Highland Sword (Royal Highlander #3) - May McGoldrick Page 0,3
was about to give up hope of you ever coming.”
Anger sparked, quickly rising like a wildfire into her face, consuming her fear. Her breaths quickened, scorching her chest as they forced their way from her body.
Morrigan turned her head slowly in his direction. He stood with two other men by the brick wall. Gentlemen, by the way they were dressed. One was tall and broad-shouldered. The other stood half a head taller than his companion. They were speaking in low voices now.
The old myths told of swords and bows and spears that sang when the time came for vengeance. Hidden inside her boot, the keen-edged sgian dubh, forged by the smith at Dalmigavie Castle, pressed against her calf.
Morrigan heard its song. She heard the call to act. It was time.
CHAPTER 3
AIDAN
The Maggot, a tough and nasty-smelling neighborhood in Inverness, was little more than a rabbit warren of crumbling cottages, deserted warehouses, and ruined malt houses. On one side of the flat, muddy green used for drying wash, the blackened skeleton of a recently burned distillery stared with vacant eyes at the River Ness.
And everywhere, the poor milled about, crowded into shacks and decrepit houses and filthy alleyways. Mangy dogs and ragged children scavenged for anything of value on the riverbank. All of these Highland folk were victims of the clearances and of the lingering effects of the fateful Jacobite rebellion that had ended here, on a bloody field outside of Inverness, decades ago.
“You’re my only chance, Mr. Grant. The only one I trust to keep me safe. You must keep me safe.”
“I must do nothing,” Aidan retorted sharply. “To be frank, I’d as soon feed you to a pack of hungry dogs, but I’m afraid they’d sicken and die from the effects of you.”
Robert Sparrow, as he was calling himself at the moment, had good reason to fear for his life. So many people wanted him dead that likenesses of him had been circulating among the societies of reformers in cities to the south. But that hadn’t stopped him from moving north and continuing his work in the employment of the British authorities, assisting them in their spying and entrapment operations.
Many Scots, including the throng of poor folk trudging by them now, would certainly relish the prospect of killing this collaborator. Aidan didn’t particularly blame them.
“Beg pardon, sir. I misspoke. I … I’m pleading with you. I’m desperate. I’m trying to make amends for my mistakes.”
Aidan thought of those who’d already been transported or hanged in the cities south of here. It was too late for them. But two more still waited to stand in the dock. It was for their sake alone that he listened.
“You’re the only one I know with a shred of honor. You’re the only one able to get me out of this trouble I’m in.” A wracking cough from deep in his chest shook the man’s body, leaving him gasping.
“What trouble?”
Sparrow was somewhat unsteady on his feet, and he leaned heavily on an ivory-headed cane. Middle of height and build, he was pale, almost ashen, and he was sweating profusely beneath his old-fashioned wig and tall beaver hat. Under the sturdy travel cloak, Aidan caught sight of a suit of forest green and a gold brocade waistcoat. A thistle pin held a stock and cravat in place. He dressed well, courtesy of the blood money received from the hands of his British masters, but not so well as to attract unwanted attention. He held a soiled handkerchief in one hand that he used constantly, dabbing at the pinched corners of his mouth.
“I’ve only just arrived in Inverness, and I can see all their eyes on me. They know who I am.”
A group of young dockworkers coming up from the waterfront passed them, and the informer shrank away, using the tall figure of Aidan’s brother Sebastian as a shield.
“They want me dead. Everyone wants me dead.” Fear was written across Sparrow’s face. “Please. Help me.”
“You’re afraid? Go to your masters.”
“I can’t. The English are after me too. I can’t go to them.”
“Why? What have you to fear from them?”
Sparrow glanced at two red-coated soldiers passing by. “I told them I’d done so much already. I couldn’t help them anymore.”
Aidan was certain the people working for Sir Rupert Burney, the director of Home Office activities in Scotland, had not taken the news too well. The decision to retire was not for an informer to make.
“Their response?”
“They told me to take the coach to Aberdeen. There’d be a