Page 89 of Wild Wicked Scot
“Don’t tell me to calm down!”
“Margot!” he said loudly, taking her hands in his and pushing them down. “But let us speak rationally. You don’t know Fonteneau as it is today. The old man is doddering and decrepit and keeps to his bed, and Putnam has given his life up to drink and debt.”
“He likes to game,” Margot said. “Take me to Fonteneau. I can occupy Putnam while you free Arran.”
“That’s madness,” Knox said. “Do you know what will happen if you are caught trying to free an accused traitor?”
“No, I don’t. I don’twantto know. Can you not understand, Knox? I am his only hope. Do you see? I am hisonly hope.” And there they were. The tears she’d been fighting for days began to fall, silently streaming down her cheeks. She bowed her head, ashamed of them.
“Good God. Margot...do youlovehim?” Knox asked, his voice full of surprise.
She did, didn’t she? Shelovedhim. She nodded, swiped her fingers beneath her eyes. “I suppose that I do.”
“Bloody hell.” Knox sighed and gathered her in his embrace, resting his chin on the top of her head. “Then I suppose we must go, mustn’t we?”
Margot lifted her head. “You’ll help me?”
“I’ll help you. Against my better judgment, I’ll help you, love. Now listen to me and take heed—be ready to ride at two o’clock. Bribe one of the grooms there if you must, and tell everyone far and near that you mean to call on your friend Lynetta Beauly in my company. Then slip out of Norwood Park like a wraith so that no one can say precisely when you left to call on her. Can you do that?”
She nodded.
Knox caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Margot—can you do that? Because if you can’t, and we are caught, that will be the end of it. Of you and your Scot.”
For once in her life, Margot was confident in the decision she was making. For once in her life, she was entirely confident she could do what she was being asked to do, without equivocation. Whatever it took to free Arran, she would do, without complaint.
She peeled his hand from her chin and stood up. “I can do it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FURYWASANinadequate word to describe what Arran felt. He assumed they’d put laudanum or some witch’s brew into his brandy, for nothing else explained how he’d become so leaden and incapable of defending himself. It had taken a full day to rouse himself from that fog—at least, he thought it was day—only to find himself in a dank hole. He was not alone; two of his men were nearby. Ben, whom the Armstrongs had rounded up when they’d drugged Arran. And Dermid, who, near as Arran could tell, had been in this hellhole for a month. He couldn’t see them, could only hear them. He couldn’t see anything, quite literally, as there was scarcely any light at all.
But the English were arrogant, stupid pricks. Not only had they failed to divest him thoroughly of plausible weapons—he had an eating knife tucked away into his boot—but also they’d left the three Scotsmen unattended for the most part, appearing only occasionally to push food through narrow slots in the doors. Arran and his men shouted to hear each other, but no one seemed to care that they did. Their voices brought no one.
At the top of the wall in Arran’s cell was a narrow window that allowed a bit of light. The opening was too small for a man to fit through. There was a hole in the window, big enough to allow bitterly cold air to filter into his cell at night and to carry the sounds of people and beasts moving about during the day. He had gathered, given the stench and the sounds, that they were somewhere near the stables.
He’d also determined that whoever brought food to them each day trudged across flagstones that passed near his window. He heard the heavy steps, then heard a door open. Then heard the clang of it as he drew it closed, somewhere inside this building.
Arran had a plan. He would feign illness and refuse to touch the food the man brought. Eventually, someone would have to open the door to see if he was dead. When that happened, he would overpower the bastard, kill him if necessary and take the man’s keys. He’d have to be precise about it—his knife was too small to inflict deep damage. He’d have to slice across a throat. He reasoned he had one chance—it was either kill or be killed.
Well. It was kill.
Then he would free his men, and they would fight their way out or die.
Arran wondered how long before his keepers realized he was not eating and opened the goddamn door.
In the meantime, he had ample opportunity to brood about that night in the Armstrong study. He’d been bloody stupid for having trusted Norwood.
In the study that evening, he’d watched Norwood pour three brandies, had accepted one and had drunk deeply before he broached the subject of Thomas Dunn. Norwood had seemed neither surprised nor particularly knowledgeable about Dunn. He’d merely smiled at Arran, put his hand on his shoulder and said, “You will understand, sir, when I say that in this regard, it’s either you...or me.”
And then a deep Highland mist had sunk down on Arran’s brain. He had been helpless, unable to lift his arms, as Bryce and another man overpowered him. He vaguely remembered being tossed into a carriage, and that his head kept bouncing off the squabs as they’d moved down the road. He recalled nothing more until he’d woken up in here. He had a straw mat, a bucket for waste and one filled with water.
He’d roared his frustration when he at last came to, which was how he’d found his men.
And then he’d continued to roar with frustration. For allowing himself to latch onto the slender ray of hope Margot’s assurances had given him.
Did she know he was here? His instincts told him she was as much a victim in this as he, but there was another, albeit smaller, part of him that wondered if she hadn’t known this would happen. She’d seemed in her cups that night, a condition he’d never known her to be in. Was it possible she’d been poisoned, too? Or had she drunk so that she wouldn’t have to face what was coming?
Arran had lost track of time when he heard the familiar footsteps outside the cell, trudging toward a door somewhere, and the sound of slop in a bucket knocking against a leg. He lay down on the straw mat and rolled on his side, facing the wall. He heard the sound of the jailer sliding food in to his men, then making his way down the hall to Arran’s cell.
