Susan Johnson (50 page)

It was a silent swift sweep of the floors, overpowering the servants in the basement rooms and Christian in her bedchamber, along with her maid. Then, as a man stood guard at each stairway level, Redmond proceeded
to the fourth floor, where Roxane had described Elizabeth’s room. He spoke for the first time since he’d entered the house.

“It’s Redmond, don’t be alarmed,” he said, very low, his mouth near the door. “I have the key.”

A moment later he stood in the narrow doorway, his uniform strange but his face and form blessedly familiar, his smile offering her salvation. “Are you ready?”

Elizabeth nodded and grinned. “You’re a long way from home,” she said, walking swiftly toward the armoire to gather her cloak.

“So are you.”

“Hopefully, I’ll be even farther away by morning,” she replied, tossing her cloak over her shoulders as she moved toward him. “Roxane said I have to be out first.”

“We’ve five minutes. Give me your hand, the stairs are steep.”

They were outside in three minutes after navigating the spiral staircase, the door closed behind them, all peace and utter silence in the Duke of Queensberry’s house. Another two minutes to reach the carriage on the adjacent street, and Elizabeth was traveling through the streets of Edinburgh on her way to the ship at Leith, Redmond and his men riding guard.

It was so easy, Elizabeth thought, hanging tightly to the carriage strap as the driver whipped his horses through the narrow streets. Thanks to Roxane, whose caddie had discovered her location. Thanks to Roxane, who’d managed to talk her way upstairs. She didn’t know it then, but her husband’s rescue would be aided as well by his former lover, Roxane, who was at that precise moment smiling at Harold Godfrey.

“You’re very prompt,” she was saying as she greeted Elizabeth’s father at the gilded archway to her drawing room. “Forgive the hordes of people yet, but he recited a bit longer than I’d planned. Would you like brandy?”

As a man who played the suitor poorly, the Earl’s displeasure was obvious; he’d not expected company. “Yes, brandy,” he gruffly replied, scanning the room as if
counting the number of people he must manhandle out the door.

“It won’t take long to see them all on their way,” Roxane murmured, putting her hand on his arm to guide him through the guests. “Most are going on to the assembly at Blair Close. Are you in a hurry?” The amorous suggestion in her voice mildly insinuated speed wasn’t a particular favorite of hers.

“No, of course not.” He wasn’t a fool; a woman of her voluptuous beauty was worth waiting for.

“How nice.” She leaned into his arm slightly so he felt the swell of her breast. “Now come along, and we’ll see you get some excellent French brandy.”

And as Roxane was giving orders to a footman, thanks to Coutts’s lavish bribery, the most remote outside portal into Edinburgh Castle was sliding open to admit the Carres. Two more barriers gave way to them after a signal knock with the same silent unsealing, as though ghostly hands cleared their passage, and then they were on their own. Through the Portcullis Gate they raced up Hawk Hill to the lower levels of the Great Hall. Two men carried burning torches into the gloomy depths of the vaults beneath it, illuminating the damp channels cut into the earth as they descended deeper underground. The first cavern they came to with cells cut into the walls had two guards, who died where they sat playing dice, their throats cut.

At the next level they rushed the three men and killed them, too, ruthless in their mission, not willing to leave witnesses. And at the last metal door that required unlocking from the inside, Robbie wore a uniform from one of the dead guards to gain admittance. When the door began to swing open, he pushed through and shot the last two guards point-blank, his two pistols blazing fire in the underground gloom. Deep in the bowels of the earth the sharp explosions went unnoticed.

Jamming the smoking flintlocks into his shoulder holsters, he swiftly plucked the keys from the dead man’s
fingers, and striding to the single door that had been so carefully guarded by three separate barriers, he slid the key into the lock. The man on the rude pallet lay motionless as the grilled door opened, the light from their flickering torches casting a dim light on Johnnie’s sprawled form lying facedown, utterly still on the filthy straw.

Even though they’d been warned by Coutts, the sight was shocking.

He was still clad in his bloodstained breeches and boots. Johnnie’s savaged back was so hideous—infected, inflamed, oozing pus—that Robbie wondered for a stricken moment whether they’d arrived too late.

Quickly kneeling at his brother’s side, he placed his palm on Johnnie’s cheek; his skin was hot, burning with fever, but he was breathing. Not sure whether he was conscious, Robbie leaned close, his mouth near his brother’s ear. “It’s Robbie! Can you hear me? We’re here to take you out.”

Johnnie’s eyes opened slowly, by fractional degrees, as if it took all his strength to achieve that simple feat, the incandescent glitter of fever evident even in the half-shadow. “Elizabeth,” he whispered, his voice so faint, Robbie had to strain to hear the words.

“She’s safe.”

A faint smile appeared, the merest movement of his mouth, and a moment passed before he could gather his strength to speak again. “Help me up,” he whispered.

“Swallow this first.” Robbie placed a small pellet in his brother’s mouth, the opiate a suggestion of Coutts, who’d seen Johnnie’s condition. Taking a flask from his pocket, Robbie opened it, gently lifted his brother’s head, and tipped a trickle of water into his mouth. The small effort seemed to have exhausted Johnnie’s strength, for his eyes closed again. Turning to the others standing above him, Robbie said under his breath, “We’ll have to carry him.”

“How?” Adam murmured, swallowing hard, the raw flesh on Johnnie’s back ghastly.

“There’s no choice. He’s going to die here if we don’t get him out. You and Kinmont on either side of him. Munro and I’ll clear the way. Any questions?”
Robbie waited a brief moment for a response, then bent over his brother again. “The morphine will take a few minutes to affect you, but we can’t wait.” Speaking directly into Johnnie’s ear, he pronounced the words slowly and carefully. “We’re going to lift you up now. Do you understand?”

Johnnie nodded, bracing himself for the pain.

When they lifted him to his feet, he groaned like a wounded animal, his ravaged body swamped, overwhelmed by a merciless pain that left him drenched in a cold sweat. He swayed unsteadily even supported by Adam and Kinmont, his powerful body sapped by fever and infection, only sheer willpower maintaining him upright. Bracing his booted feet, locking his knees with a conscious dogged determination, he slowly brought his head up. “How much time do we have?” Robbie’s head swiveled around at the sound of his brother’s voice, restored to near normal with what effort he could only imagine. “Very little,” he honestly replied. “A guard makes rounds every half hour.”

“I’ll try and walk then,” Johnnie murmured, the muscles across his jaw clenching with the strain of remaining erect. “Give me a dirk.” A ghostly smile flitted across his mouth. “In case I meet Godfrey.”

Robbie transferred his dirk to Johnnie’s belt, and they began the laborious journey upward, Robbie and Munro in advance as scouts, Kinmont and Adam following more slowly, with Johnnie supported between them.

Johnnie silently counted his steps, as if the words would be conscious impulse to his brain to move his limbs. He tried with what slender control he had over the debilitating pain to set up a barricade, in his mind against the agony racking his body. And he managed by grit and nerve to maintain the shaky equilibrium between locomotion and collapse.

Kinmont and Adam held him firmly by his upper arms, taking great care to avoid touching his back, standing well away from him, letting him set his own pace. They moved upward without incident through two levels, divesting several of the dead guards of their tunics, progressing
laboriously up the last steep stairway until they reached the outside door to the vaults.

Drenched with sweat after the grueling climb, Johnnie’s fevered body responded to the blessed coolness of the winter air, and he inhaled as if the cold could penetrate his heart and lungs as well.

All was quiet in the shadow of the masonry wall, the city below them invisible beneath the misty fog.

“Another ten minutes,” Robbie whispered. “Can you do it?” In the darkness he tried to discern the state of his brother’s debility.

“I’d crawl … through … hell,” Johnnie murmured, his breathing still uneven after the exertion up the steep flight of stairs, “to get … out.”

“The next few hundred yards might be a close approximation,” Robbie declared, his voice cautionary.

“I’m ready,” Johnnie said. Whatever reserves of strength he still retained would be needed to carry him through the last great distance. The morphine had finally begun to invade the outermost fringes of his mind, and his legs seemed to have the ability to move now without overt directions.

The men dressed in the guards’ jackets closed ranks around Johnnie, whose wounds wouldn’t allow the weight of a coat, and they began the slow, torturous gauntlet down the curved cobbled road of Hawks Hill to the main gate. It was dangerous to be so exposed, five men against the castle garrison, out in the open with no concealment, but there was only one way out; the next few minutes would test their courage.

No moon shone through the smothering cloud bank spreading over the city from the firth, the shadows inky black beneath the walls bordering the road. And they moved down the damp, slick cobbles toward freedom. Only a single soldier passed them going back up the hill toward the barracks, but he was half-drunk from the look of his straggling walk and paid them no notice.

Three guarded portals remained before the last gate opened; the first two gave way as planned, their guards rich enough for their night’s work to retire in the morning. But in the small room commanding the gatehouse,
four officers had just entered from the street as the Carres reached the entryway, the men apparently back from a night in the taverns on the High Street from their raucous good spirits. To the Carres’ dismay as they waited in the shadows beyond the lighted doorway, the officers sat down to join in the guards’ card game.

They waited in the narrow stone-walled corridor, watching through the half-opened door, their time limited before the prison guards would make their scheduled rounds in the vaults.

Johnnie’s strength was almost depleted, his force of will barely able to maintain his flagging energy. Kinmont and Adam were bearing most of his weight now.

“Go in and get them,” Johnnie murmured, understanding the limits of their time, of his strength, and that freedom lay just beyond that last gate. Liberty was too near to relinquish without a fight.

“Can you stand alone?” Robbie whispered, needing all his men against those in the guardroom.

“If you hurry,” Johnnie replied with a touch of his old smile, bracing his hands against the wall.

They attacked immediately, every minute crucial, bursting through the door, swords drawn, and within seconds, they were fully engaged. The previously paid guards slipped out the door when the skirmish began, not wishing to jeopardize their lives with their new wealth already in hand, and the officers defended themselves alone against the fierce assault. As one officer went down, another shouted for help, his cry echoing across the artillery ground toward the Portcullis Gate of the castle.

Immediately increasing the attack, pressing hard against the possibility of reinforcements, the Carres forced the remaining swordsmen to retreat, their blades slashing and parrying, cutting, thrusting, driving their opponents back, a new intensity to their movements, their time disastrously limited, the High Street just beyond the bolted doorway.

Braced against the wall in the darkened passage, near collapse, Johnnie watched horror-stricken as the fallen soldier raised himself from the flagged floor, propped his
weight on one elbow, and, drawing his pistol—unnoticed in the fray—carefully aimed at Robbie’s back.

Automatically, Johnnie reached for the dirk at his hip, the movement instinctive, the result excruciating. He staggered as the lacerating agony flooded his senses. Wavering, not sure for a flickering moment he could retain consciousness, his mind struggled to overcome the brutal torment. He had to continue to think, to act and quickly. He saw the man’s finger tighten on the trigger. In the transient moment when the smothering pain began to recede from its convulsive peak, he reacted, knowing he’d be incapable of movement when the next annihilating spasm savaged his body; he jerked the dagger from its leather sheath and hurled it in a single uninterrupted flowing motion, its trajectory volatile, true, impelled by superhuman necessity.

He saw the double-edged blade sink into the man’s neck at the base of his skull just as the next tide of corrosive agony struck him, and he doubled over, writhing from the shock, nauseous, his ears ringing, the pain unbearable. His knees gave way. He caught himself with his hands as he fell, the damp cobblestone cool on his palms, and he struggled to rise. But a heavy blackness engulfed him, and his arms gave way.

His clansmen carried him outside moments later over the slain bodies, and with what speed they could manage under the burden of his weight, the four men traveled through the narrow dark wynds and alleys the few short blocks to Roxane’s, secreting themselves in the small stable at the back of her garden.

“Wait here, while I go in and see if Godfrey’s left,” Robbie murmured, thankful his brother was still unconscious. While they were transporting Johnnie, his back had begun bleeding and, rather than leave a trail in their flight, they’d tied their shirts around his torso. The makeshift bandages were soaked through with blood.

At the conclusion of the poetry reading, Roxane had watched her guests leave with rising apprehension, not
sure the two Carre clansmen feigning sleep on her fine chintz sofas would be sufficient to guard her from the forceful Godfrey. But she’d kept watch of the hour, and the allotted time for Johnnie’s escape had passed. Now, as her last guest descended the curved stairway, she found herself on the landing with Harold Godfrey beside her, standing much too close for comfort. No servants were in evidence, a fact the Earl of Brusisson had noted as well. Taking advantage of the first opportunity he’d had to have the Countess to himself all evening, he grasped her by her arms and pulled her close.