Cates, Kimberly (27 page)

As Gavin saw the devastation, he wondered what was left of his own beloved estates back in England— the lands, the house, treasures from countless generations of Carstares. Seeing it decimated would have been agonizing, yet he would have set a torch to it all himself rather than surrender what he stood to lose now—Adam.

The pockmarked soldier swaggered up a staircase that must have been magnificent before it had been scarred and battered by idle soldiers eager to leave their mark on a traitor's home. At the top of the risers, he stopped before huge double doors. He knocked on the ornately carved frame.

"What the devil do you want?" a muffled voice snapped.

The soldier tugged at his neckcloth, as if it had suddenly become too tight, then entered the chamber.

After a moment, the soldier returned, scowling. "Sir Dunstan says he'll see you at once."

Until that moment, Gavin hadn't realized how damned scared he'd been that Wells would turn him away.

"If you try anything foolish, Sir Dunstan will shoot you dead," the soldier warned. "I understand."

The door swung open, and Gavin entered what might once have been a salon. A harpsichord was jammed haphazardly into a corner, the room littered with weaponry. Trophies of Wells's campaign against the Highlanders filled tables and draped chairs: claymores that had been clan treasures since the time of Robert Bruce, jewels that had once adorned the women of proud chieftains. Anything that might be sold or bartered or displayed as spoils of war, Wells had kept here, tangible proof of his total domination over his enemies.
The only trophy missing is the Glen Lyon's head,
Gavin thought grimly.
But not for long.

Gavin battled for control of his outrage as his gaze locked on the man sitting behind a massive desk so out of place in this room it must have come from another chamber. Gavin knew that the most fatal misstep he could make would be to betray to Sir Dunstan Wells how desperate he was to free the man lying in shackles somewhere below.

How many times had he seen Wells since that first horrific glimpse on the battlefield of Prestonpans? In his nightmares and fleeting glimpses during raids and rescues the Glen Lyon had arranged? Each encounter had fed the loathing, the thick, poisonous hate he felt for the English officer.

Yet even the Glen Lyon's most daring defiance, most humiliating triumphs over Wells hadn't marked the soldier's features as they were now. Every muscle in Sir Dunstan Wells's face was pulled to the breaking point, his eyes seething with frustration and fury. Even during the destruction of an entire village, the knight had remained eerily pristine, a picture of military perfection, from his gleaming boots to his expertly powdered wig. But now the man's red coat hung open, his neckcloth torn awry. The wig had been torn off, baring hair in wild disarray.

For a man who had supposedly captured his most dreaded enemy, Sir Dunstan Wells looked thwarted and mad as hell.

But then, Adam had always had a gift for driving people mad when he'd a mind to. Gavin could imagine all too well the pleasure his brother had taken in enraging Wells.

The knight downed a snifter of brandy in a single gulp as Gavin approached the desk. Then those eyes locked on him. Gavin knew the instant Sir Dunstan recognized him from their encounter in the glen. Wells's eyes turned frigid, his fingers clenched on his glass.

"Leave us," Sir Dunstan snapped as the soldier took a guard post at Gavin's side.

The soldier started, glancing from his commander to Gavin. "Sir, we searched him, but there's no telling how dangerous he could be—"

"Get out!" Dunstan ordered. The soldier bolted out of the room as if Wells had fired a shot at his coattails.

Gavin's whole body vibrated with desperation as he heard the door shut, but he struggled to keep his head clear. He glanced at the pistol that lay before Wells on the desk, the hilt of the sword that was bound to Wells's waist. Even if Gavin was tempted to lunge at the man in some grand heroic gesture, it would be futile. In a heartbeat, the man could have that blade at Gavin's throat or blast him into eternity. Barring that, the soldiers standing guard would charge through the door in an instant. Gavin's wits were the only weapon that now stood between Adam and certain death. It was the most terrifying prospect Gavin had ever faced.

Sir Dunstan spoke first, his voice cultured as a Roman senator's, and as hard. "If you've come to bargain for your master's life, you can save your breath. He's mine now, the accursed bastard. And I vow to you he knows it. You see, I've spent every moment since he arrived here interrogating him."

Gavin's muscles screamed at the control it took not to lunge at Wells, but he couldn't afford to make a reckless mistake. He was Adam's only hope.

"You don't like that, do you?" Sir Dunstan snarled. "The fact that your master is in my power? He's a man—a thieving traitor who chose his own path and is receiving a well-deserved punishment for his own crimes. Rachel de Lacey is an innocent woman. I'll use any means necessary to wrest her from his grasp."

"The Glen Lyon promised to release Mistress de Lacey the instant the ship has sailed. He'll hold to his word."

"Excuse me if I don't put much faith in the blood vow of a traitor and a coward! I prefer to trust the bite of the lash. That bastard will tell me where Rachel is if I have to beat him to within a breath of death," Dunstan growled. "Even the Glen Lyon has a breaking point."

"An interesting theory," Gavin said coolly. "A pity you won't be able to test it."

"Won't be able to—what the devil? I'm testing it now, sir, and the rebel bastard has the torn flesh to prove it."

Gavin paced to the window. "You're lacking one crucial element to test your theory."

"And what is that?"

"The Glen Lyon."

Wells gave a scornful chuckle. "The Glen Lyon is rotting in a cell. We've given him the taste of a cudgel. Within the hour, his blood will be dampening the strands of the cat-o'-nine-tails."

Gavin's fists clenched. The cat—he'd witnessed its savage fury more than once during his time in uniform—lead balls braided into leather thongs, nine strands coiling trails of fire over a man's back. God in heaven, Adam couldn't have endured that horror yet....

It was all Gavin could do to keep his rage from his voice.

"You are, after all, in command. As such, you can whip anyone you choose. But this time, I'm afraid you will be wasting a great deal of effort whipping the wrong man."

"What is this? Another crazed plot?" Sir Dunstan scoffed. "Whatever you're scheming, it won't work. He's the Glen Lyon."

"He is an imposter," Gavin repeated.

Sir Dunstan stilled as if the whip's lashes had touched him instead of the prisoner, then his lip curled in scorn and his eyes hard and cold. "The prisoner confessed. He faces certain death. Why would any man do such a thing if he was not the Glen Lyon?"

Gavin shrugged eloquently. "Who knows? Perhaps he did it out of some misplaced loyalty. Perhaps he was attempting to protect someone else. Perhaps he was hungry for grandeur. There are men who would rather have a few minutes of borrowed glory than live forever in obscurity."

He could see Sir Dunstan grappling with disbelief and the unthinkable possibility that what Gavin said might be true. "I don't believe you. He must be the Glen Lyon!"

"Why? Because you need a rebel to hang? A trophy to display to your superiors?"

The truth of Gavin's questions flashed into the knight's eyes.

"It doesn't really matter a damn why this captive of yours decided to play imposter," Gavin said. "It's more important to consider the consequences his little jest could have for you, Sir Dunstan." Gavin let a chill smile play about his lips. "The Glen Lyon has eluded you for nearly two years. You must admit his antics have made you appear somewhat the buffoon."

Sir Dunstan's cheeks washed dull red, his mouth a stiff line of tension. "You are calling me a buffoon?"

"Not while you've got that pistol within reach." Gavin's gaze flicked to the weapon pillowed on a nest of papers. "However, it is common knowledge that when things go awry, commanders have to search for someone to blame, someone to feed to the lions, as it were. Surely, with the number of years you've served in the military, you're aware of that particular phenomenon?"

Sir Dunstan's lips whitened and Gavin plunged on. "I'd imagine playing the role of scapegoat is not a pleasant sensation for a man lauded as a hero at Culloden Moor."

Gavin could almost see the memories wash into Dunstan Wells's gaunt face—glory, courage, victory. He could taste the frustration and rage that had been Sir Dunstan's constant bedfellow since the Glen Lyon decided to lead him into hell. For the first time, Gavin gloried in what he'd achieved.

"There have been some difficulties the past two years," Dunstan said, allowing some of what Gavin said, but his eyes glowed with triumph. "But you forget, I now have more interesting prey to feed to the lion—a traitor, a rebel."

In that instant, Gavin knew Dunstan Wells would fill his gallows with a traitor, even if it were not the particular traitor he'd sought. The Englishman didn't want to know whether he had the wrong man prisoner. Gavin could almost feel it in Wells—the crippling need to display a corpse to those who had questioned his abilities, jeered at his failings for so long.

Perhaps Gavin could stir that fear of being made a mockery.

"I suppose that you intend to hold a public execution," Gavin said. "The more people who attend, the better the lesson, isn't that true? And God knows these rebellious Highlanders need to see what happens to those who defy the crown."

Hate flooded Dunstan Wells's features, a hate so well worn, so molded to Sir Dunstan's soul that Gavin was certain the man must have held it since he was scarce a child.

"The Scots are slow learners. They've been dealt many lessons by the crown's swords," Wells said. "This time, I promise you, it will be the last lesson they ever learn, one carved so deep into their flesh and bone that they'll never dare raise their hands in rebellion again."

Gavin's gaze locked with that of Dunstan Wells, his face resolute with promise. "If you execute the man who is now your prisoner, you will make yourself the laughingstock of this entire campaign."

The blow struck deep. Wells flattened his hands on his desk and bolted to his feet. "What the devil are you saying?"

"There are plenty of people in the Highlands who know the Glen Lyon's face. When you execute the man in your dungeon, they'll know the Glen Lyon has made a fool of you once again."

"Damn you—"

"I swear to you, Sir Dunstan, you have the wrong man. Release him, and I will give you the real Glen Lyon in his place."

"What is this? Some kind of trick?"

"I have an aversion to watching an innocent man hang. You know I was the Glen Lyon's messenger. This time I bring another message. Release this man, and the Glen Lyon will surrender. You can have your grand execution and ride triumphant before your commanders with a traitor's corpse in tow."

Wells's eyes were hungry, yet torn by doubt. "How do I know what you say is true? There's no way you can prove—"

"The Glen Lyon sends this." Gavin rummaged in his coat pocket and drew the object out, laying it before Dunstan Wells. It was the betrothal ring that had adorned Rachel's finger when she'd first been taken captive. The gaudy emeralds and sapphires glinted in the candleshine.

Wells grabbed up the ring, clenching it in his fist. "Damn you, where is she?"

"She's safe. As long as you allow one last ship to sail, she will be released, unharmed. That bargain still stands, no matter what fate you design for the Glen Lyon."

"That traitorous bastard! Cowardly cur! I vow I'll kill him an inch at a time for daring to touch her!" Gavin's heart tore at Wells's unwitting echo of his own vow to protect Rachel; he felt an odd, wrenching sense of union with this enemy he had loathed for so long. God, the irony, that they should be bound in love for the same woman. But Dunstan had had the right to wed her, while Gavin had never had the right to touch so much as the toe of her slipper.

"If you release this innocent man, you will have the Glen Lyon at your mercy to do with what you wish," Gavin vowed. "I swear it on my own life."

Dunstan stared at Gavin, transfixed, the betrothal ring glowing against his skin, while violence and lust for vengeance clung to him like the putrid stench of death.

Wells rose from his chair and stalked to the door, flinging it open. The brace of soldiers outside sprang to attention. "Bring the prisoner here at once."

"No!" Gavin started to protest. "Just take him outside where he can be released. Don't let him know—"

"Know what? That you've won him freedom? No. I think it better if you confront each other before I strike this bargain. Keep the bastard chained," Wells ordered the soldier. "At the first sign of any trouble, kill him."

"Yes, sir."

Gavin withdrew into the shadows as he listened to the thud of boots receding down the hallway.

"Before our guest arrives, I want this clear," Wells said. "I will not release the prisoner before I have the Glen Lyon in chains. I don't trust any traitorous bastard who would consort with Scots animals."

"Then I'll have to trust you. You give me your word of honor—
your word of honor as an officer
—that you'll release this man, and I'll snap the manacles about the wrists of the Glen Lyon myself."

Sir Dunstan crossed his arms over his chest. "You have my word. If this man proves to be an imposter, I'll release him."

Gavin's jaw set grimly. The man being brought to the chamber would not only be an imposter, but a damned surly one. Gavin braced himself, knowing that his battle with Dunstan Wells would be a mere skirmish compared to what he'd face when Adam was dragged into this room.

It seemed an eternity before the soldiers returned, a silence stretching tighter, tighter, until it seemed it must snap.

"If this is a trick, you'll pay in blood," Sir Dunstan warned. Gavin stilled as footsteps approached, the military click of the soldiers, the stumbling, awkward gait that must belong to Adam. Gavin's whole body tensed as the sounds hesitated outside the door, the clink of chains against wood like ice in his blood. The door opened, and a filthy, battered figure was shoved inside.