When the Laird Returns (22 page)

T
he journey to Cormech was swiftly done, the
Fortitude
speeding across Moray Firth to the port town in a matter of hours. The ship’s sails were full and she seemed to skip over the water like a flattened stone.

Iseabal stood on the bow, in a position Alisdair had often taken, her arms folded behind her, feet apart to absorb the thrumming of the current below them. If the ocean was truly a goddess, then perhaps it was she who sped the
Fortitude
on, as desperate and as lonely for Alisdair as Iseabal.

Henrietta wound around her legs, and Iseabal bent to pick her up, feeling an odd comfort in rubbing her chin between the cat’s ears.

The ruins of a castle greeted them from a nearby hill, not unlike the sight of Gilmuir itself. Only one tower remained of this place, a stark and lonely reminder of what had once
been. There was so much destruction in this part of Scotland, ruins and deserted places that hinted at better times.

Unlike in London, they found easy docking. Iseabal was in a fever of impatience until the ropes were tied and the
Fortitude
berthed. She was the first off the ship, not waiting until the ramp was stabilized. Turning back impatiently, she saw Brian standing at the rail, speaking to another man. The sailor handed a pistol to Brian and he promptly tucked it beneath his vest.

She had the thought, as he joined her, that this past day had aged him. Perhaps she, also, had become older in appearance, bearing the signs of anger and grief on her face.

“Teams of four men will begin on each side of the harbor, mistress, while we visit the harbormaster.”

Iseabal nodded, grateful that he had come up with some kind of plan. She’d not thought the harbor to be so large, but if necessary, they’d search all the ships here, and every port, every inlet, every dock in the entire world.

The visit to the harbormaster elicited the information that five ships were due to sail today, three had left yesterday, and a score more would sail tomorrow.

“It would help if we knew the destinations,” Iseabal said.

“They may have already sailed, mistress,” Brian cautioned, carefully averting his eyes.

Iseabal remained silent, unable to refute the young man’s words since the thought had already occurred to her.

Brian walked beside her on the pier, two sailors whose names she had forgotten behind him. A woman and three men, not an untoward sight, except for her appearance, perhaps. Her eyes were gritty with unshed tears, and a night spent in prayers rather than sleep. Her feet felt leaden, and there was a fluttering in her stomach as if she trembled inside.

At the first vessel, Brian preceded her up the ramp. “Permission to come aboard,” he called out. A weathered old man granted it with a nod.

Sailors milling about the deck stilled, watching them with interest. The ship was much older than the
Fortitude
, evident by her weathered rails and masts, but kept as neat as Alisdair’s ship.

“I’m Iseabal MacRae,” she said, stepping to Brian’s side and addressing the man.

“And I’m Patrick Hanoran, the captain of the
Starling
,” he countered, his brown eyes twinkling. He was not, she noted, as old as he had appeared at first sight. Although his beard was gray, his hair was only lightly touched with silver.

“Have you taken aboard any passengers since yesterday?” Brian asked.

“I’ve not,” the captain said, his gaze trailing from the hem of Iseabal’s petticoat to the collar of her jacket.

“I’m looking for my husband,” she said frostily, irritated at his perusal.

“What makes you think I have him?” he asked, leaning nonchalantly against the rail.

“We think he’s been sold into slavery,” she said, the words so sharp they seemed to claw at her throat.

He straightened, folding his arms in front of his chest. “That’s an insult you offer me, madam,” he said stonily. “I’ll carry powder for the English before I turn my ship into a slave trader.”

“Do you know of one who might?” she asked, holding her breath at his answer.
The ship next to mine
, he might say.
Or the one down the pier.
Or he might even speak the words she feared, telling her that a ship had left this morning, carrying a cargo of human misery. Instead, he only shook his head.

“I’ve nothing to do with men like that,” he said. “I trade tobacco and rum for wool,” he added. “And that’s all.”

Moving away, he gave a series of orders to his men, effectively dismissing her.

Turning, she caught a glimpse of Brian’s face, carefully expressionless. She had often looked the same in order to hide the truth of her feelings.

“He’s here,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. Perhaps the greatest act of courage might simply be voicing hope. “He’s here,” she said again, her voice strong and resolute.

Brian said nothing and she finally released his sleeve.

A bit of foolishness, perhaps, but she so wanted Alisdair to be within arm’s reach that she could almost feel him nearby.

“You mustn’t grieve for her, sir,” the young chambermaid said. “She wouldn’t want that at all.”

James glanced over at her. For all her words, her eyes were bloodshot and her cheerfulness seemed forced. All of the servants at Brandidge Hall appeared similarly affected, as if the countess had not been simply an employer, but much beloved.

“She was an old lady, sir, and you and your brothers made these last days full of joy for her.”

“Two days only,” he said, wishing it had been more.

“An important two days,” she said unexpectedly. “She died happy.”

He waited until she left the library before directing his attention to his journal once again.

James laid down his quill, his attention directed to the view. The desk he used sat before a large mullioned window, and the vista revealed a misty dawn.

Brandidge Hall was a solemn place, as if peopled by ghosts at this moment. Not a sound intruded, or a voice, and if there were footsteps they were inaudible to his ears. He might have been alone with only the fog for company.

Glancing down at the book in front of him, he began to write again. The journal was the recipient of his most private thoughts. In it he could distill to words the variety of his experiences and thereby forever recall each minute. Sometimes, in rare moments like now, James wished that he might be able to change the deed itself.

But as the chambermaid had said, Patricia was old, and death comes more swiftly to the aged.

Their plans were to have left for London an hour ago, but the news of Patricia’s passing had altered their schedules. They would attend the countess’s funeral and only then return to their ship and to yet another distant destination, that of Scotland and Gilmuir.

They had made their way to five ships, but on each one the sailors had denied knowing of Alisdair’s whereabouts.

“They won’t tell us anything,” Iseabal said as they walked up the ramp to the next ship.

“Sailors are notoriously closemouthed,” Brian replied. “They won’t tell tales, but they might slip a word or two at a tavern.”

She glanced at him. “Do you think it would be worth our while to seek out the nearest tavern?”

“Only if you remain aboard the
Fortitude
. Such a place is not for you, mistress.”

She frowned at him, but decided that she would argue with him later. For now, Iseabal stood to the side as Brian addressed the sailor at the railing.

“I’ve no knowledge of the man you seek. The captain’s ashore and you’ll have to speak with him.”

“Where?” Brian asked.

“I’ll not be telling the captain’s business,” the man replied. “It’s worth the skin on my back.”

Iseabal and the three men turned to make their way back down the gangplank when she abruptly stopped, halted by a sound. The faint mewling of a kitten. Or an infant.

“Did you hear something, Brian?” she asked, glancing back at the ship.

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “A child.”

After making their way back on deck, Brian faced down the other man.

“How is it that there’s a child aboard when you said you’d taken on no passengers?”

The sailor didn’t answer, choosing instead to stare at them stonily.

“Give me your pistol, Brian,” Iseabal said, holding out her hand.

When Brian only glanced at her, Iseabal snapped her fingers in a rude gesture, impatient for the gun. Grudgingly, he handed it to her, perhaps knowing that she had gone beyond morality and good judgment.

The pistol was heavier than she expected. Using two hands, she leveled the barrel at the stubborn sailor.

“Show me how to shoot it,” she said. Brian whispered to her of powder pans and tinder. The barrel wavered, then steadied as she began to follow his instructions.

“It’s just a group of Scots,” the man said, backing away. “Wanting to make another start for themselves somewhere new.”

Iseabal followed the sailor with the barrel.

“Did they come of their own accord?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, evidently beginning to understand that she had no hesitation in using the weapon. Stepping back against the rail, he gestured with one hand toward the hold. “Look for yourself.”

“We shall,” Iseabal said, giving the pistol to one of the sailors from the
Fortitude
. “Shoot him if he moves,” she ordered. Apparently, there was something of Magnus Drummond in her after all, enough cruelty to render her dangerous.

Brian climbed down the ladder first, Iseabal following. The hold of the ship was a dark and dank place, but it didn’t take long for them to realize that it was also full. Not with barrels of provisions or crates of marketable goods, but with a living cargo, people huddling together against the curve of the hull.

“I’ll go fetch a lantern,” Brian said, the horror in his voice a mirror of her own thoughts.

“We mean you no harm,” Iseabal said in his absence. Not one voice answered her, as if they knew she was the daughter of the man who’d ordered this done to them.

Brian returned, lifting a lantern. The faint light barely penetrated the shadows of the hold, but gave enough illumination to view the faces of the people staring back at her. A white-faced woman held her infant to her chest while her
husband sat beside her, one arm around her shoulders, the other pulling an older child back as if to shield the boy.

Children sobbed, frightened, while the adults stared up at Iseabal with dispassionate eyes devoid of hope.

Brian walked ahead, making his way to the end of the hold, lantern held high.

“We’re looking for a man,” she said. “A man named Alisdair MacRae. He might have aided you yesterday. Have you seen him?”

Again only silence answered her.

“Here,” Brian called out, raising his arm as he knelt beside a figure.

Iseabal felt as if her heart stopped, then started again. For a moment she couldn’t move; then hope surged through her like Gilmuir’s fierce winds.

Carefully avoiding outstretched arms and extended legs, Iseabal made her way to Brian’s side. For a moment she didn’t recognize Alisdair, he was so covered in blood. She knelt beside him, placing one hand against his shirt. Staring at his bloody face and matted hair, she would have thought him dead except for the rise and fall of his chest beneath her palm.

A child whimpered and she heard the sound from a distance. A man spoke and she noted his voice but not his words. The edges of her vision went gray as her eyes filmed with tears.

Something broke within her. The wall of her courage, quickly erected, was no defense against this abrupt, poignant joy. Tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks, bathing her face in a baptism of gratitude.

“Alisdair,” she whispered, his name sounding like a prayer in this dimly lit hell.

Brian handed her the lantern, moving to place his arms around Alisdair’s shoulders.

“He’s been in and out,” a man lying at his side said. “We half dragged him here,” he added, leaning back against the curved timbers.

“Who did this to him?” Brian asked, kneeling at Alisdair’s side.

“My father,” Iseabal said, feeling a strange sense of desolation as she spoke. The confession seemed to alter Brian. His shoulders stiffened and his wary gaze was fixed on her as if she were a stranger.

“Your father?” he asked tightly.

“Magnus Drummond,” she admitted, fingering the placket of Alisdair’s shirt.

“I’ll go and fetch the other men,” Brian said, lowering Alisdair carefully to the floor of the hold.

She watched him leave, heard the murmurs as people began looking in her direction. Her identity spread among those huddled in the hold, repeated until it was a dark whisper.

Iseabal had never felt so hated.

She wanted to explain to them, to offer excuses not for her father’s behavior, but for her own. For not knowing the depth of his perfidy, for not suspecting that he would be capable of imprisoning children, of selling whole families into slavery.

A little girl smiled, unaware of the hatred directed Iseabal’s way. The mother grabbed her daughter, cradling the child, a gesture of repudiation as telling as a slap.

Alisdair moaned, and Iseabal leaned forward, moving her hand from his face to gently touch his bloodied cheek.

He opened his eyes, wincing at the glare from the lantern.

“It’s all right. We’ll soon have you out of here.”

After that? Iseabal realized she didn’t know.

A litter, little more than a bit of canvas tied between two ropes, was devised to raise Alisdair from the hold. As the sailors from the
Fortitude
carefully lifted him, Iseabal looked down into the shadowed interior, gloomy even in the bright noon sun, and realized that she could not leave the others behind.

“How much did you pay Drummond for those people?” she asked the first mate.