The Scot and I (8 page)

“But won’t they know that I was the last person to be with Dickens?”

“Who would suspect a veteran of the Zulu campaign? It’s not as though you were an interloper. You had a gilt-edged invitation card.”

“A forgery,” replied Ramsey dryly.

“An excellent forgery,” the professor asserted. He got up. “I think that’s enough for one night. You look all in. Up with you and off to bed.”

At the door, he put his hand on Ramsey’s shoulder. “I need hardly tell you that you’ve acquitted yourself well. We always knew that getting to the queen would be a hazardous business. Need I add that I’m very proud of you, very proud, indeed?”

At these words, Ramsey straightened and squared his shoulders. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

After Ramsey left, the professor returned to his chair and considered, point by point, what Ramsey had told him. He was particularly disturbed by the presence of the woman. He didn’t like killing women, but if it became necessary, he would do it. Demos was too important for squeamishness in its leader.

The newspapers called them fanatics, but that was not how they saw themselves. They were patriots, soldiers who were passionate about their cause. They wanted an end to senseless wars waged in far-flung places by power-hungry men. These were English wars, and Scotland paid for them with the lives of thousands of her young men. It was time England learned to fend for itself.

He stared into space as he considered his own experience. At twenty-five, he’d been inspired by the rhetoric of British generals to give his all for queen and country. The Crimea was where they had sent him. If these generals had only known what they were doing, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but they did not know how to conduct a battle, much less a war. They were more suited to riding to hounds than to organizing an army. To them, ordinary soldiers were expendable, like pawns in a game of chess.

He had survived, but he’d come home a changed man. He married and went back to the university to teach history. And that was where he joined a group of like-minded individuals who formed a secret society. Demos talked a lot about Scotland’s shame and distributed seditious pamphlets, but that was about all they did. It helped, but it was his son that gave his life purpose. Six years had passed since his son died, but the anger and anguish were as fresh as if he’d died yesterday.

His hands fisted and opened as he thought of his son. He had done everything in his power to dissuade Bruce from making the same mistake that he had made. But Bruce wouldn’t listen. War was in the air, and he was caught up in the glamour and glory of a soldier’s life. It was like a fever. It had to run its course.

This fever ended in tragedy. To die in battle was one thing, but to die for following an order from a commanding officer whom every soldier knew was incompetent was worse than a tragedy. It was a crime punishable by death, or it should be.

He wasn’t, by nature, a bloodthirsty man. However, he could say that nothing had brought him as much satisfaction as killing the man who had killed his boy.

As he climbed the stairs to his own bed, his thoughts shifted to his daughter, Mahri. She was their courier. She should have been on the train from Aberdeen two days ago. There were important documents she was supposed to pass on to him. There was another train tomorrow. If she was not on it, he’d send someone to find out what was causing the delay.

Something moved at the back of his mind. What was it Ramsey said? Dickens had known about the plot to assassinate the queen? And how did the woman with blond hair fit in? The thought turned in his mind as he got ready for bed.

Six

His head was locked in a vise. His stomach was heaving. His chest was so tight, he could hardly draw in a breath. He was in a dark place, a cold, foul-smelling dungeon, perhaps, or a windowless cell. Water. He could feel it running in rivulets down the back of his neck, under his collar and down his spine. The floor beneath him was swaying, rattling, disintegrating.

He had to get out of here before it was too late.

A man’s voice carried to him. “Listen! Did ye hear that? Riders! They’ll be out lookin’ for the Hepburn. I knew it was a mistake to bring him with us.”

A woman’s voice responded. “We could not leave him there to die. That must have been a mighty blow you gave him, Dugald. He needs medical attention.”

Dugald made a rude sound. “His head is rock hard. It would take more than a dint from my fist to put a dent in it. And if he needs medical attention, why did we no leave him at the White Stag?”

“I don’t trust those people. Well, you know what kind of place the White Stag is. All that interests them is money. They would have robbed him and mayhap finished him off, yes, and I would be blamed for it.”

Dugald clicked his tongue. “Lassie, ye have more imagination than is good for ye.”

Alex ground his teeth. He knew exactly where he was now and what had happened to him. He wasn’t in a foul-smelling dungeon. He was in one of the smugglers’ carts, lying facedown on a bed of hay, and the reason it was so dark was because something—a tarpaulin?—was stretched out above him, no doubt to conceal him if they should be stopped by a policeman. His head wasn’t in a vise but ached from the blow that had felled him. He assumed that the girl’s companion was the rider Gavin had followed. Dugald and the girl were in the box guiding this one-horse contraption on a rickety road to God alone knew where.

When he tried to move, he discovered that he was spread-eagled on the hard floor, and his wrists were loosely bound to opposite sides of the cart. His legs, however, were free. By rolling a little, he could tell that they’d taken away his gun but not the coins that jingled in his pocket. Knowing that he was in no condition to fight his way free yet, he merely used the heel of his boot to lift an edge of the tarpaulin that was stretched out like a canopy above him. Daylight filtered through the opening he’d made. Something else came through—a pool of rainwater that doused his trousers. He bit back a furious oath and let the tarpaulin fall into place. At this rate, he’d die of pneumonia before they reached their destination.

The girl said, “Pull up under those trees, and I’ll check on him.”

“Check on him? Ye did that not ten minutes ago.”

“He has been out for hours. I think he may have suffered a concussion.”

“All the better for us when we unload him in Inver. Ye know what will happen when he comes to himself? He’ll start singing like a boiling kettle. I may have to thump him again.”

Alex was beginning to take a thorough dislike to this Dugald fellow.

“This is not a joking matter, Dugald.”

No response from Dugald this time.

Alex could tell that the cart had changed direction. A minute or two later, it stopped. Evidently, they were going to check on him. He wasn’t going to put up a fight, not if they were taking him to Inver. It was a hamlet just off the main road and only a few miles upstream from Balmoral. There would be people there to help him round up these miscreants and march them to the nearest tollbooth.

When the tarpaulin was pulled back, Alex kept his eyes closed and his muscles relaxed. Cool, competent fingers felt for his pulse. “His pulse is strong,” she said.

“What did I tell ye?”

“But he has a lump on his head the size of an apple, and he has taken a soaking from the rain.”

“What are ye doing?” Dugald asked, not alarmed but not pleased either.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m covering him with my cloak to keep him warm.”

“But that’s
my
cloak! I gave it to ye to keep
you
warm and dry.”

“I’ll get you another.” Her voice was light and teasing. “Dugald,” she softly remonstrated, “you know you wouldn’t leave a dog out in this weather.” She touched the back of her hand to Alex’s cheek. “He’s not feverish, but the sooner we get help for him, the easier I’ll feel.”

The tarpaulin was pulled over him, and Alex was left to reflect on the conversation he had overheard. The woman seemed genuinely anxious about him. They were going out of their way to make sure that he had medical attention. What was he supposed to make of that?

His thoughts strayed. The warmth of her body clung to her cloak. He inhaled its scent, and every breath he took seemed to burn his lungs. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, far from it. When he moved, the cloak moved with him, wrapping around him like a silken web.

And he was caught.

The vision that emerged behind his eyes was of the woman as he’d seen her in the White Stag after he’d forcibly stripped her: skin like pearls; small, plump breasts; and long shapely legs.

His head still ached, his muscles were cramped, but that did not prevent the sudden wave of lust that stormed through him. He fought it off, and another vision emerged: Master Thomas, her alter ego.

Thomas wasn’t fearless, far from it, but he was as brave as any man he knew. Brave, vulnerable, and in his own way, formidable. He liked the boy immensely.

Bloody hell! What was he thinking? The blow to his head must have addled his brains. The girl and the boy were one and the same person. If one was treacherous, so was the other. She was an enigma, and he was a code breaker. He was going to break her down until she revealed all her secrets.

He mustn’t soften toward her. She didn’t care what happened to him. It was her own neck she wanted to save. If she left him to die, she would be blamed for it. That was what she had told her henchman, Dugald.

Gavin? Where was he? Dugald must have given him the slip, but Gavin would know, when he had not turned up at their rendezvous, that he, Alex, must be in trouble. Gavin would come looking for him.

And where was his muse? It should be showing him a way out, not tempting him with lewd thoughts. Hell and damnation, how much longer before they reached Inver?

 

 

The cart had stopped moving. He raised his head and listened. Horses stamping and neighing, the jangle of harness, men’s voices. The tarpaulin was removed, and someone untied the knots on his bonds. Alex feigned unconsciousness, fearing that he would get another thump on the head if he tried anything. When nothing happened, he flexed his stiff fingers, fisted them, then rolled onto his back and cleared the cart with an almighty heave. His eyes weren’t accustomed to the light, and he swayed on his feet.

“Here, Kenneth,” said a voice Alex didn’t recognize, “gie me a hand with the poor man.”

A friendly hand steadied him, Alex blinked to clear his vision and took a moment to get his bearings. He was in the stable yard of a small inn surrounded by a group of stable hands. He didn’t take time to answer any of the questions that flew at him. He was scanning the stable yard and its environs for a sign of the boy or Dugald. There was nothing.

“I’m Jock Ogg,” the man holding his elbow said, “the proprietor of this alehouse. Och, but you’ll soon come to yourself. Come away in and get warm. A fall from a horse is no laughing matter.”

Alex had already come to himself and was impatient to go after the girl. “Where are they?” he demanded. “The man and the boy? Which way did they go?”

Mr. Ogg frowned and shook his head. “There was no man, only a boy, and he rode off to fetch the doctor. You were lucky you didna break your neck in the fall. No one who knows the moors would dream of jumping blind over a stone dike. You never can tell what is on the other side.”

So that was the story she’d told them, that he’d taken a tumble from his horse. But how had she managed to disappear so quickly?

Mr. Ogg was still talking, but Alex had stopped listening. His mind was working like lightning. She’d said that she would get medical attention for him, but he doubted that she’d gone for the doctor. Dropping him off at this small country alehouse among friendly yokels was the only medical attention he was likely to receive. She was mounted. He’d bet his last farthing that Dugald was mounted, too, Where had they got the horses?

“The lad was mounted, you say?”

“Not when he arrived. He brought you in on the cart, but a Highland pony was tied to the back. He was that upset that he told us very little before he went haring off. The nearest doctor is in Ballater, so it will be some time before the lad returns. Now come along in and have a bite to eat while ye wait. It wouldna hurt to brush off your clothes and tidy yourself.” Mr. Ogg chuckled. “I think the cart you borrowed must have carried a load of peat at one time or another. So—”

“I need a horse,” Alex said, breaking into Ogg’s monologue. “You hire out horses, don’t you?”

“Aye, but are ye sure you’re well enough to ride?”

“I’m well enough.”

The man called Kenneth cut in, “Have ye no heard about the trouble up at Balmoral?”

“I’ve heard.”

“Well, ye won’t get far. They’ve set up roadblocks on all the roads from Braemar to Aboyne and are questioning everybody who tries to pass. We’ve all been warned to stay off the roads unless we have a very good reason to be on them.”