Starcatcher, page 33
“A trap,” Foster said between pants. “The young Gunn … and Sutherland were waiting. They captured our men. I barely escaped.”
Edward felt the color draining from his face. “They know … the raiders came from me?”
“Aye. And now they have proof.”
“Creighton?” Edward could barely manage the word.
“I do not know whether they know of it or not, but I suspect they will soon. One loose word …”
“Margaret,” Edward said. “If she is found on one of my properties …”
The thought terrified him. He might be able to cry innocence of the raid, claiming that Foster had ordered it without his knowledge. But kidnapping a highborn lady? His neck would undoubtedly stretch.
Foster nodded. “We have to get rid of her. I told you that, but you … you were too cowardly. And now both of us might well be put to the horn. We have time, though, to remedy the situation. I expect Sutherland believes I will make for your keep. He wants you as much as me.” He said the last with obvious satisfaction.
A shiver racing up his spine, Edward damned the man silently. But he still needed him. Foster must kill Margaret, for he had not the stomach for it himself.
At least, he thought, only a few of the men who had guarded Creighton knew about Margaret. And they would not easily reveal the secret, since it would convict them as well.
Margaret had to die. Now. Her body had to be thrown into the sea or buried where no one would ever find it.
Edward saw his beautiful scheme unraveling before his eyes. All the intricate, careful planning. Wasted. And he laid the blame squarely on Patrick Sutherland.
He glanced at Foster, who had drawn down his helmet again. His face was invisible, yet Edward felt his tense fury. Nodding to the man, Edward dug his spurs into the side of his mount, and they started toward Creighton.
And murder.
Rory kicked Alex and pointed toward the east. Two horsemen were riding rapidly along the beach.
They were coming from the south, from Sutherland land. Alex looked up at the sun. They had been there three, mayhap four, hours.
His gaze returned to the two men, and as they drew closer, Alex recognized them as Sutherlands, even though they did not wear their clan plaids. They were Patrick’s men, two of those who had been training for weeks in the courtyard.
Alex scrambled to his feet, keeping his body bent nearly double, and ran toward the riders. Catching sight of movement, one drew his sword.
Alex cried out softly, “A Sutherland.”
He breathed in relief when the men recognized him and the weapon was lowered. They pulled their horses to a stop and waited until he reached them.
“Patrick sent us,” Tommy Sutherland told Alex. Hector, the second man, nodded.
“Continue as though you were riding down the coast,” Alex ordered. “Circle around and hide your horses. Then come back—but keep low.” The orders issued from his mouth, surprising him with how confident they sounded.
Tommy and Hector did as they were told, continuing north and turning their heads toward each other as if in conversation. An hour later, they came wriggling through the grass to stretch their bodies beside Alex and his friends.
Hector spoke in a harsh whisper. “Wha’ the bloody hell is going on?”
Alex tried to put authority in his reply. “Lady Margaret may be in the keep. We thought that if Patrick’s plan to catch the Sinclair raiders was successful this morning, Sinclair might try to kill her.”
“Lady Margaret?” Tommy Sutherland asked in surprise.
“Aye,” Alex said. “Tell me about the raid. How did it go?”
Hector shrugged helplessly. “Patrick sent us ahead to join you. We know nothing.”
Anxiety ate at Alex. Still, he had his own job to do. “My friends and I have been trying since we got here to think of a way to get over to Creighton. But there doesna seem to be one.”
“Patrick would want ye to wait for him,” Tommy said.
“Aye, and I will unless someone comes to cross,” Alex said, glancing at Tommy and Hector. He noted that their bodies came close to the top of the grass. “Scoop out two more holes,” he said.
“A Sutherland doesna hide,” Hector said indignantly.
“He does if he doesna want to be the cause of Lady Margaret’s death,” Alex countered.
The two men glared at him for a moment, then, with a glance at each other and a shrug, they complied.
After another hour, they were all growing impatient, and he began to worry that his authority over them, tenuous as it was, would not go the distance. Just as he was trying to think of a way to pacify them, he heard voices. His hand shot out to still the murmurings of his companions.
He watched as three horses came into sight. They all wore Sutherland plaids, he noticed, but something about them warned him to remain still. As they came closer, he peered at the faces. He recognized none. Then he noticed the flash between the island keep and the newcomers. A mirror? A piece of metal?
A couple of seconds later, Alex saw the glint of something bright coming from the island. After a moment, the flashes disappeared, and the three men dismounted.
They must be replacement guards. Wearing Sutherland plaids, damn their souls. What would Patrick do? Quiet the anger and use his head, Alex answered himself.
Tommy started to move, and Alex gripped the back of his jerkin to stop him. “We have to take them without any sound,” he whispered. “No one from the keep must know. And,” he added, “Patrick will want them alive.”
Tommy nodded, and he and Hector began snaking their way forward through the grass. Alex, with Rory and Jock behind him, followed.
The newcomers tied their horses to a gorse bush, then started through the tall grass toward the beach. When Alex judged that his little band was close enough, he threw a stone to land behind them. All three turned to look.
As they did, Tommy grabbed one of them around the throat and quickly lowered him to the ground. Hector used the butt of his pistol on the second man’s head, and Alex, Rory, and Jock tackled the third man, wrestling him to the ground and thrusting a piece of cloth in his mouth before he could cry out. The men were down, and out of sight, within seconds.
Hector made quick work of gagging the two conscious men. One struggled frantically until Tommy put his dirk to his throat and promised a lingering death. The man quieted instantly and both obeyed instantly when told to disrobe. Rory disrobed the still-unconscious guard.
Once all three were stripped naked, the two conscious men shivering both from fear and cold, Hector, Jock, and Tommy bound them with cloth from their own shirts.
Alex told the two older men to don the discarded clothes of the two larger men. He donned the plaid of the third himself. They changed quickly, knowing the boat might not approach if the men rowing it did not recognize the plaids. As Alex finished belting the plaid, still shielded by the grass, the horses, and the gorse bush, the boat was already halfway to shore.
Alex looked at Rory’s and Jock’s expectant faces and nodded. Five were better than two.
“We will go together,” he told Tommy, not waiting to hear any objections he might have about the inclusion of the youths. Alex could hardly believe they were following his commands. He only hoped they couldn’t tell how close he was to getting sick.
The five of them started toward the beach with Tommy, Hector, and Alex wearing the guards’ plaids and walking in front. The boat was just landing, and one of the two rowers jumped out to pull it up onto the rocky shore. Apparently, they were so busy fighting the tide they did not look closely at the men approaching them. It was enough that they had seen the signals.
Tommy jumped into the boat and with one great swing knocked out the man inside. Jock, at the same moment, hit the second man with his pistol.
Alex prayed like blazes, as they dragged both men into the grass, that no one was watching from the keep’s windows. Rory and Jock took the rowers’ plaids, donning them over their own shirts and discarding their trousers.
Once in the boat, Hector and Jock rowed. Halfway across, Tommy muttered, “We should ha’ waited for Patrick.”
His words were an echo of Alex’s thoughts. But, in truth, he knew they could not have waited. What if the men had been told of the ambush and ordered to kill Margaret?
As they approached the back side of the castle, Alex saw a small dock and a man waiting for their arrival—or rather the arrival of the men whose plaids they had stolen. Alex breathed a quiet prayer that the man was truly alone. The place would not need an army, after all. And it did look deserted.
Tommy kept his face averted as the boat swung in, and Jock threw the rope to the man, who caught it deftly. Alex jumped onto the dock and pressed his pistol into the man’s stomach.
“Tie it,” he ordered.
The man stared at the pistol for two long seconds. Then, quickly, he tied the rope to a piling, and stood as the other four men climbed up onto the wet planking.
“How many guards are there?” Tommy demanded.
The man hesitated until Alex thrust his gun more firmly into his stomach. With the hard metal against his ribs, he gulped several times before muttering, “Eight.”
“Including those in the boat?” Alex asked.
Another thrust from the gun prompted a reluctant nod.
“How many others are here—besides the guards?”
The man hesitated. Alex leaned toward Tommy and inquired in what he hoped was a dangerously soft voice, “Do you recognize this kinsman of ours?”
The prisoner stiffened, realizing at last who his captors were.
“I donna know him,” Tommy said.
“Neither do I,” Jock said.
“Ye wouldna be thinking some blackguard would pretend to be a Sutherland?” Hector said. “Why, Patrick Sutherland would tear him limb from limb. Before hanging him. They say he’s killed a hundred men wi’out mercy.”
“’Tis true,” Alex said. “My brother told me himself.”
The prisoner’s eyes grew wild, flicking from one man to another.
“Aye,” Tommy said. “’Tis Patrick’s own brother, Alex. He takes after his brother, he does, despite his young-looking face. Just killed one of those dogs comin’ to relieve you. Stuck ’im in the gut wi’out wincing.”
“I am just following orders,” the man cried. “I would be killed myself if I didna.”
“Sinclair is dead,” Alex said, following Tommy’s lead. “So now you will follow my orders. Who else is in the keep?”
Convinced now that he was in the hands of madmen, the captive started babbling. “A lady. Three women who tend her. Five other guards.”
“Where are the guards?”
“Three are asleep,” he said. “Two others would be in the guardroom.”
“Who saw the signal?”
“I did. One of us is always up in the tower window.”
“Is anyone there now?”
“Nay, I was to return as soon as the relief arrived.”
“They willna be arriving now,” Tommy said.
“Are they … really dead?”
“Ye donna see them, do ye?” Hector replied roughly. “Now take off that plaid ye ha’ dishonored.”
The man rushed to comply, his hands fumbling with the belt that held the plaid in place. With Tommy’s none-too-gentle help, he soon stood there in only a dirty, thin shirt.
Jock tore part of the shirt off to tie the man’s hands behind him, then ordered him to show them where the guards slept.
In less than an hour, they had all of the guards bound and locked in a damp cell on the lower level of the decrepit keep. The “lady,” they said, was in a tower room, up four flights of stairs. One woman was always with her. Two others alternated in caring for her.
Alex took the steps two at a time. When he reached the top step, he startled a woman coming out the door. A key hung from a piece of leather around her neck.
“No need to lock that,” he said, pushing her aside. She tried to stop him, but Hector was right behind Alex and he grabbed her.
Alex entered the chamber, his heart pounding so hard his chest hurt. The room had no windows. Only one candle provided any light. He saw a woman lying on a narrow bed, and in a few steps he was kneeling on the floor next to her, his hand reaching for her thin, pale arm.
The face was familiar, but it was gaunt and very wan. Dazed blue eyes looked at him listlessly.
“Margaret,” he said softly.
She blinked, her eyes focusing suddenly. “Alex?” she breathed. “Mother of mercy! Alex, is it really you?” She struggled to sit, and he stood to help her.
She was dreadfully weak, and her eyes kept seeming to lose their focus. “I canna … I drank the wine, and now I willna be able to stand.”
“They have drugged you?” he asked.
“A little. A little each day. And night.” She looked up at him. “Your father … is he …”
“He is at Brinaire,” Alex said. “Do you know where you are?”
She shook her head. “The sea. Somewhere on the sea.”
“You are at Creighton. Edward Sinclair put you here.”
“Sinclair?” She shook her head again. “Oh, aye, Edward Sinclair. I remember. But it was Gregor who put me here.” Her gaze was beseeching. “Please … help me home.”
“Nay, it was not Father,” Alex said gently. “Father didna put you here, Margaret. He thinks you are dead and that you … that you may have killed yourself. Your brother believes my father killed you. They have been … at war.”
She stared at him blankly. “It wasna Gregor?”
“Nay,” he said gently. “It wasna. I swear it.”
“How long have I …?”
“Two years.”
“I donna remember … the wine … I feel so … so weak when I drink it, yet it makes it more …” She swallowed hard. “More bearable.”
Alex felt his heart break. Her clothes hung on her as if they belonged to a woman twice her size. He wanted to kill Sinclair.
Rising, he took her hand. “Come, Margaret. I will take you home.” He lifted her in his arms. She was so thin and light that it frightened him.
When he reached the door, Hector held out his arms to take her. Alex started to protest, then stopped. Hector was stronger than he, and they had four flights of stairs to descend. Alex handed Margaret to Hector as if she were a piece of fragile glass. “Be careful with her.”
“Aye,” Hector replied. “On my life, I will be.”
They hurried down the stairs and out of the keep, to the small boat bobbing on the sea.
“What about the guards?” Jock asked.
“We will lock them in the tower room. Tommy, you and Jock stay with them. It should not be long before we can send others for them,” Alex said. “And I suspect my brother would like to take care of them himself.”
Tommy grinned at him, and Alex grinned back. He felt ten years older. And wiser.
Chapter 27
Standing on the steps of Abernie, the earl watched the men stagger through the gates of his keep. His clansmen were on horses he had never seen before, and they led nearly twenty bound men, all on foot.
He looked for his son, sick at heart when he did not see him. He noted three horses carrying wrapped bodies. Please, God. Not Gavin. And then the last man rode unsteadily through the gates, a short, wiry man more accustomed to running. The sight took his breath away.
Quick Harry? A spirit? The earl could not believe his eyes.
What the devil was going on? Gavin had told him they were going on another raid. But where was he? Dear God above, had his insistence on revenge cost him his only son?
The earl stood as if paralyzed while Quick Harry rode up to him and nearly fell off his horse dismounting. Two men he did not recognize dismounted and stood next to Quick Harry.
“I donna know how you came to be alive,” the earl said to him, “but your explanation can wait. Tell me, where is my son?”
Quick Harry hesitated a moment, then said, “Gone t’ take the carrion who has been devilin’ us.”
“The Sutherlands?” the lord of Abernie asked. “But I knew that.”
“Nay,” Quick Harry said, climbing the steps toward him. “Not the Sutherlands. Sinclair.” He spit on the ground. “If it had not been for Patrick Sutherland, yer son would be dead.”
“Where is he?” the earl roared. “Where is my son?”
“He went wi’ Patrick Sutherland after Sinclair. They believe he ha’ to do with yer sister’s disappearance.”
“You are daft, man. It was Sutherland.”
“If ye will listen, my lord, I will explain,” Quick Harry interrupted.
Abernie’s gaze went to the prisoners, who had come to stand in a crooked line in the middle of the courtyard. They were nearly naked, wearing only dirty, sweat-stained saffron shirts.
Frowning, the earl brought his gaze back to Quick Harry.
The clan’s messenger waved a hand toward the prisoners. “These craven cowards attacked our crofts in the nor’east, jest as they attacked mine. They were wearing Sutherland plaids, but they are mercenaries paid by Edward Sinclair.”
“Sinclair!”
“Aye. He ha’ been raidin’ our land and makin’ ye think it were the Sutherlands. But Patrick Sutherland found him out and made a plan to stop him.”
None of it made any sense. “And Gavin?”
“Aye, the young Sutherland and Lord Gavin ha’ been workin’ together to catch Sinclair in the act.”
Donald Gunn scowled. “Nay, Gavin has been raiding the Sutherlands. He has no’ said a word to me about Sinclair or working with that spawn of the devil, Sutherland.”
The look Quick Harry gave him was about as accusatory as any a crofter could give his lord and get away with it. “Lord Gavin couldna tell ye his suspicions,” Quick Harry said. “Nor could he tell ye that he and Patrick Sutherland were together in a scheme. Ye wouldna ha’ listened.”
That, the earl acknowledged, was certainly true. “And so when Gavin told me last night that he was taking clansmen to raid the Sutherlands, it wasna true?”
