Lois Greiman

1653

“I
should have been here,” Keelan gritted. He tried to be strong, but his voice sounded pale and spidery amid the wails of Old Bailey’s unseen inhabitants.

His mother reached between the rusty squares of the dungeon’s enclosure. Her arms were thin and pale, smeared with dirt. He took her hands, felt the bones, sharp and narrow beneath her chilled skin.

“Ye had na way of knowing of our troubles, Ange.”

’Twas true. They hadn’t informed him, after all. Had sent him no missives. There were only the dreams to suggest there might be troubles at home. Only the dreams.

“Who did this to ye?” His voice sounded
stronger now, the voice of the man he had come to be, the man they had raised him to become.

Iona shook her head. “It matters not.”

He gritted his teeth, tasting death on his tongue, feeling bile curdle his stomach. “I heard…I was told…” His voice broke. “They killed Da.”

She tightened her grip, holding him hard, ragged nails digging into his hands. “Nay. Nay, lad, they did na kill him,” she said, but there was fear in her voice, tears in her bonny eyes. “He died of his wounds, luv. Na one was to blame.”

Anger mingled with a dozen roiling emotions, making his skin clammy, his head light. “Where is Mr. Kirksted? Why is he na here, defending yer name?”

“He was, of course, but as your da’s first mate, he too sustained wounds while at sea. Still, he tried to convince them of me innocence.”

“Innocence!” His voice cracked like an untried lad’s. “This is madness. Ye are na…” For a moment he could not push the word past his frozen lips.

“Dunna worry on it, Ange. All will be well. Go back to Paris. Back to your studies.”

“Go back!” Was she mad? Had this hideous place pushed her past the brink of sanity? “I canna leave ye here in this…this…” For a mo
ment he feared he might cry. Might wail like the terrified creature he was.

Her hands tightened. Her voice did the same. “’Tis madness, just as ye have said. Thus, they will surely free me.”

“They accused ye of witchcraft.” He whispered the words, as if he might keep it secret, as if all hadn’t heard the horrible lies. “When all ye did was try to save him.”

“I ken, luv. I ken, but ’tis all a mistake. Naught else. They will set me free, sure.”

He wanted to believe, was desperate to do so, but there was a quiver in her voice, a terror in her eyes that galvanized his resolve. “I’ll see ye released, Mum.” His words were a solemn vow spoken hushed and reverent. “I’ll speak to Mr. Kirksted. He will still have influence with the—”

“Nay!” Her voice was strident suddenly. “Ye mustn’t. Go back to yer university. Go back.”

He shook his head. “But surely Kirksted—”

“Ye will stay clear of him,” she hissed. “Stay clear. Do ye hear what I say?”

Keelan shook his head, trying to sift through his murky fear to the truth beneath. “Is he responsible for—”

“Nay! Of course na. But if ye make trouble they may well think we be in league, ye and I.” Tears made tracks through the grime on her face.

“Ye’re na a witch!”

“Na,” she whispered. “But they dunna care.”

“Why are they doing this?”

She shook her head.

“What do they hope to gain? Is it coin? Might they think Da somehow salvaged the great treasure he spoke of? That it was na lost back to the sea as—”

“It does na matter.”

He drew himself up. Fear was yet there, but dim now, receding. “Nay, it does na. For I will stop them. This I swear.”

“Nay! Please.” She seemed so small now, so pale and fragile behind the vile bars. “Promise me ye will na.”

He squeezed her hand and held her gaze with his own. “Do ye think me such a coward?”

“A coward…” She said the words slowly, her voice calm and unbroken for the first time since his arrival there. “Nay, me luv. Never that.” She released his hand and set her palm to his cheek. Her fingertips felt dry and cold. “The blood of the Black Celt flows strong in yer veins. I knew it from the first moment I held ye in me arms. From the moment I loved ye with the whole of me heart.”

His throat constricted. “I will see ye free, Mum. This I swear.”

Her dark, Gypsy eyes bored into his, and then she nodded, face solemn, eyes bright.

“Verra well,” she said. “I will show ye a way. But ye must swear on yer father’s grave that ye will follow me every word.”

“I dunna need—”

“Swear to me!” she ordered, eyes gleaming in the dimness, and there was naught he could do but obey.

1819

“C
older than a sea witch’s arse,” Keelan muttered and stumbled again, nearly falling face first in the sodden bog. A cold northwesterly drove rain, hard and fast, into his face, soaking the tunic beneath the threadbare waistcoat he held bunched tight at his throat. “And I would be knowing,” he added, then snorted at his own wit, dubious though it was. But whose humor would not be a bit stale given the circumstances? It had been raining since well before dusk. His last meal was little more than a cherished memory, and he was still mourning the loss of the small fortune he’d left the three gentlemen with whom he’d been gaming some days past. But the term gentlemen was loosely used indeed. Not one of them had cracked a grin the entire
evening. On the other hand…He tripped again, righted himself, stumbled on. What they lacked in frolicking good natures they more than made up for in coin…and size. Arms as big around as Keelan’s legs. Necks the size of…The toe of his saturated boot caught on something unseen in the darkness. He lurched forward, stopping his fall with his hands and feeling sheep droppings squish between his frigid fingers.

“Ahh,” he said, rolling onto his back and laughing into the hard-driving rain. Where there were sheep droppings there were sheep, as ol’ Toft was wont to say, Keelan thought, and grinned into the stinging deluge before struggling to his feet. Shuttling up a slippery incline, he gazed into the little dale that fell sharply away. It was as dark as the devil’s broom closet below him, but dotted here and there among the sweeping hillocks were clumps of woolly gray. Sheep. Better known to the wayward Scotsman as dinner on the hoof.

Slipping back down the hill a scant few inches, Keelan fumbled with the ancestral sporran that hung from his waist. Opening it was no simple task, for his fingers had gone numb and stupid with the cold. His muscles were cramped and aching, but his night vision did not fail him. Still, dipping a dart into the corked vial was an oner
ous chore. Neither was it simple to fit the tiny weapon into its wooden tube. Yet he managed.

And voilà! Less than an hour later, the world seemed a brighter place. Quite literally in fact, for Keelan of the Forbes was squatting on his haunches before a small but optimistic fire. There was even a roof of sorts above his head. Granted, that roof was supported by slightly less than three walls and might well tumble in on him with any careless move. But ’twas daft luck that had led him to this dubious shelter in the first place, and he would ever greet good fortune with a merry “good day” when he happened upon it.

His ancient kinsmen had been entirely wrong. This was his path, despite their dire warnings. Who were they to warn him anyway? Their own lives had been fraught with dangers. Hiltsglen—the Black Celt. O’Banyon—the Irish Hound. And Toft—the Wanderer. They had tried to pretend they were naught but ordinary Highlanders, but he knew better from the moment he first met them. Saw the eerie strangeness in them just as he saw it in himself. But while their gifts were astounding—Hiltsglen’s granite courage, O’Banyon’s bestial strength, Toft’s inexplicable abilities—Keelan’s own talents seemed to be somewhat more humble. Sleeping, for instance.
He was first-rate at sleeping. Well, that and chicanery. The Irish Hound had headed north looking for a healer and found naught but Keelan, a scheming Highlander just up from a lengthy nap.

Oh aye, Keelan had descended from these men of the mist, but he had somehow failed to inherit their talents. Thus, in the two years since his awakening, he had learned to make his own luck, to do without the creature comforts he had known in his former life. And now, after months of laborious scheming, circumstances were fast improving.

Eyeing the lamb that lay motionless at his feet, he grinned. Unless he was dreadfully mistaken, naught but good would come of this night’s—

“Hello,” said a towering shadow, and stepped inside the shelter. Firelight flickered on the bare arms that stuck like bulging sausages from holes in a sleeveless tunic.

Keelan scrambled madly to his feet. “Mary and Joseph!” he rasped, scurrying backward and crashing into the crumbling wall behind him.

“Actually…” said another, and stepped from the darkness, “my name is Roland.” He was as slim as the other was stout, as small as the giant was huge. His round face looked angelic in the flickering glow of the firelight, and his golden
hair gleamed like a polished halo. “And yonder gentleman is called Frankie.”

Keelan shifted his gaze. Frankie was the approximate size of a draft horse and fisted his plowshare hands with impatient slowness.

“I dunna mind telling ye lads, ye scared the living blazes outta me,” Keelan breathed. Always good to tell the truth if it suited his needs.

Roland smiled, but despite his angelic good looks, the expression did nothing to warm one’s cockles even if one happened to know what the hell cockles were. “And who might you be, friend?”

Keelan skipped his gaze to the lamb near Frankie’s mammoth feet and lied for all he was worth. “Me name be Bruce.” His mind was racing like a cheating Englishman, skittering over well-laid schemes. Perhaps, after all, this was not his wisest plan to date. “Of the Highland MacLeods.” Stepping forward, he reached for Roland’s hand. They shook. “’Tis glad I am to meet ye.” He shook Frankie’s hand next, relieved when his own average-sized mitt emerged unscathed. “I be Lord Seafirth’s lad.”

“Seafirth?”

“Aye. Sure ye know him,” Keelan said. “Deaf ol’ bugger he be, but with a good heart. He lives over yonder.” He gave his head a tilt in
no particular direction. “Past Learloch Hills.”

Roland’s eyes gleamed as though anticipating some unspoken pleasure. “The bald old gaffer in the thatched cottage?”

“Aye.” Keelan laughed. Perhaps he should have been relieved by the other’s seeming jocularity, but his scalp was tingling. Still, it was not a premonition. He didn’t believe in premonitions.

“That’s the one. Hairless as a hen’s egg he be. And near as toothless.” Glancing to his right, Keelan calculated his chances of escape. Not bad really. One in ten at least. “Makes him look like a withered ol’ apple.” He nodded, biding his time. His mind was ever faster than his feet. “I see to his sheep, I do. He’s been worried sick aboot poor wee blighter there,” he said, and cast his gaze sadly toward the lamb.

Roland’s gaze flickered to the inert little body. “Looks rather dead, does it not?”

“Aye.” Keelan shook his head. “I fear so. ’Tis a terrible shame, it is. Me master will cry himself to sleep for a week.” Keelan’s stomach twisted up hard. No, he didn’t believe in premonitions, but he was a strong advocate of saving his own hide. “Silly wee lambkin wandered off some days past after the lightning storm and—”

“I don’t know any Lord Seafirth,” said Roland and took a step forward.

Keelan resisted crowding back. It would do no good. The wall was behind him. The roof, such as it was, slanted overhead, and the lamb lay in accusatory silence off to his left. But he straightened his back and fixed a scowl of disappointed surprise on his reputedly handsome face. “I hope ye’re na thinking
I
killed this poor beastie.”

Roland’s bland expression changed naught a whit. “Killed it? Certainly not. We wouldn’t be thinking something so uncharitable as all that, would we, Frankie?”

Frankie, Keelan noticed, didn’t answer, but shuffled a few steps closer. He also noticed that a good-sized branch drooped from the rotting thatch roof not far above his own head.

“Unfortunately for you, boy, the question is not whether we believe you, but whether Lord Chetfield is in a kindly mood,” Roland said.

Chetfield! A sharp vision of pain seared Keelan like a flame, freezing his breath in his chest. He’d come to the right place after all, only to find himself outmanned. “Lord Chetfield?” he repeated blithely.

Roland smiled. His teeth were perfect. His soul was not. “Lord Chetfield is the gentleman whose animal you recently poached, boy.”

“Poached!” Keelan puffed out his chest, em
ploying his best expression of offended indignation, but not without once again assessing his chances of escape. If Frankie took but a few more steps, there might just be room to nip between him and the wall. Once he was outside, the devil himself would have a time finding him in the lovely darkness. “As I said afore, this be me master’s sheep.”

“Seafirth’s.”

“Aye,” Keelan agreed. “
Lad
, he said, tears in his rheumy ol’ eyes.” Keelan sincerely wished he could conjure up a few tears of his own, but his eyes remained disappointingly dry. “
Me wee lambkin has gone missing. The one with the two-toned face and the speckle of black in his bobbling tail. Fetch him back for me if ever you can.”

Roland grinned. “Looks to be a ewe lamb.”

Frankie had shuffled forward another step.

Keelan shifted his gaze back to the smaller of the two. “What’s that ye say?”

“The dead lamb.” Roland nodded toward the small beast. “Looks to be the wrong sex, according to your master’s pitiable plea.”

Keelan quickly perused the lamb’s hindquarters and resisted cursing out loud, but fook it all, since when had angelic-looking villains become so damned concerned with the gender of livestock? And supposedly dead livestock at that.

“Aye, well…” Keelan said, plotting madly, “Firth’s eyesight be na what it once was.”

Roland laughed. “Deaf, bald, and blind. Are you certain old Seafirth is still breathing?”

Come on, Frankie lad
, Keelan thought. Just a few steps closer, and he would be hotfooting it back toward his kinsmen, such as they were. Empty-handed, true, but neither the Black Celt nor ol’ Toft was likely to complain. They’d thought this a fool’s errand at the outset. “Aye, well, he’s had his share of troubles but—”

“But you’re lying like a French whore?”

Keelan cocked his head, actually hoping for an instant that his ears were playing tricks on him. “What’s that?”

“This is what I think…” Roland’s tone was casual, his mouth tilted up at the corner. “You are a miscreant.” He shrugged. “Perhaps a daring bandit, but more likely a petty thief. There was trouble in a nearby village. You…aggravated the wrong people. Threats were issued. You managed to escape with your life. And…” He lifted perfectly manicured hands. “Here you are, slaughtering my lord’s prize lambs.”

“Slaughtering! Nay. I assure ye—”

“But perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps there is something more sinister at work here.” He paused, maybe for thought, maybe to scare the
bloody wits out of Keelan, but there was hardly a need for that. The giant was all but breathing down his neck. “Either way, Chetfield will learn the truth before dawn.” He smiled, eyes bright as he nodded sideways. “Frankie, let us take our young friend home.”

Frankie took one final step forward.

“I’d love to oblige, but I fear I canna,” Keelan said, and in that instant leapt for the drooping timber half hidden in the thatch. There was a crack. It came away in his hands…no more than twelve inches long. He stared at his would-be weapon, then glanced up in wild horror. A blade appeared like magic in Roland’s fist. Frankie grinned and bunched his bovine neck. Fook it! “Let’s na be hasty, lads,” he suggested, and then the roof came tumbling in.

Keelan sprang forward. Blunt fingers brushed his arm, but he was almost free. Hunching his shoulders, he flashed a grin as he sprinted past. “Sorry to leave ye, lads,” he rasped, but something swung suddenly toward his face. Pain exploded in his head like Chinese fireworks, and instantly he was lying on his back while the world spun by in hazy confusion. A thousand thoughts mumbled foggily in his head. A dozen voices chanted and cajoled. Above him, Roland stood against the inky sky.

“Sorry…lad,” he said, fingering his blade. “Perhaps I forgot to tell you about Bear here.”

Keelan shifted his slippery attention to the right. A third man stood there, big as a boulder, blocking out the night. “Bad luck,” Keelan rasped, and slid silently into the darkness of his mind.