Judith E. French Page 4

  Sterling’s insides felt as if he’d swallowed ground glass as he set his heels into the gelding’s sides and led the way down the twisting, stone-strewn sheep path toward the farmstead. He was several hundred yards from the house when he heard the blast of a musket and shouting.

  “There she goes! Stop her!”

  A red-haired woman ran from the cluster of outbuildings and dashed directly in his path. Behind her, two dragoons on horseback bore down upon her.

  “Stop her!” came the cry.

  The lead soldier drew his pistol and took aim at the fleeing figure. Sterling heard the crack of the flintlock and saw smoke and fire come from the muzzle of the weapon. The bullet obviously missed its target, because the woman glanced back over her shoulder and put on a burst of speed.

  Sterling’s heart rose in his throat. There was something familiar about the girl ... something ... A peculiar buzzing rang in his ears as he stared at her.

  The second dragoon leveled his pistol, and Sterling broke from his trance, spurring his bay forward. “Hold your fire!” he yelled. Whithall and the patrol were right on his heels; hoofbeats thundered behind him. “Hold your fire!”

  He was only a horse length away from her when she turned her head and saw him. Her eyes dilated with fear, and she darted left. Sterling reined the gelding to intercept her. The horse spun in midair and its front hooves missed her by inches. Sterling leaned in the saddle and seized her by the waist, lifting her free of the ground and swinging her up in front of him.

  She was all teeth and nails and flying fists. For a moment, he thought he’d laid hands on a bee-stung badger. His horse reared up and pawed the sky, the woman landed a blow to his chin, and they both slid out of the saddle and landed on the ground in a heap of arms and legs.

  He heard the wind go out of her with a whoosh. Her body stiffened and then went limp. Her eyelids closed as he scrambled up and put himself between her and the dragoon who leaped from his saddle and ran toward her, pistol in hand.

  “Stop there,” Sterling warned.

  “She’s a murderer.”

  The newcomer threw up a hand to push Sterling aside, and Sterling caught the dragoon’s right wrist in an iron grip. “Not so fast,” he said.

  The soldier drove a booted knee up toward Sterling’s groin. He sidestepped the attack and sliced an open palm across the man’s windpipe. The dragoon toppled like a sack of grain, groaned once, and lay still.

  More dragoons galloped from the house. Whithall rode up and dispersed his men to form a shield around Sterling as he turned back to the unconscious woman.

  Kneeling beside her, Sterling saw the steady rise of her breast as she drew in breath. Her eyelids fluttered, and he became aware of a sweet scent of heather that surrounded her. Hair rose on his neck as he stared down at the face he’d sought for so long.

  It was she. This was the woman of his vision ... the same one he’d seen at Culloden Field. She was here, and she was as real and as alive as he was.

  He slipped an arm under her neck and raised her to a half-sitting position. His hand brushed her skin, and the touch sent a jolt of electricity down his spine. “Mesawmi,” he murmured reverently, unconsciously using the language of his childhood. Roughly, it translated as “gift of sacred power bestowed by the Creator.” But he was long past the point of rational thought.

  She opened her eyes. They were large and golden-brown ... the color of peach honey. And they scorched him with resentful fire.

  “Take your hands off me!” she said. Then she blinked again, and her face paled from ashen to alabaster. “You!” she accused. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Major Ripton’s precise speech knifed through Sterling’s concentration. “Seize the prisoner.”

  Sterling looked up at Ripton. “This woman—” he began.

  “Murdered one of my dragoons,” Ripton finished.

  “Did you?” Sterling turned back to peer into the woman’s face. “Did you do what they say you did?”

  “Killed him in cold blood,” Ripton said. “Drove a pitchfork through his chest.”

  “Did you?” Sterling repeated, helping her to her feet. This was all wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He’d found her ... but now ...

  She stiffened under his touch and recoiled as though he were a leper. Chin up, eyes sparkling with tears of rage, she glared at him. “Aye, I killed him right enough,” she replied. “He was trying to rape me.”

  The major scoffed. “A likely story.” He motioned to a soldier behind him. “Bring a rope. We’ll show her king’s justice for murder.”

  “Even an accused murderess has the right to a trial,” Sterling said. “We have a code of law, and we are bound to follow it.”

  Ripton looked at him with disgust. “Very well, Captain. Have it your way. We will send this murdering bitch back to Edinburgh for trial. And then we’ll hang her.”

  Chapter 4

  Edinburgh Castle

  July 1746

  Cailin cupped her hands and dipped water from the bucket near the cell door. The smell of the slimy wooden pail sickened her worse than the stench of urine and human misery that surrounded her in this prison, but she knew she would die without liquid. She drank, thinking of the clear, sparkling water that sprang from the hill behind Glen Garth ... water so cold and pure that it stung your tongue. But no amount of wishing could change the taste or remove the minute worms swimming at the bottom of the container.

  My father would have thrashed any servant careless enough to give this stagnant horse piss to the pigs, she thought.

  She forced herself to swallow as the image of Johnnie’s face materialized in her mind. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  When would the pain of his violent death lose its sting?

  She had been roughly abused by King George’s soldiers, but her bruises and the aches had faded. Here in the bowels of Edinburgh Castle, the guards had starved and beaten her, denying her even a breath of fresh air. Nothing hurt as badly as the loss of her father.

  Her throat constricted with emotion.

  Damn the blackhearted dragoon who had killed Johnnie! Damn him to an unhallowed grave! Twice he’d wronged her, once when he’d driven that sword into her father and again when he’d stopped her from escaping pursuit at Glen Garth. If she lived, she’d find him and take a MacGreggor’s revenge. Woman or not, she’d never rest until he’d paid the price of a blood feud.

  Ignoring the protests of her fellow inmates, Cailin gritted her teeth and took a second handful of the stagnant water, splashing it on her face.

  “Look at her!” Janey Shaw cried. “Making herself all fine.”

  “Aye, she’s a fancy one. Mistress Cailin MacGreggor—too good for the likes of common whores,” called a painted slattern.

  A toothless old woman with stringy gray hair cackled and tapped her temple with a dirty finger. “Mad as May butter, she is. Thinks she’s taking supper with the Duke of Cumberland.”

  Cailin retreated to the corner where her gray wool cloak lay stretched out on the floor. This was her space, a section of cell that she’d fought for and defended with pluck and sinew. She cared not a tinker’s damn for what the other women in the cell said about her. She was the smallest in size and weight but one. Fat Janey Shaw still bore the black eye that came of thinking Cailin’s lack of height meant anything.

  High up in the prison wall, a small shaft let in the only light that shone into this underground dungeon. Hardly sunlight at all, she decided. What filtered down to them was more a weak reflection of the midday July sun. By four o’clock, the gray stone chamber would begin to darken, and with the night came rats and mice and all manner of nasty vermin.

  Rats terrified Cailin. One night, she had awakened to find one of the creatures nipping at her knee. She’d screamed loud enough to wake the dead in potter’s field, but at daylight Janey found the dead rat against the far wall. Even in her fear, Cailin had seized the rodent and thrown it against the stones
hard enough to kill it.

  She shivered inwardly as she remembered that particular rat and rubbed her cramping belly. It was her woman’s cycle and not the water that gave her this misery. Her back had ached since yesterday, and her head throbbed. She longed for a hot bath and clean clothes. Keeping decent in this place was near impossible. She had only a few cloths to bind herself with. When they were soiled, she didn’t know what she’d do. She had traded her last earbob to the jailer’s wife for food, a scrap of soap, and the menstrual rags.

  Not that she regretted her bleeding time. It gave her a way to keep track of the endless days and proved again that the soldiers who had raped her so brutally on the journey to Edinburgh Castle had not left her carrying a child.

  Absently, she rubbed the amulet known as the Eye of Mist that hung around her neck. Even through the coat of ugly blue paint Cailin had hastily dabbed on it before she’d fled from Inverness with her sister, the oddly shaped pendant gave her comfort.

  According to her grandfather, the necklace was solid Pictish gold, so ancient that the history of the piece was lost in time. All that remained was the curse ... whosoever possesses the Eye of Mist shall be cursed and blessed. The curse is that you will be taken from your family and friends to a far-off land. The blessing is that you will be granted one wish. Whatever you ask you shall have—even unto the power of life and death.

  Well, the curse still works, Cailin thought wryly. I killed a man to keep from being sexually assaulted, but ended up raped anyway. So the curse is active—why not the blessing?

  When she was a child, she had loved the story of the necklace and had demanded that her mother and grandfather tell it over and over. All too soon, she had learned that the Eye of Mist was nothing more than a fairy tale. It was why she continued to wear it, even though she knew that the magic was a lie. Whenever she touched it, she was reminded that all she had in life was what she could take and hold for herself.

  So strong was her belief that she wouldn’t part with the amulet ... not for food or drink ... not for anything. Besides, she reminded herself, possession of anything so valuable as a piece of gold would mean her death. Someone, guard or fellow inmate, would kill her for it.

  She sighed and continued to rub the token between her fingers. Soon it would be dark again, and she would while away the hours by thinking up original ways to murder the English dragoon. Her count to date was forty-three. Sometimes it took her several days to decide on a new punishment to add to her collection. To top what she had, she must be brilliant and inventive. Nothing but the most painful end would do for her greatest enemy—anything less would add insult to Johnnie’s death.

  Yesterday, she had decided to bury the devil up to his neck at the shore of the North Sea and wait for the tide to come in. That had been one of her favorites. Today, she must come up with something even better.

  Cailin’s stomach hurt. It was more than just her monthly bleeding; she was desperately hungry. Last night, the guards had brought a mess of meat and vegetables. She’d taken one whiff of her bowl and dumped the lot back into the common pail. She’d not eat worms, and she’d not eat rotten meat, no matter how ravenous she was. She’d suffered hunger before. She’d do it again rather than risk dying with a running of the bowels and the agony of food poisoning.

  A young whore had died like that the first week Cailin was here in prison. The woman’s cries still haunted her in the night. No, there were easier ways to die than eating tainted meat, she reasoned. But she had no intention of dying. She meant to live, to find her family and make sure that they were well, and she meant to kill—

  The sudden tramp of heavy boots broke through her reverie. Puzzled, Cailin glanced toward the cell door. There was no reason for guards to come at this time, not unless they were bringing another prisoner ... or coming to take one away.

  An iron key grated in the lock, and the door banged open. “Cailin MacGreggor!” the bearded warder called. “You are summoned. Can ye walk, or maun ye be carried?”

  She scrambled to her feet and snatched up her cloak. “Who wants me?”

  “Hold your tongue, woman,” he snapped. “Ye be summoned to answer for the murder of Lloyd Hedger, private, late of His Majesty’s service.” He hawked up a great gob of phlegm and spat on the floor. “God rest his soul.”

  “May he rot in hell,” Cailin retorted.

  “No talking.” He motioned with his head. “This way.”

  She ignored the flurry of whispers as she left the cell. A guard slammed and locked the door, then took a lit torch from a socket on the wall and led the way.

  “Go on,” the warder ordered.

  “Am I to go before a judge and jury?” she asked. Her mouth went dry, and she felt faint. At times during her long confinement, she had wondered if she would die without ever facing charges. Now, she knew that she would only die. No daughter of a dead rebel would find justice in Edinburgh Castle—not today ... perhaps not ever. She only hoped that she would meet her end with the pluck and dignity of a Highlander.

  The bearded man gave her a rough shove. “Shut your mouth, or I’ll have ye gagged.” By his accent, she knew that he was a Lowlander. She’d find no compassion here.

  Trying not to show her fear, Cailin wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and followed the guard down the damp, narrow passage and up a flight of steep stone stairs. The warder strode hard on her heels.

  They traversed another corridor, another flight of steps leading up from the bowels of the castle. When they reached the top, the warder grabbed her arm. “Stop here,” he said. He pointed to a low doorway.

  “In there.”

  “What are you—” she began.

  “Hold your tongue, woman,” he snarled. The guard took a position beside the entrance, and the warder followed Cailin into the room.

  The outer chamber seemed to be some sort of office. There was no window; the only light came from a whale-oil lantern hanging over the table and a small fire on the hearth. As Cailin scanned the room, a stout woman appeared in the doorway on the far side of the chamber.

  The warder sat heavily in a straight-backed chair. “Be quick about it, Hattie. It’s late.”

  “This way,” the woman said, motioning to Cailin.

  She stepped into the second room, obviously a sleeping chamber, and the woman closed the door behind them. “What do ye mean to do with me?” Cailin demanded. “I whore for no man. If ye—”

  “Shhh. I’m Hattie.” She made a quick move with her head toward the first room. “I’m wife to that sour biscuit out there. I can tell you he will put up with no nonsense from you, girl. Off with them filthy clothes.”

  Cailin took a step back. “Why?”

  “A gentleman has paid for clean garments, and soap and water. You’ve a quarter-hour to make yourself ready for your trial.”

  Cailin exhaled sharply in relief as she noticed the basin of water and the towel on a stool beside the fireplace. “What gentleman?” she asked, flinging off her cloak. What should she wash first? she wondered. Her head itched so badly that she was afraid she had lice, but she’d not had an all-over wash since her arrest. The container of water was small, and the saucer of soft lye soap looked as though it had been shared by many bathers. “Who paid for this?” She stripped off her bodice and skirt, and dropped her ragged petticoat to the floor.

  “There’s decent things for you. We can burn these,” Hattie said, not unkindly.

  “Have you a comb?”

  “Aye, but it’s not paid for. You can’t keep it. I’m only loanin’ it from the goodness of me heart.”

  Cailin shed her undergarments, wet her hands, and scooped up a little of the strong, yellow soap. She worked it into a lather and washed her face and neck, then rubbed the stinging mixture over her bare breasts.

  “Have the decency to turn your back,” Hattie admonished. “God save us,” she sputtered. “Do you mean to wash your titties too?”

  Cailin shut her eyes and gave herself over to the luxur
y of soap and water. A quarter of an hour, Hattie had said. She didn’t know how much dirt she could wash away in that time, but she meant to do the best she could. Bless the gentleman, whoever he was. It would be a hell of a lot easier to be brave before the judge if she didn’t smell like a pigsty.

  “Saints preserve us!” Hattie gasped. “You shameless hussy.”

  Cailin only smiled and continued rubbing the clean, soapy water over her naked body with slow, sensual movements.

  Sterling Gray sat on a bench at the back of the court, feeling oddly uncomfortable in his new civilian garments. His stock was damnably tight on his neck, and the seams of his blue satin coat strained at his shoulders. Worse, he was the only person of quality in the large chamber who was not wearing a wig.

  Face it, old boy, he thought wryly. You’re sadly out of fashion. When he got back to Oxley, he’d have his father’s tailor sew—The reality of his situation brought his idle musing up short.

  Oxley. He’d receive short shift at Oxley once his father received his letter explaining that he’d resigned his commission. He doubted very much that he’d be welcome at home ever again.

  Not that he’d ever felt particularly comfortable in his father’s house ... His half-brothers had despised him for his illegitimacy and dark skin, his three stepmothers had ignored him, and his father had made it abundantly clear that he was a disappointment.

  He’d have to give serious consideration to what he was going to do with the rest of his life, now that his military career had come to an abrupt end. So far, he hadn’t thought of anything more than getting out of Scotland and away from the stench of spilled blood and smoking ashes. Other than this damnable woman ...

  She had plagued him day and night.

  Reason told him that this Highland rebel couldn’t be the woman of his youthful vision. She had appeared suddenly out of the mist on Culloden Field when he was weary and heartsick from battle. She’d surprised him, and his mind had played tricks on him.