A Highland Knight's Desire (A Highland Dynasty Book) (30 page)

The man-at-arms whipped a hemp rope around Duncan’s wrists.

Lady Margaret rushed out from the keep. “Remove your hands from my son!”

The worry on his stepmother’s face hit Duncan in the gut. Regardless that the charges were contrived, it tore him apart to see Lady Margaret so visibly upset. He tried to reach for her, but the guards wrestled him away.

She took the missive from the man-at-arms and read whilst the guards led Duncan to a mule. She crumpled the vellum and glared at the king’s man. “These charges are completely false. My son has been by my side since he delivered the earl into Sir Preston’s hands.”

“Aye?” said the man-at-arms. “Of course the accused’s mother would perjure herself to see her son released.”

“Mother, go back inside and tend to the girls. There has been a misunderstanding, which should be easily resolved.”

Lady Margaret stood stoically. Eoin moved to her side and placed a protective arm around her shoulders. “We shall follow and come to your aid, m’lord.”

Forced to mount a mule, hands bound, and being led like a common criminal, Duncan gazed at his closest friend. Their brief eye contact communicated more than a thousand words. Eoin would not only follow, he would use their Edinburgh resources to delve to the bottom of this charade.

True, the Campbells of Glenorchy had a great many enemies. That happened when tasked with the unsavory mission of bringing order to a land as rugged as the Highlands.

Who has the king’s ear? Or does the king himself need a scapegoat? On the charge of killing my father, I would gladly plead guilty if it would bring him back to the family . . . but the charges of murdering the Earl of Mar? I smell a rat bigger than Kilchurn Castle itself
.

Isaac stood on the Edinburgh Castle battlements beside Lord Percy while the king’s procession made its way up the winding cobbled road to the gaol. A cold wind blew in off the firth and cut to the bone. It didn’t seem to matter how many layers he piled on—in Scotland, Isaac always felt cold.

Percy pointed. “There he is. He’s not looking so cocky now his hands are bound.” He smirked. “They chose a fine ass for him to ride, as well.”

Isaac watched the figure of Lord Glenorchy ride a mule—not an ass—along the path to the taunts and jibes of the crowd. The large man wore no cloak and clutched his elbows to his sides, hunched over against the gale.

“Burn him!” screeched a woman across the path.

The Lord of Glenorchy’s jaw hardened. Looking straight ahead, he raised his chin and straightened in the saddle, as if he were carrying the pennant for the once great king, Robert the Bruce. Then the baronet turned his head. Isaac’s heart slammed against his chest. At first he thought Duncan Campbell looked directly at him, but it was the man standing beside him who was the recipient of a glare filled with alarm. While the horse neared, the man didn’t avert his gaze—rather, he narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. By the time the mule walked past, Lord Glenorchy’s stare had darkened to unmistakable hatred.

Lord Percy examined his fingernails. “I daresay, that man is capable of anything, undoubtedly murder. We’re doing Scotland a service by delivering him to her gallows.”

Heat rushed up the back of Isaac’s neck in concert with the tightening in his chest. “You mean to tell me you feel no sense of guilt?”

“Why ever should I?”

Isaac clenched his fists at his sides. “The man is innocent.”

“That same man stole into my home, kidnapped my prisoner and killed three of my guards. He may not be hanged for his crimes against me, but he will receive his just punishment.”

Isaac fidgeted with his sword belt. The damned thing seemed to have become ill-fitting overnight. When he closed his eyes, he saw the back of the Earl of Mar’s head. The man had been peaceful, ladling water over himself in the bath, and then Isaac had run the blade across his neck—killing in the name of the Earl of Northumberland. Would he meet a similar end?

“Come,” Lord Percy said. “I’ve important emissary work to attend.”

Isaac watched the rear of the procession disappear behind St. Margaret’s Chapel. The thickness in his throat refused to ease. “I shall be along shortly.”

He had no place to go, but presently the thought of following the Earl of Northumberland anywhere sickened him. Needing to think, to clear his mind and seek absolution for committing murder, Isaac strode along the battlements that overlooked the firth. If only he could leave this hellacious place and return to his family, one day he might forget his wretched past and the abominable deeds he’d committed in the name of the Lord of Northumberland.

Duncan had been chained to the wall for three days. He only knew this because a ray of light shone through a crack in the mortar near the ceiling of the dungeon. Aside from a filthy scrapper bringing around a cup of water once a day, he’d had no sustenance.

His arms hung from manacles, and two days ago his hands had gone numb. At first he tried to move his fingers to revive the feeling, but now he no longer cared. His mind was a blur, unable to focus on anything except his raging hunger. Even his vision blurred. Worse, he’d heard naught except the moans from the prisoner alongside him. None of his men had made contact.

Duncan shifted his weight, and the trembling resumed in his thighs. If he hadn’t been chained to the wall, his legs would have given out by now. He moved every now and again to redistribute his weight, but he’d lost control of his muscles. He’d even tried to hang from his arms, but that only served to worsen the pins and needles driving through his fingertips.

When the iron door creaked open, Duncan opened his eyes and forced himself to raise his head. A man dressed in the black robes of a headsman, ushered in two guards. The executioner sucked in his gaunt cheeks, making his cadaverous face appear even more skeletal.

The man sauntered forward. “I’m surprised you’re still conscious.”

Duncan’s arid tongue tapped the roof of his mouth, but he said nothing.

“You must know why I’m here.” The man’s breath stank of rotting teeth.

Duncan met his sallow gaze. “I do not suppose the king has seen fit to grant me a pardon.” He coughed, barely recognizing his own voice due to the grating rasp. “The last time he asked me to dine, I couldn’t stay.”

“Oh?” The man’s putrid breath hit Duncan in the back of the throat and made him gag. “Why?”

“I had a funeral to attend.”

“Ah.” The bastard chuckled. “Not unlike the one you’ll be attending soon. Except you’ll be the guest of honor.”

“I am innocent of the charges. Dozens of people can vouch for me.”

“Hmm.” The man stroked his pointed beard. “That should not be necessary. My duty is to make you confess.”

Duncan’s gut dropped to his toes. “I’ll die first.”

“That has been known to happen. Confess and I’ll see to it you meet a swift end. Surely you’d prefer a beheading over sennights in irons.”

Duncan met the man’s black stare. “I prefer justice.”

The executioner’s sickening laughter swelled throughout the chamber. “Tell me you murdered your father because you couldn’t wait for his riches to pass to you.”

“Never.”

“Tell me you murdered the Earl of Mar whilst he lingered in a bath, and you staged it to cast a dark shadow over the king.”

“How could I kill someone in Edinburgh when I was in Glen Orchy?”

“Do you deny your brutish handling of the earl whilst he was in your custody?”

Duncan hissed.
Christ
.

The villain jabbed a finger into Duncan’s sternum. “Why, Sir Preston reported Mar had a black eye when you delivered him to Craigmillar.”

Duncan would admit truths only. “The earl laughed at my father when he was hunched over a horse, close to death—any man would have done the same.”

The man drew back his fist and slammed it into Duncan’s jaw before he had a chance to flinch. Shoving his tongue to the corner of his mouth, the iron taste of blood turned his empty stomach. Still, this was only the beginning.

The black-robed scoundrel gestured to the guards. “Take him to
my
chamber.”

Duncan tried to rub his arms when they released them from the manacles, but his relief was short lived. Shoved into a chamber equipped with every torture device he’d ever seen, and a few Duncan didn’t recognize, he wished they’d left him chained to the wall.

They stripped away his doublet and shirt, and cast them to the damp, earthen floor. They tied his arms to an iron loop protruding from the wall. With all the contraptions in the room, they planned to whip him?

The black-robed man stepped so close, his woolen mantle scratched Duncan’s flesh. He flinched when the maniac ran his fingernail across an old knife scar at his flank. “You’re not a stranger to pain, I see.”

The bastard dug into another scar, slowly drawing his jagged nail across it. The deliberate, deep scratch brought the memory of every wound to the forefront of Duncan’s mind. Each scar stung and throbbed as if it had been sliced open.

Duncan closed his eyes and conjured a picture of Meg. Those blue eyes that captivated his heart. When they’d first met, all she need do was raise her lids and his heart belonged to Meg Douglas. The porcelain face framed by curls of fire—curls that wouldn’t stop, wild like a lion’s mane.

Rustling came from behind. Duncan didn’t turn his head, but ground his teeth, every muscle clenched taut. He’d been whipped before. He could take it.

Something hissed through the air. Duncan steeled himself for the impact—but it didn’t come. Excruciating pain seared across all his exposed flesh. His gaze shot to his shoulder. Burning droplets of molten lead sizzled on his skin, filling the room with the stench of burning flesh.

His head shuddered against the unbearable pain. His eyes watered. Grinding his teeth, he growled and held in his urge to bellow.

“The whip would have been too kind for the likes of you,” the executioner said, holding the handle of a metal sprinkler in his palm. It looked like the one the priest used to scatter holy water, yet this instrument served a far more sinister purpose.

The man then pushed his dirty fingernail under a droplet of the cooling lead and levered it up. “Confess.”

Duncan arched his spine as the blood trickled from his shoulder and down his back. With each blistering tear of the skin, the bastard demanded a confession. Duncan lost track of time, his mind overcome with pain and exhaustion, his extremities trembling out of control. The only things keeping him sane were the moments when he’d close his eyes and focus on Lady Meg.

When they brought in a beast of a man holding a whip with three thick tongues, Duncan’s insides gave way. He retched as thick yellow bile burned his throat and spewed to the ground.

“Confess!” roared the black-robed villain.

A strike of the lash hit Duncan with such force, his head slammed into the post. Stars crossed his vision, and his eyes rolled back while freshly carved welts stung as though his entire back had just been branded.

“Confess!”

Duncan tried to picture Meg, but saw only flashes of light. “I . . .”

Everything faded into blackness.

“A gentleman has come to call, m’lady,” Cassie said from the doorway. The early-morning sun shone through the window, illuminating the lassie’s face.

Meg’s heart skipped more than a beat. She tried to steady her breathing whilst she set her quill in the holder. “Who is this gentleman?”

“He’s an Englishman. He asked to speak to Arthur, but when the guard said he was out, the man demanded to speak to you—said it was a matter of grave importance.”

Meg’s heart went from fluttering with elation to a tremulous palpitation. “Englishman? Is he armed? Did he come with a contingent of soldiers?”

“He’s alone, m’lady. Shall I send him away?”

“Nay.” Meg stood, cradling her hands against her stomach. “Call my guard. See to it this man bears no arms and have him escorted to Arthur’s solar. I shall meet with him there.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Meg adjusted her wimple.
An Englishman calling to see Arthur, and then asks to see me? The man must be completely daft walking through the gates of Tantallon alone
.