Some Enchanted Evening (35 page)

They — she, the men. Colonel Ogley, and Magistrate Fairfoot — had spent the night at an inn in the small town of Stoor barely across the English border. They seemed to hope that the border kept them safe from Hepburn's wrath.

Fools.

That night Colonel Ogley had been deep into his role as a high-minded army colonel, a hero, and the man who had discovered the truth about the phony princess and was bringing her to justice. He obtained a room for her in the inn, locked her in, and kept the key. She couldn't escape, yet neither could Magistrate Fairfoot get in, and the way he watched her, the way he touched her, made her sick with fear.

The next day Colonel Ogley had left. Left to meet his wife so they could return to his victory tour of the ballrooms and country homes of the ton. She'd never thought she'd be sorry to see the back end of Colonel Ogley, but when she looked into Magistrate Fairfoot's gloating eyes, she wanted to call Ogley back and beg for mercy.

Mercy from the man she'd made a fool of? She, more than most women, understood the delicacy of a man's self-esteem. But that's what desperation did for a lass. Made her stupid.

After that it had been a short ride to Gilmichael and a long walk from the watery sunshine of the out-of-doors into the depths of the fortress. Magistrate Fairfoot took care to point out the gibbet with its noose swinging in the breeze.

She ignored him.

Daylight showed only too clearly the aging gray stones, the bars, and the leering guards. The sunshine was also, well, illumination. It even made her cell on the upper level of the dungeons — reserved for criminal dignitaries, Fairfoot told her — less unpleasant. At least she could see the cell as she walked into it. Damp stone walls. Damp stone floor. A small, high window. An iron bedstead strung with ropes and covered by a mildewed mattress. A chamber pot. A pail of water. Not so bad for a prison, really.

Best of all, Fairfoot ordered the men to cut her bonds, shove her inside, and leave her alone. She was happier than any prisoner had ever been, and all because he walked away. He was gone.

But after she checked the small dimensions of her cell, looked up at the window, judged it impossible to reach, and sat down on the rope bed, she realized there were no other prisoners. She couldn't hear the movements of the guards at the other end of that long, long corridor. Her prison was utterly, totally silent. That unnerved her, gave her time to think of how it would feel to hang by her neck, choking, oh, God . . . but she couldn't dwell on that. Not when the hours passed and no one came with food. When she finally yelled, no one responded. No one could hear her. She was alone.

When it clouded up again, the cell grew dim. When the sun set, it was pitch dark, so black a darkness, it pressed on her eyeballs and she had to touch them to see if they were open.

But she could hear — the scuttling of beetles, the chirping of rats. The clatter of her teeth. She was cold. She was scared. She was sleepy. She didn't have a blanket. Thank heavens Amy had left when she did.

At least Amy had escaped this fate.

If only Robert were here.

Clarice wanted Robert, and she didn't know where he was.

Had he come back from Edinburgh and found her gone? Did he think she had run away from the passion they shared? Did he think she was a coward to go without a farewell?

But what an absurd notion. Robert knew everything that went on in the village. The old men would tell him, and he would mount his horse and come to rescue her.

Wouldn't he? He'd slept with her. She'd done what he asked and played his charade to perfection. He wouldn't abandon her here . . . would he?

But he had never said he loved her. He had never asked her to be his wife. He had never even indicated an interest in taking her as his mistress, a solution that had crossed her mind as reasonable for a princess who loved a man she couldn't marry.

She had discarded that solution as unworthy, but even now it lingered in her head. And lingered. And lingered.

Her head. It was nodding onto her knees. She'd drifted off to sleep.

What had roused her?

The scuttling and the chirping had stopped. And far away, down the long, long corridor, she heard the clang of a barred door. Without thought she found herself on her feet. They prickled as the blood rushed back into her limbs, and her shaking stopped as a flush of hope heated her chilled body.

Was it Robert?

The tiniest bit of candlelight shone along the corridor, and she risked the rats and the insects to run to the door. She pressed her face to the bars, trying to catch a little more of that light. She wanted to bathe in the light, absorb the light, save it to fill the darkness. It grew, flickering across the walls, a single candle carried by a single man.

She stumbled backward.

Carried by Magistrate Fairfoot, his distinguished, craggy face made horrible by his smile.

The trembling started again, harder. She was cold. She was hungry. She didn't have a single defense of any kind. She was ten inches shorter and weighed seven stone less than he did. And he had come to rape her.

This was the kind of abuse Fairfoot enjoyed. The kind where he had all the advantages. The kind where he got to torture someone smaller and weaker.

But an illumination greater than the sun at noonday rose and shone inside her.

Robert MacKenzie would come for her. Of course he would. It didn't matter if he loved her, wanted to marry her, wanted to make her his mistress, or if he had decided he had had enough of bedding her. She had been a guest in his home, and she had been abducted from his village by a pair of despicable villains. He wouldn't stand for that.

Moreover, he had promised her his masquerade would go well, and Colonel Ogley had made him a liar. If there was one thing she knew, one thing she could trust in this unstable world of vain ladies and cruel magistrates, it was that the earl of Hepburn was a man of honor — and his honor demanded that he come for her.

The key rasped in the lock. The door swung open.

She stiffened her spine.

When Fairfoot stepped through the door, she smiled at him. Smiled scornfully and used the only weapon she had left. In a slow, amused drawl, she said, "When Lord Hepburn gets here, he's going to cut you into little chunks of rooster meat. And I'm going to watch."

Chapter Twenty-nine

The world's going t' hell in a handcart, so ye might as well enjoy the ride.

— The Old Men of Freya Crags

Robert walked across the drawbridge over the dry moat, pulled his pry bar out of his saddlebags, and pounded on the sturdy and locked oak doors.

While he waited for an answer, he looked up at the tall, menacing bulk of Gilmichael Fortress and wondered how in the hell he was going to get Clarice out of there. Especially at night, and especially when he hadn't been able to glean one bloody bit of interesting information out of his foray around the fortress. Fact of the matter was, it had been built four hundred years earlier to protect the English border from the Scottish marauders, and it looked like every other English fortress. Large. Impenetrable. Inescapable.

But Gilmichael wasn't a big town. Surely not many prisoners shuddered in their fortress, and surely not many guards watched over them. A few men should be easy to overcome and Clarice easy to find, and with God's grace Robert and Clarice would be well on their way before that damned magistrate had been notified of their escape.

Of course, Robert would have to come back and take care of him — Robert flexed his knuckles — but that was a pleasure that would have to wait until he had Clarice tucked up tight at MacKenzie Manor. And if Fairfoot had hurt her, he would die in the most painful and humiliating ways Robert could devise — and Robert could devise quite a few.

He pounded again. The wood muffled the sound, but someone had to be manning the gatehouse.

If Waldemar were here, he would at this moment be climbing a rope up the side of the fortress and moving like a shadow through the corridors, finding the prisoner, freeing her, and providing backup for Robert if necessary. Breaking into a prison was always better as a two-man job, but there was no choice tonight. Waldemar was safely on his way to London. And getting him there made this mission look like a breeze.

But Robert must miss him more than he realized, because for a second he thought he saw a man dangling from a rope on the outside of the fortress wall. He started to jump back, to take a closer look, when the tiny, barred guard window was opened and a deep voice snarled, "What do ye want at this 'our in the night? Don't ye know the curfew?"

In a tone of absolute disdain Robert snapped, "I don't care about your silly curfew. Don't you know who I am?"

"Nay." The guard sounded a little more cautious. The light inside the guardhouse shone around his shaggy head, and Robert could see a behemoth of unusual size and breadth.

Robert got in his bluff immediately. "I'm Colonel Ogley. You have heard of me."

"Nay." The guard drew the word out.

"I'm the Hero of the Peninsula. I performed great feats of daring. I won medals. I saved hundreds of English lives. I captured that prisoner you received today."

Behemoth scratched his head. "Nay. Magistrate Fairfoot did."

That liar. "Do you know Magistrate Fairfoot?"

"Aye, I work fer 'im."

"Then you know the truth."

Behemoth worked through that, then nodded slowly. "Aye. So ye captured that lass. So?"

"I want to see her. Now."

"Ye and everybody else."

A flame of irritation roared to life in Robert's mind. "What do you mean?"

"Magistrate Fairfoot is wi' her right now."

Black rage blinded Robert for a moment.
Damn Fairfoot to hell! He was going to pay
. But Robert got himself under control. He allowed only an edge of irritation in his tone. "He started without me? By God, I'll have his balls for this. How long ago did he go in?"

Behemoth scratched his stubbled cheek. "Since the last strike of the hour."

Pounding on the oak with his pry bar, Robert pretended it was Fairfoot's head. "Open this door. Immediately!"

Robert's authority got through to Behemoth this time, because the little window slammed shut, and after a few minutes the big door creaked open.

"That's better," Robert snapped as he marched in, straightening his coat and hoping Behemoth didn't demand to look through the saddlebags. "Now, lead me to the prisoner."

"I can't leave me post, Colonel Ogley." Behemoth closed and locked the doors behind them.

Robert sighed an exaggerated sigh. "Is there no one in this place who can escort me?"

"Urn." Behemoth scratched his whiskery chin. "If ye go straight across to the keep, there'll be more guards. They'll take ye."

No matter how much Robert wished, he couldn't race across the lawn. Behemoth would be watching him, and perhaps the guards in the keep. So he nodded majestically and marched across the open area, finding an odd delight in imitating Ogley's military affectations. A slim revenge, but that was all to be had right now.

The door to the keep was locked, and he pulled out his pry bar and again used it to knock.

The guard who answered this time was neatly groomed, older, and by his bearing a professional soldier who had been mustered out.

In a word, suspicious.

Robert burned to get inside, to get to Clarice before Fairfoot had his way with her, but he also knew how to play the game of soldier. He did it now with a stiffly erect posture and an expressionless face. "I am Colonel Ogley. I have come on Magistrate Fairfoot's invitation to deal with the prisoner."

"What prisoner would that be?" the guard asked.

"I'm not a fool, and I don't mistake you for one. The only prisoner you've received today. The woman who claims to be a princess. Let me enter
at once
."

To Robert's delight, the guard stepped back to let him in. "Aye, sir, but Magistrate Fairfoot didn't mention ye would be coming."

Another guard stood close by, a flintlock musket held in his arms.

The first guard continued. "So we'll ‘ave t' check with 'im first. Usually, 'e likes t' do these things alone."

Robert allowed a chilly smile to crease his lips. "Usually, he doesn't have me to contend with, does he? But I understand. You have to do your duty."

The guard nodded and relaxed, recognizing in Robert a soldier who comprehended the fine points of protocol.

"What's your name?" Robert asked.

"I'm Ranald."

"Well, Ranald, I'll just follow you to the cell where she's being held,"

"I can't allow ye to do that, but ye can go wi' me t' the gate."

"That will do." That would more than do. Once he knew where Clarice was incarcerated, he'd dispatch this fellow and the other guards, take out Magistrate Fairfoot, and he and Clarice would be on their way. A simple plan, working simply well.

They climbed stairs up, then they climbed stairs down. And down. She wasn't on the lowest level of the dungeons, but Robert's gut burned at the thought of Clarice, with her delicate skin and her wonderful scent, at the mercy of every sort of vermin. At the mercy of Magistrate Fairfoot.