Amanda Scott (6 page)

The most likely was that she would fall. She had never climbed down a rope before, and she suspected that it would prove harder than she imagined rather than easier. Knowing what Ewan meant to do to her after Duncan left lent her courage, however, and when she finally heard Chuff returning, she rushed to meet him. With relief she saw that he carried a thick coil of rope slung over one thin shoulder.

“I thought you were never coming,” she said.

“I had tae nip round the laird’s men,” he said. “D’ye want me tae help? ’Cause if I’m tae meet up wi’ ye, I’d best be skipping out afore anyone finds I mean tae go.”

“Yes, go at once,” Mary said. “If someone catches me at this, I don’t want them suspecting that you helped me. Take that tray with you when you go, and hope they think I found this rope under the bed, or that someone else gave it to me.”

“But can ye manage it all on yer own?”

“Go, Chuff!”

He obeyed, albeit with clear reluctance, and the moment he had gone, Mary set the side chair under the latch hook, anchoring it firmly between floorboards. Then, hurrying, her mind focused solely on her task now, she tied one end of the rope to a stout bedpost, uncoiled the rest, and flung it out of the open window, noting with satisfaction that it reached nearly to the top of the steep escarpment.

Despite his words to her, Duncan had found it hard to ignore MacCrichton’s treatment of Mary Maclaine. He had often thought he would like to skelp the lass himself for exerting her feminine wiles to draw Ian to her side on the fatal night. But thinking such thoughts and seeing a burly man like MacCrichton take a whip to her had proved to be two entirely different things.

He had more important matters to deal with at the moment, however, so he forced himself to concentrate on learning the whereabouts of Allan Breck. That, after all, was why he had come to Shian Towers. It was no business of his what MacCrichton did with the woman he meant to marry.

Duncan waited only until the door had shut behind the wench. Then, drawing up a chair near MacCrichton’s, he said, “I want to ask you about the outlaw Allan Breck. I’m told that you might know where I can find him.”

“What name was that again?”

Barely controlling a surge of impatience, Duncan said, “Allan Breck. He is a Stewart, related to Ardsheal and suspected of conspiring with James Stewart in the Appin murders.”

“Half of Appin claims kinship to Ardsheal,” MacCrichton said. “As to the Appin murders, your father and the others who investigated still think those same folks conspired to murder Glenure. Ardsheal’s exile has accomplished little.”

“He betrayed his country,” Duncan said evenly. “He is fortunate to have escaped to France. In any event, it is not about the Laird of Ardsheal that I seek information. Tell me what you know of Allan Breck.”

“Breck … Breck …”

“Don’t muck about, MacCrichton. I know that you are acquainted with the man, so equivocation will only lead me to count you as his friend. You don’t want that, for you will soon find that you cannot move a step away from Shian Towers without men following and watching where you go. They’ll also watch all who come and go here. I don’t think you or your real friends want that.”

MacCrichton grimaced. “I do not. What a thing to do to a man! Still, it won’t be as easy as you claim, what with winter coming on and all.”

“By the time the heavy snow flies, Breck will be back in France, but you will still be here,” Duncan pointed out. “I want him, and I think he is in the Highlands now. Believe me when I tell you that you don’t want to be the man who keeps me from getting my hands on him.”

“Here now,” MacCrichton began, glaring at him, but when Duncan gazed grimly back at him, he did not continue. Instead, after swallowing visibly, he cleared his throat and said in quite a different tone, “Fetch ale, MacSteele.”

Duncan did not press him, but MacCrichton’s hesitation had not surprised him. Though the two were of comparative size and weight, he had watched even larger men blench when he grew angry. He waited until MacCrichton’s man poured their ale. Then, sitting on a bench by the table and stretching his legs toward the warmth of the fire, he said, “What do you know about Breck?”

MacCrichton drank deeply. Then he said, “I do not know why you think I’m your man. I’ll not deny I know Breck. Nor I won’t deny that I know many hereabouts think he killed Glenure and that you think he killed your brother.”

“I know he killed Ian. He confessed as much to his own cousin.”

“What, to Mary? She never said he confessed to—”

“I don’t know if he told her,” Duncan said impatiently. “He told his cousin Diana Maclean. Your Mary has lived with Diana’s family these seven years and more, however, and since they are cousins, then Breck …”

“She don’t like him much, that’s certain,” MacCrichton said. “She’s hinted as much to me more than once this past year.” His gaze shifted.

Duncan waited, knowing the man had more to say and would be more likely to say it if he did not press him.

MacCrichton grimaced. “Aye, then, she did say she holds Breck responsible. Said he killed Ian in a fight, but Breck said—” He flashed an angry look at Duncan. “You needn’t look at me like that. She don’t blame him for Ian’s death near as much as she blames—” He glanced at Duncan, cleared his throat again noisily, then muttered, “It don’t matter what she thinks. She’s just a foolish woman.”

Duncan got up and set his mug on the big table with a bang. “You are trying my patience,” he snapped. “Tell me what you know about Breck, and I’ll go.”

“I know he’s in the district,” MacCrichton said, capitulating, “but I’m speaking God’s truth when I say I don’t know where he is. You might find him on Rannoch Moor, for he has friends there, and his mother. I cannot think why you came to me.”

“Then I will tell you,” Duncan said grimly. “I’ve come because I heard that he expects to receive a large sum of money this trip, more than usual and enough to begin yet a new movement in France. Perhaps here, as well. Whenever men mention that unusual sum, MacCrichton, your name comes up. Now, what about it?”

MacCrichton turned pale. Then, even as Duncan began to doubt his sources, he leapt to his feet, and just as quickly as his color had fled, it returned, reddening his face with anger.

“My name,” he cried. “What the devil would my name have to do with anything?”

“Look, I’m just telling you that—”

As if Duncan had not spoken, MacCrichton went on furiously, “If I had money to give someone like Breck, would I not have paid what I owe to the Crown for my pardon? I’ve only till Candlemas to produce two thousand pounds, and that sum is nowhere as great as the sort of money you’re talking about. Do I look like a bloody philanthropist? For that matter, do I look like the sort of man to entrust my money to a chap like Allan Breck?”

“You fought for the same cause,” Duncan reminded him.

“Aye, and I know what manner of man he is. Don’t forget that until a year ago I was in France myself. Had I known the whereabouts of such a sum, and wanted to donate it, would I not have asked him to fetch it then, when the movement was stirring and in sore need of funding? Use your head, damn you!”

At first, MacCrichton’s diatribe shook Duncan’s belief in his connection to Allan Breck, but the more he protested, the less uncertain Duncan became. He could not doubt that something in what he had said had shocked the man. Nor could he doubt MacCrichton’s sudden fury, but he did not seem to be directing that fury at Duncan. Waiting until he was certain the other man meant to say no more, Duncan said quietly, “Might Mistress Maclaine have knowledge of Breck’s whereabouts?”

“Ask her,” MacCrichton growled.

His quick agreement made Duncan wonder if he was eager to shift the focus of the questions away from himself to Mary. Still, Breck had visited Maclean House on more than one occasion. Perhaps the lass did know where he was.

“Send your man to fetch her back here then,” Duncan said.

MacCrichton gestured to his henchman, and Duncan noted with satisfaction that Bannatyne followed the man into the stairwell to make certain he went up and not down. Bannatyne was a good man.

“Have some more ale,” MacCrichton said with a sigh. “I’ve no quarrel with you. In point of fact, I feared when I saw you that you had come for the lass.”

“Why would I do that?”

MacCrichton shrugged. “She was close to your brother. I thought you might feel some responsibility toward her, and I did not think she had told you about our intention to marry.”

“Did she tell anyone?” Duncan’s tone was sarcastic.

“Oh, her people know we intend to marry. They will be surprised to learn we are doing so at once, I suspect, but the lass wanted the security of a home of her own. We were to wait until spring, but when her kinsmen decided to journey into Perthshire for the winter, she grew lonely and tumbled into my lap, so to speak.”

“True love, then.” Duncan heard the edge in his voice and said no more. He did not want to reveal his feelings about Mary Maclaine to this man.

MacCrichton had heard the edge, for he said hastily, “Don’t be thinking she did not really care for Ian, for nothing could be farther from the truth. She insisted upon a full year’s mourning, and more, for she mourned James Stewart as well. But we agreed that she would be wiser to get herself settled before winter set in, rather than spend the whole season alone. Since she had decided not to travel into Perthshire with her aunt and cousin, it seemed an excellent notion.”

Duncan frowned. “Somehow, MacCrichton, I did not perceive that the pair of you were wildly in love.”

MacCrichton chuckled. “You mean because I put her across my knee? Lord, man, she’s been leading me a dance, and she thought she could call the tune here the way she’s called it the past year and more. I just decided to show her where her duty lies. She defied me, and I showed her the error of her ways.”

“Well, don’t do it again until I’ve gone. I won’t trust information that has to be beaten out of the lass.”

“I doubt she’ll say much at all if we don’t press her.”

“You leave me to ask the questions then, for I can promise you, she knows me well enough that she won’t dare lie to me. I’ll find out what she knows.”

MacCrichton shrugged, getting up to refill his own mug, then looking impatiently toward the door. “Can’t think what’s keeping them. She’s had time and more to put her clothes on, and MacSteele knows better than to keep me waiting.”

Just then a clatter of boots sounded on the stone steps.

Bannatyne stuck his head in, saying to Duncan, “He’s coming now, sir.”

MacSteele hurried in, his face red. He was alone.

“Where the devil’s the girl?” MacCrichton demanded.

“She willna open the door, laird.”

“You have a key, man. Use it!”

“I tried, laird, but though I turn it, the door willna open. She wouldna answer when I called, either. Mayhap she’s had a fit and all.”

“Nonsense,” MacCrichton said, striding toward the door.

Duncan followed, wondering if MacCrichton had done more to her than he had seen him do. There had been only the one stripe, and she had not been screaming hysterically. One stripe and one scream seemed insufficient cause for a fainting fit, or worse. More likely, the lass was being obstreperous. Lord knew, the Maclean women were not known for being soft or submissive.

They soon reached the top of the stairs, and Duncan suddenly found himself suppressing laughter at the sight of MacCrichton and his henchman both trying to open the door at once. The area was small, lacking adequate room for both men to move about in the small space. MacSteele quickly gave way to his master, however, and MacCrichton rattled the door, then banged on it angrily.

“Open this door, lass! I’ll make you sorry if I have to break it down.”

Silence greeted him.

He pounded again. “Open this door at once! Do you hear me?”

More silence.

Duncan said, “Are you sure your man unlocked the door? What if it was unlocked before, and when he turned the key he locked it?”

MacCrichton stared at him, then looked at MacSteele. The henchman said quickly, “Mistress Maclaine ran up here, laird, and she didna have a key. The lad, Chuff, had one, and he must have been here when she came or the door would not be locked now. It takes a key to lock it, ye ken, and it canna be locked from inside.”

“That’s just what Black Duncan said, you fool. If the lad left it unlocked because she had not yet returned, she would just have closed it, not locked it. Are you sure you did not lock the door instead of unlocking it?”

“Aye, I’m sure, but ye can try for yourself, laird. Here’s the key.”

Snatching it from him, MacCrichton put it in the keyhole and turned it, trying to lift the latch at the same time. The latch would not budge.

“See, laird, it’s like I said. The door willna open either way.”

Turning the key again, MacCrichton nodded. “You’re right, so what the devil is wrong here? She’s done something to it.” Raising his voice, he snapped, “Mary, come open this door, or by God I’ll flog the skin right off your backside!”

No reply came from within.

Duncan said, “How solid is that door?”

“Not solid enough to stop me from getting in,” MacCrichton said grimly. Gathering himself, he flung his body against it, but there was little room to gain momentum, and he fell back with a grimace of pain. The door had not budged.

“Stand back,” Duncan said. “I think it must be blocked inside. Let me see how it feels.”

“If it’s blocked,” MacCrichton said, standing back to make room for him, “it’s something bloody effective. That door won’t budge.”

Duncan saw at once what he meant. Turning the key, he could feel the lock mechanism move, but no matter which way he turned it, the latch remained stuck. “There is no great mystery about which way the key must turn,” he said.

“It’s like any other,” MacCrichton said. “The devil fly away with the wench. I’ll take her apart for this trick. See if I don’t.”

Duncan ignored him, surveying the door thoughtfully. “Since it’s the latch that won’t move, we can assume she has not put the bed or some other heavy piece of furniture in front of it.”