Chapter 32
The closer they got to Fort Augustus, the bigger the ball of dread and anxiety in Cait’s stomach grew.
She’d noticed a while ago that MacLean couldn’t seem to get comfortable in his saddle, that he kept looking around, alert but worried, which caused Cait to worry more.
What condition would they find Iain in when they arrived?
She dropped back to fall in with MacLean. “I met Maggie last night,” she said.
He glanced at her quickly. “Did ye, now?”
“She paid me a visit.”
“No doubt in the dead of the night.” He grinned, and Cait was able to see the love he had for his Maggie.
“She’s a great woman.”
“Aye. She is that. And a bit more,” he added cheekily. “I hope she did no’ bother ye overmuch.”
“I think she knew I needed someone to talk to. Someone who’s been where Iain is now.”
MacLean didn’t seem to have a response to that.
“Is it bad?” she asked quietly.
He looked straight ahead and narrowed his eyes as if trying to remember. Cait figured it didn’t take too much to recall the horrors of Fort Augustus. She’d heard the rumors. “No’ too bad,” he finally said.
“Ye’re lying, Colin MacLean.”
He looked at her sharply. Calling someone out for lying was not a light offense. Then his shoulders relaxed a bit.
“I need to know what to expect when we get there,” she said.
His body swayed with his mount’s movements. “Expect to see a lot of redcoats, more than ye’ve seen before. They’ll no’ be pleased to see us riding in, that’s for certain. I wouldn’t pin yer hopes on anything happening quickly, if at all.”
Her stomach dropped, and her fingers tightened around the reins.
“Ye don’t think we can get him out.” It wasn’t a question, and the words burned her throat.
What if she had to ride away from Fort Augustus without Iain?
The thought had not occurred to her. She’d thought about his condition, but she’d not thought about leaving him behind.
He was Iain Campbell. He got things done.
“I’m no’ saying it’s impossible, but the English, they tend to no’ listen to the Scots.”
“Palmer listens to Iain.”
MacLean harrumphed. “And look where that got Campbell. Ah, lass.” He sighed. “I’m no’ wanting to pour cold water over ye, but ye have to face the facts. The English arrested Campbell because he admitted to killing their soldier. That does no’ bode well for Campbell.”
She straightened in her saddle, more determined than ever. “They will release him when they find out he didn’t kill Donaldson.”
“And what are ye going to do? Miraculously provide them with the killer?”
Yes. That was exactly what she was going to do, but she kept quiet and let MacLean pull ahead of her.
Rory was bringing up the rear and Tavis was riding alongside Rory, not allowing Cait any privacy to speak to her cousin.
Their little party was quiet, each lost in thought, nerves stretched taut. No one would willingly walk into the enemy’s lair except the five of them. Funny that the lair they were entering was once a place where Iain could easily walk in and out.
She kept to the middle of the pack. When they were close to Fort Augustus, Sutherland dropped back from his position in the front, letting MacLean lead.
He motioned for Cait to follow him to the back.
Tavis, taking one look at the two of them, increased his pace and took Cait’s place in the middle. Rory looked at them uneasily.
“Cait says that ye went to bury Donaldson’s body,” Sutherland said to Rory.
“Aye.” Rory’s gaze flickered to Cait and then away.
“How did the English find him if ye were supposed to bury him?” Cait asked.
“I didn’t find him. There was nothing there, Cait.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I was going to bury the body and turn his horse loose, but he wasn’t where ye said he would be.”
“I saw him,” she said softly so no one else could hear. “He was dead.” But was he? Had she thought to check? She’d raced out of there, so scared, and thought he was dead. He hadn’t been moving, but she hadn’t checked the pulse at his neck to see if he really was dead. Could he have walked away?
“What happened to him, then?” she whispered.
“Are ye certain that Iain didn’t kill him?” Sutherland asked quietly.
“Nay. He didn’t kill him. I did.” But had she? Had she left him alive? If so, then someone else had killed him, though she was certain it wasn’t Iain. He hadn’t even known about the attack, and once he’d learned of it, he hadn’t left her.
“Donaldson wasn’t where ye said he was,” Rory said. “I’ll swear to it if I have to. Ye didn’t kill him, Cait.”
She looked at the two men but was seeing Donaldson’s prone body, the chest not moving.
What if Rory was right? What if she hadn’t killed him?
Then who had?
—
It had been a brutal day and a half.
Palmer had been as nice to Iain as was possible on the way to Fort Augustus, but once they arrived and it was discovered that Iain had admitted to killing an officer, all the pleasantries had ended.
Iain had been given a cell of his own, which he supposed was better than being with the general population of Scottish prisoners. The name Campbell was received with mixed emotions in these parts, and he knew he wouldn’t have lasted the night.
Even though he had the privilege of his own cell, he’d known enough to not let his guard down.
He couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to.
The noise of the Scottish prisoners never ceased.
They were sick and retching, moaning, even in some cases crying.
They called for guards, pleaded for their wives and mothers.
They were hungry, thirsty, sick, they stank, and they were dying.
He tried to close his mind to it by thinking of Cait, but all he could see were her bruises, and that put him in a rage.
Rage was good. Rage would get him through the night.
Rage would remind him why he was here—protecting his Cait.
He couldn’t imagine Cait in this cell. Well, he could imagine it.
She’d be demanding to treat the prisoners.
They came for him in the dead of the night, when he’d just began to doze. They dragged him out, three disheveled redcoats minus their coats, drunk and angry and looking for someone to take it out on.
He was no match for them, though he tried his best to fight back.
It might have been three against one, but they were under the effects of alcohol, clumsy and slow.
He managed a few good blows. One was rolling on the ground clutching his ballocks; another was bleeding from a broken nose.
The third was teetering, eyeing him with one eye closed, when Palmer came storming down the corridor and took the third soldier by the back of his collar.
Palmer and a few other officers dragged the three off while someone threw Iain back in his cell.
Iain sank to the ground and leaned against the rough, wet wall.
Something was dripping down the side of his face, and he was fairly certain it was blood.
His right pinky finger throbbed—probably broken—and his jaw ached from a vicious blow.
He leaned his head back and let despair wash over him. It was rare that he let himself wonder if it was worth it. He normally tried never to think such things for fear of sucking himself into a depression that might immobilize him. But tonight his positive thoughts had deserted him.
There had been so many times in his life when he’d thought of giving up, of being the man everyone thought him to be—the traitor, the mercenary who sold his name and his soul for coin and land.
But his love for Scotland and the fierce, prideful people who lived here wouldn’t let him give up.
And so he continued to play his games, to spy for both sides and hope that he was doing the right thing.
All those years of putting himself in danger had come to this.
Would his English acquaintances give him the benefit of the doubt, or would they turn on him?
If the English saved him, then he would forever be branded a traitor, shunned by all of the Scottish chiefs and not just the majority who shunned him now.
He would be trusted by no one, and his entire operation would fall apart if no one would listen to him.
If he died, his fellow Scots would still think of him as a traitor.
Either way, he would die a dishonorable death, and he would leave Cait alone again.
Another death in her life. Another person who abandoned her.
In the morning Palmer appeared at the barred door to his cell. Iain was in no mood to stand and greet his jailor.
“Colonel Rutherford wants to question you,” Palmer said gravely.
“Not Cumberland?”
“He’s not here at the moment. Rutherford is acting in his stead.”
That wasn’t good. Iain didn’t know Rutherford. He’d not even heard of the man, which meant he was probably fairly new to Scotland and therefore not aware of Campbell’s work with the English.
Stiff and sore, Iain grimaced as he stood and then walked to the door. His pride took a direct hit when he had to wait for Palmer to unlock it.
“You didn’t do it, did you?” The English soldier searched Iain’s face, but the mask that Cait hated so much was in place, and Iain wasn’t giving anything away.
Palmer was the closest English friend he had, but Iain no longer trusted him.
He was a prisoner, brought here by Palmer, accused of killing an English soldier.
He could not allow himself the luxury of trusting anyone.
“Colonel Rutherford is waiting,” Iain said.
They emerged into weak sunshine that had Iain blinking, and walked across a wide area of packed dirt where the soldiers probably congregated for revelry.
On the right were the soldiers’ barracks.
On the left were what appeared to be officers’ quarters and offices, and sitting innocently about fifty yards ahead of him was the platform where prisoners were whipped and occasionally hanged. Iain shuddered and looked away.