MacLean's Passion: A Highland Pride Novel (24 page)

Maggie pressed her back against the wall to give her heart time to settle and her harsh breathing to ease.

She waited for what seemed like an eternity. The rumblings of male voices and an occasional burst of laughter drifted to her.

Taking a deep breath, she adjusted the crate of wine and started toward the voices. She passed stores of food and forgotten farm implements and tools. And then she was in the dungeon.

Her steps faltered as she peered into the cells, seeing bundles of clothing that she suspected were men. They reminded her so much of her time at Fort Augustus that her heart started pounding again. Whose fool idea was this, anyway? Why the hell had she been so adamant to carry it out?

She wished she had time to release all of these men, but she had none, so she kept walking, mentally promising herself that she would come back for them. The case of wine was getting heavy and her arm was aching and she wondered if she would ever get to those voices.

And then there they were, three English guards. For a moment Maggie allowed her panic to overtake her. Her body started shaking, her hands sweated, and her mouth filled with spit. Then she took control of herself and stepped into the guardroom.

All three guards stopped talking at once and stared at her as if she were a spirit come up from the earth itself. She gave them a jaunty smile and a loose salute and continued past them, the bottles of wine clinking merrily in the wooden crate.

“Whoa there,” one of them said. Belying his massive girth, he stood quickly and slid in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. His red coat was unbuttoned, but he was so fat that he probably wouldn’t have been able to button it anyway. There were stains on his cuffs and his boots were as scuffed as her own, if not more so. She knew about English soldiers. She knew they were a vain people who liked to put their best foot forward. A clean, neat appearance was very important to them. But apparently not to this man.

“Can’t stop now,” she said in what she hoped was a passable English accent. Damn English bastards. “ ’Ave to get this wine to Cap’n Abbott.”

The large one’s narrowed gaze went to the case of wine at her waist. The wood was cutting into her, but she pretended it wasn’t.

“Wine?” He licked puffy lips.

“Aye. Wine. Found it meself. The cap’n was mighty proud of me. French wine, at that.”

She moved around him. Her heart pounded and her heels were sliding in her boots, causing blisters to rise.

The other two remained mute but watched her steadily, though with a stupid expression. They were a slow lot, these three. They needed to grab the wine before she reached the steps that led to the heart of the castle.

“French wine?” The fat one appeared before her again.

“There’s lots of it,” she said helpfully. “Found a whole bunch.” Holding her breath, she leaned toward him and whispered, “I think the owner of this castle was engaged in smuggling wine. French wine.”

His gaze slid to his two mates. A silent message passed among the three of them. Maggie edged closer to the steps until the large one held up a meaty hand to stop her. “There’s more, you say?”

“Oh, aye. Plenty for the whole castle.”

“Does the cap’n know how much more?”

Maggie acted uneasy and drew back, shifting her feet. “Well. Uh. He don’t know the exact count, ’cause I didn’t count ’em all.”

“So he wouldn’t miss a few?”

“Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t do that. The cap’n, he’d have me head, he would, if he knew I gave you some of this French wine.”

“How would he know?” The large one eyed her with interest. “If’n you don’t tell.”

“I…” She deliberately let her voice trail off and cowered away from him. She despised men who used their position and size to intimidate those who were smaller and weaker. But she needed to play her role and remember her reason for being here. “I guess if he don’t know…”

“What he don’t know won’t hurt ’im. And it won’t hurt you none, neither.” He laughed at his own joke and Maggie smiled sickly.

The other two chuckled but were still eyeing the wooden crate, which was getting heavier and heavier. Maggie set it on the table, acutely aware that she had only so much time. If Colin didn’t hear from her in half an hour, he was coming in. That had been one of his nonnegotiables.

“I get some, too,” she said, reaching into the crate for the marked bottle.

The big one’s fingers clamped around her wrist in a strong grip that nearly numbed her fingers. She looked up at him, terrified that he’d discovered she wasn’t an English lad but a Scottish lass.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Jack. Jack Parsons.”

The big one nodded. “I’m George. This here is Henry and this is Edward.” George pointed to the two men in turn. They were both brown-haired, pale and scrawny compared to George. It was easy to determine that he was the self-proclaimed leader of the three and that Henry and Edward were cowed by him.

George handed them each a bottle. Maggie grabbed her marked bottle and plopped herself down in the available rickety chair. She grinned at Henry and Edward, but they were busy uncorking their bottles.

“How long d’you have before the cap’n expects you?” George asked, taking his first big swig of wine.

Maggie shrugged. “He just said bring it up sometime.”

Henry and Edward drank steadily, as if afraid the captain would come down and swipe the bottles out of their hands. For all Maggie knew, he would.

George drank steadily but like a man who had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do. Maggie wished he’d drink faster, because it would take longer for the sleeping draft to take effect on his large body.

She started to worry. If Henry and Edward passed out before George, would he become suspicious? Maggie’s hand drifted to her wrist, where a dagger was hidden up her sleeve. If worse came to worst, she could stick George. She eyed his rather large form. It would take a lot of stabbing.

George belched loudly. “How long you been here?”

Maggie took a real sip every other time she brought the bottle to her lips. She wiped her lips on the sleeve of her coat. “A few days. Came from Fort Augustus.” She was making this up as she went and prayed to God that she wouldn’t be caught in any lies.

George grunted. Edward and Henry never made a sound as they drank, although Edward’s eyes looked a bit glassy. Maggie silently urged George to keep drinking.

“Come with the cap’n?” he asked.

Maggie froze with the bottle halfway to her lips, her mind racing to find the correct answer. “Nae,” she finally settled on.

“Abbott was there awhile,” George said, his tongue getting looser. “At Fort Augustus.”

Maggie didn’t know why Abbott’s name caused such a fierce reaction in her. Of course she’d known that the man was here, but hearing the guard say his name, confirming that Colin’s enemy—and her enemy—was in the same castle, made her skin crawl. She wanted him gone. She wanted all of them gone, and she was willing to kill to do it. She’d never spent one night under this roof, but she considered it her own, and she was determined to protect it from the damn bloody English.

“I didn’t serve under ’im directly,” she said. “But I knew of ’im before I came here.”

George held up his bottle and peered at it. It was still half full. “The Frenchies sure know how to make good wine,” he said.

“Aye,” she said, relieved that he had dropped the topic of Abbott, but her mind was still churning; she thought of Colin and his men standing in the tunnel, waiting for her, ready to defeat Abbott and George and Edward and Henry.

Henry’s head started to droop and he jerked it back up, widening his eyes and rubbing his face. George didn’t seem to notice. “Perkins, you say?”

“Parsons.”

George nodded, tipped back his head, and took a long drink.

Henry fell off his chair and landed in a pile on the floor, snoring.

Maggie looked down at him while George howled in laughter. “Pup can’t hold his fine Frenchie wine.”

Edward’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell forward, his nose hitting the table.

“More for us, then.” George clinked his wine bottle with hers, then eyed her suspiciously. “You’re smaller than them. Why ain’t you on the floor, too?”

Maggie held her bottle up. “I haven’t had as much.”

George took another drink, but his motions were slower. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “I feel funny.” His words were slurred and he kept blinking. Maggie watched him carefully. He was fighting the draft, but he couldn’t hold out much longer.

He squinted at the bottle in his hand and then looked at her. “What’d you put in it?”

She widened her eyes as if shocked that he would ask such a thing. “Nothing.”

“No.” He shook his head like a dog shaking off water. He stood so quickly that Maggie had barely enough time to leap up and to the side. “Y’did something. This wine is tainted.”

“No,” she said, edging away from him and infusing fear into her voice. “I just found it in the cellar. That’s all.”

He lunged for her, but he was big and bulky and she was quick and agile and the draft was having an effect on him. He reached for her with both arms, but she ducked out of his way and he fell forward, catching himself on the edge of the table. He was so large that the table tipped and fell over with a crash. Edward’s and Henry’s bottles rolled around on the floor, and dark red wine ran from them like blood.

“Damn your hide,” George growled.

“I didn’t do nothin’,” Maggie cried as she sidestepped his reach again.

“Y’poisoned me!” he roared.

She looked nervously at the stairs that led up to the kitchens, hoping no one heard the scuffle. Her hand inched toward the dagger secreted in her waistband as George pulled his body toward her, dragging his legs behind him. Maggie backed up a step, watching him. The draft had to take effect soon.

He looked up at her, his eyes blazing hatred, his lips twisted. “Why? Why’d y’do it?”

“It’s not poison,” she whispered, wanting to give him some comfort.

He roared, flopped forward, and reached for her with both hands, but she only had to step out of his way and he slumped to the floor, finally unconscious.

As much as Maggie wanted to stand there and breathe for a little while, she gathered up the bottles as fast as she could and dumped them back in the crate. They’d not wanted to leave the evidence of the smuggled French wine, though there were puddles all over the floor that she could do nothing about. She grabbed the crate and ran to the tunnel.

The door opened before she could tap on it in the prearranged code.

“We heard the bottles clinking,” Colin said, taking the crate from her and putting it inside the tunnel.

Maggie grabbed her sword, leaning against the wall. “It took far too long for the big one to succumb. He fought it. He knows we did something to the wine.”

“Ye did good, lass.”

They all trooped through the cellar, pausing only a moment to look at the prisoners. A few were peering over their shoulders. Some managed to come to the bars, reaching out to Colin.

Colin touched each of their hands and gave them words of encouragement. “Find the keys,” he said to Maggie.

She raced to George and, with much effort, managed to roll him over and search his pockets. She grimaced at the feel of the folds of his sweaty fat. She found the keys in his front pocket and raced back to Colin. He unlocked each cell and directed his men toward the tunnel.

“Ye’ll find Sutherland on the other side,” he instructed them. “Stay in the woods. We’ll come back to ye.”

Most stumbled toward the entrance. Some had to hold up those who were too weak or too injured to walk. A few of the somewhat healthy ones faced Colin. “We want to help.”

Colin nodded at one. “Thank you, Rabbie. How many soldiers are in the keep?”

“I do no’ know, sir.” He looked embarrassed that he couldn’t even answer that question.

Colin patted him on the shoulder. “No worries. We’re here, and we’re going to take the keep back. I promise.”

Rabbie smiled. “They’ll be glad to see ye. The clansmen, that is.”

“Are there many inside the keep?”

“A few. Most managed to get out. Mainly women to do the cooking and cleaning. The redcoats did no’ want too many men left behind.”

Colin nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

As they walked through the guardroom, Colin swiped a sword off Henry and handed it to Rabbie. As Rabbie passed the unconscious guards, he spat on each of them. He then seemed to notice Maggie in her disguise as an English soldier and scowled at her.

“Maggie helped incapacitate the guards,” Colin said without stopping. “And she’s my wife.”

Rabbie’s scowl slipped away and his mouth formed an O. Maggie smiled and nodded at him and kept going through the cellar, where normally the stores of potatoes and turnips and other vegetables and food items would be kept. It was nearly bare. There were a few rotten tomatoes and a couple of small turnips left.

Colin growled low and shook his head. “Bastards,” he muttered.

Maggie wondered how they were going to feed everyone over the long winter if the cellar was nearly empty now. While they hadn’t looked, she was almost positive that the fields were not well kept and that the harvest would be slim, if there were any at all. For the first time she really feared what would happen next. If they were successful in booting the English out and taking the keep back, they had an even bigger fight on their hands in feeding the clansmen who had already been through so much.

They reached the steps that led to the upper kitchens. If Rabbie was correct, the cooks were MacLean’s and hopefully would not raise an alarm when they saw Colin and his men trooping through the kitchen.

But they need not have worried. The kitchen was closed down for the night, the fires banked, the coals glowing orange. Here everything looked normal, the kitchen clean, ready for the morning meal. A small cook girl lay sleeping by the banked fire, curled into a ball with only one thin blanket to keep her warm.

She stirred and lifted her head then gasped and scrabbled to cower against the wall, her pale face showing her terror. Maggie’s heart went out to her. What had she seen, and what had she experienced? Maggie knew what the English soldiers did to Scottish women, and she felt a fire burning in her belly for the small girl who had nothing but a thin blanket and her fear to keep her warm at night. For the women who’d been forced to cook for these barbarians and for the men released from the dungeon who could barely walk.