Sword Dance (10 page)

McRae grinned. ‘Oh dear, you're still a little wobbly, aren't you? Let's find somewhere more comfortable to talk, if such a place exists in this pitiful excuse for a castle. I have a proposal to put to you… not that you have much choice, mind you.'

The men half dragged, half shoved him along the corridor to the dark, cold drawing room. One of them lit an oil lamp and made a fire. As soon as the flames rose in the hearth, Fergus' claymore gleamed softly on the wall.

Struggling to stand upright, Bruce gripped the back of an armchair to prop himself up.

McRae must have decided he posed no threat to him whatsoever because he ordered his men to leave and stand guard outside the Lodge.

‘Here is what I suggest,' he started as soon as they were alone. He patted the breast pocket of his smart grey jacket. ‘We do a straight swap. I let you have the affidavits our two madames signed against you and forget all about alerting the Procurateur Fiscal, and you hand over the letter my father wrote to your mother.'

Bruce closed his eyes. Malika. The women from the Inverness brothel said he hurt and killed her. Were McRae and the two women from the brothel right? He just didn't know. If only the dream-like images he'd been chasing after these past few days made any sense, but each was more elusive than the last.

Yet there were so many things that didn't add up in the two madames' story. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't work out how he could have managed to carry two women out of the brothel when he could hardly stand, and how the hell was he supposed to have taken them back to Wrath?

What's more, if he had indeed killed them both that night, why bother to take their bodies back with him only to leave them on the beach two days later? His memories of the journey back to Wrath might be hazy, but he would damned well remember travelling with a dead woman's body – or two – strapped to Shadow! And what about McNeil? Surely he would have stopped him from killing the women or asked why he was bringing a body back to Wrath.

Another thought struck him then – a thought so horrid it made him want to be sick. If he had indeed killed Malika and Fenella McKay, maybe there were others too. Had he become so mad he didn't remember raping, torturing and killing lasses?

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His head ached, his heart gave a few hard thumps again and a fresh wave of nausea rose inside him. It took a few deep breaths and all his willpower to remain standing and gather his muddled thoughts about what to do next.

‘Perhaps I want the truth to be told,' he said at last in a low voice and his eyes still closed. ‘I'm not the kind of man to run away from what I've done. If I am guilty, I should be tried and punished. And if I'm not, then…'

He opened his eyes and took a shaky breath. ‘If I'm not, then you'll have no hold on me, McRae. I think I'll take my chances with the judges. You can go to hell.'

‘I thought you might say that. The brave and noble Lieutenant McGunn to the bitter end, aren't you? Well, I think you're a bloody fool.' McRae sneered as he walked across the room and stopped in front of the claymore. ‘Ah, the old weasel's sword. It's hard to imagine your drunkard of grandfather ever being good enough to wield that sword in battle.'

He lifted his hand to touch it, immediately withdrew it with a sharp hiss and turned round, his eyebrows arched in shock.

‘Damn it, it's hot! How can that be?'

Bruce glanced at the sword. He'd lost track of the times he had lifted it from the hooks that kept it secure against the wall and carried it outside to train. He hadn't touched it, hadn't even looked at it, in the eighteen months since being discharged. Somehow he had considered himself unworthy of it.

Now the palm of his hand tingled and he could almost sense the cold, smooth handle against his skin, and recall how the sword always felt like an extension of himself.

An imperceptible whistling filled the silence – the sound of a blade slicing through the air. He was delusional again.

McRae frowned. ‘I can hear something, can't you?'

Bruce nodded slowly. ‘I reckon that's Doughall's ghost longing to give you a good tanning with his claymore. I'd step away from that wall if I were you.'

‘Nonsense, it's the wind. Your old tower is full of holes and draughts.' McRae shrugged but nonetheless moved back towards the centre of the room. ‘My men are getting restless, McGunn. The longer I have to wait for that letter, the more chaos they'll wreck on your estate.'

Bruce took a sharp breath and tightened his grip on the armchair.

‘What chaos? What are they doing on my land?'

‘Only lighting up a few fires, here and there, to keep your people busy, that's all.' A smirk stretched McRae's lips. ‘Anyway, I have another… er… argument which may persuade you to part with the letter.'

He pulled a small book out of his pocket. His fingers patted the cover then flicked through the pages.

Bruce felt the blood drain from his face. He let go of the chair and took a few unsteady steps forward.

Colonel Saintclair's diary! If McRae had it, then he had Rose too.

‘How did you get hold of that?'

The man he couldn't think of as his brother – not now, not ever – threw him a mocking glance.

‘Wouldn't you like to know…'

‘Answer me, damn it. How did you get it?'

‘Morven stumbled upon your protégée in a country inn two days ago. The young lady was taken to Westmore and separated from her precious diary.'

‘Where is she? I swear that if you hurt her…'

‘Don't worry. I believe she's safe and sound at Westmore – or at least she was when we left. Her precious diary however is… no more.'

And before Bruce had the chance to do anything McRae tossed the journal in the fire. The flames licked the cover, flared and shot up with a hiss. Soon the diary disappeared, engulfed in flames.

‘I should have done that months ago.' McRae glanced up with a triumphant smile. ‘Now, tell me where that blasted letter is or I'll order my men to ride back to Westmore and deal with Rose once and for all. To tell the truth, that little bitch has all but exhausted my patience – and I've have never been a patient man.'

‘What have you done to her?' Bruce clenched his fists. If only his strength could flood back into his body, along with his anger and frustration.

McRae shrugged. ‘Nothing yet. In fact I haven't seen her since leaving Algiers after she made that stupid scene because I'd… manhandled her a little. Well, if you don't give me that letter, I swear I'll do worse than mishandle her, and once I've finished with her I'll pass her on to Morven and his men.'

He took hold of the poker and stabbed at the burning remains of the diary in the grate. Colonel Saintclair's diary was lost forever.

Next to McRae the claymore glowed, red hot on the wall. A shadow shifted on the blade – the reflection of a dark-hooded silhouette. Bruce blinked. More hallucinations, no doubt.

It was hopeless. What chance did he have to fight McRae and his men, and protect Rose from harm, when he was so weak already and sinking deeper and deeper into madness?

Chapter Seven

‘We'll head for The Old Norse's Inn first,' Wallace decreed as they rode through the deserted streets.

He probably wanted to recruit more men before riding to Wrath Lodge, and the tavern was a good place to start. Rose pulled a face at memories of the scene with the landlady. For a moment she could even smell the beer on her hair and clothing, and hear the villagers' heckling when Bruce had slung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain after she tried to run to the
Sea Eagle.

The
Sea Eagle,
of course! Captain Kennedy would help them, she was certain of it. He was a good, honest man, and there had been admiration in his voice when he'd spoken about Bruce's reputation and his years of service in the army. She turned to Duncan, Eilidh's eldest son who rode at her side.

‘Is the
Sea Eagle
still in the harbour?'

He nodded. ‘I heard today that it was ready to sail.'

‘Then I'll go to the harbour and speak to Captain Kennedy. I'm sure he'll help us rescue Bruce.'

Wallace turned round and glanced at her over his shoulder.

‘I don't think so, Miss. The man works for McRae, therefore I don't trust him or his crew. Their loyalties are bound to swing towards the man who pays their wages.'

They were now in front of the tavern. Wallace gave the signal to stop. The door was closed, no light filtered through the shuttered windows.

‘We're too late to ask people to help,' Rose said, disappointed. ‘Everybody's gone home.'

‘That's not why I came here, Miss Rose,' Wallace replied as he dismounted. ‘You're staying at the inn tonight. I'll knock on the door and ask the landlady to give you a room.'

Rose stiffened and held the reins more tightly.

‘No, absolutely not! I'm coming with you.'

Wallace shook his head. ‘You've been very brave but things are about to get nasty. I can't watch out for you and fight at the same time, and I certainly can't spare anybody to mind you either. There're only ten of us counting the old woman's sons – but I don't know how good they'll be at fighting Morven's thugs.'

Rose let out a resigned sigh. He was right. However much she wanted to help him rescue Bruce, she'd only be in the way. ‘All right then, but I won't stay at the inn. I'll go to Doctor Kilroy's instead.'

After bidding the men a hurried farewell, she made her way through the village. Doctor Kilroy's house was the only house in the street with light glowing behind the curtains. At least he was still up. She wouldn't need to wake him.

She knocked on the door and listened to the sounds of hurried footsteps and bolts being drawn back. The door opened on the housekeeper's pale, anxious face. Her hair was tied back in a long plait, the frilly hem of her white nightdress peeped underneath a green dressing gown, and matching green slippers covered her bare feet.

Her eyes opened wide with shock. ‘Goodness, it's young Lady McRae. What are you doing here at this time of night, and on your own, too?'

‘I'm sorry to be calling so late, Mrs Fraser. Is Doctor Kilroy in? It's imperative that I speak to him straight away.' Rose bit her lip. ‘But first I must tell you that my name is Rose Saintclair, not Lady McRae. I'm not married, never was.'

The woman frowned. ‘But…'

‘Lord McRae is a liar and a cheat who tricked me into a fake wedding. Knowing what I know about him now, I am glad he did. I couldn't bear being his wife for real.'

Mrs Fraser's face broke into an unexpected smile. ‘Well, my dear, I always thought you were far too nice a young lady for a scoundrel like him.'

She opened the door wider. ‘Please come in. I'm afraid you'll have to wait for the doctor. He left for the Lodge over an hour ago.'

Dread made Roses heart bump hard. ‘Why did he go?'

‘I don't know. Two men – two ruffians more like – came to give him a note from Lord McGunn and demanded he follow them. The doctor looked baffled as he read it. He went into his study to fetch his medical bag then left. That was over an hour ago'

‘What did the note say?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Could you please let me read it?'

‘Well, I'm not sure it would be proper for me to do so.'

‘Please, Mrs Fraser. Lord McRae and Morven are with Lord Mc Gunn at the Lodge and I believe they mean to hurt him. I need to see that note.'

The woman narrowed her eyes to look at her.

‘Why would they harm our laird?' Then she shrugged and gestured towards the mare behind Rose. ‘All right then. You'd best tie your horse to the post at the side of the house and come in.'

A few minutes later, Rose was in Doctor Kilroy's study.

‘It's a wonder he ever finds anything in this mess,' Ms Fraser muttered as her fingers patted files and books piled up haphazardly on the desk and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

‘That's the one.' She brought it closer to the lamp to read it.

‘Lady Patricia is at the Lodge. She's ill, and the doctor is required to attend to her.'

‘The old bitch is here, at Wrath?' a hoarse voice spoke behind her.

Rose turned and gasped in shock as she faced Morag. With her hollow cheeks, her eyes sunk deep inside their sockets, her thinning grey hair brushing against her shoulders and the long white nightdress and black shawl hanging on her tall frame, Morag looked more like a ghost than a living being.

‘I want to see her,' the woman said.

‘Don't be silly, you're in no fit state to go anywhere,' Mrs Fraser remonstrated with a stern voice. ‘Come with me, I'll help you back into bed. What would Doctor Kilroy say if he knew you were up at this time of night?'

She slipped her arm under Morag and tried to motion her out of the study but Morag shook free. There was a dark, wild look in her eyes.

‘He would say it didn't matter much. He knows I don't have long left.' She turned to Rose. ‘I heard what you said about you not being married to McRae. Is it true?'

Rose nodded.

‘You also said your name was Saintclair. Are you related to Colonel Hugo Saintclair by any chance?'

‘He was my father, but…'

‘Listen to me, girl,' Morag interrupted, ‘we must go to the Lodge at once. I can get into the castle without being seen. There are tunnels linking the cliffs, the caves and the Lodge's cellars – that's the way the McGunns and their people used to escape when the castle was under siege in the olden days, and the way Bonnie got out when she wanted to meet Niall.' She bit her thin lip, hissed a breath as if in pain, and Rose stared at her as the truth suddenly dawned on her.

‘You knew! All along you knew who Bruce's father was and you never told him.'