The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,30
Fort William has carried the news to Dunollie Castle.”
Emma dropped into an overstuffed chair and gripped the armrests. How could this have happened? Ciar had been on his way to Spean Bridge. Alone. “He has no one to speak for him.”
The quill tapped the ink pot. “Dunollie can take care of himself.”
“In Fort William’s prison?” Emma pushed to her feet and stumbled over a footstool. “They’ll hang him for murder before your letter reaches Robert. We must take action straightaway. We absolutely have to make haste. We’ll request an audience with the governor and testify in favor of Dunollie’s character.”
“Oh, no. Have you lost your mind? We cannot possibly leave Achnacarry.”
“But we must do something. What if…” Emma couldn’t finish, could not allow herself to imagine the worst.
“Do not even think it. Dunollie is one of the most respected chieftains in the Highlands. Wilcox kens that for certain.”
Janet’s words did little to ease the bitter roiling of Emma’s stomach. There must be something more they could do than send messengers and write letters.
Chapter Ten
Feeling like a rat plucked from the dregs of the middens, Ciar walked with his hands and ankles in manacles, a length of chain linking them together. God’s stones, he’d never committed a crime in his life, and there he was being escorted by four dragoons, the rear arse prodding him in the back with his musket.
“Keep pace, ye maggot,” said the arse. “You’re lucky I haven’t my bayonet attached.”
Ciar ground his molars as his eyes shifted. He could take the lot of them even in irons if he’d had a decent meal in the past…Lord, how long had he been in this hellhole?
They passed a placard reading Governor Wilcox, Fort William’s Dragoons. Ciar didn’t need to read it to know where they were headed.
Even his knees ached as he climbed the wooden stairs, the man behind him shoving him into a small room. The lead dragoon knocked on the far door. “Ciar MacDougall here as requested, governor.”
The door opened and a small man peeked out. “Bring him in.”
Ciar wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He reckoned he had one chance to plead his case, and this was it.
A prod came from behind. “Move, ye flea-bitten swine.”
It would take but a heartbeat to spin around, grab the damned musket barrel, and feed the butt end to the arse. But that would do nothing to further Ciar’s plea of innocence.
He shuffled through the door, throwing his shoulders back and holding his head high.
Wilcox bent over a map with two other officers. Ciar had encountered the governor before when the man rode through his lands on one of the army’s peacekeeping visits. He had a long nose and an unpleasant frown etched into the weathered lines of his face. He straightened, frowning deeper. With an arch of his brows, his gray periwig shifted a bit. “Well, well, Dunollie, I smelled you before you ascended the stairs.”
“Mayhap you should provide a wash bowl for the poor blighters in the pit. A cake of soap might help as well.”
The arse with the musket jabbed him. “Shut it.”
“That’s enough, sentinel.” Wilcox pointed to the lead man. “Taylor, you remain. The rest of you wait in the entry.”
Ciar smirked at the man over his shoulder.
Wilcox sauntered around his table, shoving a wooden chair aside with his knee. “The evidence against you is overwhelming.”
“Aye, after I’d been bludgeoned from behind, I figured your men would fabricate a story against me.”
“You mean to say that three of the king’s dragoons are lying? Each of them has testified under oath that they witnessed you mercilessly killing a man in cold blood and taking his purse.”
“Lies.” Ciar started to spread his palms, only to have them halted by rigid iron. “I was taking a message to Coll of Keppoch when I found two men standing over a dead body. A reedy cur named Manfred was congratulating a redcoated bastard he called Riley. I should have kept going, but my conscience wouldn’t allow me to pass, and when I confronted the murderers, a third struck me from behind.”
“Hmm.” Wilcox smoothed his hand over his immaculately groomed periwig. “I didn’t expect such a compilation of drivel from the great chieftain of Dunollie. Though I don’t know why. All condemned men profess their innocence, no matter their station.”
The corners of Ciar’s mouth tightened. He and his clansmen did their best to stay clear of government troops for this very reason. For years the government troops had “kept