the floor, leaving the black pit gaping, and moved toward her. At the same time, Ewan grasped her arm and urged her forward.

“Wait,” she said, her courage failing at the sight of the yawning blackness. “If you drop me twenty feet, I might be killed. Is that what you want?”

The two men looked at each other. Ewan grimaced. Then, over his shoulder, he shouted, “One of you men, fetch us a good stout rope!”

Mary could see down into the pit’s blackness now, and shivering, she tried to pull back, but Allan held her. Chuckling, he shoved her sharply forward, making her lose her balance so that the only thing that kept her from falling into the pit was his grip, and Ewan’s, on her arms. Involuntarily, she screamed.

“Dinna hurt our Mary!” Chuff shrieked, flinging himself at them, his hands clutching at the men’s fingers on her arms, trying to pry them loose. “Let her go!”

“Begone, lad,” Ewan snapped, knocking the boy away.

Chuff fell backward, but he jumped up again and hurled himself at Ewan.

“Ye’ll no hurt our Mary. I’ll murder ye, ye great ugsome brute!”

This time it was Allan who struck the boy away, hitting him hard.

“Don’t hurt him,” Mary cried, struggling wildly to free herself when she saw Chuff go head over heels then lie still. “He only wanted to help me!”

Already the boy was stirring, trying to sit up. He looked dazed.

Allan’s fingers bruised her arm. Ewan’s grip was lighter. He was watching one of his men approach with a coil of rope.