Amanda Scott (55 page)

She had visited the castle only once before, years ago, but Neil and Dugald had given her excellent directions, and she strode along with as much confidence as if she had really been the laundress coming to collect prisoners’ clothes. Neil had a way with the lasses, although Mam would not approve of his latest flirtation any more than the girl’s father did. He had learned of the laundress through some means of his own, and he and Diana had pieced their plan together accordingly.

The crested carriage rattled by as she passed the powder magazine, but she had not caught even a glimpse of its occupant as it moved on up the hill toward the new governor’s house and parade ground.

Keeping the house on her right, as Dugald had instructed, she followed the path uphill and around, through the old archway known as Foggy Gate, to the hilltop site of the original castle. To her left lay the shot yard and powder house, to her right the governor’s garden and the palace close.

Crossing the garden, she had felt her confidence surge. She felt no fear. Neil had been the reluctant one, but Diana felt only contempt for Argyll’s men, knowing they tended to dismiss women as harmless and weak. Not one had paid her any heed when she walked briskly into the close.

A soldier at the entrance to the great hall directed her to the prison vaults beneath it, where the turnkey, although he had never seen her before, had willingly guided her to Lady Maclean’s cell.

Half an hour passed without any alarm before she began to consider how she would get out. She and Neil had talked at length about the fact that she might not get out at all, and despite the show of confidence she had put on for him and for her mother, she knew she might be there for some time. It would be horrid, she knew, but better by far that she suffer than that Lady Maclean should continue to do so.

The cell was nearly bare. Its only furnishings were the hard bench on which she sat, the chamber pot, and a shelf containing a pitcher and mug. The whole place smelled nasty, and the taste of the blacking on her teeth made it worse. Since she had no reason now not to remove it, she got up to look into the pitcher, intending to dampen a corner of the threadbare blanket on the floor to scrub her teeth. A large cockroach floating in the water banished that intent.

Fighting a wave of nausea, she scrubbed her teeth with her sleeve and, perversely, wondered when they fed the prisoners. Not that she could imagine eating their food if it matched the rest of her dreadful surroundings, but come mealtime, someone was bound to discover her.

The next hour crept like a century. The bench was hard, there was no pillow, and when she picked up the blanket, it smelled like vomit, making her glad that she did not yet need the foul thing for warmth.

Getting up again, she began to pace, but in the close confines of the cell, she found the exercise frustrating and tiresome, and sat down again.

A constant low hum assaulted her ears—moans and whining punctuated by occasional crashes or bangs, even a shriek once, though that was not repeated. The solid door muffled the sounds, however, so when she heard men’s voices nearby, she jumped up to see if she could hear anything of interest. To her surprise, she had no sooner reached the door than she heard the unmistakable sound of a key in its lock. She barely had time to leap back before the door swung inward.

The turnkey said cheerfully, “I’ve brung visitors, me lady. There she be, me lor—Ay de mi!” The man crossed himself and put out both arms to check the two well-dressed men behind him. “Dinna touch her, me lords! She must be a witch or worse, for by all that’s holy, I swear I niver seen that wench afore.”

Diana ignored him. Watching the other two, she stood straight, squaring her shoulders and giving back look for look.

The older one, a dark-haired, long-faced man, gaped at her. The younger man was taller and more powerful-looking, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His hair was also dark, but his eyes were gray, their irises light like pale granite with black rims around them. He looked steadily at her, and although his chiseled countenance revealed no particular expression, Diana found it as hard to meet his gaze as she imagined it must be for a rabbit to meet the predatory stare of a fox.

She looked back at the older man, finding it easier to meet his dark frown than the other’s steady inspection. This was not how she had imagined her unveiling. The pair were not guards or soldiers. Both wore elegant clothing and carried themselves like men of substance and authority, especially the younger one.

The elder, looking irritated and confused, said, “Where is Lady Maclean?”

Glancing back at the younger man, certain that of the two he was the more dangerous, Diana collected her wits. Making a deep curtsy, she instilled as much awe in her voice as she could when she said, “She be gone, your honor, but dinna be wroth wi’ me. I couldna help it. I swear tae ye, I couldna!”

The older man said brusquely, “Turnkey, who the devil is this female?”

“Did I no just tell ye, sir, that I’ve niver seen the wicked wench afore? This be magic, I warrant, and black magic at that.”

“Don’t be a fool,” the younger man said, his voice deep and vibrant with the accents of wealth, education, and a natural authority. “She passed through neither these stone walls nor the iron bars of that grating yonder. There is only one way into this cell, turnkey, and that is through this door. You must have let her in yourself.”

“Och, but the only one I let in were the laundress, me lord. I swear it on me blood and bones, and I let her oot again m’self. Only her ladyship were within.”

The older one said, “What have you done with Lady Maclean, wench?”

Diana did not look up or speak. Her courage was fast deserting her, and it was only too easy to let her hands shake, and show other signs of incipient panic.

Before she knew anyone had moved, a large hand clasped her shoulder. Its warmth, even through her dress, and its size and strength, set her nerves afire and stopped the breath in her throat. She could not have spoken if she had wanted to.

“Tell Governor MacTause what happened, lass. You are the laundress, are you not?” Though his tone was gentle, a certain imperious note in it, added to the overpowering awareness of his hand on her shoulder, held her speechless.

When the governor uttered an exclamation of shock, echoed by the turnkey, the young man said, “It is the only logical explanation. Only the laundress came in, and only one person has left. Therefore, since this is not Lady Maclean, she must be the laundress. Your dangerous Jacobite tree-cutter has escaped, MacTause.”

“But, me lord,” the turnkey protested, “this wench don’t look at all like the laundress! That one were as round as an onion.”

“Padding, I’ll wager. Who put you up to this, lass?” The hand on her shoulder twitched, as if it wanted to shake her.

Feeling tongue-tied for perhaps the first time in her life, Diana bit her lip, wishing fervently that she could weep at will like Mary. All her cousin had to do was widen her eyes, let her face crumple, and huge tears would spill down her cheeks. But although such a skill might aid her now, Diana lacked it, and when she looked up into the gentleman’s face, she knew that if she tried to lie to him, her tongue would betray her. His gaze was too penetrating, his intelligence too plain. She looked quickly down again.

The turnkey growled, “You just leave the wench tae me, your lordship. I’ll soon have the truth out of her. The claws o’ me cat will—”

The hand tightened on her shoulder, but his voice remained calm when he said, “That won’t be necessary. She has been frightened already, and you can see with half an eye that she is no hardened conspirator.”

Governor MacTause said grimly, “Then just how do you propose to make her tell what she knows, Calder? I remind you, she has helped an important prisoner to escape, and the law is quite clear about such a crime.”

“As to the importance of your prisoner,” Lord Calder said, “I dispute that, as you know, for we have more pressing matters on our plate than making war on women. That is precisely why I asked to see this dangerous prisoner of yours. You and his grace have kept her ladyship locked up for no good cause that I can see, other than that his grace don’t happen to like her.”

“She broke the law,” MacTause said, “and in any event, it is not my business to determine who stays and who leaves.”

“It is your business to see prisoners treated properly, however. To house any woman of quality in a place like this—” He broke off abruptly, then added in a more even tone, “We will not pluck that crow again. As to how I shall learn what this young female knows, why, I shall ask her. Look at me, lass.”

Reluctantly, Diana forced her gaze to meet his. His eyes were like flints. His thick, dark eyebrows nearly met above the bridge of his nose, and the bones of his cheeks showed prominently. His chin was strong and well formed. His lips—

He said sternly enough to stand the fine hairs on the back of her neck on end, “Tell me the truth now, or you’ll find yourself in an abundance of trouble. If you are truthful, I promise no one will harm you.”

“Now, see here, Calder—”

“Do you deny my authority, MacTause?”

“No, of course not, my lord. I merely wish to point out—”

“We can discuss your wishes later at length, sir. Just now I want to hear what this young woman has to say.” He paused, watching Diana and waiting.

Still overconscious of his hand on her shoulder, Diana licked dry lips, then said in words scarcely above a whisper, “I dinna ken what ye want of me, your lordship. Aye, sure, ye canna think they told me aught but what they wanted me tae do. I … I were sore affrighted, sir. Deed, and I be affrighted the noo, as weel!”

That last bit, at least, was no lie. Lord Calder, whoever he was, was no one with whom to trifle. Despite his sensible attitude about her mother’s imprisonment, every instinct screamed at her to be wary of him. She fell silent again, waiting.

When he did not speak at once, she felt as if he were peering into her soul and seeing the truth written there in flaming letters, but when he spoke, he said only, “You see, MacTause. Clearly, some damned Jacobites forced the lass to help free her ladyship. She cannot know more about them or she would tell us. She is poor and uneducated, and she’s practically shaking in her boots with terror. I say we send her off about her business. We’ll gain naught by punishing her for this.”

“But she helped a felon escape! We’ve not had an escape since I came to the castle, my lord. Surely, you cannot mean to let her off with no punishment at all.”

“I doubt you’d get anything but the labor for your pains,” Calder said, removing his hand at last, “but if you must punish her, deny her any future access to the prisoners. Hunger teaches a harsh lesson, sir, and the lass doubtless counts on income from doing their laundry to feed herself and perhaps a family as well.”

“But, me lord,” the turnkey protested, “this lass—”

“Silence, you,” the governor snapped. “Had you done your duty, the Jacobite woman would still be locked up. I’ve a good mind to order you flogged.”

“You’d be wiser to do nothing in haste, MacTause,” Calder said when the turnkey shuddered. “Little said is soon amended, you know, but once we begin throwing blame about, there is no telling where it will stick. Tis better, I think, to send the lass on her way with a warning and a fright, after which I shall undertake to explain to his grace that no one could have avoided what occurred. No doubt he will order his men to pursue her ladyship, but that we cannot help.”

“She is a dangerous Jacobite traitor,” MacTause repeated stubbornly.

Diana’s fists clenched. Pressing them into the folds of her gown, she kept her gaze fixed on the stone floor of the cell lest they detect her fury in her eyes.

Calder said calmly, “The widow Maclean is only a woman, MacTause. Even the most dangerous Jacobites have proved powerless against Argyll and the Crown.”

She dared not look at any of them. She did not doubt that Calder and MacTause assumed she was the usual prison laundress or that the turnkey had tried to tell both men that he had never laid eyes on her before that day. The next few seconds increased her tension, for the governor could easily order her whipped. He seemed to perceive a threat in Calder’s words, but not knowing where the younger man derived his authority, she could not guess how much influence he wielded.

Abruptly MacTause said, “It shall be as you wish, my lord. Turnkey, take her up to the guard in the hall, and tell him to evict her from the castle. He is to learn her name and inform the guards at the entrance that she is not to step foot inside these walls again. Do you understand me?”

“Aye, your worship,” the turnkey said grimly. “Come along o’ me, wench.”

“Take care, turnkey,” Lord Calder said. “She is not to be harmed.”

Unable to believe her luck, Diana did not breathe easily until she was outside the main gate. But when she found Dugald Cameron awaiting her there, her spirits soared until she felt utterly euphoric.

“I did not expect anyone still to be here,” she said, grinning and tucking her hand in the crook of the huge Highlander’s arm. “Did Mam get away safe?”

“Aye, they’ve got her outside the city gates and on her way,” Dugald said. “I stayed ’cause I knew the laird would have me head if I left afore I learned what had become o’ thee. We’d best make haste the noo though,” he added. “We’ll no catch them up, but your Neil did say he’d wait atop Firthin’s Hill to see could he spy us a-coming. We didna think to see thee out so soon, Mistress Diana.”

“Nor did I,” Diana admitted. “A certain Lord Calder is visiting the governor, and it was he who set me free. Do you know aught of him, Dugald?”

“Nay, lass. Did they just turn thee out then?”

“I had to give the soldiers a name,” she said, chuckling. “I said I was Mab MacKissock.”

“MacKissock?”

“Aye, ’tis one of the Campbell septs. Let them blame some misbegotten Campbell for Mam’s escape.”

Dugald laughed heartily, and Diana laughed with him, feeling exultant in her unexpected freedom.

Rory Campbell, Lord Calder, watched the burly turnkey lead the girl away, wondering why he felt reluctant now to let her go. One look into her golden eyes had told him she was no practiced traitor, and in any case, she was too young to have been part of the troubles that had ended at the Battle of Culloden six years ago.