The Laird Page 23

  A shaft of light pierced the barred wicket of the door, a faint flicker lighting the gloom, though he would almost have preferred no light at all. It was easier to contemplate the darkness of the grave when he did not have to endure the light.

  He tried to remember how many weeks he’d been here, but they had blended one into the other without much to separate them. Two? Three? He counted time by the changing of the guards. Argyll’s prison was larger than he’d thought, and he was not alone in this bleak and hopeless hole. There were others. He heard them, the sounds of despair in wavering cries that rent the night.

  The muted sounds of clanging iron and men’s voices drifted down the narrow corridor to his cell. The guards exchanged places again. Another day gone. His belly growled. Food—or what passed for it—would arrive soon. Just enough to keep him alive.

  Scraping a hand over his jaw, he felt the rough bristle of his half-grown beard. He’d had time to think more clearly while here and had planned a defense when brought before a council to answer for any charges Argyll had produced. That there would be charges, he had no doubt. Even Argyll would have to have good reason to hang a man the king had knighted on the heights of Sutton Bank.

  Ah, the king. Not for a moment had he believed that the Bruce had signed a writ against him, but it had been obvious that his father did. He would add forgery to the growing list of crimes to lay at Argyll’s feet—though treason alone was enough to see him executed.

  And it had been treason. Argyll had sworn to one king, then to another, but had betrayed them both for his own ends. Rob smiled grimly. He had the document to prove it. Still had it, though Argyll had sent men to find it. For a time, it had been all that stood between him and an assassin in the night. Now its use as a barrier had come to an end.

  It was all that would save him now, and he had no way to get it unless he was free. Or dead—a searing irony.

  Bending his legs, he crossed his arms over his knees and laid his head on his folded hands. He wore no chains. It wasn’t necessary, for escape was impossible. Even if he did manage to escape his cell, he had to get past guards, and once outside the prison, he would have to swim the loch to reach the mainland.

  Another rattle clanked in the corridor outside his cell, and Rob looked up, expecting to see the guard with his daily meal. A key fit into the lock, turned with a squeal of iron, and the door swung slowly open.

  Torchlight was briefly blocked, then danced inside the cell again.

  “Well, well, it has been a while since last we met,” came a smooth, unctuous voice he’d never forgotten, and Rob rose slowly to his feet.

  “Have you come to take my place, Argyll?”

  Soft laughter drifted from behind a scented square of cloth he pressed to his face. “Ah no, I must dash your hope for that, it seems.”

  “A pity.” Rob’s hands curled into fists at his sides, but he did not move toward Argyll. If only he had his dirk . . .

  “Yea, a pity that you were not more clever. For a while I despaired of success. You eluded my most determined effort to snare you.” The cloth square fluttered with his words, wafting scent across the cell. “Your father has proven an invaluable ally.”

  “My father is loyal, a virtue that has been misplaced in you.”

  “Ah, loyalty. It has its place and uses.” Pale hair gleamed in the torchlight, and the eyes that looked at him over the edge of the cloth were opaque. “I am not a callous man, Glenlyon. Tell me where you hid it, and I’ll set you free.”

  “I was fool enough to trust you once but learned my lesson well. I had three years to reflect upon my folly.”

  “Yet you are alive today.” A shrug lifted his narrow shoulders. “You were not executed. War is a capricious master. Men often are forced to acts they would not commit otherwise.”

  “That is not the case where you’re concerned. As you know well.”

  “You force me to harsh retaliation,” he said sharply. “I will have the document in my possession, or you will die.”

  “All men must die.”

  “And all women. Ah. I see you do not like that.” He paused, then said softly, “For the moment she is comfortable enough, but that can change.”

  “Wakefield—”

  Argyll gave a dismissing flick of his fingers that cut him off, saying, “Is used to disappointment. Lady Lindsay—or is it Glenlyon now?—has been accused of witchcraft. You are aware of the fate of witches, I presume. However, should I be satisfied with your cooperation, she can be ransomed by her father, and no one need ever know of the accusations against her.”

  Disaster loomed before him. Argyll must have sensed his resignation, for he laughed softly. “I have often said that women are usually the death of a man.”

  “If I relinquish the document to you, you must first set her free.”

  “Ah, but much like you, I find it difficult to trust. I will set her free once I have the document.”

  Impasse. His mind raced from one possibility to another until finally he said, “A document for a document. Draw up a pledge that you will ransom the lady to her father—alive—and I will tell Lochawe where I have hidden the document. He will make the exchange.”

  “You trust the man who brought you to me?” Surprise was evident in Argyll’s voice, and Rob smiled grimly.

  “Aye, for he acted out of loyalty and not treachery. We may disagree, but he is not a dishonorable man.”

  Argyll was quiet for a moment; then he said, “The idea has merit. I will consider it.”

  “Before I tell anyone where I’ve hidden the document, I want proof the lady is well. I want to see her.”

  “She may not want to see you once your stench reaches her, but I see no harm in it. For a brief time, of course. Farewells can be so difficult.”

  When the cell door closed behind Argyll, Rob leaned back against the wall and slid down it slowly, weariness and finality seeping into his bones. It was nearly over.

  SHE HAD MOVED through the days as if in a dream, light and shadow ebbing and flowing around her, voices filtering through the fog that seemed to never fade. Then came the promise of seeing him, and the world righted itself, was once again unclouded. There was so much to tell him . . .

  Impatience pricked her sharply, and she asked so many times when the hour would be at hand that her guard gave in and escorted her from the chamber earlier than he should. It was a bright day, sunlight glittering on the loch that surrounded the keep. She paced the small courtyard, waiting, filled with excitement and dread both at the same time.

  Finally, she heard the clomp of booted feet on stones and the faint rattle of pikes, and she turned toward the sound. She clasped and unclasped her hands, nervous at what he may say to her. Would he be angry? Would he even listen to her reasons for what she’d done? Oh, if only she’d been able to talk to him on the journey to Loch Awe, she would know how he felt. But he’d been kept distant from her, surrounded by his father’s guard, so that she scarcely caught a glimpse of him.

  And then that horrible day when they had come here, and he was put aboard a small boat and taken across the water, and she could only weep with regret and despair.

  Fret filled her, and uncertainty for the future. Surely Lochawe would not let his only surviving son be imprisoned. If she was ransomed, then that should be an end to it. They would release Rob, and he could return to Glenlyon.

  Her heart leaped as the guard came into view, and she caught a glimpse of Rob, sunlight shining on his black hair. He was flanked by two men, with four more ranging behind him with naked pikes, as if he were a vicious murderer bent on mayhem.

  Unable to wait for him to reach her at the far end of the walled courtyard, she moved forward but halted sharply as he drew near. Her throat clenched, and she put a hand up to her mouth, fingers trembling. This was not her bonny laird but a changeling. His
hair was matted, his tunic torn and filthy, and cuts and bruises marred his handsome face.

  The wind behind her tugged at her skirts, gave her the push she needed to move again, and she forced her feet into motion. He stopped in the middle of the courtyard, waiting.

  Even bruised and bloodied, he radiated a fierce sense of strength and pride, and she fought the urge to weep.

  “My lady,” he said softly, and his voice had lost none of its power to ease into her very soul. “You smell of heather.”

  “Yes. I . . .” She stopped, swallowed hard, then continued calmly, “I have been allowed a few conveniences.”

  He smiled, a crooked tilt of his mouth. The urge to weep grew stronger, and she held it at bay.

  “What of Archie MacCallum?” he asked, and aware of his guards, she chose her words carefully.

  “Safe, as are the rest.” It was true as far as she knew, for she had seen them retreat once Rob was captured, unwilling to risk his life.

  “Ah, that is good to know.”

  He searched her face, stared at her as if he had never seen her before—or would never see her again. A cold chill chased away the warmth of the sunlight.

  “I am to be ransomed,” she said, the words swift and reassuring, “but once my father has paid, I will choose my own fate.” When he nodded, she felt the same nagging sense of doom clutch at her, and she tried to drown it with assurances of the future. “I have some lands of my own. They belonged to my mother. I can sell them—”

  “Keep them, sweetling.” It was said kindly, and there was a quick, bright light in his eyes. “You may need them.”

  “Why? Will I not . . . We are handfasted.” A trembling began inside her, spread to her hands and mouth. “We can be wed on All Hallow’s Day. You haven’t forgotten?”

  “Ah no, not for an instant. I remember it all. My hours are spent in memories, and all are of you.” He paused, his eyes shifting to gaze out over the loch. “I can still see you that first day, sitting atop the pony and holding onto Mairi with your hair tumbled loose around your face and only one shoe. You were so brave. I think I fell in love with you then.”

  She caught her breath. He had said the words she longed to hear at last, but why did they sound like a farewell?

  A slow, steady pounding tolled a warning that penetrated at last, and she looked from one guard to the other, the enormity sinking in.

  “Tell me,” she whispered through lips that felt like ice, “what is to come.”

  His gaze shifted back to her, lingered, then he lifted his hands, and she noticed now his wrists were bound with stout rope. Dragging his finger over her cheek in a light caress, he said, “You will go home, sweetling. It is what you have wanted for far too long.”

  “No . . .” Wildly, grief rising up in a choking wave, “No, that is not what I want—not England. I want to go home with you, to Glenlyon. To our home! Oh God, Rob, what have I done to us? To you?”

  “You did nothing to me. It was done long before we met. This has nothing to do with you, Judith. I swear it.” He paused, and there was a harsher edge to his words when he said, “This has to do with an earl’s treachery, nothing else.”

  There was so much more she wanted to say, to ask, but the guards were too close—and then they were saying it was time, that the visit was over.

  “Wait!” She threw out a hand imploringly and lifted to her toes to take Rob’s face between her palms. Pressing her mouth to his, she whispered, “You cannot give up now, Robert Campbell, for the sake of our love and our child.”

  A hot, fierce light flared in his eyes. Then they were taking him away, and she was left standing alone in the empty courtyard, feeling her world crashing in on her like falling stars from the sky.

  Chapter 25

  “WELL?” ARGYLL drummed his fingers impatiently against the table. “Is it to your satisfaction, Glenlyon?”

  Rob read the pledge again, looking for ways it could be circumvented. The Latin words were familiar enough, and the gist of the document would give Judith safely into the care of her family, “in good physical and mental health, as she was found, and with all due haste and respect for her person and possessions.”

  He looked up at Argyll. “Your grasp of Latin is tenuous at best, but it seems in good order. As your scribe has made two copies of it, sign them both, one for your use, and one to be sent with the lady.”

  A faint sneer curled Argyll’s mouth, but he nodded. “It will be done.” He glanced at Lochawe, who stood across the hall, and beckoned him forward.

  Rob felt his father halt beside him but did not turn. Too much depended upon Angus Campbell’s innate sense of honor. He would live or die by it, so he must choose his words carefully.

  “Lochawe,” Argyll said, leaning back from the table to gaze at his liegeman with heavy-lidded eyes, “you are to be entrusted with a solemn task. Your loyalty to me has been unquestioned, proven without doubt by delivering up the lady and your own son.”

  “Aye,” Angus said, a clipped note that betrayed his disquiet. “Never have ye given me cause to be disloyal.”

  “That is true. You were well rewarded for bringing the little heiress to Loch Awe, and for that I am also grateful. Your service to me has been invaluable, and I require your discretion once again.” He paused, his gaze shifting to Rob and then back to Lochawe. The velvet tunic he wore was a bright blue that made his skin look sallow. His agitation was palpable, his smile too quick.

  “I am at yer service,” Angus replied as expected, and Argyll leaned forward.

  “Glenlyon has possession of a certain document. ’Tis a forgery, but a clever one that could cause me much grief. I desire it to be brought to me.”

  Rob’s brow rose. Ingenious earl, to allay suspicion with a claim of forgery. Would Lochawe see through the ruse? There was so much to lose; his life would be forfeit if his father held to blind loyalty.

  There was a moment of thoughtful silence before Lochawe said, “If that is what ye require, I will do it.”

  “Excellent.” A flick of his eyes hid the sudden flare of exultation, and Argyll said smoothly, “Tell him where it is hidden, Glenlyon.”

  “Sign the documents first, as we agreed.” Rob felt his father’s tension, his quick jerk of surprise when he added, “My father can sign as witness.”

  Displeasure showed briefly on Argyll’s face, but he nodded as affably as if all was in perfect order. A quill was sharpened, ink unstopped, and a shaker of sand put to use, and the documents that would see Judith safely to her father were signed and witnessed. That much, at least, he had done for her. Argyll could never say now that he had been coerced or that he had not signed them.

  “I have fulfilled my end,” Argyll said sharply, “so keep your word to me.”

  A faint smile slanted Rob’s mouth as Lochawe turned to look up at him, and he recognized the troubled glint in his eyes. “The document Argyll is so anxious to have lies at my mother’s feet,” he said, and he saw his father’s brow lower.

  Angrily, Argyll said, “Curse you, Glenlyon, do not dally with nonsense!”

  “I do not.” He didn’t look away from Lochawe’s face. “My mother’s loyalty lasted until death.” Loyalty—a trait represented by the little carved lapdog at his mother’s feet in the family crypt. There was a small chamber beneath the stone dog, and the document lay hidden inside. Would his father think about what the dog represented? Or that seven of his sons also lay in that crypt? Would he weigh loyalty to Argyll against his own blood? Rob waited uncertainly.

  After a long moment, Angus turned to Argyll. “I will fetch the paper and see it delivered.”

  When Lochawe had gone, Argyll laughed softly. “You have lost all, Glenlyon.”

  “Aye, so it seems.”

  SHIVERING, JUDITH peered through the shadows, her hands wrapped in the thic
k plaide around her shoulders. Lights bobbed from the galley mast, reflected on the waters of Loch Fyne. It seemed that they would never arrive at the voyage’s end. She wanted to rage, to scream defiance and refusal, but it would only be futile. She had already made protests, useless and time-consuming, before she had relented.

  So now she stood on deck a galley that bore her along the west coasts of Scotland toward Dumbarton, where she was to be ransomed. Hateful fate, that saw Argyll as her escort, his heavy-lidded eyes an unnerving regard.

  “Your silence is an accusation, Lady Lindsay,” he said, and she turned to stare at him.

  “I have said nothing.”

  “Yea, that is my complaint. Do you think I have killed him?”

  His blunt question took her back. “Have you?”

  “No.” He laughed softly. “The temptation is great, ’tis true, for Glenlyon was a thorn in my side even before he won spurs and a king’s favor.”

  “Hardly a good reason to imprison and kill him, my lord.”

  “Ah, well. I have my own reasons. He was my sworn knight once. Did you know that?”

  She hesitated, unwilling to betray too much. Finally, she said, “Yea, I had heard that to be true.”

  “He disavowed me. You heard that as well, I’m certain, or you would not gaze so prettily out to sea instead of look at me. Ah, never fear, I am not angry about it. His father is my loyal vassal, as Campbells of Lochawe have always been.”

  “Why tell me all this, my lord? We have an agreement, you and I, and it changes nothing.”

  “Ah yes, our agreement. You are wise as well as lovely, and I envy Glenlyon your loyalty.”

  Bitterly, she said, “You gave me little choice. If I had refused, would you still release him?”

  “No.” He reached out, touched her lightly on the cheek, and she recoiled with a shudder. His hands were cold, like the claws of a hawk. His hand fell away, and his tone was suddenly mocking. “Just think how glad your brother will be to see you. Does he know that you are Glenlyon’s leman?”