The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1) (3 page)

“How about if I pile some pillows behind you?”

“I’d prefer it if you could remove these manacles.” The corner of his mouth ticked up.

She shook her head with an exasperated cough. “My father would lock me away for an eternity if I did such a thing.”

Hugh sighed. “Och, lassie, you cannot blame a man for trying.” His brows pinched again, going for the kill. “Is it true the king has ordered the prisoners to the gallows?”

“Papa has written to the king, the Privy Council and to the Master of Stair requesting a pardon.”

“So it is true?”

Charlotte looked down with a nod. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.” She collected pillows from the other two vacant beds.

“Me as well—most likely more than you.”

“But I believe in my father’s sensibility—and there hasn’t been a Jacobite uprising in Scotland since Dunkeld. His argument is sound.” Placing her hand under Hugh’s shoulder, she leaned over him with the pillows. Lord in heaven, she smelled more alluring than a bouquet of freshly cut roses. Fire ignited deep in his groin—hell, there was only so much a man could do to resist temptation. If only he hadn’t promised to keep his hands at his sides, Miss Hill would be in his arms about now. Oh, to sink his fingers into the supple flesh of a woman. He almost groaned.

Hugh sat forward as she fluffed the pillows behind him. Bless it, he couldn’t help his sideways glance. Her breast was so close, if he leaned over a wee inch he could inadvertently brush it with his cheek. He started to incline his head when she straightened.

“Oh my.” She grasped his shoulders. “Are you lightheaded?”

Taking in a deep inhale through his nose, he certainly felt light in the head. What miserable prisoner wouldn’t be when cared for by a beauty such as Miss Hill? Charlotte, the doctor had called her. The name danced on the tip of Hugh’s tongue. He liked it—feminine, yet sophisticated. He cleared his throat and sat squarely. “Not to worry. I’ll be right as soon as I get a bit of sustenance into my gullet.”

“Let us hope so.” She moved the tray to the bedside table and sat on the stool. Her sleeve slid back revealing her injury.

“How did you get that bruise?” He leaned forward for a better look. “Are those finger marks?”

“You do not remember?” she asked with a wee chuckle.

“Pardon? I did that?” Hugh’s gut turned over.

“You were fevered,” she said as if it were nothing.

“Devil’s fire, I would never knowingly hurt a woman.”

She tugged her sleeve down. “Not to worry.” The tip of her tongue snuck to the corner of her mouth as her gaze slid to his hands. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Hugh kent how strong he was—but that still didn’t make it right. He folded his arms to keep from grabbing her again. “Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. The mark will fade in a sennight.” Who suffered a bruised wrist and then returned for more? This woman must be Saint Margaret incarnate. Charlotte picked up a knife and a tined implement and cut a piece of sausage.

“What is that?” he asked, pointing.

She held up the two-pronged stabber. “It’s a fork. I always use them. My father purchased these in London from an Italian merchant. Says they’re the latest fashion to adorn a well-set supper table.”

Hugh shrugged. He’d not be soon adopting a new English practice of eating with a fork. A knife had served him perfectly well all his life.

Miss Hill skewered another bit of sausage with the two-pronged implement and held it up.

Well, Hugh might allow her to feed him with a fork this once. After all, he deserved some pampering after having been locked in a dank pit by Charlotte’s father for nearly two years. Hugh opened his mouth.
God’s bones
, it was a good thing he wasn’t standing because the burst of flavor would have made him go weak at the knees. “Mm,” he moaned a bit too loudly.

Miss Hill grinned. Lord, she could nearly make him forget about escape with that smile. “You like the sausage?”

He glanced toward the plate wishing he could just shove both links in his mouth and savor them as the juice ran down his chin. “Delicious.”

“You must eat slowly, otherwise it could come back up.”

Hugh clenched his fists to avoid snatching the newfangled fork from her hand and helping himself.

Instead, he licked his lips and watched her carefully cut a piece too small for a bairn’s mouth. “You didn’t mention what happened to you.” She looked at him out the corner of her eye. “I mean, why you are a guest here at Fort William.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Guest? Ah, lassie, you do have a sense of humor.”

She busied herself swirling a bit of sausage in the egg yolk. “You don’t seem like a vile criminal to me. I only sought to confirm my suspicions.”

He cleared his sore throat. “You needn’t worry about my character. I fought for Bonnie Dundee when the Jacobites won at Killiecrankie, and then had the misfortune of being captured in Dunkeld, wrapped in irons and marched to this miserable outpost.”

Her hand stilled. “How awful.”

“I’d be a mite happier if I could return home and resume my life.”

She placed another bite in his mouth. “What did you do before…ah…the war?”

Closing his eyes, Hugh chewed and gulped his mouthful down. “Raising cattle, mostly.”

“Beef?” Her lovely eyes brightened. “You must be well-to-do.”

“Och, I wouldn’t say that. We mind our own affairs, there’s food aplenty for the clan, and sheep’s wool for clothing. We just…” His eyes trailed aside.

“What?”

“We just don’t care to be told how to live—or to have unfair tariffs levied against our wares because of our religion. We’re Highlanders is all—equal in the eyes of God.”

“I daresay I agree.” Her shoulder ticked up. “There’s even speculation King William might pardon all the Jacobites.”

Just the name of the Dutch king sitting on the throne in London made Hugh’s blood boil. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Charlotte. She was one of them. Her father was the reason he’d suffered as a
guest
at Fort William for the past year-and-a-half. A bleeding pardon from a usurper? William and Mary could sail right back across the channel and stay there. Bring back King James VII, the true Stuart King of Scotland. Hugh didn’t need to be pardoned for any of his actions. He’d acted for right—supported his king as should have everyone else in all of Britain.

“You’ve grown quiet.” Miss Hill handed him a cup of tea, the whiff of peppermint clearing his congested head.

“Not much to say, really.” He shrugged and sipped.

“Well then.” She stood. “I’ll put a bit more coal on the fire and I’d best be on my way.”

Hugh’s fever hadn’t affected him so much he’d completely lost his wits. He eyed the fork and waited until Miss Hill reached for the tongs beside the hearth. With a sudden spike to his heartbeat, he slipped the fork off the tray and slid it beneath his thigh. “I do appreciate all you have done to help me. The tot of claret saw me through last eve. I’m certain of it.”

Brushing off her hands, she turned and smiled. “’Tis good to hear.” Och, it wasn’t the lass’s fault she was on the wrong side of this miserable war.

Hugh reclined against the pillows, doing his best to feign nonchalance. “I’ll wager they’ll send me back to the pit as soon as Doctor Munro returns.”

She strolled toward him. “I could put in a good word with my father. Mayhap he’ll see fit to release you.”

Right, put a noose around my neck is more likely
.

Hugh grasped her hand and met her gaze. “If only this were another time and place.” He bent his head and placed a gentle kiss atop her silken flesh. With an inhale, he closed his eyes and committed her intoxicating scent to memory. “Thank you for your kindness, Miss Hill.”

Blushing red as an apple, Charlotte curtsied, picked up the tray and hastened out the door.

Goodbye bonnie lass. I doubt our paths shall ever again cross
.

Charlotte could scarcely breathe as she left the surgery. How on earth could a convicted prisoner—a Jacobite, no less—make the flesh on the back of her hand tingle? Goodness, it wasn’t only her hand that tingled from his brief peck. Her entire body felt like it was floating. Yes, she’d been kissed on the back of the hand numerous times, but never had such a gesture turned her knees into boneless mollusks.

In that moment, her mouth had gone completely dry. Her lips had even puckered as if her betraying body actually wanted him to kiss her there. Heaven’s stars, it was a good thing Mr. MacLeod had recovered his health, else she’d not be able to visit the surgery again. As it was, she should stay away until Doctor Munro sent him back to the hold.

Ascending the three steps to her father’s house, she paused and clutched her fist against her stomach. To think poor Mr. MacLeod would soon return to the vile pit—a mere hole carved into the damp ground. Why on earth King William hadn’t yet sent his approval to release the prisoners, she couldn’t fathom. Things had been relatively quiet in Scotland since Viscount Dundee had been killed. His troops had disbanded, and with her father leading the government forces in the northwest, law and order had resumed. She believed the king to be a reasonable man—he should know hanging the prisoners of Dunkeld would destroy the trust Papa had earned with the locals. But waiting bore a risk for the Highlander.

I must argue for Mr. MacLeod’s release with Papa as soon as he returns. ’Tis the least I can do. If only he could resume his life, he might find the woman he’s been looking for and marry
. Charlotte’s stomach squelched. For some reason the thought of the Highlander finding a wife did not sit well with her. Of course she wanted him to prosper. The back of her hand still tingled.

She opened the door and headed up the squeaky stairs to her chamber. She really shouldn’t care who Mr. MacLeod married. After her father released the Highlander from Fort William, he would head north to his family in Dunvegan, wherever that was, and she’d never see him again. Charlotte had come from London to Fort William on an ocean transport after receiving notice that her father was so ill he wasn’t expected to live. However, the army had severely underestimated Colonel Hill’s strength and by the time she arrived, Papa had resumed his place at his writing desk.

Now entrenched in the daily activities of the fort, so many things concerned her, especially the fact that Papa hadn’t made a complete recovery. After all, the man had fathered her at the age of two and forty. Determined to ensure Papa no longer needed her before boarding a ship for home, Charlotte resolved to remain at the outpost until his color improved.

Of course, within days of her arrival, her father had mentioned that she might start thinking about marriage. Charlotte eventually wanted to return to London—find a husband
there
, not in Scotland.

She pushed through the door of her bedchamber and shuddered. There wasn’t an officer in her father’s ranks who made her heart flutter the way Mr. MacLeod had managed to do even though he was abed with the bloody flux. No, her best chance to find a husband was to return to London where her aunt and uncle could introduce her at court.

***

Hugh feigned unconsciousness until the guard checked on him. Besides, his chances would be far better after dark. He slipped the fork from beneath his thigh and bent one of the tines. Bloody oath, the sickness had weakened him. That combined with being on the brink of starvation for months had taken his once well-toned physique and turned it into a pile of bones. True, he’d weathered incarceration better than most, but he needed a month of good meals with red meat to bring him back to rights. And he had no intention of facing the executioner’s noose.

He felt a twinge of guilt using kindhearted Miss Hill’s fork as a tool for escape, but then what Highlander would not take advantage of a wee bit of luck when presented with it? God bless her, she’d given him a gift of more than just a full belly. Yes, indeed, a newfangled fork might be useful after all.

He pushed the bent tine into the padlock and turned. When the metal hit the locking mechanism, Hugh twisted his wrist, adjusting the angle of the tine until the padlock clicked. Careful not to let it drop to the floor, once he’d released the chain between his manacles from the bed, he jammed the fork into the barrel-shaped lock of one shackle, then the other. Thank God, the tine was just the right length to trick all the mechanisms and act like a skeleton key.

He moaned aloud when the each iron manacle finally opened and dropped from his ankles onto the cot. Rubbing his skin alive, Hugh flexed his feet.

God save his wretched neck, he’d need every bit of strength he could muster.

Though the coals had mostly burned to a cinder, enough light remained to cast a dim glow through the surgery. Pushing the blanket aside, Hugh placed his bare feet on the floorboards. He leaned forward for a moment and tested his steadiness. Sickness had a way of knocking a man off balance, but he’d be damned if he’d lie back and wait for Doctor Munro to return on the morrow and declare Hugh fit enough to return to the hold.

Oh no, he’d paid his penance—not that he owed anything to anyone. He’d been stripped of everything except his kilt and shirt. Lord only knew how he survived last winter without his toes falling off.

Hugh stood and took a reviving breath. He could do this, damn it. Stealing across the floor, his toe caught on a chair leg. Before he could stop, it scraped the floorboards with a screech louder than a musket blast.

Hugh froze.

“What the bloody hell?” bellowed the guard outside the door.

Let the game begin
.

As the surgery door flew open, Hugh darted behind it. The dragoon inched inside. His musket at the ready, the sharp bayonet affixed to the top passed a foot from Hugh’s nose.

“Where the bloody hell are you, ye bastard?”

Hugh held his breath.
A bit further. Come now
.

With the dragoon’s next step, Hugh lunged and grasped ahold of the musket barrel, sliding his hand toward the iron cock. If the bastard pulled the trigger, the entire company would be upon him in seconds.

With a grunt the redcoat jerked back.

The gun’s cock hammered into Hugh’s finger. Sharp pain shot up his arm, but at least the musket hadn’t fired. Gnashing his teeth, Hugh struggled to wrench the gun from the dragoon’s grasp. In a fight of wills, the swine’s grip finally released.

Hugh stumbled backward as a stool hurtled toward his temple. Ducking beneath it, he grasped the musket barrel and slammed the butt over the guard’s head. The man dropped to his knees, sucked in a deep breath, then collapsed on his face.

Hugh bent over, rested his hands on his knees and panted. Holy hell, he’d lost so much strength, he’d nearly let the soldier kill him. As soon as his lungs filled with air, he went to work stripping the man. Coat, boots, belt, sword, dagger. He needed it all.

Pulling the boots off the lump proved more difficult than tugging a breech calf from a heifer. But Hugh wasn’t about to give up. Not until he shoved his feet into one of the damned things and his foot stuck about halfway. What the blazes? Did the man have feet the size of a child? With a grunt, Hugh cast the boots aside. Turning in place, his mind raced.

Bandages.

He quickly wrapped his feet and tied the ends around his ankles. Then he hoisted the guard into his bed and locked the man’s ankles in his old manacles—
best use of that set of iron cuffs ever
.

Slipping to the door, he held his breath and listened. In the distance, muffled voices chatted and chuckled. Had the physician returned with Colonel Hill, or were they gone for a bit? Hugh supposed it didn’t matter. With luck, they wouldn’t find him missing until the morning, especially since he’d made it look like he was still abed.

Moving through the shadows, Hugh wound his way to the main gate. Locked inside the fortress walls, he pressed his body into a corner and considered his options. He could climb up the stairwell and out onto the wall-walk. A jump from fifty feet shouldn’t kill him—if he landed on grass or mud. He could overtake the guard and raise the portcullis. But then the last fight had almost killed him. He had about as much strength as a lad of twelve. At night he’d oft listened to the surf from inside the depths of the pit. Perhaps there was a sea gate.

Hugh didn’t like a single one of his options, but a leap from the wall-walk had the greatest chances of keeping him from another altercation. Bloody oath, when he recovered from the fever it would be his pleasure to return and take on the lot of them…all except Miss Hill, of course.

As Hugh started up the tower stairs, a groan of chains resounded from the gate.

“Colonel Hill has returned,” a voice boomed. “Long live King William.”

Och aye, I can tell you what should be done with the Dutch king, and it has nothing to do with a long life
.

Hugh ran his hands over the dirt and wiped it across his face. Then he crept into the shadows and watched the company of dragoons pass, trotting their high-stepping ponies beneath the portcullis. The sight of snobbish, straight-backed redcoats turned his stomach sour. Too many meals of gruel. Too many jabs with a bat, and too many malicious taunts had given him a bitter taste that would not soon ebb.

Doctor Munro brought up the rear. The pasty codfish was unmistakable with his brown wig curling down his back while he sat his horse like he had a ramrod up his arse. He’d be the first to receive a vengeful blow from Hugh’s fist, especially after the bucket of water in the face. Och aye, Hugh would remember that transgression for a very long time.

Doctor Munro looked straight in Hugh’s direction.

Every muscle in his body tensed. Had he been spotted?

But the contingent proceeded onward. The portcullis started to groan again, but Hugh didn’t move—not until he was certain Munro wouldn’t spot him.

Once the physician turned the corner and rode out of sight, Hugh looked to the gate. Only a few feet from hitting the ground, the deadly iron teeth inched downward. If the chain didn’t hold, they’d smash to the ground with the force of eighty stone.

“The prisoner has escaped!” someone hollered with the slapping of running feet.

Ballocks!

Clenching his teeth, Hugh took two racing steps. Right before he dove beneath the gate’s deadly teeth, the iron tines boomed as the portcullis slammed into the ground.

He crouched on his knees, his nose inches from blackened iron. The fever had not only made him weak, it slowed his response as well. A fraction of an inch closer, and he would have been crushed in two—a more gruesome death he could not imagine. Hugh slunk back into the shadows.

A trumpet sounded from the battlements. Guards hollered while they raced for the wall-walk. With no place to run, his shoulders pinched as if he could feel a musket ball hitting his back. The next option? Hug the walls and pray.