Bride of the Solway (5 page)

Her fingers found, not fine linen, but a tiny scrap of paper.

Alasdair! The fifteen-year-old youth from the nearby estate who fancied himself in love with Cassandra. The lad who wrote her bad poetry in which he swore to serve her unto death. Would he dare to serve her now, in spite of the risk of crossing her fearsome half-brother?

She must try. If Alasdair were caught, James would give him a thrashing, but nothing more. Even James would not dare to do real harm to a gentleman's son, especially when they were such near
neighbours
. James could not afford to make even more enemies in Galloway.

Cassandra swallowed hard. If only she could escape! She had absolutely no wish to put Alasdair in danger, but what choice did she have? None. She was about to wager a beating for Alasdair against a hanging for Ross Graham. She could not allow her rescuer to die.

She rose and began to pace, planning what she must do. She must write a careful note to the provost. But not now. Not yet. There was always the chance that James would have her chamber searched, or walk in on her, as he had done when he found her with Alasdair's poems. No. The note must be written just before it was
despatched
.

But how to
despatch
it? She could drop it out of the window, perhaps, but only if Alasdair were already there. And the lad knew better than to be found on Elliott land. What if—?

A tiny knock on the door interrupted her
ravelled
thoughts.

'Miss Cassie!' The strident whisper could be clearly heard. Morag must be at the keyhole.

Cassandra ran to the door. 'Morag!' she whispered urgently. 'Be careful ! If my brother hears you—' ,

'
Dinna
fret, Miss Cassie. The master's at his meat. And Tam is waiting on him. I've told Tam that ye need feeding too, but—'

'Never mind that, Morag. Listen. I need you to get a message to Alasdair. Tell him to come here as soon as it's dark. I'll drop him a note. He's to take it to Provost Scobie. Tell him it's urgent. Can you do that? Please, Morag? I know that—'

'
Wheesht
, lassie. Of course I can do it. I'll tell Tam I'm away to see the cook at Alasdair's house, that I need to borrow—'

Even through the barrier of the heavy bedroom door, Cassandra heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Oh, God! Morag would be caught! And it was Cassandra's fault. She held her breath, waiting for an outburst from Tam, or from her brother.

None came. Instead, she heard weary footsteps toiling to the top of the stairs and then plodding along the corridor to her door. It could only be Tam. Her brother was younger, and much lighter on his feet. Slightly relieved that Morag seemed to have escaped detection, Cassandra moved quietly back to her chair and sat down, resting her head on her hand and breathing deeply in an attempt to calm her nerves. She must not let Tam see how frightened she had been that Morag might be caught. She must appear to be totally downhearted at the turn of events, and at her brother's victory over her. She must appear to be cowed.

Tam did not knock. He simply unlocked the door and walked in.

That changed Cassandra's mind completely, for she knew better than to permit such behaviour from her brother's servant. She rose from her place and glared at the man. 'You did not knock,' she said coldly.

'I thought I heard
somethin
'. I had to see that ye—'

'Nothing of the kind. I'll warrant you marched into my chamber in hopes of finding me in a state of undress. Do you know what happens to such men, Tam? Peeping Tom was struck blind, remember?'

Tam began to bluster.

'Enough of your lies! I shall tell the laird of your unseemly behaviour as soon as I see him. He will not believe your excuses, either. He knows full well there is no escape from this room, now that the windows have been barred.'

Tarn
's
colour
had fled at the mention of the laird. 'There's no need to say anything t' the laird, mistress. He— I was coming up to see ye anyway, to find out what ye was wanting for yer dinner. There's fresh-baked bannocks. And Morag's made a great kettle o' venison stew, if ye'd like. And—'

'That will do me very well, Tam, for I have not eaten today. Perhaps tomorrow you will be more mindful of your duties towards me. It falls to you, after all, to ensure that I am well enough fed that I have no grounds for complaining to my brother.' She stared him out until he looked away.

'I'll fetch yer food right away, mistress,' he said, slinking out of the room.

Cassandra listened. Tam was not so intimidated that he failed to lock the door. A pity. But at least he would not dare to walk in again unannounced. She could write her letter to the provost, knowing that she would have time to hide it if he came upstairs again.

She sat down at the table and picked up the chewed quill. She dipped the pen in the
standish
and began to compose one of the most important missives of her life.

'I've brought yer coat, sir.'

Ross pushed himself to his feet and strode forward to take the coat from the gaoler. Under his shirt, the comforting wad of banknotes moved against his skin. He would keep it there from now on.

'My missus did her best, sir, but it's no' what it was. It's dry enough, and she brushed it, but—'

'No matter,' Ross said, beginning to shrug his arms into the sleeves. It struck him, absurdly in the circumstances, that it was as well that he had never indulged in the form-fitting coats made by Weston, for this one had shrunk a fraction. It felt distinctly tight across the shoulders. A Weston coat would have split.

'The provost wants to see ye, sir. I'm to bring ye to his house.'

'Excellent,' said Ross. 'I take it that the provost has the power to get me out of this pestilential hole?'

'Aye.. .that is.. .I don't rightly know if... Thing is, sir, I have to take ye through the streets an'.. .an' ye'll have to be in shackles.'

'What?' Ross barked. 'It's more than my place is worth, sir, to take ye
wi'out
. If ye was to escape—'

'I have no intention of trying to escape, gaoler. Where would I go? I have no horse, no clothes... I am a gentleman. I will give you my word that I shall not try to escape on the way to or from the provost's house. Will that content you?'

'If '
twere
only me, sir, I'd take yer word like a shot, but it's the provost, ye see, sir, and—'

Ross calmly fastened the buttons on his coat. 'You have received a certain degree of.. .er.. .compensation from me in the matter of the letter you delivered to the provost, gaoler. It is possible that you may be able to render me similar services in the future. But only if you are prepared to treat me as a gentleman.'

'
Weel
...'

'And then, of course, there would be no need for me to mention our.. .understandings to the provost.'

'Aye. Ye're right, sir. There'll be no need for they shackles if I have yer word on it.'

Ross nodded solemnly.

'And anyways, I'll still have my pistol. If ye was to run, I'd have to shoot ye.' He grinned slyly, raising the huge old-fashioned pistol that had been hidden by the skirts of his coat.

Ross raised his eyebrows. 'I was rather hoping it was my hat you had there.' He ran the fingers of both hands through his unkempt hair. 'I am in no fit state to meet the provost, or any other gentleman. I don't suppose your wife has saved my hat as well as my coat?'

'Ye didn't have no hat when ye arrived, sir. Nor gloves, neither. Jist the coat, and what ye stood up in.'

Ross shrugged his shoulders. His hat was probably somewhere out by the Solway, half trampled into the mud. He ran his fingers through his hair one last time. 'Very well. That is the best I can do. Will you lead the way, gaoler?'

With a grin, the turnkey shook his head and stood aside to allow Ross

to pass out of the tiny cell. 'We'll jist walk along the
gither
, sir.' He lifted his pistol a fraction. 'Jist so as I can see ye.'

Ross grinned back and walked out towards the daylight that he had not seen for more than two whole days.

'Why is the prisoner not shackled?' Provost Scobie was a small round man, but he had drawn himself up to his full height to berate the gaoler.

'I have given my parole that I will not attempt to escape, sir,' said Ross calmly, before the gaoler could say a word.

The provost looked Ross up and down. His lip curled a fraction.

Ross took a deep breath. 'Allow me to introduce myself, sir. I am Captain Ross Graham, late of his Majesty's Fifty-second Regiment. A holder of the King's commission does not break his word.'

The provost recoiled half a step in the face of Ross's implacable stare. 'Ah, indeed, sir. Indeed. As you say. But the charges against ye, they are serious, very serious. I have read yer letter but.. .well, I can't see my way to... With James Elliott a witness against ye, there's nothing to be done until you come to trial.'

'And when will that be?' ;
  
'Well, that's difficult to say. It depends on the witnesses and—'

'This is a
civilised
country, Provost. You cannot just throw a man into gaol and leave him to rot. Habeas corpus demands that you bring me to trial or set me free.'

The provost cocked his head on one side and raised an eyebrow. 'Well, now, sir, that's just where ye are wrong. Habeas corpus is English law. The writ does not run on this side of the border. Even a fine gentleman like
yerself
may have to stay in the gaol until it should be convenient to bring him to trial.' He looked straight at the turnkey, who shuffled his feet a little, but said nothing. 'And on such a serious charge, the sheriff himself would need to preside...and he's not due to be in Dumfries for quite a wee while.' He stroked his jaw thoughtfully.

Provost Scobie was going out of his way to be unhelpful. Probably in Elliott's pocket. So Ross would have to find a way of helping himself.

'On such a serious charge, as you put it, Provost, a gentleman must be allowed to call on the services of his friends.' Ross glanced round the small bookroom and lighted on a kneehole desk piled high with files and papers. The provost was not a tidy worker, it seemed. 'You will permit me to write a letter, I take it?' Without giving the man time to reply, Ross sat down at the desk, pushed the papers into a precarious heap, and began to write on a sheet of the provost's expensive paper.

'I...well, I... Sir, you have no—' The provost paused to collect himself.

Ignoring him, Ross continued to write swiftly. 'Sir, prisoners are not permitted private correspondence. This is most irregular. I—'

'You are welcome to read my letter before I seal it, sir,' Ross said equably, without lifting his head. He needed to send only a very short note. His friend, Max, as a member of the House of Lords, was bound to be acquainted with some of Scotland's nobility. Provost Scobie was the kind of man who would take heed of an earl or a duke before any mere laird.

Ross sanded and folded his letter but did not seal it. Then he addressed it to Max's London home. He would still be there. Probably.

Provost Scobie came to stand by Ross's chair. 'The letter, if you please.' He held out his hand.

Ross calmly unfolded the sheet and gave it to him. The provost read it through quickly, glanced suspiciously at Ross, and then read the letter again. He frowned. And he was beginning to look a little worried, too. Good.

'It is a very straightforward letter, as you see, sir. I have asked my friend to find some persons of standing—Scotsmen—who may intercede on my behalf. You cannot object to that, I dare say?'

'Er.. .no. No, I suppose not. But who is to say that your friend, er—' he looked again at the letter'—your friend, Max, can persuade a Scottish gentleman of standing to perform such a service for you?' He was looking down his nose at Ross as he spoke.

Ross twitched the sheet out of the provost's hand and rose to his feet so that the little man had to look up at him instead. 'I can rely on my friend,' he said with a smile, turning the sheet over and putting it almost under the provost's nose. There, in Ross's firm hand, was the address: The Rt. Hon. the Earl of Penrose.

The provost goggled and began to stammer something unintelligible.

'Provost Scobie.' The door had opened at the provost's back to admit an ancient manservant. 'The colonel has arrived, sir. Shall I show him into the
parlour
, or—?'

The provost turned to the door with obvious relief. 'No, indeed. I'll come myself this minute.' Without sparing even a glance for Ross, the provost scuttled out into the hallway. The servant closed the door behind him.

'Sorry, sir,' said the gaoler with a hint of an apologetic smile. 'Looks like I'll be taking ye back.'

Ross swallowed an oath. He was not beaten yet. The provost had clearly thought his prisoner was a nobody. Now that he'd discovered Ross had high-ranking connections, the little man would be racking his brains for a way of placating both Ross and the Elliott laird. He was playing for time. But he would not be given it.

Ross strode across to the door and flung it open.