Sarah Gabriel (28 page)

She had already borrowed an everyday gown of dark blue, which fit her well enough, if a bit long in the hem and wide at the waist. What she needed were the sturdy shoes she had worn earlier to replace her tattered heeled slippers. She found them and grabbed, too, a dark shawl in soft, lightweight tartan wool.

When she dragged the shawl from the chest it came in a lump, and she discovered that it had been wrapped around a small wooden box, latched in brass, which fell to the floor. The latches broke loose and papers and jewels—necklaces, earrings—scattered over the rug.

“Oh!” she muttered as she gathered the items and crammed them into the box again. A phrase on one page caught her eye.
Connor MacPherson,
it said, and
Lord Kinnoull.

Perhaps it was Connor’s box, then, and not his mother’s. Hastily adding the pages to the box and latching it shut, she set it aside. Throwing the tartan shawl over her head and shoulders, she went to the door.

Tiptoeing down the stairs, Sophie passed the great hall, where she heard Padraig talking softly to the dogs, who were so familiar with her step that none of them barked, though they no doubt heard her. She made her way carefully to the kitchen door and slipped outside into the gathering darkness.

Crossing the bailey, she realized that the gate would make noise, so she turned and hurried
through the back, searching the wall for Fiona’s escape route.

Passing the byre, she heard the cows lowing and a chicken make a nervous chuckling sound. Ahead she saw the patch of wooden planks set in the broken stone wall. She could not break through the repaired planks as Fiona might, but she could scramble up and over to the other side.

Perched on the wall ready to swing her feet over, she heard the dogs barking. Turning her head, she saw Tam and one of the terriers scurrying toward her.

“Shoo,” she hissed, lying on the upper rim of the wall. “Off with you, now!” She rested precariously on the top of the wall, one leg and skirts dangling over the edge as Tam barked at her. Then Una, or was it Scota, leaped so high on her hind legs that Sophie feared the little dog would flip backward in her excitement.

“Go away,” she pleaded. “
Truis!
”

“There you are, mistress,” Padraig said. He strolled toward her while Sophie looked around to see him. “I was warned you might try something like this.”

“Padraig! You must let me go. Please!”

“Kinnoull would have my head if I did.”

“He does not care what I do.”

“Of course he does. He made me promise to watch over you, and I must keep my word.”

“Padraig, I must be sure that my brother is safe.”

“Do you not trust Kinnoull to see to that?”

“It is Sir Henry I do not trust.”

“Well,” Padraig said, “neither do I. And I did not want to be left here while they all went off without me. I’ll come with you, then.” He began to scale the wall.

“Bless you, Padraig Murray.” She smiled as he joined her at the top. In return, his beautiful grin was dazzling in the twilight. Then he swung himself to the ground on the other side and held up his arms to her.

“Mistress, promise me that you will not get yourself into any trouble tonight.”

“I’ll try not to get you into trouble, either,” she said, and dropped over the edge. Padraig caught her by the waist and lowered her to the ground.

“I know which way the lads went. Hurry, mistress.” He took her arm.

“It’s Sophie,” she said, rushing along beside him.

“W
e cannot just walk down there and tell them to give us back the lads,” Andrew observed. Thomas grunted agreement.

Connor propped up on his elbows on the hill overlooking the scene. Campbell, in gray, and his red soldiers paced the hillside. “They are waiting for me, and for Sophie. But we’ll let them wait a bit longer.” He turned to Thomas. “The gunpowder is already plugged into the bridge—where did you put it?”

“It’s packed into three pewter tankards,” Thomas said. “We dug them into the underside of the stone bases, there, on the banks, two on the side of the river nearest the red soldiers, see, and one on the other side.”

“Did you embed the fuses?” Connor asked.

Thomas nodded.

“What are you thinking, Kinnoull?” Andrew asked. “You cannot blow the bridge with the men so close—it’s too much of a risk for Duncrieff and Neill.”

“We cannot walk out and grab them,” Connor explained. “And I have no intention of walking in the open to meet Campbell. We must catch their attention first.”

“Ah,” Roderick said. “Once we are ready to snatch the lads, we light the fuses.”

“Exactly,” Connor said. “Listen now. We’ll go along to the bridge below the riverbank, where we won’t be seen. Andrew and Roderick, can you run in the direction of the house?”

“Aye. That will lead them away from the prisoners,” Andrew said.

“What about me?” Thomas asked.

“You’ll be with me under the bridge. Do you have your firearm? Aye. Few men are as keen with that as you, Thomas, and you’ll have your chance to prove it.”

Thomas nodded. “I know where the fuses are, too.”

“Aye so.” Connor rose to his knees, watching the group of men on the hillside, and watching, as well, the sky above. It was dark enough now that they would not be seen easily if they kept close to the riverbank.

Drawing a deep breath, Connor knew he was placing all of his loyal friends at risk, but he also knew that they would have it no other way. And he was deeply glad that Sophie had stayed at Glendoon, where Padraig would keep watch over her.

The time had come, and they had to act. “Lads,” he murmured.

One by one they rose to a crouch and moved like
wraiths down the side of the hill toward the riverbank, dropping swiftly over the side.

“Get down!” Padraig pulled Sophie back behind a cluster of large rocks. She fell to her knees beside him, stumbling on the hem of the overlong dress.

If she leaned just so, away from the rock, she could see the house, the river, the stone bridge that arched over the water. A group of men stood on a hillside, with two seated on the grass.

And she could see Connor and the others running forward, crouching low, then dropping to their knees and bellies in the heather. She could only pray that the soldiers had not seen them.

“Campbell cannot go through with this,” Padraig said. “If he does, he will have more trouble than he could imagine. He has to prove that Connor has done some crime. Connor is Lord Kinnoull, and he is known to the military.”

“He was in the Am Freiceadan Dubh,” she said. “He told me.”

“Aye, as a former Black Watch captain. The military will treat him with respect—or so we can hope. Campbell cannot eliminate him so easily—or Duncrieff, either.”

Inching to the left, Sophie glimpsed Sir Henry and another guard walking up the hill and out of sight, leaving the seated men still guarded.

As they shifted positions, she saw Robert.

She knew the set of his shoulders, the ash blond hair. She caught her breath, and tears started in her eyes. He was alive, and seemed strong enough to sit upright, though his hands were bound.

She watched in silence for several minutes, until
she leaned so far that Padraig yanked her back. “I should never have let you come out here,” he said.

“Well, you could not stop me, then or now,” she hissed.

“Perhaps I could, then,” a voice said politely behind her.

Sophie whirled. Padraig leaped to his feet beside her, only to be knocked to the ground by the heavy thunk of a pistol butt.

“So nice to see you again, Miss MacCarran,” Sir Henry said, stepping aside as Padraig slipped to the ground.

“Oh!” she cried, falling to her knees. At a growl from Campbell, the red-coated soldier grabbed her by the arms and pulled her to her feet, holding her firmly in place while she writhed.

“Miss MacCarran,” Sir Henry said. “Finally we find you! It is so good to know you are safe at last.”

“Am I?” she asked coldly. She wrenched back, dodging his outstretched hand. He stepped closer and extended his hand again, taking her chin in his fingers, turning her face back and forth as she was held in the unyielding grip of the burly redcoat.

“So lovely,” he murmured. “There’s fairy blood in you, and no doubt. Delicate features, that hair like spun gold—and those eyes, such a remarkable color.”

She squeezed her eyes shut so he could not look into them, for his were hard and flat, of indeterminate gray or brown. His mild features had gone cruel.

Before she had ever met Sir Henry, she felt repulsed by him because of the way he had manipulated her kind father in his time of need, when he
had to beg favors from friends in his exile. And then when she met him, over a candlelight dinner, he seemed pleasant enough, if overly eager to be near her, touch her, stake a claim upon her.

In fact, Sir Henry Campbell was very nearly a stranger to her, and yet he had created deep turbulence in her life.

She opened her eyes. He was smiling, his lower teeth jagged and yellowed. “What do you want of me?” she asked. “Let us all go—you have no reason to keep any of us.” She looked frantically at Padraig, who lay on the ground, still and handsome and looking so young and vulnerable. Blood ran down his cheek from a cut on his head.

“I want my promise fulfilled, that is all,” Sir Henry said. “We were to marry.”

“I never wanted to marry you,” she replied. “And that is my choice in the matter. There. It is over. You have no need to do anything more to any of my family, or my friends, or my—”

“Your husband? Or so he claims to be. Come along.” He motioned to the soldier, who urged her to walk between him and Campbell. Sophie glanced back to see Padraig stir groggily, but the men led her around the back of the hill, so that she could not stop to help him. And she knew that if Connor looked in that direction, he would not be able to see her in Campbell’s company.

“Connor MacPherson is my husband,” she agreed. “And that was my choice, too. No one forced me to say my vows.” Well, that was true in part.

“He stole you away like the thief he is.”

“I am glad to be his wife,” she replied firmly. “I love him.” When she said that aloud, it felt good—so
right. “I love him,” she repeated. “There is no crime here. Leave us be, Sir Henry. The only wrongdoing is on your part.”

“I am owed my rights,” he said. He stopped, took her arm, pulled her to him, growled something to the soldier, who stepped back.

Campbell bent his head and placed his mouth on hers, cold lips, thin and moist. Sophie twisted, turned her head, tried to scream. He clapped his hand over her mouth—he smelled of tobacco and foulness—and dragged her against him. He was not a tall man, but wiry and strong, and she could not break free.

“I said,” he intoned in her ear, “I want my rights, and I will have them.”

She breathed hard, breasts heaving in the dark cotton dress, her stays snug against her ribs where he held her against him.

Campbell released his hand from her mouth, dragged her head around to look at him. “And you will please me in this, or you will see your brother die today, and your husband hang for his crimes.”

She shoved, stomping on his foot with the heel of her shoe. He staggered back but did not let go. She whirled to look at the red soldier behind her, and saw that he was very young.

“Will you not help? Will you watch this, knowing that it is wrong?” she demanded.

The soldier stared at her, and his eyes shifted uncertainly toward Campbell.

“Go on,” Campbell barked. “Guard the prisoners. It is your duty. I’ll take care of my fiancée—she ran from me in a fright about marriage, but I will treat her kindly,” he said, pulling her against him again.
“So kindly. Go!” he snapped. “You are here, soldier, to guard the prisoners in the magistrate’s keeping. Do it.”

The young soldier hesitated, glancing at Sophie. Then he turned and ran off, disappearing over the hillside.

Campbell turned her in his arms and kissed her, his fingers tight on her jaw. Sophie shoved at him, wrenched away only to be pulled back. She bit his lip and he let her go abruptly, swearing, though he kept one hand clawlike on her arm.

“I only mean to please you,” he said raggedly. “You had no cause to run from me. I intend to help your clan. They are risking all by their Jacobite sympathies. I can restore the reputation of Clan Carran, in return for—”

“For what?” she asked breathlessly, heart pounding. “You think to murder my brother and marry me, to be husband to the clan chief? Did you think I would do your will because I had been in a convent?”

“I am sure you know how to obey,” he said, and twisted her arm behind her, walking her forward. “I am sure we can come to a reconciliation. Your brother and your groom will have to pay for their crimes, of course, but the rest of your clan need not pay a price for rebellion,” he snarled.

“The rest—” She stopped, turned to look at him over her shoulder.

“I can ruin all of them unless you consent to be mine,” he said. “All of them, Sophie, for they are as bad a pack of rebels as has ever walked Highland ground. I will have your kinsmen arrested, their homes burned. I will have Duncrieff Castle forfeited to me. I will make certain,” he growled, “that your
sister is arrested. Do you know what happens to women in prison? No? I am certain that you can guess…now that you have been in MacPherson’s bed.”

“My sister—” Oh God. Not just Rob and Connor, but all of them, Kate and her cousins, all of Clan Carran would suffer if she did not do this man’s bidding.

“Why—Why do you want this?” she gasped as he marched her forward.

“There is no clan in the Highlands like the MacCarrans,” he said. “There is power in their blood, and they say there is fairy gold in that castle. Untold wealth, a king’s ransom.”

“That is just a legend,” she said. “There is one cup. One gold cup. Would you wreak all this damage for one old goblet?”

“If it held the key to the wealth of an ancient realm, I would,” he said.

“You’re mad. Will you risk your eternal soul for power over one small clan?”

“If it led me to paradise on earth,” he said, “I might.”

He dragged her forward, over the peak of the low hill, so that she saw Kinnoull House, majestic against the trees to her right, and the river flowing calmly at the base of the hill, crossed by the nearly finished bridge.

Connor and the others were nowhere in sight; Sophie glanced about wildly, hoping to glimpse them again.

She saw her brother then, and cried out. He turned, his golden head, darker than her own, glinting in the sunlight.

Connor and Thomas slipped along the riverbank, keeping just above the level of the water, and Roderick and Andrew followed. The river was high, but it was not overflowing its banks, and there was room enough to move along, though the way was damp and mucky. Darkness hid them. All seemed in their favor, and Connor sent up a few silent, desperate prayers as he went—not for himself but for the others involved.

Reaching the underside of the bridge, he relied on Thomas to show him the tankards filled with black powder, crammed into crevices in mortar and rock. He saw the fuses, tucked along the rough edges of the stones so they would not dangle. They were long and coated with wax, he saw, and would take several minutes to burn away, until the black powder was reached and the coal within it set off an explosion, shattering the bridge to Kinnoull.

Once the strings were lit, there would be just enough time, and no more, for him to do what he must.

He had taken chances before, faced danger many times. And he had used explosives before, breaking apart sections of roadways, irritating Sassenach troops and making their progress difficult. But he had never taken a risk of this magnitude. This time it seemed worth the price of his life, if it came to that.

The irony struck him then, as he waited in the shadows of the bridge. He had finally opened his heart and found love—and now he was willing to give up his life to protect that love.

He huddled with the cold water lapping at his feet. Moments later, craning his head out just enough, he looked toward the slope and could see Neill and Dun
crieff and the two redcoats guarding them.

Duncrieff looked well enough, though pale and gaunt, his hair long and his jaw covered in unshaven scruff. His plaid and shirt were filthy, and Connor wondered where he had been kept all this time. He suspected that Campbell could answer that.

Where the devil had Campbell gone? he thought then. The magistrate had disappeared from sight.

Neill appeared to be unharmed, though his hands were tied behind him and his feet were roped together. If the Highlander could have gotten away, he would have outrun them all, Connor knew.

But Neill’s son could do the same. Connor turned and motioned to Roderick and to Andrew.

“Go,” he whispered. “Run toward Kinnoull House, and past it to the trees on the hill—you’ll find shelter there. The guards will see you and chase after you—and that is the idea, my friends—but keep to the riverbank until you have put enough distance between you and them that their shots will not find you. I’ve a flint here,” he said, patting his sporran, “and I’ll light the fuses when you are a certain distance away. Aye?”

“Aye,” the two men murmured in tandem.

“God go with,” Connor murmured, and Thomas, beside him, repeated it in farewell. At Connor’s signal, Thomas raised his pistol to guard them.

Connor watched as Andrew and Roderick crouched along below the line of the riverbank and ran. After a moments they swarmed up to the level of the moor and began to run, their steps pounding the turf.