The Marriage Ring (12 page)

Richard looked to the people standing by the cart. The dogs had trotted over to them. All seemed normal, albeit a bit quiet. Perhaps that was because of the March wind and the heavy clouds hanging in the sky.

“We can’t walk to Inverness,” he said. “We need help and this is the best we have for right now. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

Grace shook her head, glancing around her. “We are strangers here and you are English. Sometimes it is best to keep moving.”

“Why should you be worried I’m English?”

“Scotland is a long way from London, Mr. Lynsted. And there are many places where we Scots nurse grudges against the English. Let’s move on.”

“We will, once I discover where we are. Stand behind me if you have doubts.”

She stepped into his shadow immediately.

The villagers were watching them now. Richard felt he had to speak. They would have looked like suspicious characters if he didn’t. Besides, they were standing in front of a church.

“Hello,” he said in greeting as he walked closer.

No one answered back, and that’s when he noticed a man’s legs hanging out of the back of the cart. He recognized his father and uncle’s livery.

Richard moved toward those legs, almost certain of what he’d find. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when his hunch was proven correct in the form of Herbert’s bloated, drowned body.

Sadness weighed down upon him. He’d known the valet the majority of his life. He wondered what inducement his uncle had dangled in front of the once loyal servant to make him willingly attempt to murder Grace—and what he could do to make his uncle pay for the crime.

“I know that man,” he said to the group. He would claim Herbert’s body and see that he was sent back to London and his family for a decent burial.

“You do now, do you?” a gray-haired, grim-faced man demanded with the air of a leader. A clergyman came out of the church. He was dressed in black from head to toe and had a long beard.

“I do,” Richard answered.

“And I’m thinking we know you, too,” the grim-faced man said. “We have a description of you.”

“Of me?” Richard shook his head. “Why would you have a description of me?”

“Because a fellow you tried to kill, Dawson, the one that escaped, gave it to us,” the yeoman said. “Told us you had already murdered one man by throwing him in the river. This here is his body, isn’t it? We fished it out for you. And sure enough, you know him. Besides, there isn’t many lads who have the size and looks of you. Or who appear as if they’ve been roughed up a bit.”

“Dawson lied,” Richard answered, conscious that the three yeomen blocked his escape in the opposite direction and the men around the oxen cart had fanned out. “I didn’t kill Herbert. He fell into the river on his own.”

“We’ll let the magistrate decide that,” the grim-faced man answered. “Take him, lads.”

Before Richard could move, he was jumped on all sides.

Chapter Twelve

R
ichard’s first concern was to protect Grace.

With a roar of fury, he shoved his attackers away. They came back with fists. He doubled his own and gave better than he received. First one man went down and then another.

The moment he could, he turned to Grace—except she was gone. Vanished.

He had assumed she was following him, that she stood behind him. She wasn’t there, but a host of villagers had appeared from those silent, closed cottages and were coming to join the fight.

Richard knew his best option was to run. No one here was listening to reason. Grace had warned him. She had been right. Again.

However, before he could take flight, he was hit against the side of his head with something heavy and hard. There was a burst of light, and then his world went black.

Richard’s eyes didn’t want to open. When he finally did raise his lids, the world was still black, the air dry. He could not see even his hand in front of his face. He drifted off to sleep.

When he woke the second time, the morning sun blazed right in his face. He raised a hand to block the light, surprised to realize he was lying on the floor. A dirt floor.

Memories of seeing Herbert’s body in the cart and being jumped by the villagers came back to him—and he knew wherever he was, it was not where he wanted to be.

Rolling over, he took stock of his surroundings. He was on the floor of an eight-by-eight-foot room with thick stone walls. The smell of onions, potatoes, and cured meats lingered in the air. The hooks in the ceiling rafter beneath a thatched roof confirmed his suspicion he was in a larder. The door was of heavy wood planks with a small arched window at eye level.

Of course, there was nothing in here now. Not even a stick.

His stomach grumbled with hunger. It had obviously been hours since he’d tossed aside the rabbit Grace had caught and cooked.

Now he was happy she’d left him. His hope was that she’d managed to escape. In fact, she’d been wise to leave him. So far, he’d botched everything.

Carefully, Richard came to his feet. He still wore his boots. That was a good sign, but the bars over the small window in the door quickly sobered any optimism.

He walked over to them and peered out. The church wasn’t far from his cell. He could see the mill wheel turning and villagers going about their morning business—

“So you are up, eh?” A man’s grizzled face blocked his view. “Didn’t think with that hard head of yours you’d be asleep so long. Must have hit you harder than I’d thought. Slept the night through.”

Richard didn’t answer. He worried about Grace, silently praying she was safe.

“Nothing to say, eh? Well, you’ll be talking once you meet Douglas. He’s gone for the magistrate. We decided not to wait for that man from London. We’ll hang you on the morrow,” he concluded gleefully.

“Hungry,” Richard said, the word little more than a croak. He was going to need to eat if he wanted the strength to face his accusers. Actually, he wasn’t that distressed they were fetching the magistrate. He had no doubt he could convince the man of his innocence.

After all, Richard was a lawyer.

The magistrate was a heavyset man with thick jowls and a tuft of yellow hair on top of his head and above each ear.

Court had been set up in the church’s vestibule. The villagers had all crammed into the small space so they could see and hear everything. Richard surmised he had inadvertently supplied them with more excitement than they usually experienced in any decade of their quiet lives.

The smell of fried fish was in the air. Apparently, dinner was part of the magistrate’s expected payment, because his court table was set with a plate and silver. Someone had already given him a stack of thickly sliced bread.

He buttered a slice as he gave Richard a look up and down. “You are from London, aren’t you?” His lips curved into distaste right before he stuffed the whole slice of bread in his mouth. He had short, fat fingers that he moved with an effeminate air.

Richard bowed as best he could with his hands tied with three different knots behind his back. The villagers had wanted to ensure he wouldn’t escape and hence their elaborate knot arrangement.

What he did wish is that he was clean shaven and didn’t look as if he’d slept in his clothes. Then there wouldn’t be any foolish accusations. The magistrate would see him as an equal.

As it was, he had to use his voice, manner, and credentials. “I am the Honorable Richard Lynsted. My father is Lord Brandt, my uncle Lord Maven, and my cousin is the Duke of Holburn. My family owns estates throughout England.”

“I am Sir John Garson and we don’t like the English much here,” the magistrate informed him. “Especially English dukes. You know what the Duke of Cumberland did at Culloden. Whether you supported the uprising or not, his butchery tears at the heart of every good Scotsman. We are lowlanders here but the more we think upon it, the more we dislike the English.”

A chorus of somber “ayes” met his pronouncement.

Anger flashed through Richard. He tamped it down. He prided himself on self-control and temperance.

“What are the charges against me?” he inquired, careful to keep his voice neutral.

Sir John stuffed more bread into his mouth before answering, “You are charged with the death of that man they fished out of the River Tweed.”

Richard waited for him to ask how he pleaded.

The magistrate didn’t say anything.

“I plead not guilty,” Richard finally said, because he must have it on the record.

“We assumed that, sir,” Sir John answered, his interest going past Richard to the doorway behind him.

Richard turned to see what he was looking at. A smiling village woman stood in the doorway holding a tray of fried fish.

“One moment, my dear,” Sir John told her with a smile. “I must finish this trial.”

“Yes,” Richard agreed. “I wouldn’t want your food to grow cold.”

“
Silence
,” Sir John barked. “Your English humor is not appreciated here.”

“I wasn’t being humorous,” Richard answered, his temper strained. He tried to keep control of himself and this trial. “I wish to tell my story.”

“I suppose you will tell us you had nothing to do with that man’s death?” the magistrate replied, folding his hands over his ample girth. “Come here, lass, and place that plate right here. Don’t want you standing there feeling unappreciated.”

The village woman did as he said, giggling as he lifted the covers and drew a deep whiff of her cooking. She sidled over to join the other witnesses to this “trial.”

“Now,” Sir John said, finally giving Richard his attention, “what say you?”

“I did not kill Herbert,” Richard said. He’d given some thought to his defense, and after meeting the magistrate decided the clearer and shorter the story, the better. He would also leave Grace out of it. “He was traveling with me. He’s been in a retainer in my family’s employ for years. My coach and I were traveling to Inverness when we stopped for a short spell to stretch our legs. Herbert fell into the river. I tried to save him but was unsuccessful.”

“Eh, now? And what happened to your coach and driver?”

“Dawson drove off,” Richard said, choosing his words carefully. “Perhaps he jumped to a conclusion that was not correct.”

Sir John leaned over a paper covered with hasty scribbles in front of him. “Dawson.” He pointed to one of the scribbles and smiled up at Richard. “It says here your coachman accuses you of attempting to kill him, too. The man said he barely escaped with his life.”

“He’s lying,” Richard answered.

“Yes, well, I don’t believe you are being completely honest, Honorable Mr. Richard Lynsted. And our dead man, this Herbert, appeared bashed and beaten.” Sir John glanced over to the gray-haired yeoman Richard had spoken to the day before. “Douglas, is that not what you told me?”

“It is,” Douglas answered.

“Nor do you look to have been enjoying a stroll in the country,” the magistrate said to Richard. “In fact, you appear as if you were in a right proper row.”

Richard said, “I received most of these bruises yesterday when this man”—he nodded to Douglas—“and a good number of others assaulted me for a crime I didn’t commit. They hit me on the head and threw me into that larder over there on the church grounds.”

“Ah, yes, the larder,” Sir John repeated, nodding. “We’ve used it a time or two as a gaol, right, Douglas?”

“That’s right, Sir John. But if I may say, Mr. Lynsted looked that rough yesterday when he came into Rachlan Mill. And the man who was driving the coach appeared as if his nose had been broken. He said he’d barely escaped with his life. Said his master had gone mad.”

“Did he appear mad to you when you first met him?” Sir John asked.

“He appeared cautious,” Douglas answered, “as if he had something to hide.”

“And he knew the dead man?” Sir John asked.

“Recognized him immediately.”

Now Richard understood why Dawson hadn’t returned to finish the task he’d been charged with—murdering Grace. He’d set them up and left the job for these villagers.

Nor would his uncle be too sad to have Richard gone, too.

“You do realize,” Richard said, “that none of the testimony presented in this court is valid. It’s all hearsay.”

“They take hearsay seriously in Rachlan Mill,” Sir John corrected him. “A man’s word is his bond.”

“Well, my word, which is
my
bond, is that I didn’t kill anyone. Herbert’s death was an accident,” Richard informed him. “And I have the right to confront my accuser, Dawson.”

“We can’t do that. He’s not here,” Sir John said, leaning over the plate of fish and giving it a whiff. He was obviously more worried about his food growing cold than Richard’s trial. “Besides, you are being tried by a jury of your peers and they heard what this Dawson had to say—”

“What peers?” Richard blurted out, surprised at the statement.

“These villagers,” Sir John answered. “They have been listening to the testimony.”

“But they have been testifying against me,” Richard protested. He’d be damned before he’d allow himself to be found guilty by this mockery of justice, especially when he could see by the villagers’ expressions they thought him guilty. “I demand to be taken to London for my trial,” he said. “I demand that Dawson confront me with these ridiculous charges.”

“You aren’t in England any longer, lad. In Scotland, we take care of our own justice,” Sir John informed him. “I’ve had enough of you, the Honorable Mr. Richard Lynsted. A man’s dead here and someone should pay for his death. How say you, jury?”

“Guilty.” The word came out of them as one.

“Very well, he’ll hang on the morrow.” Sir John reached for his dinner plate.

“
Hang?
” Richard was stunned. “But I haven’t done anything. It was self-defense.”

Sir John looked up from tying a bib around his neck. “Self-defense?” He dropped the cloth and refolded his hands over his belly. “I thought it was an accident, Mr. Lynsted.”

“It was,” Richard said, cursing himself for a fool. “He attacked me and I defended myself. But I never meant for him to fall—and that is what he did,
he fell
into the river.”

“And apparently the truth is something an ‘honorable’ gentleman like yourself stretches and changes for himself. Which is, in my esteemed opinion, very much like a lawyer.”

The villagers murmured agreement.

“And does this new information change your opinions?” Sir John asked addressing them. “How say you, jury?”

This time their “guilty” was louder and more confident than the last.

“Take him away,” Sir John ordered with a wave of his hand. “And,” he added as an afterthought, “see that he has a good meal this evening. It will be his last.”

Brawny young men flanked the trussed-up Richard and marched him back to his cell, unceremoniously shoving and pushing him the whole way across the church grounds.

They threw him inside the larder and locked the door, setting one of their number to stand guard. The one small blessing is that they cut free the ropes binding his hands.

Richard paced the perimeter of his cell.
They were going to hang him.
The idea was ridiculous, their charges unfounded, the verdict unprecedented—at least in his social circle.

If he was in London, he’d see that an inquiry was sent here to investigate this travesty of justice—

But he wasn’t in London.

He’d never go there again.

They intended to hang him and would. This was their corner of the world. By the time anyone learned of his predicament and came to his aid, he’d be dead.

Such dark realizations would sober any man and they certainly did the trick for Richard.

Grace had warned him. And instead of listening to her, he’d been an arrogant fool.

He wondered where she was now. If she knew. He hoped she wasn’t still in the area. He didn’t want these bastards to catch her. Who knew what they would do to her? She’d been through enough humiliation and pain in her life.

The sound of hammering came from a distance.

Richard walked to the small barred window in the door and peered outside. His guard gave him an evil grin. “They are building the gallows now. Have to have it the right size for you.” Richard turned back to his cell.

For the better part of two hours, he entertained a fantasy he could escape. He didn’t test the bars since they were right in front of the guard, although he noticed they were made of wood and not of steel. Instead, he tried his brute strength on every inch of the cell’s limestone walls to no avail. Initially, he was systematic and thorough, keeping his purpose quiet. Toward the end, his efforts turned frenzied and frustrating. There was no way out.

“Dinner’s here,” his guard shouted through the bars. “Stand to the back of the cell.”

Richard immediately decided he would rush whoever came through. He’d put down his head and bowl right through the door.

However, when the door opened, a man entered with a blunderbuss pointed right at him.