Secrets to Seducing a Scot

THIRTY

Swathed in an ill-fitting black kilt, Earlington was escorted from the dungeon by the bearded man and two burly guards.

The McCullough. He wondered who it was he was about to be presented to. Was it Duncan McCullough, the man who at last report was on his deathbed? Was it another named successor? Or was it, he shuddered to contemplate it, Brandubh McCullough?

Brandubh. His name in Gaelic meant “black raven.” And how apt it was. He now realized, after so many broken dialogues between them, that Brandubh was a scavenger by nature. He’d been known to pick over the carcasses of weaker politicians, putting on their mantle of power. An exceedingly intelligent man, he had the mental acuity of any great leader or hero—except that he used his faculties for personal gain rather than for collective prosperity. And if he assumed power, there was no telling how much damage he could do to his country.

Earlington was taken to the castle’s long dining hall. Hanging from the ceiling were a dozen colorful but dusty banners bearing coats of arms, presumably of the families who had fought for the McCulloughs. There was a relief plaster frieze running across one wall depicting a continuous line of Roman soldiers on horseback. Along the opposite wall, weapons of antiquity were hung on display.

He was escorted down the length of the hall, which was filled with kilted men, most of them armed. The majority were men his age, a sea of white hair and gray resembling dirty snow. But he also saw boys no older than twenty, their youthful heads topped by the earthy shades of red, orange, brown and all the mixtures therein. The men’s enmity toward Earlington was palpable. There had been so much fighting between their respective countries in the last few decades that they didn’t want him to be in the same country as them, let alone the same room.

At the far end of the hall, there was a man seated atop a dais, surrounded by a retinue of Scotsmen who were speaking to him. Earlington felt as if he was back at Carlton House, being granted an audience by the Prince Regent. As he approached, the features on the face of the seated man became clear. There was Brandubh, looking for all the world like a king on a throne.

“Commissioner!” Brandubh’s face lit up like a tiger that had spotted a wounded fawn. “Welcome to Ramh Droighionn Castle. I hope ye’re being treated well.”

Earlington had only been given one meal each day he was here—a slice of hard bread and a thin brown soup made from beef drippings. “As well as can be hoped for in a house of mourning. Your father must have passed away, for in his place you sit.”

“Aye. He was frail and sickly. Men of a certain age should never be allowed to remain in positions of command, for their leadership will reflect their own weakness. Isn’t that right, Commissioner?”

A ripple of laughter went out from the men surrounding the throne.

The barb grazed him, but Earlington ignored it. “My condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you. ’Tis considerate of ye to wear black.”

The advisers around him laughed again.

“I brought ye here so that ye may hear what yer regent has to say to his Scottish subjects.” A man next to him handed him a parchment scroll, which he unfurled and read aloud. “From His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, in the name and on behalf of His Majesty, a proclamation. Whereas His Royal Highness has been made aware of and seeks to suppress unlawful insurrections fomenting in the counties of Caithness, Sutherland, Ross-shire, Cromartyshire, and Inverness-shire, to the utter destruction of the public peace, be it enacted that henceforth, all persons who are found in these areas must surrender their arms and weapons, and any persons unwilling to do so are to be arrested and transported to England for trial. Be it enacted that persons who assemble for the purposes of planning or implementing a rebellion will be charged with treason against His Royal Highness’s grace, and if convicted, will suffer execution. Be it enacted also that for better regulating the governance of Scotland, the present council is to be immediately disbanded. All members of the governing body in Scotland must prove themselves to be true and faithful subjects to the kingdom by swearing allegiance to His Highness’s grace, and paying a fealty of one-quarter of their holdings to the Royal Treasury, the sum of which will be used for the betterment of his loyal subjects in Scotland. Royal Army regiments will be dispatched to enforce compliance with these measures.”

Brandubh rolled up the parchment. “Tell me, Commissioner, what say ye to this?”

Earlington was nonplussed. “His Majesty wishes an end to the strife that has been caused here. How do you see it?”

“I see it as a tactic to humiliate, impoverish, and weaken the Scottish people. The troops quartered in Perthshire have confronted ordinary citizens and ordered them to surrender not pistols or swords, but pitchforks, scythes, and hammers. I have learned reports of old men asked to surrender their walking sticks. According to this edict, Commissioner, anything can be used as a weapon. I shouldn’t wonder if it next be asked of a Scotsman to surrender his cock.”

The comment drew chortles from the assembly.

“I know mine will be,” chimed in one man. “Long as a broadsword, and just as hard.”

“That’s not what his wife says,” said another, and the room erupted with laughter.

Earlington interrupted their raucousness. “May I remind you, McCullough, that it was your hue and cry that rallied the rebels in the first place.”

“Rebels?” Brandubh shook his head. “We’re not rebels, Commissioner. We’re patriots.”

“Not in the eyes of the law.”

“And who wrote that law? A king … or a tyrant? History will tell whether he be noble or abusive. And so will it me.”

“Men of violence can never be called noble. You oppose the king to the detriment of all your people. Think before you set these people alight.”

“Not I, Commissioner. Their own unhappiness spurs them to their flammable tempers. Ask them yerself. Go on. See if ye can sway them from the cause.”

It was a taunt, but Earlington was willing to take up the challenge. He turned to face the crowd. “Men of Scotland, listen to me. These speeches—this assembly—is treasonous. The king will not abide the insult to his majesty. England will oppose you in force, and you—shall—be—put—down.”

The crowd jeered at him, shouting epithets and insults.

He continued. “I know that we are in the midst of a situation that is boiling with political hatreds. But defiance will not bring about the resolution you seek. Let me negotiate a peace between us. Even now, there are regiments at Fort William ready to march on Inverness. Some of you have no experience of soldiering. Tell me then … will you have another Culloden? Or another Glenshiel? Will you not prefer peace?”

Several men answered him at once.

“To stand against tyranny is to face death!”

“We would rather fall dead one across another than surrender!”

“We are Highlanders after all. If we die, we die as heroes!”

Earlington turned to the man who answered him last. “No. You will die as traitors. And history will remember you as such—if it remembers you at all. A dead man cannot testify to his motives. And if you are killed, who will care for your wives, your children? Here, now, the lines are being drawn. Question your own loyalties. Will you be on the side of the law? Or will you betray the trust our king reposes in you?”

A young man interrupted him. “Ha! Ye would have Scotland be called North England! We will not have it! Look at the French and the Americans. They fought for greater participation in their ruling class … and won. We will do the same!”

Earlington turned to the man who spoke, a mere boy in comparison with the rest of the assemblage. “But at what cost? The Americans lost twenty-five thousand lives, and the French lost a hundred and seventy thousand. There aren’t that many people in the whole of the Highlands. Gentlemen, no one questions the courage of your convictions. But there is a right way to move the hand of government, and a wrong way. Use your power not to fight with your adversary, but to reason with him.

“I have great power. A word from me will bring all the military might of the Crown of England, or a different word can allay the anger of the monarch. You, too, have great power. You have the power of choice, and it is a great and awesome thing. Submit, and you will receive the gracious pardon of His Royal Highness for this insurrection. Rebel, and there will be loss of life and deprivations such as you cannot imagine. Think carefully what you will do, for your decisions will be lived by you, your families, and your countrymen for generations to come. Now is the time, gentlemen. Will you lay down your arms?”

There was silence throughout the room. Earlington looked from face to face in that hall. A spirit of patriotism was battling with one of peace, of loyalty warring with fear of reprisal. One of them had to emerge the winner.

A shout came from a man in the center of the assemblage, like the first arrow released in a battle. “A free Scotland!”

A roar of assent exploded from the others.

“We will not submit!”

“War, not words!”

“Let’s rid ourselves of the English contagion.”

Earlington’s shoulders drooped, and his head sank. He had never felt a defeat so keenly.

Brandubh McCullough leaned back in his chair, a smug look on his face as he tried to speak above the hurrahs. “Ye see, Commissioner, we speak with a single voice. Scotland will be an independent nation.”

Earlington looked at him through slitted eyes. “You make a very costly mistake, McCullough. You will never be king.”

Surprise passed over his face, but his arrogance overtook it. “Why not? These same people will carry me to the throne.”

“No, Brandubh. After this conflict is over, there will be no one left for you to govern.”

Brandubh’s nostrils flared. “My father had the audacity to speak those same words to me. He expelled his last breath shortly after.” His words were pregnant with meaning, and Earlington suspected there was more to Duncan McCullough’s death than most people knew.

Brandubh stood. “Friends. Our hands are at our swords. The English think themselves gods, but they are not. In our presence, with our swords at their necks, they will realize they are naught but men.”

A man called out from the rabble. “The Commissioner’s a slaighteur! Brand him!”

Brandubh held his hands out. “No. He is not for branding. The Commissioner will serve another function. We will send his head to the Prince Regent. Let him see the strength of our resolve.” He turned to Earlington. “Let them both see.”



Malcolm and Serena reached Ramh Droighionn by nightfall. The town at the foot of the hill was bubbling with activity as women tugged small children on their way home from the baker or the butcher.

Malcolm alighted from his horse at a corner pub. The wooden sign swinging in the wind above the door read king’s arms, but someone had scrawled the word SCOTTISH above the emblem. Its wooden door was propped open to let in a breeze.

He helped Serena slide from the horse, but held her fast. He whispered in her ear. “Ye’re dressed like a Highland woman, but don’t open yer mouth. Do ye understand? No one must know ye’re English.”

Serena nodded fearfully. Una had also given her an arisaid, and Serena now draped the length of wool fabric over her head to help obscure her features.

Together they walked into the pub, a cramped establishment with three odd tables and a scattering of mismatched chairs. The wood paneling looked as if it had been replaced in sections throughout the years without any regard to matching it to the original woodwork. The smell of stale liquor wet the air.

Malcolm stepped up to the man behind the bar and spoke to him in Gaelic. “Evening.”

The pub keeper was a slender man crowned with white hair and weathered skin that sagged around his face. “It be a mighty warm one. What can I get for ye?”

“The missus and I would like a room. Have ye got one?”

“Aye. There be one behind the bar. It isn’t much, just a place we put the ones too drunk to negotiate their carriage home. One shilling.”

“We’ll take it. Is anyone around to stable our horses?”

“Sorry, got no stable hands. Can’t offer you warm food, either. All we have is bread and cheese.”

“Why so bare?”

The man shrugged. “All the food we be making in the kitchen is for them up at the castle.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ye know? From where do ye hail?”

“Up Cromarty way. We’re traveling down to Dumfries. The wife wants to be with her family when she gives birth.”

The old man looked Serena up and down. “Hmm. Congratulations to ye.” Without a shred of emotion, he turned back to Malcolm, and leaned an elbow onto the bar. “Listen, friend. If I were ye, I’d ride straight down to Dumfries. It’s a troubled climate here. There’s bound to be a war soon, and our chief is organizing for when the English attack. All able-bodied men have been taken to the castle and given a weapon. They’ve taken my stable lad, my cook—even my son, who’s nearly forty but whose mind is like a child’s. And if ye’re not careful, they might even call ye up to fight alongside them. I’ll give ye a room, but a word to the wise—set out as soon as ye can.”

As soon as the pub keeper spoke, Malcolm heard a commotion outside. He darted out onto the cobbled street, and saw a lone horse and rider galloping up the high street.

“Make way! Make way!” the rider shouted as his horse’s hooves clattered on the ancient stones. He was headed straight for the path that led up to Ramh Droighionn Castle.

Malcolm’s instincts leapt into heightened awareness. A messenger on horseback at full gallop bound for the clan chief … this did not bode well.



They hid their horses in a thicket at the foot of the hill far removed from the road up to Ramh Droighionn Castle.

“We go on foot from here,” said Malcolm. “From now on, we must rely on stealth.”

Serena adjusted the dark arisaid around her to cover as much of her light-colored dress as she could.

“Well done,” Malcolm said. He pulled out a pistol from the waistband of his kilt and handed it to her. “Ye may have need of this. Have ye ever used one before?”

She shook her head as she turned the weapon over in her hand.

“Do ye know how to shoot?”

“No, but many is the time I’ve wished I had one of these to shoot you with.”

A grin appeared on his face. “Funny enough, the same thought had occurred to me.” He took the gun from her and modeled a stance for her. “Ye shoot like this. The trigger is very stiff, and it requires a lot of strength to squeeze. Ye may have to use both hands to pull back on it. Like this.” He showed her how to do it. “Ye only have one pistol ball, so shoot only if ye have to, and only if ye have a reasonable expectation of putting yer man down.”

Putting her man down. It was a sobering thought. All of a sudden she realized what the implement of wood and metal in her hand was capable of. Malcolm must have sensed her apprehension, for he put his hands on her shoulders.

“If it comes down to yer life or another’s, shoot to kill. Do ye understand?”

Numbly, she nodded. That made it worse. It wasn’t the weapon that would put her man down. It was she herself who would be doing it.

“Stay low and out of sight,” he added. “Remember, nothing can happen to ye if ye’re invisible. Use the bushes to hide behind. And if anything should happen to me, don’t stay here. Make yer way back to Lord Askey’s home in Fort Augustus. All right?”

“Yes,” she lied. She was not about to leave Malcolm behind, even at his own insistence.

They crept up toward the castle on the forest side, hidden from sight by the undergrowth. It slowed their steps, but they were able to approach undetected. Malcolm’s footsteps made no noise, even to Serena, who was only a few feet behind. He was clever enough to step only on earth or moss, avoiding the fallen leaves that crunched under Serena’s feet. Despite her pervasive fear of spiders, Serena gave them only a cursory thought. She was consumed with the hope that her father was just beyond the thick gray stone walls, and with the fear of anything happening to either of the two men dearest to her in the whole world.

Malcolm halted in mid-stride, tensing. Some sound pricked his ears, and he stilled to hear it. Serena’s heart raced in her chest. Suddenly she heard it, too. It sounded like distant thunder, low in the sky, but it grew louder and stronger, until she felt it vibrate the ground underneath her feet.

“The soldiers are on the move,” he said. “They’re marching out.”

Serena gripped his arm. “What if they take Father with them?”

His jaw tensed. “Come on. We’ve got to get a look.”

They left the safety of the woods and ran to the stone dyke that ran along the far end of the adjacent sheep pasture. Crawling along behind the low wall, they reached a good vantage point. From here, they could get a better look at what was happening at the door of the castle.

Ramh Droighionn Castle was a fortress built about five hundred years earlier. It comprised a high square keep surrounded by thick walls, which encased a courtyard in the center.

From the portcullis emerged a line of armed soldiers four men thick, who followed in formation behind a cavalry of regimental leaders. On and on the line continued, hundreds and hundreds of men marching off to war. The infantry held lit torches in the air, making it appear as if the castle was spewing fire from its fanged mouth. It was a terrifying sight.

“It’s hard to tell if the ambassador is with them. I have to find out for certain if he is still inside.” She made a move to follow him, but he halted her. “No. Ye stay here. No one will see ye behind this dyke.”

“I want to—”

“If I’m no’ back in fifteen minutes, find yer way back to the horses and return to Fort Augustus. Is that clear?”

She was a jangle of emotions. She wanted her father back, but she didn’t want Malcolm to go. Her entire relationship with Malcolm flashed through her mind in an instant. At what point had she stopped being afraid of him and started being afraid for him?

Her eyebrows tented in worry. “Be careful.”

He placed a reassuring kiss on her mouth. “Tell that to whoever stands against me.”

She watched him run silently across the meadow. He jumped over the stone dyke on the far end, and then he disappeared.

The seconds slowed to a crawl, and the minutes dragged by. Serena’s eyes watered as she scanned the sight of the forbidding castle for a sign of her beloved. Her anxiety made her lose all sense of time. Malcolm could have been gone only a moment, or the unending moments could have swallowed him up entirely.

A shadow shifted in the distance, and she saw a man’s body being dumped over the stone dyke into the sheep pasture. It landed with a thud on the ground and lay lifeless. Malcolm! Her heart was ready to beat its last. And then she saw a man jump over the dyke and run straight toward her.

The moon was nowhere to be found, but she would recognize him even in utter darkness. “Malcolm!” She threw her arms around him and squeezed. “Thank God you’re all right.”

“Yer father’s inside,” he panted. “He’s alive. They’re keeping him in one of the dungeon cells.”

“Oh!” she breathed, joy fanning into her chest.

“I also found out that the British have marched on Inverness. McCullough’s gone to engage them in battle.”

“Can we go get my father now? Is it safe?”

Malcolm shook his head. “The castle has reinforcements. McCullough has kept reserves.”

“How many?”

“About a hundred.”

“A hundred men? How are we going to get my father out?”

“I’ll figure out a way. Ye stay here.”

“The hell I will!” Serena’s curse word surprised even herself. “I’m not going to be left behind again. We will get my father out.”

“I can’t allow it. If anything should happen to ye—”

“Malcolm,” she said forcefully. “You are here because I need you. But I can’t let you go in there alone. Now you need me.”

She watched his face transform as he carefully weighed her proposal. “All right. But do only as I say.”

She raised her pistol and cocked it. “As long as you say it nicely.”

They ran across the meadow. Serena saw a lad lying unconscious on the ground with his hands bound behind him and a cloth in his mouth. A few sheets of paper danced in the wind beside him. “Who on earth is that?”

He waved away her question. “Just the obliging page who told me what I needed to know. Don’t worry about him. When he wakes up, he’ll have a hell of a headache, but he’ll be fine.”

They stole through the raised portcullis and darted behind an unhitched wagon situated just inside the courtyard. A wheel, broken in half, leaned against the crippled carriage. The oil lamps hanging from the walls around the keep cast a yellow glow on the enclosure. A couple of lads—pages, she assumed—were glumly walking around picking up rubbish and other debris after the regiments marched off.

“Dougal,” one of them called out, but got no answer. “Dougal!”

Serena’s heart started pounding. He was no doubt calling the unconscious boy from whom Malcolm had extracted information.

The ginger-haired lad came right toward them. “Dougal, if ye’re hiding behind the carriage so ye can draw yer dirty pictures again, I’ll tell the captain in the dining hall. He’ll give ye what for.”

Malcolm picked up a bone from the ground and tossed it through the portcullis. The thud distracted the boy, who walked outside calling his friend.

Soundlessly, Malcolm grabbed Serena by the wrist and pulled her out from behind the wagon. They ran to the shadowed crevice behind one of the smaller baileys.

Just then, an armed soldier walked past them. Malcolm darted his head out to follow the man’s movements. He went through the courtyard and stood his post, guarding the entryway. Malcolm ground his teeth.

“The boy told me that the dungeon lies through that arched door in the keep,” he whispered. “We’re going to run for it.” Malcolm waited for the sentry to turn his head. “Now!”

Malcolm held Serena by the hand as they ran headlong toward the opening in the keep. They were confronted by stairs going up, and another set going down. Malcolm took the downward stairs, hugging the cold stone wall as he tread silently. Serena could feel a dark sense of foreboding as she descended to what she knew was a dungeon. If they were caught down here, they’d be surely trapped with no other way out.

The stairs yawned onto a room, a shaft of light glowing on the ancient stone walls. Malcolm stole a quick look within and saw two men sitting upon stools in the vestibule to the dungeon. Behind them was a thick metal gate. The opening to the prison cells.

He turned to her and made a gesture to stay still. He pulled his sgian dubh from his sporran and ran to the bigger of the two guards. He plunged the six-inch blade into the man’s thigh, and the man screamed. Malcolm pulled the sgian achlais from under his arm and brandished it at the other man, but the guard was ready for him. He swung his sword at Malcolm’s dagger, knocking the weapon from his hand. Malcolm swung a fist at the guard’s face and jumped on him to wrestle the sword from his grasp. With his free hand, the guard punched Malcolm in the ribs, making him curl sideways. Still, Malcolm refused to let go of the guard’s sword fist. A taller man than the guard, Malcolm pushed him backward and wedged him against the stone wall. Malcolm succeeded in wresting the sword from his hand, but he left himself vulnerable to the meaty fist that came swinging at him. Disoriented, Malcolm stumbled backward and the man got in another blow to his face. He swung again, getting Malcolm in the abdomen. Malcolm collapsed to the floor. The man came at him, and when he bent to lay hands on Malcolm’s back, Malcolm grabbed hold of the man’s ankle and yanked on it, sending him sprawling to the floor. Malcolm fell upon him and began to rain blows on the man’s head.

The other guard finally succeeded in extracting the dagger from his bleeding thigh. Just as Malcolm’s opponent finally lost consciousness, the stabbed guard lifted the bloody knife high and staggered toward Malcolm’s unprotected back.

Serena stepped in the path of the armed man and pointed the muzzle straight at his face. “Touch him and you die.”

The man’s already pained features contorted into one of shock at seeing not only a second assailant, but a woman, no less, with a gun. Slowly, he lowered the bloody knife.

“Drop it,” she said.

The man hesitated.

Serena took a step toward him, her determined scowl blackening. “You’ve already got one hole too many in your body. How would you like another?”

The man opened his fingers, and the dagger clanged on the stone floor.

Malcolm stood behind her and took the gun from her steady hand. He aimed the pistol at the guard. “Open the gate.”

The guard raised his bloodied hands. “I can’t.”

“Now!” Malcolm yelled, his scream echoing through the chamber.

The man quaked. “I haven’t got the key.”

“Where is it?”

A voice came from beyond the barred gate. “I have it.”

Malcolm and Serena turned to look. It was an old man with a white beard that reached halfway down his bony chest. Several large iron keys dangled from a ring in his hand.

The guard chuckled. “What are ye going to do, now, eh? Key’s inside. Ye’ll never get it out.”

Their failure flashed red in Serena’s mind. So close, only to fall short now. With the key to opening the gate on the other side of it, they could not get her father out. And the pistol had only one shot. Even if they did succeed in shooting the old man, the key would still be out of their grasp.

Malcolm stepped behind the guard and put the pistol to the man’s head. “Open the gate, old man, or we’ll shoot yer friend.”

The old man’s voice rasped. “He ain’t m’friend. How do I know ye won’t kill me next?”

“We’re here for Commissioner Marsh. Let him out, and we’ll trouble ye no more.”

The guard continued to chuckle. “Ye’re wasting yer time. Guthrie’s not aboot to let a prisoner escape.”

Malcolm met the old man’s gaze. Malcolm was at a disadvantage. He knew it. The guard knew it. Guthrie knew it. Malcolm had gone as far as he could. His success or failure was in the hands of the old man Guthrie.

Serena walked up to the iron gate. She reached into the pouch that dangled from her belt and pulled out the bottle of digitalis.

“Sir,” she whispered, her eyes beginning to water, “all I ask is that you give him this. It’s medicine … for his weak heart. Please.”

The guard chuckled some more until Malcolm thumped him in the temple with the barrel.

Guthrie’s mouth turned down at the edges. He eyed the brown bottle in Serena’s hand. His gaze lifted to Serena’s face.

“Give it to him yerself.” He put the iron key into the lock and turned it, its mechanism grinding and clanking within. The door opened on its hinge. Serena gasped, glancing at him with something between suspicion and gratitude, then flew inside.

The dungeon was a warren of small cells, each enclosed by stone walls and an oaken door with iron bars. The air was polluted with the smell of unwashed bodies and human excrement. She ran down the narrow passageway, looking into every cell. Each one was occupied, but not by her father.

“Father!” she cried, despair darkening her voice.

“Serena?” came her father’s voice.

She flew to the cell the sound came from. “Father!” Inside was Earlington Marsh, looking drawn and pale, but miraculously alive. The sight of him tore sobs from her.

“Poppet! I thought I would never lay eyes on you again.” Tears streamed down his face as he put his hands through the bars to stroke her hair. “What on earth are you doing here? How did you find me?”

Guthrie walked up behind Serena. He put the key into the lock and opened the door. Earlington emerged and pulled Serena into his arms. Serena hugged her father so tightly that the bottle nearly slipped from her trembling fingers.

Malcolm came up behind them, urging the guard ahead of him. He shoved the wounded man into Earlington’s cell, and the man stumbled to the floor with a grimace. Malcolm took the key from Guthrie and locked the guard inside.

Earlington put a hand out to Guthrie. “Thank you. I’m more grateful than you can ever know.”

Guthrie shook it. “Remember what I told ye. And if ye get to talk to the Prince, tell him that we wish to end the feud. The soil of our country should never be watered by the blood of its own children.”

Earlington nodded, squeezing the old man’s hand.

“Ambassador,” said Malcolm. “We must away. Now.”

The three of them ran out of the dungeon and up the stairs to the courtyard. Malcolm led the way, stopping at the arched door. He glanced outside. The pages were gone, but the sentry was in the center of the courtyard. There was no way they would be able to run across undetected. They had to sneak back the way they came, creeping behind the small bailey.

They waited until the sentry’s back was turned, and then darted across to the shadows behind the bailey. Just as they were about to sneak out past the broken wagon, the dungeon guard emerged from the arched doorway, his face bloodied from Malcolm’s beating.

“A prisoner’s escaped. Lower the portcullis! Lower it now!”

From a tiny window above the archway, a man rattled to life and began to lower the heavy wood-and-metal grille.

Malcolm shouted. “Run!”

Serena and her father took off hand in hand. They got halfway to the portcullis when Earlington’s hand slipped from Serena’s. She turned to look. He was doubled over, clutching his chest.

“Father! Malcolm, help!”

Metal screeched against stone as the portcullis continued to descend. Malcolm lifted Earlington into his arms. Thinking quickly, Serena grabbed the broken wagon wheel and wedged the arc of metal and wood underneath the opening.

Serena was already outside, but Malcolm was running as fast as he could carrying the full-grown man in his arms. The heavy door lowered to the level of the wagon wheel and slowed as it made contact.

“Hurry!” she shouted. The wheel would hold the portcullis, but only for a few seconds.

Malcolm reached the gate and threw Earlington under the opening. But the sentry laid his hands on Malcolm and tossed him to the ground.

“Malcolm!” A sense of alarm froze her blood. She realized with dismay that she no longer had possession of the pistol. Malcolm had taken it from her in the dungeon.

The sentry, a large man, had Malcolm pinned to the ground facedown, unable to reach for the gun wedged in the waistband of his kilt.

The spokes of the wagon wheel splintered as the weight of the portcullis bore down. The wheel would snap at any minute.

“Malcolm, hurry!”

Malcolm’s hand connected with the small dirk wedged in his hose. He unsheathed the knife and rammed it into the man’s calf. Screaming, the man jumped off him. Malcolm crawled out from under him and through the opening under the teeth of the portcullis, a single moment before the wagon wheel shattered.

A cluster of soldiers reached the arched entry. “Raise the portcullis!” they shouted to the man in the room above the archway.

Serena ignored the impotent shouts. She knelt beside her father, swiftly pulled out the bottle from her pouch, and poured a swallow of it in her father’s mouth.

“Take this, Father. The pain will pass,” she said, the confidence in her voice hollow but the hope strong.

Through his twisted expression, Earlington swallowed the bitter draft. He gasped for breath, and within seconds his heartbeat returned to an even rhythm.

Slowly, the portcullis lifted from its groove.

“Time to go,” shouted Malcolm. “I’ll carry yer father. Just move!”

Serena led them back across the sheep pasture. By the time they reached the forest, the soldiers were on their trail. Their escape was downhill, which gave them extra speed. Soon they found the horses they had hidden in the clearing. Malcolm helped Serena and Earlington onto one horse, and then he jumped on the other.

They left the soldiers behind as their horses leapt into flight.