The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,28

clothing of a dead Highlander with a blade buried in his back.

“Jesu, Riley. You’re the best man with a blade I’ve ever seen. Hit him square from, what, thirty paces?”

“I’d remember that, Manfred. I’ll bury a dagger in anyone who tries to cross me.” The man who answered to Riley retrieved his blade and wiped it on the dead man’s kilt. “Find the coin, ye wastrel.”

“Give us a moment.” Manfred, a scrawny man, slinked to a garron pony and unlaced a satchel from the empty saddle. “Mm. You’ll like this, Riley. By the weight of it, we’ll be living high on the hog for ages.”

Thieving bastards.

The last thing Ciar needed at the moment was to ride into the middle of a crime. But he’d never be able to live with himself if he turned tail and rode around.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled a flintlock from his belt and primed it. One against two—not bad odds, though he’d be a hell of a lot happier if Livingstone had accompanied him.

He crept closer—nearly close enough to touch their backs. “Why am I not surprised to find the crown’s dragoons are murderers and thieves?” he growled, clicking the hammer of his pistol. “Raise your hands slowly. Ciar MacDougall of Dunollie here, and I’ll tell ye now, the first to make an errant move will enjoy a lead ball in his arse.”

“The highwayman attacked us,” Riley said as he raised his hands.

“Aye?” Ciar sidestepped around them. “Is that why the poor soul with your blade buried in his back was toting a satchel full of coin?”

Keeping his flintlock trained on Riley, he untied a length of rope from one of the horse’s saddles and tossed it at the smallest. “Manfred, tie up your partner and make the bindings nice and tight. I’ll be watching.”

The little man’s eyes shifted from Ciar’s face as he caught the rope. Then the corner of his mouth ticked up. “Nay, I haven’t a mind to, governor.”

A creeping sensation shot up the back of Ciar’s neck…just before the world turned black.

Chapter Nine

Drip…drip…drip.

For the love of God, every time the water dropped it echoed like a cannon inside Ciar’s skull. His teeth throbbed with the unbearable pressure, but the relentless noise refused to stop.

He shifted his head a bit, the agony making his eyebrows pinch together.

Where am I?

The sharp odor of piss mingled with earthy dirt.

His shoulders ground into a cold, hard floor.

Hell’s gate it must be.

His coughing made the back of his head pulsate with painful hammering. “Whisky,” he groaned, slinging an arm across his forehead.

“Och, it looks as if the great Dunollie may survive to swing from the hangman’s noose.”

“Ye’ll not be tasting any spirit where ye’re headed,” said another.

Ciar opened and closed his eyes. The voices were unfamiliar and sounded menacing. “Where am I?” he croaked, the saliva in his mouth thick and sticky.

An ugly chuckle rumbled in the chamber, feeling like a snare drum in his head. “Ye’re a guest of Governor Henry Wilcox. In the bowels of Fort William with the rest of us wretched sops, ye are.”

Shite.

He remembered now. There must have been a third redcoat, and the bastard struck him from behind. “I was ambushed.”

“Och, were ye now? Did ye hear that? Dunollie claims he was ambushed.”

Ciar ran a hand across his belt. Dirk gone, pistol gone, sword gone, sporran gone. “I was.” He forced himself up with his elbow, which only intensified the tortuous throbbing in his head. “Came upon three murdering dragoons. They’d dirked a man and stolen his coin.”

At the sound of laughter, he opened his eyes. These bastards were all enjoying themselves at his expense.

“He’s blaming Tommy MacIntyre’s murder on the redcoats.”

“Aye,” Ciar said, his throat still arid and grating. “A bull of a man named Riley and his accomplice, Manfred. Never saw the third. He’s the one who bludgeoned me from behind.”

He sat forward and shook his head while three filthy, ragged tinkers surrounded him, the whites of their eyes piercing through the dim light.

“Sounds a likely story.”

“We’ve all been backstabbed by slippery dragoons.”

“It doesn’t matter if he speaks the truth, he’ll be hanged for certain once Wilcox returns.”

“Wilcox is away?” Ciar asked, wondering how long he’d been in this hellhole.

“Aye.”

He rubbed his temples. “Bloody ballocks.”

“Why should it make a difference? Even if ye were the king, ye’ll never set eyes on the man’s polished brass buttons.”

“Aye, he’ll hear the dragoons’ testimony, and that’ll be enough for him.”

“Too right. It matters not whether ye’re innocent or guilty. All the