CHAPTER Twenty-four
The clamor of horse hooves roused Anne from her bout of self-pity. Long shadows in the abandoned keep stretched across the open courtyard. Anne wanted to rush out and cry for help, but remembering the English patrol, she scrambled for the protection of the cavernous walls.
“Fresh tracks,” A bass voice echoed through the archway.
“Looks like he’s injured—he’s using a staff.”
Anne tensed at the singing hiss of swords sliding from their scabbards. Her staff lay in the center of the courtyard. She hid behind a crumbling column. Metal horseshoes clanged against the cobblestones. She held her breath. The first rider appeared with his sword at the ready. Anne squinted. With a grey beard, he wore a blue and dark green kilt. A Scot.
Taking a deep breath, she rose limped into the light, holding her hands up in surrender. “I am seeking sanctuary.”
Five stout men rode in behind the old man, who reined his horse to a stop. He gaped down at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. Anne pulled off her bonnet and released her braid. The man wrapped his fingers around his beard and tugged.
Anne surveyed the astonished faces and swallowed. “This is Scotland, is it not?”
“Aye.”
How fortunate the big fellow had found his tongue. Anne took a step forward. “Can you help me?”
“That depends.” He sheathed his sword and dismounted, sizing her up as he walked near. Anne kept her hands out. With a weathered face, dark circles sagged under the Scot’s guarded grey eyes. When he got within a few feet of her, he stopped and folded his arms. “You’re English and a woman.”
Anne’s fingers began to tremble and she clasped her hands together. “Yes. I need to find Calum MacLeod on the isle of Raasay.” Her stomach growled and she clenched her hands tighter.
“Raasay, ’tis up near Skye, no?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a fair bit off course.” He scratched his beard. “What do ye want with the likes of a MacLeod?”
“I’m running from the English—he’s running from the English. They captured him in Carlisle and nearly killed him—sentenced him to be hanged, drawn and quartered—and then he escaped. I’m trying to find him.” Anne’s mind raced ahead. She sounded flippant as if her story were contrived.
The Scot waved his hands across his body. “You’re speaking gibberish. Are ye running from those English scouts we saw yonder?”
Anne hung her head. “I think so.”
The big man knitted his brows and to took another step toward her when a voice called from the archway. “English soldiers approach.”
In one motion, the Scot drew his sword and pointed toward the remains of a small building. “Hide in the chapel.”
Anne nodded and touched the old man’s elbow. “What is your name, friend?”
“Rorie Douglas. Now be gone with ye.”
Anne hobbled into the chapel and found a narrow window that opened to the courtyard. Rorie and his men scattered into the shadows as the last sliver of sunshine fell to the west and the moon cast an eerie glow over the ruin.
Horse hooves echoed outside the keep, but this time they scraped and grated in an unwelcomed screech. A dozen or more soldiers cautiously walked their horses through the archway.
“That’s far enough, Sassenach.” Rorie’s voice echoed between the stone walls, but Anne couldn’t be sure where it came from. The soldiers stopped, their helmeted heads turning with wary, searching eyes.
Anne recognized the captain of the guard—she’d seen him in Carlisle. He held up his hand. “We mean you no harm. We’re searching for an Englishwoman.”
Anne held her breath. Please do not repeat my title.
“She could be dressed as a man,” the captain continued. “We found tracks leading this way…”
An uneasy silence pealed through the air. Would Rorie reveal her presence?
“What is she to you?” Rorie delivered the words with an unmistakable lilt of curiosity.
“She’s wanted for treason against Lord Wharton.”
A fireball ignited in Anne’s gut. Treason? For what? For jumping out a window?
The captain spun his horse in a circle. “You wouldn’t want to cross Lord Wharton—not after what he did to your keep.”
Anne gasped. The baron was responsible for this burnt-out shell? With not another moment to think, Rorie and his men sprang from the shadows, bellowing like wild animals.
The English captain reached for his sword but an arrow skewered him in the chest. Anne looked up to the wall walk and spotted an archer. He made swift work of leveling the odds while Rorie and his men met the English in a mounted battle of swords. Rorie rode his horse into the center of the skirmish, fighting two at once. Blood spewed, a hand severed, the helmeted head of a soldier flew to the turf and rolled. The dead man’s stunned horse galloped wildly out the stronghold archway.
Anne clutched her satchel against her chest as she watched the deadly mayhem in the moonlight. She clenched her chattering teeth. A fallen sword lay twenty feet from the chapel. She inched toward the door and peeked around.
Rorie’s booming voice exploded over her. “They’re fleeing lads. Give chase!”
In seconds, the Scots raced through the archway and Anne was left alone with nearly a dozen dead men. She tiptoed out of the chapel and grasped the sword. Much heavier than it looked, the weapon scraped across the cobblestones. The captain moaned. She snapped her head up and stared. The arrow pierced through his chest and he gurgled as if air escaped through the wound.
Dragging the sword, Anne moved toward him, wary. He inclined his head toward her. “I knew y-you were here.”
Something in his throat caught as if he had more to say. Anne took another step toward him and bent closer.
“Whore.”
Anne stood motionless. Is that what he thought, or did he speak the baron’s words? He was a pawn to a tyrant, a paid soldier carrying out his duty—dying for it.
She didn’t want anyone killed for her sake, even if they did take Lord Wharton’s blood money. She kneeled beside him and bowed her head. “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost…”
The soldier’s eyes went vacant. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. Anne finished her prayer choked back a dry heave burning her throat. She doubled over as the retch she’d strained to swallow racked her body with burning convulsions of yellow bile.
Her shoulders tensed as the clap of shod horse hooves clicked on the cobblestones.
“Finished him for me, did ye?”
Anne jerked up to meet the old man’s battle worn glare.
He reined his horse beside her. “We need to have a talk, you and I.”
Anne wiped her hand across her mouth and drew in a heavy breath. “As you wish.”
He dismounted and reached in his saddlebag. “When was the last time ye ate?”
Her hand shook as she brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “One…no, two days.”
“Come, sit with me.”
Anne looked into his eyes. They weren’t the dark predator eyes she had seen at the inn in Fort William. Yes, in the moonlight they were dark and stern, but she saw something else, something gentler, and prayed it was kindness.
She followed him to a fallen stone column and sat. He opened a parcel of cloth and pulled out an oatcake. “Eat.”
Anne salivated at the smell of oats and a hint of bacon fat. Her eyes drifted to the parcel and caught sight of a few rashers before he folded the cloth again. She bit off a chunk, trying to be as ladylike as possible.
“What is your name?”
“Anne Wriothesley.” She used her maiden name. That wasn’t a lie.
Rorie drummed his fingers, repeating the name and then appeared to realize who she was. “You’re the daughter of an earl? Southampton, no?”
“A younger, insignificant daughter.”
“What are ye doing all the way up here in man’s clothing, accused of treason?”
“’Tis a long story.”
Rorie spread his big palms. “I’m no’ going anywhere.”
She’d tell him everything except the part about being married to Baron Wharton. Her mind raced. How was she going to leave that out? “If you consider jumping out of a window treason, then I am guilty. If not, a very nasty man thinks he can ruin everyone’s lives including yours and mine.”
“That would be Thomas Wharton?”
“Yes.” She began with the Flying Swan with the twist being she had boarded the ship to wed Wharton, not that she was already legally married. A weight lifted from her shoulders as she told it all, the time on Raasay, the fact Calum didn’t want to take her to Carlisle, but would not lay claim to another man’s contract to wed.
Rorie removed his bonnet and scratched his head. “I’d have staked me claim with a lassie as beautiful as you.”
“Calum thought he was doing the right thing—until they captured him and stretched him on the rack.” She shuddered. “They stripped him naked, took him to the square and lashed him until his back streamed with blood.”
Rorie grimaced and Anne continued with the story—her near rape by Wharton and Calum’s escape.
“I guarantee if Calum MacLeod is on the run from the baron, there will be many more Englishmen than these.” He gestured to the poor souls his men were hauling out for burial. “Ye say his keep’s on Raasay?”
“Yes, and Wharton will stop at nothing to see him dead.”
“Wharton is a smart man. ’Tis why me home’s in such a shambles. But if I were he with the House of Lords behind me, I’d no’ ride to Raasay. I’d sail.”
A twinge of hope made Anne’s heart stutter. “Would you like to see Wharton dead?”
“Aye, I dream every night of sending that bastard to his grave. He earned his bloody barony at me family’s expense.” Rorie cleared his throat. “Excuse me for the course language, milady.”
Anne pointed to her trews. “If you will excuse me for my unladylike dress.”
“I now understand your need for discretion.”
Anne stood and faced him. “If you take me to Applecross, we can row a skiff to Raasay, and when Wharton shoots English cannons at Brochel Castle, we shall be there to send him to his death.”
He scratched his beard and shook his head. “It sounds bloody tempting. The lady wife might throw up a bit of a fuss though.”
Anne reached for her satchel. “I can pay you for my passage—and a horse. I’m afraid I’ve injured my ankle and it’s in sore need of rest.” Careful not to let him see her pouch, she searched inside with her fingers and pulled out two silver shillings.
“Now why didna ye say ye could pay in coin?” Chuckling, he grasped her hand and folded her fingers over the money. “Ye keep it, lass. I’d pay you just for a chance to bury me claymore in that thieving bastard’s heart.”
***
Wharton stood at his window and watched Master Denton canter toward the citadel with a line of mounted soldiers following. With sharp tugs on each finger, the baron cracked his knuckles. The discomfort it caused cemented his obsession. He lay awake at night imagining new ways he could torture the Scot. Wharton licked his lips. He should have sliced off the thieving bastard’s manhood when he had the chance.
Thomas yanked so hard, his thumb slipped out of the socket. With a rub, he slid it back into place. Anne would still be here if Wharton hadn’t toyed with the Scot—Calum she’d called him. But Wharton had wanted to draw out the bastard’s pain, show his new wife no one crossed him. Ever. Then the bitch had escaped and made a mockery of their marriage. He would have filed for an annulment, but that wasn’t necessary. He’d be free when she was dead.
Where was the damnable Captain of the Guard? They’d set out days ago and still hadn’t returned with her. Wharton could not believe the incompetence surrounding him. Must he do everything himself? That onion-eyed Captain had convinced him to stay behind. Fool.
Wharton clenched his fists. Did the Scot have men waiting to spirit her away? The bastard had tricked him, taken his money—and now stolen and debauched his wife. The soldiers could follow her trail all the way to Raasay. Good. There would be more Englishmen up there to fight when he arrived. Yes, he would sail into the frigid hell they called Scotland and take back what was rightfully his and more.
A black cavern swelled in his chest and he rubbed his fingers across the pommel of his sword. Killing them both would bring him satisfaction. Once they were dead, the hate which consumed him would ebb. He could then return to Alnwick and enjoy the comfort of Northumberland’s hospitality—and a serving wench or two.
He stared out the window. Denton had yet to fail him, but this was unacceptable. The man should have returned days ago. Wharton would severely dock his pay. He blamed Denton for the Scot’s escape. How could he allow the enemy to walk into Carlisle, overcome the guard and ride out the gates?
Approaching from the citadel, Denton slowed his cohort to a trot and pulled to the halt in front of the King’s Head Inn. Wharton barreled out to confront him.
“What the blazes took you so long?”
Denton’s gaunt scowl did nothing to intimidate. He was the Baron of Wharton with the House of Lords behind him. The ass dismounted and sauntered toward him. “Shall we discuss this in your rooms?”
“I want an answer now. You’ve been gone for ten days. It should have taken you no more than two.”
Denton removed his feathered cap and slid his hand across his black hair. “Would you have preferred to mount your attack in a land-hugging pinnace, sporting a single cannon at her stern, or wait for an eighteen-gun racing galleon fresh out of the Maryport dockyard?”
Wharton narrowed his gaze. He would not be made into a fool.
Denton gestured to a sizable man in a velvet cloak. By his embroidered velvet doublet, he had to be a knight or higher, else Thomas would take him into custody for breaking sumptuary laws. He squinted at the man. A hanging on the morrow might satisfy his thirst for blood.
“May I introduce Sir Edward Gilman, captain of the White Lion.”
Wharton ran his gaze over Sir Edward from head to toe. The public hanging would have to wait. “A knighted captain?”
Sir Edward bowed. “Yes, my lord. May I be the first to offer my condolences for this act of abomination against your person. Rest assured the queen’s navy stands behind her peers.”
Wharton scratched the stubble on his chin. “Your ship is manned with eighteen cannons, did you say?”
“Correct. A fighting vessel. The entire crew is trained to wield cutlasses. My men are fighters, none better.”
Wharton grinned. Ten days might not have been all that long to wait, especially if he had a new ship outfitted to blast that pillaging Scot and his entire clan off his miserable island. “Well then, shall we discuss this further in my rooms?”
Denton flashed his thinned-lipped smile, the smug bastard. If the man had returned with anything less, Wharton would have not hesitated to humiliate him right there in the square. Sometimes the dark sneer on that man’s face needed a good slap and Wharton would have liked nothing more than to deliver it.
He plodded up the stairs of the inn to the less-than-adequate rooms he’d let for the duration of his stay in Carlisle. They’d sail north with an army. He’d have his chance to unleash the violent storm that raced through his blood and the target of his ire would be the damnable woman he’d so foolishly wed, and her Scot.
***
Wharton closed his eyes against the lurching of his gut as sailors hoisted him up the side of the White Lion. His size reflected the importance of his station but the strain of the ropes and the creaking of the winch had him praying the contraption would haul him safely to the deck.
Boarding from a skiff in the Firth of Solway saved them a day’s ride to Maryport to use their pier. He was no milk-livered weakling who needed the security of a gangway to board a ship, as if for a pleasure cruise.
Six sets of hands reached across the rail and pulled him over. The leather soles of his shoes slipped and he tumbled into the sailors and lay sprawled across the deck, belly up. “You careless dolts.” He rolled to his side. A sailor offered his hand. “I do not need your help.”
Wharton pulled himself up using the rail, and scanned the deck for the captain. He found him standing at the helm, watching the activities from the quarterdeck. Wharton pattered up the stairs. “Ah, Captain Gilman. Have my things taken to your stateroom. I will commandeer your cabin for this journey.”
The captain snapped his fingers at the tar. “Mister Winter. You heard his lordship. Take Lord Wharton’s valise to the captain’s cabin and see to it he’s made comfortable.”
Wharton brushed off his breeches and doublet. His less than elegant entrance notwithstanding, the lowlife sailors now knew he was master of the ship, and their captain was his to command.