Highland Crown Page 6

  Cinaed called to the older woman before she rounded the corner. “What should I do with him?”

  She paused and then shrugged, looking from Isabella to the captain. “The lad’s right. Two killings amount to the same thing. Ye’d best cut his throat. They can only hang ye but the once.”

  CHAPTER 6

  So shall he strive, in changeful hue,

  Field, feast, and combat, to renew,

  And loves, and arms, and pipers’ glee,

  And all the pomp of chivalry.

  —Sir Walter Scott, “Marmion,” Canto V, Introduction

  “You told him to kill the lad.”

  “Go on. Say it again. Just keep on accusing an auld woman unjustly,” Jean argued. “Ye two are the ones running from the law. I’ve got no say in what ye do or don’t do.”

  Listening from behind them in the cart, Cinaed had already learned the doctor’s name was Isabella Murray. He knew she was married, for the two women had argued fiercely about a wedding ring that Jean would not accept from her as some sort of payment. There was no discussion of any husband, however.

  He shifted his body slightly to look over his shoulder at her. She was a bonnie thing, and he couldn’t let go of their time in the woodshed. She must have dragged him there by herself. And there was the moment when he’d known she was frightened. He’d so much wanted to hold her, to tell her he wouldn’t let the blackguard in the cottage hurt her.

  “It was ruthless of you even to say the words,” Isabella retorted.

  Jean flicked the reins just to keep the broken-down cart horse from wandering off the coast road. The journey had been slow, but since the old woman’s cottage was on the Inverness side of Duff Head, at least they didn’t need to go through the village in the stolen cart. Still, Cinaed was watchful of anyone following them. So far, he’d seen no one.

  “Ruthless? Bah!” Jean scoffed. “Do ye truly have no idea how to put the fear of God into bold lads? That scrawny cur was showing no respect for his elders at all.”

  “And you don’t think ordering the boy killed was a bit much?”

  “Killed? Killed by who?” Jean asked in a mocking tone. “Ye wouldn’t kill anyone if they were ready to cut yer throat. And there’s no way that man sleeping back there would have killed the boy either.”

  Isabella turned to look back at him, but he pretended to be unconscious.

  “His name is Cinaed Mackintosh, and he was the master of the ship that went aground,” she said, returning her attention to Jean. “That alone tells me he must be pitiless, or he would never be in a position of command.”

  Cinaed lifted one eyebrow. Interesting that she’d have that opinion of ship captains. Knowledge of navigation and general seamanship, expertise in the unique idiosyncrasies of the ship, confidence in one’s ability to lead hard men through difficult situations—these were qualities of a successful ship’s master. But in his experience, lack of pity was not a requirement for the job.

  “Habbie deserved what he got,” the older woman asserted. “What yer sea dog … yer ship’s master … did was right. He defended us from harm, sure as I’m sitting here. So don’t go casting dirt on the captain’s good character.”

  “His good character?”

  “Yer too young to be repeating me.”

  “This makes no sense,” Isabella declared, stealing another glance back at Cinaed. “Fewer than a dozen civil words have been exchanged between you two. And yet you’re ready to defend his character?”

  The cart wheel hit a deep hole, splashing rainwater left by the storm and jarring the three of them. Jean grabbed the doctor’s elbow to keep her from bouncing out while a lightning bolt of pain shot through Cinaed’s chest.

  “I’ve a canny sense about folks, and I know how to get along in the world. Ye don’t.”

  “I know how to get along, as you call it,” Isabella said hotly.

  “By St. Andrew’s beard, I swear if I left ye on yer own in these parts, ye’d be dead in half a day. Me, on the other hand, I could survive on a rock in the ocean with bit of broken glass and an auld boot. And I wouldn’t even need the boot.”

  The snort from the doctor was unexpected, and the old woman sent her a sideways look.

  Cinaed found their argument entertaining. He liked them. Both of them. Isabella more, and not—he told himself—because he fancied her looks or the tone of her voice. She’d saved his life.

  “I know how folks think,” Jean continued. “I can tell when they’re worth a lick, and when they’re not. When my nephew left ye with me, ye didn’t hear me complaining, did ye?”

  Beyond the fact that he knew Isabella was a university-trained doctor and that she was married, where she came from and what she was doing in the Highlands were still a mystery. And now, for the first time, Cinaed was hearing talk of some nephew and his involvement.

  “He gave you money to house me.”

  “I knew ye was worth saving the moment I saw ye. And the same goes with this one back there. I trust him.”

  “And when did you decide that?” Isabella was quick to ask. “Did you trust him last night on the beach when you were insisting that I roll him back into sea? Or was it this morning while I was still stitching him up and you were telling me he’d probably murder us both?”

  Neither Jean nor Isabella was ready to yield in this argument, and Cinaed felt his eyelids becoming heavy. Trust him or not, no harm had come to the lad. He was trussed up and lying on the floor of the cottage. The older woman said that no one from the village would come looking for the two until sometime late in the day. By then, she figured, they’d already be in Inverness.

  With a dead body outside and a bound lad inside, Cinaed didn’t care to be caught by a mob looking for justice. He hoped Jean was right, for he was in no condition to be fighting anyone right now. He stole a look back in the direction they’d come. They were probably still closer to Duff Head than Inverness.

  The cart hit another hole and jolted the passengers again. Grimacing, Cinaed waited for the pain to subside. The bullet hole in his chest was throbbing, and he could see fresh blood on the bandages. Helping him into the back of the cart, Isabella had told him how important it was to let her know if he started bleeding again.

  He decided it was more likely he’d die at the hands of pursuing villagers than he would from losing too much blood. Pulling the doctor’s travel cloak over himself, he closed his eyes.

  The few things that the women had packed into the cart offered very little cushion, but he knew he needed to rest. Soon, despite the discomfort, sleep overtook him, and dreams rolled over him like cresting waves in a stormy sea, stealing the breath from his lungs and driving Cinaed ever deeper into the briny darkness.

  * * *

  Gorse-covered hills loomed up on either side of the black, fast-flowing river that tumbled along beside him. He was on foot, running hard. Shadows like wisps of haunted mist sprang up, and formless terrors pierced him with chill shards of fear.

  Behind Cinaed, angry voices spread out in a threatening line of pursuit.

  As he ran, familiar mountain summits came into view, huddled beneath thick Highland clouds. The path rose and fell, and the sounds of men grew louder, closer. A thickly forested glen appeared, and he made a dash for it. As darkness closed around him, the path gave way to a thick floor of pine needles that he could smell with every step he took. His chest was burning, but he knew he couldn’t stop. The sounds of his pursuers, crashing through underbrush, continued to grow louder, hemming him in, pushing him forward.

  Cinaed’s legs were no longer flesh and bone. They felt more like bags of sand and rock. A light appeared through the trees.

  Someone caught hold of his hand. He glanced over, trying to shake himself free of the grip, but he could see no one. Still, he could feel the weight dragging at him. Then a voice inside spoke; he needed to carry it to safety. He gripped the hand tightly and pulled the unseen companion along.

  Suddenly, he was nearing the edge of the fo
rest. The light was blinding, but the angry voices were right behind him. As he burst out of the darkness, a new spurt of strength flowed into his chest. Cinaed knew where they were. His destination lay directly ahead. But he couldn’t see it through the thick blanket of fog rolling in from the mountains. Still, he knew it was there, ahead of him, perched on a hill. Safety lay just ahead, if he could only make it.

  He flew over the path and the wet grass. The acrid tang of smoke hung in the air. He could feel the pursuers’ panting breaths and the pounding of their footsteps. The curtain wall of an ancient fortress emerged on the hill, its black, iron-studded door open.

  Sharp objects poked him in the back. They were right behind him. A gun fired and a bullet whizzed past his ear. The hill was steep, but the gate was there. Cinaed clutched the invisible hand. He couldn’t let go. His home, his people were just beyond the door, waiting for him. They’d be safe.

  His feet barely touched the wooden bridge crossing the wide ditch outside the wall. The massive portal began to swing shut. He wasn’t going to make it. He cried out, but his plea was drowned by the shouts and curses behind him. The entrance was moving away.

  Then, at the last moment, with a burst of speed, Cinaed clutched the hand of his unseen companion and slipped through. The great door slammed shut.

  Standing with the high wall and the door at his back, he stared uncomprehendingly at the sight before him. No family awaited to greet him or enfold him in their arms. No castle yard surrounded him.

  Cinaed was standing at the edge of a jagged cliff. Mountain peaks spread out in the distance, their tops covered with snow that sparkled in the blinding sunlight. And a thousand feet below, a river raged, white-capped and deadly, through a rock-strewn valley.

  The cliff edge began to crumble beneath his feet, and as he scrambled backward, he banged up against the wall.

  Cinaed struck his head hard, but it wasn’t against any stone wall. Cautiously, he lifted his head off the planks of the cart as it lurched forward. He opened his eyes. The cart had turned onto the coach road from the rutted coastal track.

  He raised an arm to block the golden afternoon sun. No one was holding his hand. But his breathing was ragged, and his body was soaked with sweat. He threw the cloak off him. The fiery pain in his chest was a sharp indicator that he was no longer asleep, but the dream wouldn’t leave him right away.

  The thick curtain wall, the wide ditch, the gorse-covered hills lining the river valley. He knew them. The Highland fortress in his dream was Dalmigavie Castle.

  Cinaed thought of the letter he’d received from Lachlan Mackintosh before sailing for Scotland. The laird of Dalmigavie had invited him to visit.

  The Mackintosh clan had cast him out as a child, however, and he wouldn’t be going back to them now. The dream had simply been a reflection of his thoughts. He’d destroyed the letter after reading it, but it still angered him. Cinaed needed no one.

  He ran a weary hand over his face, forcing himself to focus on the business at hand.

  Inverness. His men. It would be a massive relief to find they were alive. They had wives and children who were waiting for them. Able-bodied sailors were always in demand. They would get back to Halifax. As for himself, he had kin here. Searc Mackintosh would help him find a way of getting back.

  Jean’s voice broke into his thoughts. “We’re almost there. It’s time ye told me the rest of it.”

  He raised his head to look around. The grassy land on either side of the road stretched out flat as a table, glistening from the rain. Not a stone’s throw away, Moray Firth sparkled in the sunlight. They must have passed the road to Fort George a while back, for up ahead he could see a large merchant brig and two schooners busily taking in sail. The ships had to be getting close to the mouth of the River Ness and the port.

  Jean was keeping after Isabella. “Ye might as well tell me. I’m already an accomplice in whatever heinous crime ye’ve committed.”

  Cinaed’s attention was drawn to the doctor. He wanted to know this as well.

  “You must trust me when I say, the less you know about me, the better.”

  He stared at Isabella Murray’s dark green travel dress and her ramrod straight back. She’d loosened her bonnet strings, and the hat now hung back between her shoulder blades. She was rubbing her long, slender neck. Wisps of hair were loose and danced in the wind. The woman had to be dog-tired. The Highland Crown had run up on the reef early last night. He expected the villagers probably witnessed every stage of his ship’s demise. Later, when he’d washed ashore, she’d been on the beach and had cared for him straight on until morning.

  He recalled the hand he was holding in the dream. He owed Isabella his life, and he wondered if she was the companion he’d pulled along at his side.

  “Ye must’ve committed a terrible, terrible crime, I’m thinking,” Jean pressed, unwilling to give up. “Or ye wouldn’t be running away and hiding, as ye are.”

  “I’ve committed no crime.”

  “Ye must’ve. Out with it, lass. Passing counterfeit coins? Selling bad oysters to innkeepers? Did ye murder the Lord Mayor’s cat?”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Then what? Ye admit they’re after ye. So ye must have done something. Ye must, at least, have a long, sad tale of how yer being wrongfully accused.”

  The younger woman’s shoulders lifted in a shrug.

  “Ye wouldn’t be the first or the last, I expect. Especially ye being a woman and all. And my John wouldn’t have come all the way from Edinburgh with ye unless there’s a story to it. He’s told me many a time he works on the trials of some tough folk, but I know him. The lad also has a soft heart for those the world has tramped on.”

  The doctor’s lips remained sealed. Isabella simply stared straight ahead, offering nothing.

  Cinaed couldn’t imagine what kind of trouble Isabella Murray would be in. She was a rarity as a woman doctor. Of course, her chosen profession alone could draw the law down on her, depending on where she decided to practice medicine. But why would she need to travel all the way to the Highlands?

  “At least tell me who it is that’s after ye, so I don’t say the wrong bloody thing to the wrong bloody folk.”

  “You say we’re almost there?” Isabella asked, obviously trying to curtail the interrogation. A young woman with secrets. Cinaed had plenty of them himself.

  The old woman fell silent for moment, and her tone was pained when she spoke again.

  “If that’s the way ye want it, all well and good. But know this: I was fine living my life afore ye arrived at Duff Head. And even after, I could’ve managed if I’d just left yer sea captain in the surf. But I listened to ye. Trusted yer judgment. And now, I’ve lost everything I could call my own. I’ve let ye drag me from the place I’ve lived all my days. But ye still don’t trust me a lick. But go on and hold yer tongue, if that’s the way ye want it.”

  Isabella shifted uneasily. For a moment, Cinaed thought she’d jump off the cart rather than give in to Jean’s questioning. He was relieved when she didn’t. Finally, she fixed her gaze on the older woman.

  “Everyone is after me.”

  “Everyone?”

  Isabella nodded sharply, clutching the edge of the cart with a white-knuckled grip. “But those I fear most are the British soldiers. Right now, your nephew is trying to secure passage for me, so I can escape this country.”

  Cinaed lifted himself on one elbow. He was as surprised as Jean looked.

  Before she mentioned the soldiers, Cinaed was beginning to wonder if Isabella was being sought for the murder of her husband. She had been trying to give away her wedding ring. Not that he believed she was capable of it, but he’d already been thinking of reasons that would justify her actions. If that were the case, however, she’d be fearful of magistrates, and not specifically British soldiers.

  “What have ye done, mistress?” Jean asked gravely.

  “I told you before. The less you know, the better.” Isabel
la looked away.

  “I grant ye, ye’ve made me believe the matter is serious. But how serious is it? Are we talking a hanging offense?”

  Another long pause hung in the air, and Cinaed watched the woman’s profile. The tense flicking of her jaw muscles, the bite of her bottom lip, the tremor that she quickly tried to mask, all told him she was fighting a battle inside. The same protectiveness he’d felt when they’d been holed up in that wall, rushed through him again. She hadn’t asked for it, but he wanted to help her.

  “Talk to me,” Jean persisted gently, putting her wrinkled hand on top of her companion’s. “Tell me, lass.”

  “I’m quite certain I’ll face torture at their hands until they get the answers they want. And after they’re finished, I’ll hang until they cut me down and behead me.”

  Cinaed sat up in the cart, feeling his insides clamp tight. If her face and words weren’t so grim and serious, he’d think the whole thing preposterous. How could this woman be facing such dire consequences? It had to be a mistake. He glanced ahead of them, his hand feeling involuntarily for the knife in his boot. If they were out looking for her now, he’d need more than sgian dubh if they came upon any soldiers. He wished he had a pistol. Or at least a sword.

  But hanging and beheading? Treason was the only crime he knew of that the British punished in such a way, and the authorities had been throwing the word around quite a bit lately.

  People had been angry since the end of the war, and it was getting worse. In every port and city, he saw evidence of social unrest. In London and Liverpool and Glasgow and Edinburgh. And he’d heard it was true in the rest of the country as well. Whether it was the weavers of Manchester or the farmers of Ayrshire, people were on the edge of revolt.

  “You’re connected to the radicals in Edinburgh?” he asked.

  Isabella twisted around so fast that Jean had to take hold of her arm so she wouldn’t fall out. The alarm in her eyes quickly gave way to a guarded wariness.