The Wild Rose of Kilgannon (38 page)

"From the Tower," I croaked. "He was escaping from the Tower?"

"No. Pay attention. Your husband was sentenced ten days ago."

"Sentenced? How? When?"

"Madam, we have the Crown's blessing to proceed as we deem proper. Your husband was sentenced in secret." His eyes narrowed. "We have not found Lord DeBroun and do not know if he's in hiding or if your husband's relations are holding him as they claim. I could not risk the two of you disrupting my court again and turning it into a shambles. I sentenced him in my chambers rather than in the court." He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together. "We were very lenient, considering the crime."

"But how did he drown?" My voice was a whisper.

Lord Webster frowned at me. "Stop interrupting. Your husband was sentenced to fourteen years indentured service in the colonies. In Virginia." He straightened his back and watched me. Fourteen years, I thought. "He was put on board a ship bound for the colonies. It sailed eight days ago. Your husband threw himself over the rail and into the water. We have no doubt that he drowned." With a brusque gesture he took something from his pocket and held it out to me. It was a gold pocket watch and I took it from him with a pounding heart, remembering the day that I'd first seen it, the day Alex had bought it. I

knew before I opened it that I'd find June 5,1712 engraved inside, and Trenchant and Sons on the face.

"Did this watch belong to your husband?" Webster demanded, bringing me back to the present.

I nodded. "Yes," I said hoarsely. Alex, I thought. I held the watch in my hand and felt Lord Webster's words begin to penetrate. "This does not prove Alex is dead," I said, "only that he was unable to prevent you from taking this from him."

"Mistress MacGannon, do not be
witless
. He was seen going over the rail. How long do you think he lived in that water?"

We sat in silence while I struggled not to let despair overcome me. Alex with seaweed in his hair. I had been right. He had come to me. Eight days ago, Webster had said. I tried to remember which night I'd had the dream. "You don't have his body."

He scowled. "Your husband is dead."

"He can swim," I said softly. "He can swim. It's not true."

Lord Webster's eyes narrowed. He sighed as though he'd come to a conclusion. "And that is why you are being held."

"Why?"

"If, and there is always a remote possibility, if your husband is alive, he will come to you. And if his barbaric relations do have DeBroun, I would have had nothing to trade them. Now I do."

"They are not holding DeBroun. I will swear to that."

"Then your husband will trade himself for you."

"Never."

"We both know he will. For you. Or your son. We are searching both land and sea for him. I have told them to bring me his head, and I will hold you until they do."

I stared at him, wanting to doubt. But I watched his eyes and believed all he had said. "You are the barbarian," I said.

Webster was not insulted. "I consider only my duty, which is to crush rebellion. Make no mistake. I will crush this rebellion, and when I'm finished, no set of essays aimed at the lower masses will sway London; no dramatics by

a handsome man in the courtroom will move them, nor pleas for sympathy by his beautiful wife. London will understand that the Crown has been threatened and will be grateful that it has been protected. Whatever the cost, madam, I will succeed. The Crown will be protected."

"You are repulsive."

"I am prepared to be such, madam. I am not Edgar DeBroun. Marriage is not what I want from you."

"What do you want from me?"

"Your husband." He rose to stand over me. "Preferably dead. It would be much simpler that way. But if I have to ship him off to Virginia, I will do so. It makes
little
difference to me."

"My family will find me. It was clumsy of you to send your own coach with your own men. My brother will discover that it was you who wrote to me, and he will come looking for me."

The judge gave a short bark of a laugh. "He already has, with your uncle Randolph. I made our position extremely clear, that I will hold you until DeBroun is returned or your husband surrenders. Or..." He paused. "Until your husband's body is given to me."

"Will would never agree to that, nor my uncle."

Lord Webster was unmoved. "They did agree to it, madam. Readily. In exchange for your stepsons' continued freedom. I would have taken them next and I told them so. They are no relation of his and may be brought under my jurisdiction as wards of the court. Sons of a traitor, madam. Your brother has gone home and your aunt and uncle have withdrawn with him. And it was not clumsy of me to send my own coach. It was planned. It led them to me and then I knew who would come after you." He paused.
"It was not the MacGannons, madam.
Your husband's family has deserted you and I have dealt with yours. You are quite alone here unless you count your son and his nurse. If you do not cooperate, we will separate you from them." He met my gaze implacably.

I tried to control my fear. He Is lying, I told myself. Will and Randolph and Louisa would not be so easily managed, and Matthew and Gilbey and Thomas would never abandon me. He must be lying.

"You will not touch my son," I said.

"I will do as I deem proper to solve this
little
problem. And make no mistake, this is a very
little
problem. In two years no one in London will remember your husband's name. Nor yours. And now, madam, tell me what you know about Edgar DeBroun's captivity. Tell me what you can quickly, madam. I may not always be so gracious."

"The MacGannons do not hold Edgar DeBroun," I said quietly. "To my knowledge, no one does. I believe he is free."

Webster was silent as he watched me. I could hear the clock ticking on the mantel and someone walking slowly across the hallway upstairs. Lord Webster rose
abruptly
and moved to the door, turning as he opened it. "Madam, the next time I come I expect the truth from you. And I hope to bring your husband's head. Will that be proof enough of his death?" I did not answer and the judge left me.

Upstairs in my room I shivered and pulled Alex's old plaid around me. Henrietta tried to comfort me but I had not told her everything Webster had said, only that he'd told me Alex was dead. It was bad enough that she had to be here with me, I thought. She did not need to know just how precarious our position was. But I did not lie to myself. I stood at the window and rested my head against the cold glass. Alex was alive. He had to be. But how could he be? Even if he were fit enough to swim to shore, what then? There would be no one to aid him. The MacGannons had all gone north, the Macleans with them, to bury Angus and Duncan. And I, idiot that I was, had delivered myself and our son into the hands of our enemies, leaving the boys at the mercy of others. But I could not believe that Will and Louisa and Randolph had abandoned me, and I did not want to believe that their hands were tied. I prayed for the boys' safety. And Alex's. And ours. And where was DeBroun?

Later I sat before the fire, staring into the flames, rocking my sleeping baby while Henrietta dozed on the bed. Alex was alive, I told myself, refusing to remember seaweed in his hair, and he would go to Louisa and Randolph in London. Or Will at Mountgarden. Or Grafton. Or strike out for the north and eventually get to Kilgannon. He was not without his resources. Perhaps William Burton, his shipping agent, would help him or, failing that, some of the men he'd known in London. Surely there would be someone. But I kept remembering the day he'd been attacked by the mob, just before Queen Anne's death, when the city had been terrified that a Jacobite invasion was imminent. London could be very fickle.

Louisa and Randolph and Will certainly knew Webster held us, and I didn't believe for a moment that they would simply stop searching for me. But who, I wondered, would ever suspect I'd be in this secluded house, surrounded by guards? They would have gone to the judge's town house or to his estate in Derby, not here. And what, I thought with a new pang of fear, what if the judge was not lying? I contemplated the window again. Three stories to the ground, a sheer drop, no porch roof or accommodating gable to block my fall. Impossible to consider with a baby or without. And the roof, another story above, was no escape. I looked around the room, with its thick plaster walls, coming back as always to the door. But the door was at least three inches thick, ancient oak that bore the marks of many blows. And I had no weapon save my mind. Think,
Mary
, I commanded myself yet again, think.
You will not sit here and rot like some character out of one of Thomas McNeil’s stories.
Think. But my thoughts ran in circles. At last I climbed into bed with the baby and Henrietta. And dreamed.

I was walking down the terraces at Kilgannon. The mist hung low over the water, obscuring the surface. At the end of the dock, I waited serenely as he walked toward me. In his hair was something dark and wet.... Alex was dead. I woke in the dark, my heart pounding and my breath coming in ragged gulps. Oh, dear God, I prayed, do not let this be true. But I could not still the voice in my head that said it was. He had come to me as I had asked. I climbed from the bed and paced the room. Alex, my love, where are you tonight?! asked
silently
. I held his watch to my breast and prayed.

The morning dawned
grey
and cloudy, the air heavy with moisture, and I huddled in the covers, still dressed in my clothes. I heard something but fought against waking until Henrietta sprang from the bed and went to the window.

"Lady
Mary
," she whispered, "it's a coach arriving." Her pretty face was pale, and I thought yet again how very unfair it was for them to imprison her with me. "There's more than one man," she said without looking away from the window. "One is the judge. He's very stiff this morning. I hope he has pain in every joint of his body."

I lifted my head with a horrible thought. "Is he holding anything? A box?" A
box big enough for a
man’s
head? I
thought.

"No," she said with a puzzled glance at me, "he is holding nothing. Here's the second man. Blond. A tall man. Dressed all in black, in English clothing. He's very big."

"Alex," I said, sitting up. "Or Matthew." I rose and moved to join her.

"They
ye'
gone in the house," she said.

I was waiting when the guard came to our room to summon me, and I went down the stairs with a lighter heart than I'd had in days. It was unlikely that Alex was here. He'd never have gone tamely into the house without some attempt to get my attention. So it must be Matthew, and he could at least tell me what was happening. Nothing could be worse than my imaginings. I'd find out what news there was and I'd ask the judge to release Henrietta, if not both of us. I was led to the
parlour
and offered a cup of tea by the same woman who served us upstairs. She still would not look at me. Men were
quietly
talking in the next room and I sipped the tea, trying to hear what they said. Negotiating, I thought. They kept me waiting a long time. I stood when the door opened, ready to greet Matthew. But it was not Matthew who entered with the judge. It was Malcolm.

I
DROPPED THE CUP. AND I MUST HAVE LOOKED AS though I was about to faint, for Malcolm took my arm. I cringed away from his touch, backed into the chair I'd been sitting in, and sat down with a thump as I stared at him. Alex's brother smiled. The cup rolled on the floor, all of us ignoring it.

"Mistress MacGannon, your brother-in-law has come to give you his condolences," Lord Webster said as he sat slowly on the chair opposite me. "I assume you two will wish to comfort each other."

I hardly noticed the judge's words, nor did I look at him. I was watching Malcolm. The year had not been kind to him. He was heavier and his face, although still handsome, was more florid now, his eyes piggish in the folds around them. He reached a hand to me and I turned my head aside.

"Mary," Malcolm said in a wheedling tone as he sat in the chair beside me. "I am
sorry
about Alex. We must heal the wounds now. It's time to reunite."

I did not trust myself to answer.

"MacGannon has applied to be your stepsons' guardian," said the judge, shifting in his chair to look at us both.

"No," I said, my voice wavering. "No. I am their mother."

Malcolm shook his head and spoke as one would to a child. "Yer no' their mother. Their mother is dead."

"I am the only mother they have. And I am their guardian."

"They are my blood, Mary, not yers." Malcolm's tone was patronizing. I leapt up, ready to leave the room, but Malcolm beat me to the door, blocking my passage. I met his eyes. "They are my blood, Mary," he said again in a much different tone. "And now that
Kilgannon
has passed to Ian, he will need

a man to guide him." I stepped back from him. Malcolm slowly smiled and my rage exploded.

"No!" I cried. "No." I drew myself as tall as I could. "Ian has not inherited Kilgannon. Alex is not dead, despite your best efforts. Over and over, Malcolm, you tried to kill him, and when you could not manage it yourself you got the English to do your dirty work. Well, you swine, you failed again. Alex is not dead."