Читать книгу Bride of the Solway - Joanna Maitland - Страница 8

R oss opened his eyes. He could see absolutely nothing. It was pitch dark. But he did not need his eyes to know just what sort of place he was in. His nose told him that. It reeked of damp and decay. More muted was a clear reminder of the stench of human bodies kept imprisoned for too long. There was something else, too, that he could not quite identify.

Where was he? He stretched out a hand, touching damp straw over the stone floor where he lay. He had already felt the cold eating into his body. Clearly, this place—whatever it was—never saw the sun. He made to sit up. Too quickly. A searing pain in the back of his skull stopped him dead.

Ah, yes. Now he remembered. He had tried to escape when they reached the outskirts of Dumfries and had been struck down for his pains. He put a hand to the back of his head and gingerly felt for blood. There appeared to be none, though there was a distinct lump under his hair. Well, he had suffered worse in the wars. He would mend. At least Elliott and his dastardly companion had untied his arms.

Ross felt about in the dark. He had been thrown down near a wall and so he sat up, rather more cautiously than before, and leant his aching head against it for a few moments. Where was he? Somewhere in Dumfries, he supposed, but clearly a prisoner of the man, Elliott.

Ross’s fingers began to quest around in the dank straw beneath him. His left hand met something different. Why, it was his sodden coat! He should have recognised that pervasive smell of wet wool. He pulled the coat towards him and quickly checked the pockets. Not surprisingly perhaps, his money was gone. He cursed roundly. Then, with a grim smile, he ran his fingers down the inside of the lining, where the hidden pocket lay. It remained intact. He still had his English banknotes. But it was a pity that he no longer had golden guineas with which to bribe his way out of whatever prison Elliott had thrown him into. Elliott. And that girl. He remembered her vividly, lying crumpled on the ground. Who was she? Whoever she was, Elliott certainly had some hold over her. She—

Something scuttled over Ross’s foot. A rat. Of course. There were bound to be rats in a place like this. It was bad, but no worse than many a Spanish billet during the war. Ross shrugged philosophically. The gesture reminded him, painfully, that he should not make any hasty movements. His head was not up to it. He must move slowly and carefully. He should explore his prison and find out whether there was any possibility of escape. In this clammy darkness, he could not tell whether there was even a window.

He pushed himself on to his knees. Then, with a hand on the wall for support, he slowly began to get to his feet. Just at that moment, a door opened in the far wall and a lantern appeared. Ross was temporarily blinded by the sudden light and unable to see what was beyond.

A man’s voice said, ‘Och, so ye’re no’ dead then,’ and broke into raucous laughter.

Ross stared towards the doorway, trying to make out the features of the man who stood there. It was neither Elliott nor his henchman, Ross decided. This man was much stouter than either.

‘I’ve brought ye a wee bit dinner,’ said the man. The lantern stooped and there was the muffled clatter of a metal plate on the straw-covered stone floor.

Ross took a step towards the door.

‘Stay jist where ye are!’ cried the man quickly. ‘I’ve a pistol here and I’ll shoot ye, if ye come a step nearer!’

Ross stopped in his tracks, allowing his arms to hang loosely by his sides, palms forward. ‘You must know that I have no weapons,’ he said calmly.

‘Aye, but the laird said ye was dangerous. I am no’ to take any chances with ye.’

‘And you are the laird’s man?’ said Ross, proudly.

‘Nothing o’ the kind,’ protested the man at the door. ‘I do my duty by ye, as I would by any other prisoner.’

A cold chill ran down Ross’s spine. ‘Where am I?’

‘Where d’ye think? Ye’re in the gaol, in Dumfries.’

‘And with what crime am I charged, to be held here? I have done nothing to warrant it.’

The turnkey laughed. ‘That’s no’ the way the laird tells it. He says ye’ll hang.’

‘Dammit, man!’ Ross took another step forward. ‘I’ve done—’

‘Stop where ye are!’

Ross stopped dead. However, the gaoler had moved smartly backwards and closed the door between them. The lantern now showed the bars in the tiny window in the door.

‘Ye’ll learn yer fate soon enough,’ said the man with a low chuckle as he turned the key. ‘Soon enough.’ The lantern receded and disappeared. Ross was alone again. In the dark.

He had endured too many hardships in the Peninsula to dwell on might-have-beens. His first thought was to secure the plate and whatever food had been provided, before the rats ate it. He got down on his knees once more and then felt his way towards where the light had been, until his outstretched fingers found the plate. It contained a largish piece of hard bread and nothing else. Ross grinned into the darkness. It was quite like old times.

He broke off a chunk from the stale bread and chewed it thoughtfully. He needed to get a message to someone. Was there anyone in Dumfries who would help an unknown gentleman from England? Perhaps with one of the banknotes from his hidden store, he could bribe the gaoler to take a letter to the provost or the local magistrate? Yes, he would do that.

A thought struck him. He was surprised into a burst of hollow laughter. What if the local magistrate was the Elliott laird?

Cassandra paced the floor of her chamber. Her gaol. Her only consolation was that her clothes had been returned to her. She was decently clad, and shod. But now there were bars on her window, making the room feel even more like a prison.

She refused to dwell on that. With luck, she might be able to unlock the door using the same trick as before. But first, she must have news of the man who had tried to rescue her. What on earth was keeping Morag? Surely she should have been able to glean some news by now?

The sound of the key turning in the lock brought a halt to her pacing. Morag?

The door opened. ‘Morag!’ Cassandra cried as the servant entered, bearing a tray of food. ‘Have you found out what happened to the ma—?’

Morag frowned warningly and gave a tiny shake of her head.

‘She has tried, sister,’ said a voice from the darkness beyond the doorway. James Elliott stepped forward into the room and pushed the door behind him. ‘She has tried so hard that even Tam noticed her eagerness for information. And you will agree that our Tam is not the quickest of nature’s creatures. So, since you are so desperate for news of your lover, I have come to bring it myself.’

‘He is not my lover!’ Cassandra protested hotly. ‘I never saw him before yesterday!’

James ignored her. ‘Return to the kitchen,’ he ordered sharply. ‘And remember what I said, woman. You will not attend on my sister until I give you leave. If I find you have been alone with her, you will find yourself in the workhouse. Or the gutter.’

Morag had shrunk away from his terrible words. Without venturing even a glance at Cassandra, she hurried out. Cassandra’s only ally had been defeated.

James threw himself down into the high-backed oak chair and stretched out his long legs. He had every appearance of a gentleman sitting at his ease. But James Elliott was no gentleman. He was—

‘Now, sister. We have matters to discuss. First, that woman of yours. She will no longer serve you. Not alone. Tam will make sure that you have no opportunity for private speech with her. Or with anyone else who might try to help you. Understand that I am the laird, and my will is to be respected. No one will be allowed to cross me. Not even you.’

This time, Cassandra did not protest. She refused to look at him. She clenched her jaw and stared at the floor. Hot words clamoured for release, but she would not give in to them. A moment’s satisfaction was not worth weeks of even greater restrictions on her person.

‘Lost your tongue sister?’ James’s voice was now thoroughly nasty. He paused for a few seconds. Then, realising that Cassandra was not about to respond, he said, ‘You wanted information about your lover. You thought I had killed him, did you not? Faith, lassie, I am not such a fool as to put myself on the wrong side of the law. Not when it stands ready to help me.’

Cassandra raised her eyes to his face. At least Ross Graham was not dead.

‘Your lover, my dear sister, is in Dumfries gaol awaiting his trial. And, after it, he will hang.’

‘No!’ Cassandra shrieked. ‘No! You cannot! He has done nothing!’

James raised his eyebrows and glared mockingly at her. ‘Nothing? I think not, my dear. Abduction is a serious offence. A hanging offence. And I stand ready to swear that he abducted you. I have no doubt that the law will dispose of your lover to my complete satisfaction.’

‘You would perjure yourself? Before God?’ whispered Cassandra in horror.

‘It is no perjury. I found ye both, remember? And I have three witnesses to the fact, besides old Shona.’

‘James…please.’ For herself, she would not plead. But she could not allow an innocent man to be hanged. ‘He is not my lover. I will swear it, on a stack of bibles if you wish. I had never seen him before. I was alone.’ At the look of disbelief on her half-brother’s face, she became even more desperate. ‘I was alone, I swear it. I was going to cross the Solway. I thought if I could get to my godfather’s—’

James’s head jerked up. He scowled blackly at the reminder that he had one enemy who was powerful enough to take his sister’s part.

Cassandra rushed on. ‘The storm caught me. Lucifer bolted. If that man had not appeared from nowhere and stopped us, Lucifer would have bolted straight into the firth. ’Twere better if he had, perhaps. Then you would have been rid of an unwelcome burden.’

James looked unconvinced. But he ignored most of what Cassandra had said, merely replying, ‘You are a burden, indeed. You and your lovers. I warn you. You are likely to seal your own fate. An unmarried sister has a degree of value. But only if she is known to be chaste.’ He rose. Ignoring Cassandra’s gasp of outrage, he bent forward, seizing her chin and forcing her head up so that he could assess her features. ‘You are not so bad looking when you lose that mulish expression. I might be able to get a good price for you.’

‘You would sell me? Like a…a horse?’ Until that moment, Cassandra had dared to hope that she might have at least some say in the choice of a husband. She should have known better. She knew James.

‘Why, sister, what else did you think I would do? I had no intention of keeping ye here much longer in any case. I can easily find another—cheaper—housekeeper. A sister costs too much. But, after this escapade, I must get you safely leg-shackled before the rumours start. Like mother, like daughter, they’ll say, and then you’ll have no value at all.’

Cassandra gasped, then bit her lip. Hard.

‘What? Nothing to say, girl? Don’t you wish to plead with me to find you a handsome young buck for a husband?’

Cassandra said nothing.

‘Well, no. Perhaps you are right to hold your tongue. You know as well as I do that handsome young bucks rarely have the blunt that old men do. So, I fear that your husband is unlikely to be young. Or handsome. Indeed, the man I have in mind is—’ He stopped short, waiting for her question. When she remained stubbornly silent, he strolled to the door. ‘One thing I will promise you, though,’ he drawled, as he opened it. ‘Your husband may be old and cross-eyed, but he will be a gentleman. I do have my position to consider. Good morrow to ye, sister.’

Then he was gone. The door was locked behind him. Cassandra was alone again. And now she was desperately afraid. She must do something to save Ross Graham. She must! She could consider her own predicament later. It was much less important than a man’s life. James intended to use the law to kill Ross Graham. And he was ready to perjure his soul to do it. She must do something. She must! But what?

Cassandra resumed her pacing. The tray of food remained untouched on the table. If she swallowed a bite, it would choke her.

It was still dark. But it must be morning by now, surely? Ross knew he had not been asleep for more than a few hours, at most. Even with his coat wrapped around him, the cold had penetrated his bones. He had woken, shivering. So now he paced the floor of his tiny cell, trying to get some warmth back into his limbs. Three paces, turn about, three paces, turn about, three paces…

He had too much time to think here. That was the real problem of his confinement. He could do nothing more now until the gaoler reappeared. Nothing except pace. And remember. He tried to focus instead on Elliott and that girl. By Jove, she was a handful!

Ross tried to picture what she looked like, but failed. He could see only a mass of dark hair, tangled and dripping, and a white gown that clung to her limbs. He recalled his shock at discovering that her feet and legs were bare. But he could not recall her features. Had he actually seen her face in the darkness? He had had a vague impression of huge dark eyes in a pale face. Nothing more. He was not at all sure he would recognise her if he saw her again.

Still pacing, he grinned into the darkness. See her? How could he? He could not even see his own hand in front of his face!

His decision was already made. When the gaoler returned, he would offer him a bribe in return for pen and ink, and the promise to take a letter to the provost. Ross fingered the hidden pocket and the riches concealed there. It had served him well in France and Spain, and had saved his beloved Julie from many a hardship.

Julie…The memories came flooding in, like the rush of water when the sluice is released. He remembered every detail of her beautiful face, her peach-bloom complexion, her golden hair. The sinuous curves that moved beneath the plain cheap gown she wore, causing his breath to catch in his throat and his body to heat. Her low husky voice, her brilliant smile, the way she worried at her full lower lip when her thoughts were far away—

Enough! He knew now what she had been daydreaming about. Certainly not about Ross Graham, much though she had tried to cozen him into believing that her regard for him might soon turn into love. She had played him for a fool.

A part of him—the gallant, honourable part—attempted to defend her still. Perhaps he had misunderstood her behaviour? Was it not possible that she had intended to show him only gratitude, and friendship? That he had simply seen what he longed to see?

He paused to think back over the months of their escape together, the hundreds of miles they had tramped from Julie’s humble cottage along the French Mediterranean coast and across the north of Spain to find a ship to England. She had been so brave and determined throughout their ordeal, in spite of all the dangers, even when they had so nearly been captured by Bonaparte’s soldiers. Was that what had blinded him to her wiles? For they were just that—wiles. She was a lady, of course, but that had not stopped her from flirting with Ross: those frequent little touches of her fingers, how she insisted he take her hand to help her over uneven ground, the way she looked up at him with those wide trusting eyes, running her tongue over her lips as if inviting him to kiss her. Damn it, she had known he could not. Not while he alone was responsible for bringing her out from under the nose of the enemy and delivering her safely to her relatives in London. She knew he was a man of honour. That was surely why she had agreed to escape with him? Was it necessary to make him love her, too?

He shuddered. Whatever her motives, she had succeeded. Twice—at Perpignan and at Santander—he had tried to declare himself. Twice she had silenced him with a soft finger across his lips. ‘Say nothing now, my dear friend,’ she had said, that last time. ‘We shall be in London soon, and free. There we may both say everything that is in our hearts.’ And then she had smiled her blinding white smile and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Almost as if she were tasting him.

Ross’s body began to harden at the very thought. He cursed aloud at his own weakness. For a woman he had never even kissed!

Fool that he was, he had believed that Julie, the granddaughter of a marquis, would stoop to consider a man with little wealth and no family. He had persuaded himself that once she was free, and safe in London, she would admit that Ross had captured her heart.

It had not happened. They had arrived in London on that strangest of days, when the whole city was rejoicing at the news of the victory at Waterloo. Julie had almost been run down by one of the mail coaches, all hung with oak leaves, racing out of the city to carry the tidings to the furthest corners of the land. Ross had pulled her into his arms to save her, feeling the rapid beating of her heart against his chest, filling his lungs with the scent of her skin and her hair, holding her close as he had been longing to do… For seconds only. And then it was over. She had drawn away from him. With the utmost propriety, they had made their way to Berkeley Square to be welcomed into her noble English family.

There, for one more second—just one—he had smiled, knowing that on the morrow he would finally tell her everything that was in his heart.

And then he had seen it. Julie’s eyes were fixed on that other man. Her face was lighting up with love. As hers blazed brighter, Ross’s hidden flame of love and hope had flickered and sunk to a dull ember. And then to cold and twisted dross.

She had never loved him. Never. She could have been in no doubt that Ross was losing his heart to her. Did she care? Certainly not enough to tell him the truth, that her heart was already given. She had prevented him from declaring himself, no doubt to save her own blushes, not his heartbreak. For, if he had once spoken, she would have had to refuse him. And to tell him why. Oh, it was so much easier to play him like a fish on a hook, a little slack here, a little tug there. Keep the stupid fish thinking that it is not being duped, that it has free choice. Never let it see that it is about to be served up on a plate.

Incensed at himself, and at Julie, Ross slammed his clenched fist into the wall. For a moment, the pain stopped him from thinking. Then bleak sanity returned.

Was I bewitched? he wondered. One beautiful woman, helpless, dependent on me for her safety, relying on my honour to preserve her virtue? Is that all it takes? Aye. One beautiful woman gazing up into my eyes and my wits go a-begging. After all those years in the wars, I should have learnt to deal better with women. God knows there were enough of them asking for our help, for our ‘protection’. And beautiful women, too. But not one of them wormed her way into my heart.

Until Julie. Beautiful, desirable, bewitching Julie. With a heart encased in cold stone.

Ross felt as if a powerful fist had grasped his own heart and was squeezing fit to crush the life out of him. The pain was immense. Unbearable.

‘No!’ he cried the single word aloud. No! I will not let one scheming woman ruin my life. I will forget her, as she deserves. She is not worth one instant’s suffering. And I will never again allow a beautiful woman to bewitch me as Julie did. If ever I take a wife, let her be dark and ugly and…and mute. I will not be beguiled again, not by beauty, or honeyed words, or gentle touches on my skin. If ever I find another woman in distress, pleading for my help, I shall turn my back on her, and laugh as I ride away.

A sudden spasm of pain in his injured hand caused him to gasp aloud. And then he began to laugh, a great gale of cleansing laughter welling up from deep inside his soul, sweeping away the bitterness and the anger. When at last it subsided, he felt totally drained. But now, finally, he was free.

He had loved Julie. He would willingly have died for her. But the love was gone, extinguished like a single candle flame doused by a torrent of water. He was whole again. He could go forward. Like an adder, he had sloughed off his old damaged skin. In its place was a new whole one, strong and supple, with a clear warning pattern.

He forced his shoulders to straighten into something resembling his normal upright carriage. He must look to the future, however threatening it now seemed. He had come to Scotland to solve the mystery surrounding his family and if…when he managed to escape from this prison, that was exactly what he would do. No one, however noble, would be able to look down on him in the future. He would still be an officer and a gentleman, but he would find a family to be proud of. It would be a new life.

In that new life, he would keep his heart well-armoured against tender feelings. For any woman.