I’m surprised Jamie didn’t work it out. Maybe he was fooled because I relocked the door and left the key there. And the window open.’
‘But why did you go off in just yer thin gown? And not even a pair of shoon on yer feet?’
‘It was all I had, apart from a shawl. And I lost that when Lucifer bolted. Jamie had Tam clear out my clothes press. He said I should get used to living in a shift. That’s how I’d be dressed when I was taken to the Bedlam, he said.’ Cassandra swallowed hard at the terrifying memory, even more terrifying now that she had tried, and failed, to escape.
‘He’ll not send ye there,’ Morag said firmly. ‘Nobody thinks ye’re mad. And he canna marry you out of the asylum, can he?’
‘But he says I’m a…a harlot. Like my…’ her voice dropped to a strangled whisper ‘…like my mother. He could confine me for that. You know he could.’
‘He’ll not do that. He’ll…he’d have yer godfather to reckon with if he did, and he’ll not take the chance of that.’ Morag nodded, as if to confirm the truth of her words.
And it was true, Cassandra thought. Her godfather, Sir Angus Fergusson, had once promised to stand by her, even though he had been estranged from the family for many years. And he wielded just as much clout as Jamie, perhaps more. If only she’d been able to reach him…
‘Was that where you were going?’ At Cassandra’s answering nod, Morag burst out, ‘You were going to cross the Solway in the mirk? Alone? Ye are mad, lassie!’
‘It wasn’t that dark. Not till the storm came. And I was going to get Shona to take me across. Only Lucifer bolted in the storm. It was all I could do to hang on to him.’ She did not add that she had been hanging on while being dragged along the ground. Better to let Morag think that she had still been on his back.
‘Ye might have ended up in the quicksands,’ Morag breathed in horror.
‘Well, I didn’t. A man caught us. He… I couldn’t see him very well in the gloom, but he spoke like a gentleman.’ She smiled to herself. He had acted like a gentleman, too. Such fancy manners he had. Ross Graham. Who stopped to introduce himself in the middle of a thunderstorm.
‘But the laird wouldna lay hands on a gentleman, surely?’
‘I doubt he knows, Morag. They bound him and gagged him before he had a chance to say a word. And in the dark, no one would be able to tell from his clothes. Besides, they were all dripping wet.’ She stopped, twisting her hands together. ‘You must find out what they did with him, Morag. You must. Even if they…even if they’ve killed him.’ She shut her eyes tightly for a second against the horrifying picture her own words had conjured up. Jamie would not stoop to murder. Would he?
Chapter Two
R oss opened his eyes. He could see absolutely nothing. It was pitch dark. But he did not need his eyes to know just what sort of place he was in. His nose told him that. It reeked of damp and decay. More muted was a clear reminder of the stench of human bodies kept imprisoned for too long. There was something else, too, that he could not quite identify.
Where was he? He stretched out a hand, touching damp straw over the stone floor where he lay. He had already felt the cold eating into his body. Clearly, this place—whatever it was—never saw the sun. He made to sit up. Too quickly. A searing pain in the back of his skull stopped him dead.
Ah, yes. Now he remembered. He had tried to escape when they reached the outskirts of Dumfries and had been struck down for his pains. He put a hand to the back of his head and gingerly felt for blood. There appeared to be none, though there was a distinct lump under his hair. Well, he had suffered worse in the wars. He would mend. At least Elliott and his dastardly companion had untied his arms.
Ross felt about in the dark. He had been thrown down near a wall and so he sat up, rather more cautiously than before, and leant his aching head against it for a few moments. Where was he? Somewhere in Dumfries, he supposed, but clearly a prisoner of the man, Elliott.
Ross’s fingers began to quest around in the dank straw beneath him. His left hand met something different. Why, it was his sodden coat! He should have recognised that pervasive smell of wet wool. He pulled the coat towards him and quickly checked the pockets. Not surprisingly perhaps, his money was gone. He cursed roundly. Then, with a grim smile, he ran his fingers down the inside of the lining, where the hidden pocket lay. It remained intact. He still had his English banknotes. But it was a pity that he no longer had golden guineas with which to bribe his way out of whatever prison Elliott had thrown him into. Elliott. And that girl. He remembered her vividly, lying crumpled on the ground. Who was she? Whoever she was, Elliott certainly had some hold over her. She—
Something scuttled over Ross’s foot. A rat. Of course. There were bound to be rats in a place like this. It was bad, but no worse than many a Spanish billet during the war. Ross shrugged philosophically. The gesture reminded him, painfully, that he should not make any hasty movements. His head was not up to it. He must move slowly and carefully. He should explore his prison and find out whether there was any possibility of escape. In this clammy darkness, he could not tell whether there was even a window.
He pushed himself on to his knees. Then, with a hand on the wall for support, he slowly began to get to his feet. Just at that moment, a door opened in the far wall and a lantern appeared. Ross was temporarily blinded by the sudden light and unable to see what was beyond.
A man’s voice said, ‘Och, so ye’re no’ dead then,’ and broke into raucous laughter.
Ross stared towards the doorway, trying to make out the features of the man who stood there. It was neither Elliott nor his henchman, Ross decided. This man was much stouter than either.
‘I’ve brought ye a wee bit dinner,’ said the man. The lantern stooped and there was the muffled clatter of a metal plate on the straw-covered stone floor.
Ross took a step towards the door.
‘Stay jist where ye are!’ cried the man quickly. ‘I’ve a pistol here and I’ll shoot ye, if ye come a step nearer!’
Ross stopped in his tracks, allowing his arms to hang loosely by his sides, palms forward. ‘You must know that I have no weapons,’ he said calmly.
‘Aye, but the laird said ye was dangerous. I am no’ to take any chances with ye.’
‘And you are the laird’s man?’ said Ross, proudly.
‘Nothing o’ the kind,’ protested the man at the door. ‘I do my duty by ye, as I would by any other prisoner.’
A cold chill ran down Ross’s spine. ‘Where am I?’
‘Where d’ye think? Ye’re in the gaol, in Dumfries.’
‘And with what crime am I charged, to be held here? I have done nothing to warrant it.’
The turnkey laughed. ‘That’s no’ the way the laird tells it. He says ye’ll hang.’
‘Dammit, man!’ Ross took another step forward. ‘I’ve done—’
‘Stop where ye are!’
Ross stopped dead. However, the gaoler had moved smartly backwards and closed the door between
