Sound of the Heart (23 page)

“Ah, but they will, for I’ve evidence.” She blinked prettily, the thrill of the moment singing in her veins. If she weren’t so weak, she’d have leapt to her feet and danced around the fool. He stared at her now, his eyes slightly unfocused as he tried to wriggle out of the situation. She stopped him. “Now ye’ll be pleased to hear I have a solution for ye. I am no’ goin’ to yer wife or her parents or anyone else, yet. But dinna underestimate me. That will happen if ye deny my requests. Everythin’ I need to destroy ye is in a very safe place.”

He squinted at her. “Go on.”

“I shall live here, upstairs, in my own room. I shall still work here, but only as a barmaid. Neither ye nor any other bastard in this place will ever touch me. An’ that also goes for dear Sarah, who, as ye ken already, is one of the unfortunate lassies on my list.” He flinched but didn’t interrupt. “An’ at the end of every week, we shall be paid wages.” She smiled. “Do ye understand me, Frank?”

“I paid for you,” he snarled. “I paid big for you. I should get something for all that.”

She leaned toward him, feeling the hatred burn in her own eyes. “What ye did to me was more than somethin’, ye pitiful excuse for a man.”

“You have to stay here. The service contract is for five more years,” he said, grasping for anything with which he might regain control. “Escaped slaves hang.”

“Ye’d want to keep me after all this?” She laughed. “What a fool ye be. But I see no cause to leave yet anyhow. Ye’ll pay my room an’ board, ye’ll feed me, an’ ye’ll pay me at the end of every week.”

In the end, he had no choice. She had cornered him neatly and he knew it.

There were many nights when she sat on her bed in her quiet bedroom upstairs and cried herself to sleep. This kind of life wasn’t worth the price she’d paid. But she’d had no alternative. Memories of what Frank had done were scars she would carry forever, but she had survived. Now, if she were to believe Aline, she had to find the reason. Aline had said there was always a reason. Glenna wasn’t about to allow Frank Hill to take that away from her.

CHAPTER 38

A Madman’s Stories

Glenna puffed loose strands of hair from her brow as she leaned across the table, wiping away wet circles left by the empty glasses she now held on her tray. It had been a long day, the heat almost unbearable, the stink of unwashed men and alcohol sticking like sweat on the walls of the tavern. Tempers had been short since noon, and she’d stepped out of the room three times when fights broke out. Frank had tossed the ruffians into the street, but she’d seen a couple sneak back in later, desperate to wash away the dust in their throats.

She was tired. Her gown clung to her curves, but the men sitting at tables around her knew her well enough by now to know she wouldn’t stand for their groping hands. Frank never interfered, but he didn’t have to. Having freed herself from his clutches, she had impressed every man in the tavern with her temper. The others saw her in a different light and were hesitant to cross the little hellcat. Frank loomed always in the background, eyes dark with a turbulent confusion of lust and hatred. She had humiliated him, she knew. She had played a dangerous game, threatening to spill his secrets to his wife and her family, but it had been done to save her soul. Never could she have lived under the thumb of this repulsive man, and when he grudgingly paid her wages at the end of every week, she smiled politely and tried not to gloat.

Now he sat at the last of two occupied tables, staring at the cards in his hand and listening to the three other men at the table, none of which she’d seen before. She didn’t like the look of one of them in particular. From his wide-eyed stare and toothy grin, she guessed he was probably quite mad. Frank set his cards down and leaned back, absorbed in the conversation while he absently walked a coin over the backs of his fingers, a habit she’d seen him do often. The money on the table seemed fairly evenly distributed, but she knew the game. The longer he could drag this out, the better chance Frank had of pulling one of his tricks. She’d never seen him lose, and no one had caught him cheating—yet. The crazy man sat across from him, doing the most talking, and when he slammed his empty cup on the table, Frank glanced up and nodded briefly at her. She went to fetch the man another beer, knowing from experience it was easier just to do things rather than bristle at every order. It simply wasn’t worth the effort.

She waited at the bar while the cup was filled. “The others, too?” the bartender asked, gesturing with his chin toward the table.

“Hmm? Oh aye, I suppose so. Frank can sort it out later.” She balanced the cups on her tray then headed back to the table. Frank frowned at the four drinks, knowing he’d only requested one, but said nothing as she set them in front of the men.

The man still hadn’t stopped talking, and his voice carried throughout the tavern, like a dog yapping. He spoke in a rich Scottish brogue, and his matted beard sparkled with spit as he boasted of his exploits with the army, how they’d slaughtered Indians and French alike, sounding as if they’d single-handedly rescued the entire world. Glenna managed not to laugh. What was it about men and their exaggerations?

Frank was still frowning, and now the lines drawn between his eyebrows deepened with curiosity. He slid his cards into the centre of the table and cleared his throat. The other men seemed surprised to hear a voice other than the one that had been going on for the past five minutes.

“But you’re Scottish, aren’t you?”

“Bloody right I am,” the man declared, spit gathering like froth in the corners of his mouth. “From Invergarden way. An’ that’s where my kin would be if we didna have to battle the bloody English all the time.”

“And yet you’re fighting . . . with the English army?”

For the first time, the man faltered, glancing down at the table for a split second. “Well . . . no. No’ exactly.” He looked up again, gaining momentum. “The English dogs saw they couldna defeat the French wi’out us Scots, aye? Bunch of lilly-livered worms, them. So they called the real warriors down from the Highlands an’ gave us back our plaids an’ pipes, let us live the way we should, but we had to fight the bloody battles here for them.”

“Oh, come on, Hamish. An English army made up of Scots?”

“Aye. The Seventy-seventh Highlanders, we’re called, an’ a braver bunch of lads ye’ve never seen in yer life.”

One of the other men at the table rolled his eyes and, with a sigh, laid his cards on the table. The other followed suit. It seemed none of them were going anywhere until Hamish had told his glorious story.

“Taught us to fight wi’ their guns, their bayonets, then sent us out to defend their damn English honour. Honour! When has an Englishman honour, I ask ye?” He shook his head and grinned, remembering. “But the men in the unit were braw fighters. Unafraid an’ brimmin’ wi’ fight. Especially those bloody grenadiers, big tall fellows wi’ more guts than brains.”

The conversation was vaguely interesting to Glenna, though the thought of any self-respecting Scot volunteering to join an English army repulsed her. She liked the mental image of the plaids swinging again, the Highlanders snarling as they waited for a battle to begin. She remembered the sight and sounds of them so well when she tried, the smell of wool and sweat mixing with the battle lust. Glenna studied Hamish, sitting a little taller as he spoke of the Highlanders, his shallow chest puffed with pride. She imagined he might have been a soldier at one point, clean and disciplined, but at this point he looked like nothing more than a rat recently let out of a cage. She’d seen many of those in her colourful past.

Hamish’s eyes narrowed and he looked at each man, assuring himself they were listening. “But there’s two I didna trust as far as I could throw them. Aye, they were the biggest, and aye, the men would follow them to the gates of Hell, but the one, MacDonnell . . .” He sipped on his beer and a strange light filled his eyes. “I’ll kill that man, I will.”

“Why’s that?”

“Oh, he was so much
better
than the rest of us, aye?” The dam opened and the mad fool spouted words that made no sense to Glenna. She circled behind him with his beer, then hustled past, nearly choking as she caught a whiff of his stink. “The way he looked at me, like I was no more than a slug under his boot. He always started it, comin’ after me wi’ threats, but the damn English only blamed me. He’s the reason the army let me go, aye? They said they were concerned—they were
concerned
about my
stability
, no less. They know shite, those bloody captains. They should be worried about the black-maned, blue-eyed devil, that MacDonnell. He’ll slice ’em all to bits while they sleep, he will. He an’ his fellow, John. The rest of the men, they’re all ‘Aye, sir, Mr. MacDonnell. Oh aye, I’ll jump for ye, Mr. Dougal. How high?’ ’Tis enough to make a man ill, it is.”

Glenna paused, her hand halting in midair after she’d placed the fourth cup on the table. MacDonnell was a common enough name in Scotland, as was Dougal. A big, dark devil named Dougal MacDonnell? Also common. Could it be . . . No. Surely not. And yet her heart quickened. She wanted to ask this lunatic for more, draw details from his saliva-speckled lips. But she didn’t need to. The madness squawked continuously now, like a magpie demanding attention, his words fast and furious, leaving confused expressions on the other men’s faces.

When he paused to swallow more beer, one of the others looked at Frank. “Are we gonna play cards or what?”

Frank held out one hand, placating him for the moment, then nodded at Hamish, encouraging him. Glenna could see why. Most of the time this place was either deader than a graveyard or roaring with fights. This was a story none of them had heard before, another kind of entertainment.

“I should be there, fightin’ wi’ the others, an’ I would be if it wasna for bloody Dougal MacDonnell. The bastard shouldna even be there. Should be hangin’ on the end of a rope by now. Naught but a common murderer, he is. If it weren’t for his mate, Wallace, another animal what they scraped off Culloden, he’d be swingin’ there now, meat for the corbies. Well, I’ll kill him for them. I’ll do what those bloody English didn’t manage when they threw him off the cliff.”

Glenna dropped her tray and it clattered to the floor, jerking every man’s eyes to her.
Culloden? John Wallace? And the cliff?

“Pardon me, sirs,” she said, trying to control her voice. “Clumsy of me.”

Frank said nothing, but Hamish’s nostrils flared, and he regarded her through glassy eyes. “I’ll tell ye what, I dinna mind clumsy under me.”

Glenna smiled politely, divided between the natural urge to flee the disgusting man’s innuendo and wanting to hear more about Dougal.
Could it be?
Frank chuckled quietly from his place at the table, but didn’t help her out. Why should he? They were in a continuous state of war, he and Glenna.

“Very kind of ye, sir,” she said sweetly. “Must be hearin’ yer Scots that set me off. It’s been a while since I’ve heard a sound like that. Takes me home, it does.”

Hamish sat taller, looking surprised she’d even paid attention to him. “I’ll take ye home,” he offered.

“I couldna help overhearin’ ye speak o’ the army. What was it ye said it was called?”

“Seventy-seventh Highlanders. Under Montgomerie, we are.”

She nodded, pressing her hands tight against the tray so as not to betray her trembling hands. Could it possibly be so easy? “An’ where are they now, these Highlanders?”

Frank glanced at her, eyes narrowed with suspicion. She gave him a small shrug, wanting to reassure him there was nothing to worry about. She was only curious. They were her countrymen after all.

“Oh, no’ far. I think maybe up Richmond way now. They were headed into Virginia when they sent me off. Some talk of the French, I think.”

Glenna couldn’t help herself. She blinked innocently, hoping to give Hamish the impression she believed every word he said. “An’ this MacDonnell, he sounds a right bastard.”

The man’s eyes popped wide open. “Oh aye! A right bastard to be sure. I’m goin’ to kill him.”

“Aye, so ye’ve said.”

“Soon as I’ve supped, I’m on my way. I’ve planned it all for a week now. The devil will ne’er ken what happened. He thinks he’s the only one what can shoot a tail off a squirrel. He’ll find out soon enough I can shoot, too.”

“I’m sure ye can, sir.”

Frank stood then. “Excuse me, sirs. Glenna, come with me. Deal me out of this hand, fellas. I’ll be right back.”

Glenna smiled demurely, trying desperately to look as if nothing were going on in her heart, in her head. But suddenly life had burst into colour. Energy buzzed through her, shooting from her toes to the tips of her long, blond hair, and it had everything to do with hope.
Dougal
.

Frank led her to the side of the room, then leaned down to peer into her eyes. “What’s this all about?”

“What’s what all about?”

“Talking with the customers, getting all chummy with the nasty old Scot.”

“Jealous, Frank?”

Frank gnawed on his lower lip and Glenna could see the thoughts spinning through his eyes. How he hated her. How he wanted her. And he could do nothing about either emotion. He could, however, remind her of her place in the world.

“I still own you, bitch. I bought you fair and square, and you’re stuck in this place whether you like it or not.”

“Fair and square?
Fair and square?
” Now it was Glenna who leaned forward, spitting out her words, though she kept the volume low enough that only Frank could hear. “How can you say that? How can you say
any
of this is fair and square?
I shouldn’t be here!
I should be living my own life across the sea, in my own land, in my own home. I shouldna be waitin’ on these horrible bastards here, or sayin’ yes-sir, no-sir to yer every sick whim.” She shuddered and the corner of his mouth twitched. “But I know well enough I canna leave. Dinna fash yerself o’er me. Where would I go? I ken ye’d shoot me down quick as ye could say my name.”

He nodded. “Right you are. And I’d be within my rights.” His stare was too intense, too inquisitive. Glenna fought to hold it with her own and barely managed before he spoke again. “Don’t you start thinking about joining up with a whole army of Scots, hiding behind their skirts.” An idea occurred and he hooted with laughter. “Those monsters would eat you for breakfast. You wouldn’t be so high and mighty then, would you?”

She closed her eyes, wishing he would disappear, but of course he didn’t. He was there when she opened them again, as he always was, watching and obsessing. “Leave me alone, Frank.”

He nodded, appearing satisfied for the time being. He wanted her frustrated and she played the part, though in the back of her mind, plans were being put into place.

“Bring the table another round, would you, sweetheart?”

Crazy Hamish kept up his talking for another hour, and though he touched now and again on the subject of how he was planning to follow the army and kill Dougal, most of his words were inane. Still, she found herself wanting to stay close to him. This revolting stranger had been with Dougal, living beside him for months, maybe years. He was the only person on earth that she knew who had been with Dougal, for she now believed, with every beat of her heart, that it was her own Dougal of whom he spoke. He wasn’t dead after all.