The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,31

order” in the Highlands by sending regiments out on peacekeeping sorties, when all they really did was instill fear in the hearts of kindly folk. People were untrusting and suspicious, and was it a wonder why? English officers like this man claimed to be ridding the Highlands of lawlessness when in truth they were seeding it.

Wilcox smirked then held up a piece of parchment. “I signed this document this morning. Do you know what it is?”

Ciar’s gut squeezed, sending bile up his throat, but he said nothing.

“’Tis your writ of execution.”

He’d expected as much, though the words slayed him as if the governor had plunged a blade into his heart. Was this it? His life over? Dear God, there was so much left undone.

“However, hanging you now would only serve to create anarchy at a time when the kingdom cannot afford it.” The governor tossed the writ onto the table. “My duty is to keep the peace in this ungodly place. Therefore, I have no choice but to hold you until George has been crowned.”

As he jolted, the chains between Ciar’s manacles rattled. “Without a trial?”

Wilcox smirked, tipping up his chin and making his nose appear inordinately long. “Do you really want to parade before a jury of my soldiers and listen to the evidence against you? What evidence have you to refute the testimony of, must I repeat, three soldiers?”

“I have my reputation. I have my honor.”

“Of course.” The governor rolled his eyes and smirked. “Very convincing argument, that.”

The officers in the chamber chuckled.

Wilcox motioned to Taylor. “Take him away.”

The dragoon prodded Ciar’s shoulder. “Out.”

“And one more thing,” said the governor. “I’ll be sending a retinue to your lands to establish a clear message. If any of your men are seen within twenty miles of Fort William, they will be shot.”

Ciar met the man’s gaze with a steely-eyed stare. “’Tis not my men you should worry about. ’Tis every Highlander in Scotland.”

“Why do you think you are still breathing?” Flicking the lint off his red doublet, the man snorted. “I will not be remembered as the cause of a rising. My duty is to keep the peace above all else. Though if I were to set you free, my superiors would sever my cods.”

Ciar’s eyes narrowed with his scorn. “Lovely thought that.”

Wilcox moved around the table as if he were dancing a minuet, the fop. “As you are a member of the gentry, I am bound to concede and move you to a private cell—one reserved for officers.”

“Most accommodating of you.”

“I wouldn’t advise being smart with me. I can easily throw you back into the pit with the animals.”

Ciar scowled. He’d rather be in the rodent-infested bowels of this shitehole with the prisoners than in present company.

* * *

“Are you still awake?” Emma whispered, though she knew Betty was fast asleep and had been for quite some time.

The mantle clock chimed twice as she slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the garderobe. Last evening, Emma had sent Betty to fetch a glass of wine and a plate of biscuits and, while she’d had a modicum of time to herself, she prepared everything, ensuring her cloak and kirtle were at the top of her trunk.

Albert’s toenails clicked on the floorboards as she shrugged into the dress and tied the laces. She found the dog’s lead right where she’d put it beside her boots. After she put them on and pulled her cloak around her shoulders, she clipped the clasp to his collar. She took her satchel with her coin, an iron pick, and the biscuits from last eve, then held very still for a moment, not daring to inhale. Only when confident Betty’s light snores filled the chamber did Emma allow herself to breathe.

“Come,” she whispered and led the dog out the door, careful to ensure it closed without a sound.

Once they passed through the corridor, she loosened her grip on Albert’s lead a tad. “Take me to Sam.”

The pup had learned his lessons well and, rather than tug against his collar, he rubbed his body along Emma’s leg while walking at heel. He took her straight to the big oak door, and as she opened it a whoosh of frigid wind bit through her cloak. She clutched the neck tighter and pulled up the hood. “Walk on, laddie. We’re nay about to let a wee jolt of cold stop us.”

As they entered the stable, the air grew warmer without the breeze. Hay crunched beneath her feet. “Where is