Chapter 1
FORT AUGUSTUS, SCOTLAND
If his brothers could see him now they would say “I told you so.”
Of course even his brothers would have been surprised to see him imprisoned in the Duke of Cumberland’s dungeon.
Or maybe they wouldn’t be surprised.
It didn’t matter at this point.
Because right now Colin MacLean, reluctant and ill-equipped chief of clan MacLean, had far bigger problems than his dead brothers’ opinion of him.
He was stretched tight, his hands above his head, tied at the wrists, his toes stretched to find purchase on the dirt-packed ground. He was naked from the waist up and there were far more people than he would like to see gathered around to watch his whipping.
This wasn’t his first time in this position but he was pretty certain it was his last. He’d heard the guards talking. He was to be hanged tomorrow morning.
But he doubted he would last that long. Not because of the beating—he’d endured enough of those to know that the one wielding the whip wasn’t really into it at the moment—but because of the heaviness in his chest and the pounding in his head.
It seemed he was getting sick.
He heard the sound of the whip hitting his back but surprisingly the pain took a few more moments to arrive. It was those seconds that Colin hated the most, where the expectation of the pain was almost worse than the pain itself. Almost. But not quite.
He refused to cry out. He refused to even wince although he did allow his teeth to grind together.
He looked over at Captain Richard Abbott. The bloody, numpty English bastard who made it his personal quest to destroy Colin. And Colin couldn’t figure out why.
Sure the man caught Colin trying to beat his men.
Sure Colin refused to cooperate in his “arrest”—what Scottish Highlander wouldn’t refuse arrest from a damn redcoat?
But the man had taken it too far, beating Colin whenever the fancy struck him, demanding to know what secrets Colin carried within his mind.
Abbott was standing at the forefront of the crowd, dressed in the red coat with the blue facing that Colin and the rest of the Highland warriors had grown to hate, glaring at Colin with dark eyes and a slight frown.
He had not been able to crack Colin like a nut as he wanted to and it infuriated him while it gave Colin some small satisfaction.
The whip whizzed through the air again and Colin tensed. He wished he hadn’t when he saw Abbott’s small smile of satisfaction, but how could a body not wince in this circumstance.
The whip split open the skin of his upper right shoulder. Blood dripped down his side and soaked into his breeches.
“That’s enough,” Abbott said and Colin couldn’t help but droop his aching, burning shoulders in relief.
Someone untied his hands and it took everything inside of him not to drop to his knees. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t give Abbott the satisfaction. If the man was going to kill him as the rumors suggested then Colin was going to die with dignity.
He managed to make it back to his cell by concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
Guards were behind him but he paid them no mind.
The crowd dispersed. He refused to meet Abbott’s gaze because he didn’t want Abbott to see the hatred burning inside of him.
That would instigate another beating, or something more devious.
Colin made it to his disgusting cell that reeked of raw sewage, mildew, and bodies that hadn’t been washed in ages. He shared it with a boy who spent most of his time slouched in the dark corner, never speaking and always observing.
When Colin heard the lock turn on his cell door he breathed a sigh of relief.
Slowly he pulled his tattered shirt over his head then lowered himself carefully to the ground.
He leaned against the cold, stone wall only wincing a little at the pain in his back and shoulders.
He’d endured worse beatings. What hurt him more were his lungs and his head and he feared he was developing a fever.
Whether by the hangman’s noose or a raging fever, he would be dead by morning.
Somehow that thought wasn’t as depressing as it should have been.
His cellmate didn’t move, just looked at him through a mop of black hair that covered his eyes. Colin ignored him and closed his own eyes.
He shifted his legs on the hard floor and bit back a groan.
He heard footsteps down the corridor and was instantly alert although he kept his eyes closed. It was coming upon dinner but not quite time for dinner. Footsteps at this hour of the day was not a good omen.
The footsteps stopped and Colin slowly raised his gaze to the barred door. Then cursed silently.
“Come to gloat, have ye?” he asked through a thick throat.
On the other side of the cell door, Iain Campbell, chief of the very powerful clan Campbell, stared at Colin with emotionless eyes.
“You’re well and truly in a bind, lad.”
Colin snorted and turned his head away. He wanted nothing to do with Campbell. He hated the Scottish clan leader who sided with the English, and had nothing good to say to him.
“Come here,” Campbell commanded.
“Go to hell.”
“Come here,” Campbell said again, more softly this time. He flicked a glance at Colin’s cellmate, then dismissed the lad to look intently at Colin.
“I’m being hanged tomorrow,” Colin said. He raised his knee with some effort and put his elbow on it. It took everything in him to appear as if he had not a care in the world.
“I know.”
“Pardon me for being rude, but I have naught to say to ye on the eve of my demise.”
“I think you do.”
Colin raised a brow. Damnation but even his brows hurt. “Ye think I do?”
Campbell hesitated. He looked one way down the corridor then the other before turning his dark, emotionless gaze back to Colin. “Sutherland sent me.”
Colin stilled. Brice Sutherland, Colin’s best friend, didn’t carry the hatred for Campbell that Colin did, but neither did he love the man. Why the hell would Sutherland send Campbell to him?
Campbell stood there as if he had all the time in the world. Slowly Colin pushed himself up until he was standing on unsteady legs. Gritting his teeth he shuffled to the barred door, hating that Campbell was seeing him in such a weakened state.
He stopped just short of the door and glared at Campbell. “I’m sure it smarts that ye’re Sutherland’s message boy.”
Campbell’s lip turned up in a smirk. “Sutherland can’t get into Cumberland’s camp the way I can.”
“What ye mean to say is that Sutherland is no’ a traitor.”
Ah, finally a flicker of emotion from Campbell. Just a slight tightening of the lips but it was enough. Colin guessed that tormenting Campbell was an admirable way to spend his last night here on Earth.
“Strong words coming from someone who is about to die at the hands of the English,” Campbell said.
Colin wouldn’t show Campbell that his words hit him square in the stomach. He didn’t want to die. He especially didn’t want the English to be the cause of his death.
“Tonight,” Campbell said softly so no one else could hear. “Your cell door will remain unlocked. Turn left. At the end of the corridor there’s a window that will also be unlocked. Climb through and run straight for the trees. My men will be waiting with horses.”
Colin swayed. His head swam and a fire burned inside of him with the sickness. He shook his head to clear his vision but that only caused a sharp pain to pierce his skull.
“Ye’re helping me escape?” he asked, not truly believing it. A Campbell would never help a MacLean. Campbells were firmly on the side of the English and MacLeans firmly were not.
“Aye,” Campbell said.
“Why?”
Campbell cocked his head to the side. “Be ready to run, MacLean.” He turned on his heel and walked off.
For a long time Colin stood there, staring at the bars, his mind curiously blank. He turned around and found his cellmate staring at him from his slumped position on the other side of the cell.
Colin returned to the wall, sat, and resumed leaning against the cold stone.
Time passed. He dozed. His head throbbed. His limbs became heavy and the tight feeling in his chest increased. Occasionally his cellmate shifted positions.
Just another day as a prisoner of the damned redcoats.
Possibly his last day on Earth.
Possibly not.
Definitely his last day as a prisoner.
He didn’t know whether he should believe Campbell. He wanted to. And he didn’t want to.
Why would Campbell agree to help him?
They didn’t like each other. Although Colin had to admit that most of the dislike was on his end. Campbell never indicated whether he disliked Colin or not. Likely because the MacLeans didn’t even register in Campbell’s world.
The MacLeans were a small clan. The Campbells were one of the largest clans in Scotland.
So then why would Campbell help him?
He’d said he was doing Sutherland a favor. That made sense. Sutherland could have asked Campbell for this favor although Colin hated that his friend would be beholden to Campbell on his behalf.
The sun disappeared. Colin couldn’t see the sun but he could tell by the light in the corridor that it was moving toward evening.
The last meal of the day arrived. Another bowl of slop, barely edible. Colin didn’t even spare it a glance. The thought of ingesting any sort of food turned his stomach.
He pushed his bowl toward his cellmate and the lad nearly inhaled Colin’s bowl as well as his own.
Darkness fell. The only light came from the torches lining the outer corridor. Colin’s eyes began to droop and he had to continually force them open.
It was late when he heard the footsteps. Normally the guards didn’t pass through after the evening meal, apparently secure in the knowledge that their prisoners would remain where they were put.
The footsteps slowed then stopped when they got to Colin’s cell. A key turned in the lock and the footsteps hurried away.
Still Colin sat there, not convinced this was real. Was Campbell setting him up? To what end? Colin was already scheduled to die. Getting caught while trying to escape would only speed his death up by a few hours.
Slowly he stood, but he had to lean against the wall for a bit to gather his strength. Damn but this sickness was making him weak.
He made his way to the door and pushed on it until it swung open soundlessly and still Colin stood there.
He looked one way up the corridor and the other way down the corridor.
It was empty except for the flickering shadows cast by the wall torches.
The other prisoners had settled down for the night.
Colin could hear snores coming from the other cells and a few mumblings of prisoners in their sleep.
He stepped out of the cell but something made him look back.
His cellmate was watching him. He hadn’t moved, was sitting perfectly still, almost unnaturally still. He was a small thing, too young to be condemned to death in an English prison.
A burst of laughter from the guards upstairs startled Colin.
“Come,” he said softly.
The lad didn’t move.
Colin motioned to him. “Hurry. We don’t have much time.”
The lad scrambled to his feet with the nimbleness that only the young possessed.
“Make no sound,” Colin said, second-guessing his impulsive decision. It must be the sickness addling his mind but he knew he couldn’t leave the lad there to fend for himself. Although they’d spoken hardly at all, they’d experienced one hell of a nightmare together and Colin couldn’t leave him.
The boy followed Colin down the corridor, his feet silent on the concrete floor. He climbed through the window quick and agile as a cat and less than five minutes after stepping foot outside of their cell they were racing across the wide-open expanse of dirt and gravel toward the trees.
Colin’s heart was racing, so certain he was of a bullet to his back. His feet felt heavy, his lungs struggled to pull in the breaths needed to run. His back and shoulders hurt like the devil and he felt the blood running down his side.
The lad easily kept up, checking his strides to keep pace with Colin, barely out of breath.
They reached the trees just as a shout went up and the dogs started barking.