The Runaway Highlander (The Highland Renegades Book 2) (6 page)

“Do hurry.” Elena bit into a piece of warm bread and returned her attention to the spread before them. Anne took the opportunity to hurry to the door.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“Please,” the man whispered. He bowed. “I am at your service, my lady. I merely needed to speak with you.”

“Yes?”

“You were with the captive, William
Campbell, last evening?”

Anne nodded. Her heartbeat raced.
A whole new set of worries captured her attention. Had William given her away? Had he revealed her part in his escape? What would the Sheriff do to her if he found out?

“Before I answer you, sir, I must know your purpose and your name, for there is much at stake.”

“Yes.” He shifted his helmet and took her hand. He bent over it, pressing his lips to her knuckles. “It is urgent that you keep my secret, my lady, for I am a disguised fugitive in this household.”

Anne’s pu
lse began to quiet at the news.

“Then I must tell you, I did meet William
Campbell and I attempted to help him escape.”

The man smiled, the corners of his brown eyes turning up with almost sheer glee. “I will admit, I hoped it had been as such, rather than the story I was told.”

“No, William did not attempt to kidnap me. In fact, it was rather the other way around. His wound was so great, I convinced him to abandon his plans and escape back to his camp and send a man to be captured who was healthy and able to accomplish what they’d set forth.”

A heavy sigh passed the man’s lips. He backed out the door and gave a back and forth glance to the hallway. “Then we are collaborators as well, you and I.”

“We are?”

“Yes. For I was the key to that escape plan, and when I saw that William had not only tried to escape, but been put down into the oubliette, I knew something had gone awry.”

“My mother.” Anne shivered.

The man’s features relaxed and his mouth settled into a frown. “I haven’t much time, my
lady, and it would appear that as we are unable to send word to all the parties involved in our previous plan, then I must take you into my confidence and beg your assistance.”

Anne’s heart leapt. An opportunity not only to help her countrymen, but potentially to see Broc again.
Perhaps Broc could take her away from this place. “Tell me, please, do you know if all de Moray’s men will be rescued in this plot?”

“That is our plan. Why, my lady?”

“There is a man in the dungeon that I know quite well. He is… was… my fiancé.”

The man’s dark brows clenched in earnest. “Then tell me his name and I promise that we will do our best to liberate this man.”

“Broccin Sinclair.”

A look of relief relaxed the guard’s features and a smile lifted his countenance. “Then you are not only in luck, my lady, but also a confirmed miracle from above.” He again took her hand and this time bowed low over it, rather than the perfunctory kiss.

“I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady de Cheyne. They call me the Highland Renegade. I am Lord Andrew de Moray, eighth Earl of Moray and friend of Broccin Sinclair. It is on his behalf that I am here today.”

*****

Aedan had left the castle gates behind him hours previous, and he still couldn’t rid himself of the stench of that dungeon. Nor thoughts of a certain Lady Anne de Cheyne.

R
umination over a woman was a foreign concept to Aedan Donne. Since the day of his wounding, Aedan had been the pariah of every social function and the enigma of every public gathering.

In all his years of hiding his face and shunning the company of women whenever possible, he’d never met a female so utterly uninterested in his deformed appearance as Anne de Cheyne. She’d hardly given it a first look when they met, and since, hadn’t paid it more than a second’s notice.

It was almost as if she couldn’t see it. Which was ridiculous.

But it definitely explained to Aedan why his fascination wouldn’t quit. If she was used to deformity and it didn’t fascinate her, then being around her wouldn’t be so much work as it often was with other humans.

Very few people paid so little attention to the inhuman half of his face. The Sheriff was one. His sister. A blind woman who ran the inn at Gretna. But in general, he was not only the object of scorn and ridicule, but the constant center of attention. And shame.

Having been such an attractive and sought-after youth, and having been so completely in love as a young man, it had taken him years to stop caring what people saw when they looked at him. Until one woman
looked and saw something other than a creature to be pitied or a monster to be feared.

These thoughts had been plaguing him all through the morning ride, and Aedan saw no reprieve in sight. The directions the Sheriff had relayed to him were clear, but distant. It would take most of the day to verify what the Sheriff claimed, and even that was a stretch. He wasn’t certain he could make Belford
in only a day, regardless.

If the Sheriff had precise information, and the de Moray rebels really had managed to set up a camp inside the border of England, then his quest would be finished. He could give the English army his information and be through with it.

A smattering of trees lined the small hill down toward the River Twill which would take him to the Roman road if he followed it. For anonymity, Aedan liked to avoid the king’s roads, all of them. But no doubt, it would provide him faster passage than following his nose over the unfamiliar terrain.

He could see the tower house at Barmoor Castle and beyond it, the village of Lowich, no doubt. It had been more months than he could count since he’d been this far into England—and always, it seemed, in pursuit of a wayward person. But beyond Lowich, and then beyond Belford, he would be in unfamiliar territory unless he stayed on the road.

Aedan pulled his horse short and glanced down the river banks toward the road. He could see tiny gaps in the light covering of trees that were undoubtedly cut for the road, or where the road was placed around their already existing scarcity. Apart from small copses, the landscape was almost bare, brown and barren from the edge of winter.

There was an inn, he recalled, at the road fork just outside Lowich. Perhaps if he could find a traveller, he would be able to verify at least some of the story the Sheriff had told him.

He steered his horse left and followed the river to the road, stopping at a nice, flat inlet to allow his horse a good drink. The poor animal had been ridden hard for most of the morning and deserved a refresh.

From the inlet, Aedan could see the road, just where the river curved back in on itself and went alongside the road for a bit, before jogging back. There was a slow-moving cart pulled by a squat ox, with a farmer walking beside. Something covered well in the back of the cart would no doubt provide a good living for the man and his family.

Aedan wondered what that would be like. To have a living, a place of his own which would provide the sustenance or substance of his life. Instead of killing, instead of chasing, instead of belonging to another. He could imagine himself taking up land rental and working with his hands.

It wouldn’t be quick enough work to make the
one hundred pounds he needed, but once Brighde was seen after, perhaps.

He re-mounted his horse and rode for the
road. Once on the smoothed dirt surface of the road, he no longer had to take quite so much care for his horse, and set about taking in all his surroundings.

A ways ahead was the slow-moving farmer with his ox cart. Farther ahead even galloped a pair of men who could have been soldiers. Aedan took a deep breath. While soldiers wouldn’t mean complete detention from his trip, they would likely question him, a Scot, being so far into England without business he could discuss. If they did not leave him to his work, Aedan had only to mention the Sheriff’s name and they would likely allow him to pass, but he couldn’t take that chance.

In a few minutes, he’d come upon the old farmer and the man steered his cart farther to the side of the narrow road, giving Aedan a worried look.

“Excuse me, sir.” Aedan’s English carried the heavy Scotch burr, just like all his countrymen, but he tried to soften it as much as he could, to engender the trust he needed.

“Be on your way, boy.” The man was old, gray-haired and wrinkled, but not weak. He stood straight and proud as he walked. He wasn’t afraid of Aedan, just wary.

“Allow me to introduce myself.” Aedan inclined his head. “I am Aedan of Donne, son of Randall, tenth Baron of Wall, of Scotland.”

“I don’t care who y’be.” The man slowed and Aedan’s horse, holding his pace, walked right past him. “Now, on with you.”

“I just need a moment of your time.”

The man pulled a knife and the blade flashed in the sunlight. “Don’t make me use this, boy.”

“I promise, I only have a question.”

Warily, the man replaced his knife. He continued to slow his pace so that Aedan had to pull up his horse in order to keep any sort of consistent speed with the man. “Ask away, then. And don’t you unseat from that horse.”

Aedan held up both hands, his reins in his left hand. When he did so, he turned fully to the man and the hair that usually covered the left side of his face fell back, out of his eye. Undoubtedly, he feared, revealing the whole of his scar to the man. Or at least as much as was vis
ible before it disappeared down his neck.

The man recoiled. “Good God in heaven, what is that?”

Aedan pulled his hair back down the side of his face, covering the scar and half his vision. He tried to smile, but the man jumped around the head of his animal and shielded himself with the hulk of the beast.

“I promise, I mean you no harm.” Aedan pulled more hair over the ugly half of his face. “I only need to know if there’s still an inn at the fork at Lowich.”

“You ride on, you devil.” The man crossed himself over and over again. “Or I’ll make such a racket, the soldiers will come back and skewer you like the animal you are.” He spit on the road in Aedan’s direction and pulled his cart to a full stop, hiding almost completely behind the ox.

Aedan closed his eyes and sighed. This was just what he got for trying to take the road like a citizen of the realm. It didn’t take long for the people of that realm to remind him of his place.

A burning sensation rose in his chest and he breathed through it, leaving the silly old man to his prayers and chants to ward off evil spirits. Aedan may not have been good, but he certainly wasn’t a devil. He wasn’t a monster.

He suddenly wished he would have remembered his hood. If he’d thought he might be taking the road, he would have worn it, constricting as it was. It kept his face from public view, at least.

With a kick, he urged his horse forward, keeping some distance between himself and the soldiers, but careful not to slow enough that he would bring the ire of the old farmer again. Soon, the road took a gradual bend and he could see neither red coat nor brown ox. While he knew he was never truly alone on the Roman road, he at least felt the cloak of anonymity steal around him once more.

After several minutes, he saw the fork in the road at the next bend and a plume of smoke billowing up from a building. So the inn was there, and still in service.

If only he’d left the bandage on his head. Then he could have completely hidden his face. He may not have been as forgettable as if he’d had the hood, but at least people wouldn’t try to peek around the curtain of his hair and then pull away in fright. He needed information and he hoped there would be a way to get what he needed here at Lowich instead of needing to make the entire trek to Belford. But either way, he would only be able to stay on the road for a short time. If, by some miracle, he came across one of the men traveling, his scarred face would be too memorable. And if he stayed away too long, he risked the Sheriff changing his mind about the full fee this information would be worth.

Only thirteen full days remained until time ran out, and there would be no way to make any additional money before then.

As much as Aedan would have preferred it be an English target he followed, he hoped that de Moray’s men were truly camped out in Northumberland so he could collect his prize and save Brighde from their father’s fate.

Of course, that would mean seeing Anne again at Berwick. But he thought, just one last time, he would like to set eyes on her and have the memory of her touch with him. The memory of being not a monster.

Aedan kicked his horse and galloped for the inn. The quicker he completed this task, the quicker he could get back to the only woman who didn’t recoil from his hideous face. Brighde. Yes. His hurry to return was for Brighde. Only Brighde.

Chapter Six

Anne had spent most of the day pretending to be sick in order to convince her mother that staying home from church would be the only way to mend her spirits before the banquet the Sheriff had called
to celebrate their engagement on Sunday evening.

If her mother had cared enough to ask, Anne may even have explained her neck wound or the change in her countenance. But Milene de Cheyne seemed to be beyond caring for what her eldest daughter did with her time.

It was only fitting that Anne’s last act as a free woman, before the chains of matrimony to a cruel pig and English sympathizer robbed her of her liberty forever, would be to liberate her former fiancé from the dungeon of her current fiancé.

The very essence of irony, this day would be.

Elena had worn a modest dress, more in keeping with what they would have owned before it became important to show their station with quite such opulence. No jewels, a plain green frock, and her grey wimple, unadorned. With only her face visible among all the fabric, the features they shared stood out. Sometimes, Anne was certain that she looked in a mirror when she looked at her sister. A prettier, more delicate mirror, but similar enough that if their hair had been the same shade of blonde and Elena an inch or two taller, they might have been able to pass for twins.

Once her sister had fully dressed, Anne sank down into the covers and pretended sleep. She’d soaked a damp cloth in the basin that morning and kept it under the mattress so that each time someone came to check on her, she could pass the cloth over her forehead and cheeks and appear to be in the worst of spirits.

Her mother, instead of coming herself, had sent one of the waiting ladies to be certain of her illness. Elena had checked several times, and the young woman who brought their breakfast had even come to her bedside to offer her services if Anne needed anything.

Only to be left alone
, she’d wanted to say.

Instead, she asked if she might have some hot broth just after noon, so she could sleep the morning away. And could the girl leave the broth out
side the door so as not to wake her.

When Elena at last closed the door, escorted by both guards as per Andrew’s supposed instructions from the Sheriff, Anne threw back the covers. She’d been nearly overheated in her wool dress. Worried that
Elena would be late for church, as usual, Anne had woken near sunrise, dressed herself, eaten the apple and slice of bread she’d saved from dinner the previous evening, washed herself, and climbed back in bed before Elena even stirred.

She’d also prepared traveling packs for her and for her sister, which she hid in the back of their retinue, behind their very formal dresses which wouldn’t be taken out if they never arrived to be dressed for the ball.

A surprised Andrew had agreed to her price of two extra stowaways in their escape. Being forever a fugitive would be preferable to being the captive, abused, and potentially murdered wife of a barbarian.

As per Andrew’s plan, they had a very short time to accomplish a very difficult task.

Anne waited by the door until she heard the last of the footsteps on the far stairs, then snuck into the hallway and took off in the opposite direction. She had also worn her wimple, just in case she was stopped in the castle, and she could feign wellness and a desire to attend mass.

The castle would be near deserted during the hours the town was in church, and the cathedral was on the way to the sea, not the gate, which would be open all day to allow for those from the surrounding lands to attend mass and travel freely.

It would also allow them the opportunity for the other two men who had come with Andrew to secure their transportation, and give Anne plenty of time to get back to her room and the men the cover of the exeunt from mass to cover their escape.

A plan that had been months in the making, as she understood, and one that had cost more than one life in the readying. But as Andrew told it, also a plan that would provide all their comrades in the dungeon an opportunity for freedom.

Including Broccin. It was the least she could do for him after her mother had annulled their marriage contract upon the accusations of treason that stripped the family of their earldom.

Once she reached the main floor of the castle, she wound her way back to the dungeon stairs, careful to check every corner before she rounded it. Andrew had promised that guards would be at a minimum, but she still wanted to avoid confrontation if possible.

She waited at the mouth of the stairs, allowing the putrid stench to wash over her again, readying herself to drown in that smell when they entered the belly of the dungeon.

A loud click sounded behind her and she jerked around to find a set of guards approaching. She averted her eyes, heart in her throat, in case they were on their way to whatever distraction Andrew had provided. But as they approached, she recognized one of them as Andrew himself and relaxed.

“Were you followed?” he asked in a low voice.

“Not as I could see. I’ve waited here now for several minutes, so if someone had been behind me, they likely would have revealed by now.”

Andrew gestured to his compatriot. “This is my brother-in-law, Finlay.” The shorter man nodded and moved to Anne’s other side. “We’re going to escort you, but be prepared for action if we must.”

Anne glanced down the dark stairs. She remembered descending these stairs once before with William and Aedan. When she heard that Aedan had been sent on another errand for the Sheriff, she couldn’t help feeling relieved. The thought of having to hurt him again to facilitate this escape
troubled her, after he had been so kind to her and she’d told William to knock him out.

She regretted the head injury. Surely, he would have been a patriot, and loyal to Scotland. He spoke the same Gaelic she did—granted, with a Loch Shihn twinge to it, like the Glaswegans—but he was certainly a Scot. She should have asked for his help instead of treating him like one of the English.

The two men stood behind her, Andrew’s hand under her elbow, as they descended the stairs. Her breathing became more shallow as the stench was more overwhelming. The sour stench of vomit suddenly overtook her and she had to rest on the wall, breathing into her hand to keep from losing the apple and bread she’d been regretting.

But of course, they were right by the supply room. Where William had been sick and where she’d left Aedan and ordered her ally not to clean up the floor. It was likely still there, given the general cleanliness of this place.

“Are you well, my lady?” Andrew whispered.

She nodded furiously against the nausea. “I just need to collect myself for a moment.”

When they moved on, Andrew’s hand was gone from her elbow. Given that they were more likely to run into unfamiliar guards here, she could understand the gesture, but she missed the support all the same.

The tunnel darkened to barely a shadow of light and a giant wooden door loomed before them.

“Who goes there?” called a voice from the tiny hole near the middle of the door in English. The hole was about the size of a human head and had two steel bars in it which would have prevented even a hand from going through unless flattened.

“Jehan Willis and Orex
Abelard.” Andrew’s brother-in-law spoke and Anne found herself wondering if those were real names of other soldiers or the names Andrew and Finlay had adopted to infiltrate the guard.

A grizzled face appeared in the barred opening and looked the three of them over with care.

“And who’s the tart?” The man sniffed. “I didn’t approve no extra curricular attention for no one in this dungeon today.”

“No, sir. This is the lady Rebecca Langston. She’s here to visit her cousin, William
Campbell, to see that we are treating him as the Sheriff promised.”

The beard-shadowed man narrowed his grey eyes. “I didn’t receive no notice.”

“We just came from mass ourselves, where the Sheriff gave us leave to escort the woman.” Finlay leaned toward the door and put his hand up so as to shield his next words from Anne’s hearing, but she heard every one.

“She paid dearly for the prize, if you must know.”

The jailer raised his eyebrows. “Oh, she did, did she?” The sound of locks clicking set Anne’s stomach rumbling. Suddenly, this was all so real. She was waiting here to actually enter the dungeon, from which, if they discovered her complicity, there would be no escape. For if this failed, there would be no one left to get her out.

The door swung open. “That Simon Alcock has the luckiest job of them all. He goes to church and…” the jailer, suddenly visible, made a crude gesture to Finlay which stopped the moment he saw Anne’s eyes on him. “My lady.” The old man bowed low.

“You are here to view?”

“William
Campbell.”

“The one in the oubliette?” The jailer seemed nonplussed. He glanced to his right side, which Anne still couldn’t see from nearly behind the large door. “He’s awful hard to get to. All the way back in the dungeon.”

“I must see him.”

The jailer scratched his chest and then ogled hers. Andrew took a step in front of her with his spear arm wide
and Anne’s racing pulse slowed. “Now, Magnus. You know we don’t get to sample the goods. This here’s a lady after all.”

A grunt from the jailer settled that matter and Anne suddenly realized she’d been holding her breath.
God bless you, Andrew de Moray
. If only he had been at his post the night before.

Not that it mattered any longer. She was no longer the simpering maid who waited for plots to come to her. The Sheriff may have taken away her bleary-eyed innocence, but he had left a bleak determination in its place. She would rescue these patriots, and her sister, and she would see Simon Alcock gutted from belly to balls, like the swine he was.

Andrew placed a hand under her elbow and she re-centered her thoughts. She couldn’t afford to let her anger at the Sheriff overtake her while she had a job to do.

Especially when that job could mean the difference between life and death for so many men, and freedom for her and Elena.

The jailer scratched his face. “I suppose I can take you back there, but one of you two will have to stand at the door in case anyone else comes down.”

Finlay nodded and escorted Anne into the dungeon, then took the jailer’s rotted chair. “I’ll wait.”

The jailer motioned for them to follow and Anne encouraged Andrew to go in front of her. Finlay must be the one with the keys.

They walked through a short, dark hallway with uneven walls, as though hewn in such a hurry, they hadn’t even bothered to attempt smoothness.

“We never allow visitors to come through here, my lady.” The jailer’s voice was scratchy and suggestive. “You must have done something awfully special for the Sheriff to allow this. Some kind of… large donation, I would imagine. A real sacrifice.”

The old
lecher would get no satisfaction from her. Anne had no idea to what he was referring and kept her mouth shut.

Thankfully, the jailer kept talking. “This is the biggest dungeon in Scotland, you know. We get all the royal prisoners of Scotland who the King don’t want in London. For whatever reason.
Though these days, we mostly got these renegades locked up. One of the Sheriff’s men has been on a mission to round them all up.”

They came out into a giant open room and Anne’s breath stopped in awe. The ceilings were at least twenty feet high. Along the far wall, several sets of chains hung, tethered to the wall and the ceiling both, and each one secured to a wheel.
Some of the manacles were empty, but to Anne’s shock, some were full of bones, and some were full of men who were nearly bones. She cautiously looked from face to face, expecting to find Broccin in one of these immobile public prisons. The men who stood in them, who were still alive, had been stretched until no slack remained in the chains. That must have been what the wheel was for. As she got closer, Anne could see that some of them had been stretched so far that their limbs hung limp instead of holding the tension of the weight of their body. Yet they still hung there, looking as though they stood. Gruesome.

In the middle of that wall was a set of shallow stairs and a low door, about the size of a shield
, but only reaching as high as Anne’s knees, she imagined.

Both sides of the room had been carved into the stone alcoves that served as cells, with steel bars separating the spaces. All the cells were low as well, not even tall enough for a man to stand fully erect at the farthest end, and nearest the opening, barely tall enough for Anne herself to stand next to the bars at her full height.

There were maybe eight cells in all, and each one looked to be teeming with men. Most had a foot or two of space between the men and the bars, although the farthest cells were so full that she could see men’s shirted backs and their long and short hair sticking out of the tiny spaces between the steel bars.

Andrew had told her their plan was to saturate the dungeon, and it appeared to have worked.

The old jailer continued to walk in front of them, only throwing a glance back every few steps to make sure they followed. As they’d come out of the hallway, there had only been room enough for one to walk, and then they could walk two abreast, but there was a pit carved into the center of the floor. Anne couldn’t tell how deep it went, but she could only imagine what all had been thrown into that pit over the years. Deep enough at least that you couldn’t see the bottom to know it, but she bet that was where most of the stench originated.