The hour was late. Dougall had left Roisin and Eleanor at their burgage tenement to ready themselves. While they did that, he walked the streets of Stirling to expend some of his nervous energy.
In a move that surprised him—even though he was beginning to learn never to be surprised where Roisin was concerned—the wench had presented two gowns, beautiful enough that they could have been filched from the wardrobe of the queen herself. (Then again, given that it was Roisin, that may be exactly where those gowns had come from.) One was of a deep green velvet, overlaid with golden lace at the bosom. Since it was smaller than the other, this would be the gown Roisin wore. It suited her anyway, matched her impish personality.
The gown that Eleanor would wear was a deep rose-colored silk, with silver thread embroidering the neckline and the sleeves. It was regal and fine, something she might have worn in her life at Glen Craggan. Dougall could not help but be excited to see her in it.
’Tis only because she deserves to wear fine clothes that befit her true station, he told himself. Deep down, though, he knew it was a lie.
Winter was not long off; its icy fingers were clawing at autumn’s door. The chill bit into Dougall’s bones, and he could already see his breath.
He walked up one alley and down another, preparing himself mentally for the test that was to come. It was like preparing for a battle in a way. He found he needed to go through the same rituals—although to be fair, the only battles he’d ever been a part of had mostly to do with cattle raiders. If it came to a fight this night, it would be in the close confines of the corridors of Stirling Castle’s towerhouse cells.
As he walked, his mind wandered back to the previous night. Will had left the tavern in an odd state. The expression on the man’s face had been thunderous, and Dougall had felt it best to let him go, rather than to try to calm him. He suspected it had to do with Roisin, with the part she had offered to play in this night’s action. He’d tried to find Will earlier in the day, but there’d been no sign of him. Dougall prayed that wherever the man was, he was finding a way to accept Roisin’s offer to…help. He prayed Will was able to move past his own offense at the idea, and recognize the selflessness and courage his ladylove had shown.
Turning up another, wider alley, Dougall reached the section of the city where a number of ironmongers plied their trade. Had he been away long enough? How much time did women need to ready themselves, anyway?
Figuring they must be ready by now, he headed back, reaching the burgage by a more direct route. Roisin met him on the landing outside the door to her and Eleanor’s room.
“Ye look ravishing,” he complimented her. And indeed she did, with her wild curls tamed and her thin, underweight face highlighted at the cheeks with some rouge. From what he could tell in the limited light, it looked like real, powdered rouge, and not a substitute of beet juice or crushed berries as was often used by women in the trade. Another thing she’d come by that he probably wouldn’t want to know how.
“Why thank ye, Sir Dougall,” Roisin preened. “I must be dressed the part if I am to be a fancy strumpet tonight. I’d say I stack up gae fine, even if I do say so myself.”
With a pat to his arm, she bounced down the stairs as easily as if she were going to a dance and not to break into a gaol.
Shaking his head at the enigma that was Roisin, Dougall walked through the open door into the room. What he saw took his breath away.
Eleanor stood in the middle of the room. With the glow of every candle and rushlight the pair owned upon her, she was a marvel of peaches-and-cream skin, and luminous eyes the color of whiskey. Her hair had been swept up in an elegant plait that wrapped the back of her head. He could only imagine what such beautiful hair would look like in its original color of gold. The dress Roisin had found for her fitted snugly to her waist and hips, accentuating a bounty of womanly curves that her sack-like tunic had only previously hinted at. The bodice, however, was too large at the top. It had clearly been fitted to a woman with a far more ample bosom. The fabric at the breast dipped lower than it should, making Dougall’s mouth water at the mere sight of her perfectly rounded cleavage.
She regarded him nervously. Her hands fidgeted, first smoothing the waist of her gown, then threading her fingers together, then pressing her palms to her belly.
“How do I look?”
How did she look? She would put the beauty of a full moon to shame. She looked as noble as she was, despite the rouge on her cheeks. She made him want to taste her lips, to feel her body pressed to his.
When he felt a stirring beneath his kilt, he put a halt to all thoughts of what he wanted to do to her, and cleared his throat.
“Ye look wonderful.”
“I feel strange in these clothes. I canna remember what it was like when I wore such fine garments all the time.”
“’Tis probably a good thing ye dinna feel at ease then. If ye look any nobler, ye’d be certain to raise suspicion.”
They stood awkwardly for a time. Dougall tried not to admire the graceful slope of her collarbone, or the way the deep rose silk made the flesh of her neck look as smooth as butter. And he tried (less successfully, to his chagrin) not to admire the way the silk caressed her breasts.
“Why are ye letting me do this?” she said quietly, bringing his gaze back to her face. “Why are ye letting me have a part in this, wi’out a fight?”
Dougall breathed, considering. “I dinna ken. Dinna have words to explain it. In truth, I’d rather no’ try. Every fiber of my being tells me this is wrong. Yet still…”
He trailed off, his voice hanging in the air. He didn’t need to finish. They both knew his thoughts, even without words.
“Shall we go then?” she offered after a time.
Her interruption couldn’t have come a moment too soon. The stirring had started up again beneath his kilt, and he was perilously close to giving away his thoughts. Dougall bobbed his head once. He did not trust his voice to remain steady.
Roisin waited for them on the street outside.
“I hope ye’re both square wi’ yer maker,” she quipped as Dougall offered each woman an elbow.
Together, they set off to walk to the castle. No one said a word the whole way. They’d all been over the details so many times they could repeat them while asleep. If things went according to plan, one of the Douglas rebels who had a strategic position on the gate would admit them. Here, they would need to play up their parts, for the second guard on the gate was the man who was currently holding up the escape attempt. They would have to convince him that they were who they said they were. If they did that, then they were free to continue up to the towerhouse. The guards on the wall walk were not Douglases, but they would have seen the transaction at the gate, and should—if things went according to plan—be put at ease upon seeing the trio admitted.
Two more Douglas transplants were waiting in the lower levels of the towerhouse. They were to be positioned on the stairs lest Dougall and the women be intercepted by any non-Douglas guardsmen.
The greatest challenge would be at the top: Frazer. The success of their plot rested in Roisin’s hands for that one.
The towerhouse loomed ahead, casting a shadow of fear over the city. Above, the sky roiled with fast-moving clouds, exposing intermittent beams of moonlight. All too soon they were within view of the gate.
“This is it, my ladies,” Dougall murmured, giving their arms a squeeze with his own. “No turning back now, the guards have seen us.”
Every guard, it seemed, had seen them. Drawn to the east gate by their comrades to ogle the fancy strumpets, a disproportionate number of guards gazed down from the wall walk.
At the gate itself, two men watched them approach with their hands on the hilts of their swords.
“What be yer business here?” demanded one. Dougall recognized him immediately as one of the men who had been at the meeting at Cnò-Daraich. He prayed the man was uncommonly good at falsehood.
“We’re here for MacLellan,” he answered. “He’s scraped up the coin to purchase my ladies for the evening.” Dougall plastered a confident grin onto his face and made a show of presenting the lasses. Roisin swished her skirt and simpered, coming off remarkably natural. Eleanor, on the other hand, moved stiffly, imitating Roisin as best as she could but falling short.
Was he imagining it, or did the other guardsman’s eyes narrow?
Thankfully, the Douglas man seemed to notice this, too, and jumped in to diffuse his companion’s budding suspicion.
“Is it yer first time to the tower, lass?” he said teasingly. “Dinna fash. Ye’ll get out of here wi’ yer head. ’Tis only criminals we keep in the tower.” To Dougall, he added, “So MacLellan’s stepping up in the world, is he? Tell me, sir, if some of the lads and me scraped up the gold, could we share one of yer fine lasses between us?”
“Sorry, my friend. Ye pay per turn,” Dougall answered, attempting to match the ease with which the Douglas guard bantered. He must have been doing well, for the second guardsman began to smile as he looked from one to the other.
“All right, then,” the Douglas guard allowed. “Can ye find yer way? Up to the top. Go left at the entrance to the wall walk, no’ right. Mind ye dinna cause any trouble, or ’tis my arse on the line.”
“Why would we want to do that? I’m hoping for more business off ye lads.”
With a parting chuckle, Dougall led Roisin and Eleanor away. It took every ounce of strength he had not to break out into a run. Only when they were far enough up the stairs did he start to feel the strain on his nerves. Beside him, Eleanor had begun to tremble noticeably.
“Easy, Nolie,” he murmured into her ear. “Ye must keep it together one more time. ’Tis Frazer we have to convince.”
She took a deep breath. “Frazer, aye. I can calm myself.”
Roisin leaned across Dougall to look at her friend. “’Tis just like at the tavern. Remember how ye changed everything about yerself to be like one of us? Ye were brilliant there, ye’ll be brilliant now.”
The steps to the top never seemed to end. Up and up they climbed. The friendly faces of the Douglas guardsmen inside reassured Dougall as they went.
“My Lady,” said the first, nodding respectfully to Eleanor.
“Good luck to ye,” said the second. “Our hopes are riding on yer shoulders, lass.”
When they reached the top step, they all paused, and took one last breath together.
“Bright now, lasses,” Dougall told them. “Ye’re gae and happy.”
With a final glance to Eleanor to make sure she was smiling, the three marched briskly down a short corridor which opened to a central guard chamber. MacLellan was there to greet them.
“Ye certainly took yer time,” he said, rising from a short stool on which he’d been sitting. He beamed a wide, if strained, smile at them, and extended his hand.
Dougall gave MacLellan’s hand a vigorous pump. “Bloody stairs. I dinna ken how ye do it night after night.”
The second man in the guard chamber leaned against the wall. Dougall took him straight away for the notorious Frazer. He was a hulking, unwashed specimen with thin, greasy hair that fell loose to his shoulders. His eyes bulged from his head as if they were being squeezed from his skull, and the lower half of his jaw was deformed, probably from a wound of some sort. At least Dougall hoped it was a wound and not some kind of whore’s pox. Dear God, for Roisin’s sake, let it not be a whore’s pox.
The man had been whittling a stick with a fine, silver-handled sgian dubh, and glanced up with interest when they arrived. Upon catching sight of the ladies, he stalked forward like a predator.
Dougall felt Eleanor stiffen at his side.
Easy, lass, he thought fiercely. Easy, now. Dinna give us away.
“So this is what yer gold paid for, eh?” Frazer said to MacLellan in a voice that was as ugly as his face.
“Finest lasses ye’ll find in Stirling, my friend. No’ only charming, but well-trained, too.”
Roisin knew her part. She tittered and leaned against Dougall playfully. Following her lead, Dougall pressed his face into the crook of her neck. Then, because he had two lasses on his arms, it only seemed natural to do the same to Eleanor. He leaned into her, too, but either she hadn’t seen what exactly he’d done to Roisin, or she hadn’t paid attention. At the same time that he was aiming for her neck, she turned her face to his.
For a heart-stopping moment, his lips touched hers…and lingered. His breath caught in his throat, and the gaol melted away around him. All threat of danger was forgotten. Lord Albermarle was forgotten. Saints above, his own name was forgotten under the bliss of her lips upon his. Then, what began as a feather-light kiss turned deeper. Whether it was she or he who moved closer was uncertain. Unimportant. Her mouth opened to his, followed by a gentle caress of the tongue. His knees weakened, the floor beneath him ceased to exist.
It could not have been anything but a brief kiss to the others, but to Dougall, time stood still. When the kiss broke, he pulled back and looked into her eyes, feeling stunned. She looked back, as stunned as he was.
“Fine. Aye, fine indeed,” Frazer drawled. “Are they both for ye, or d’ye plan on sharing?”
“I’m no’ a man to flaunt my good fortune in front of others. I purchased this one for ye.” MacLellan pointed to Roisin, who dipped into a curtsey and threw Frazer a coy look from beneath her lashes.
“That one?” Frazer scoffed. “She’s all skin and bone. Nay, I want these pillows to bury my face in.” He reached to squeeze Eleanor’s scantily clad bosom. Instinctively, she took a step back, and MacLellan put his arm out to stop him.
“Ye’ll take what ye’re given and be grateful. That one’s mine. I paid right good for her.”
Frazer was not pleased. He glared at MacLellan, who rose to the challenge and glared back. For a tense moment it looked as though an argument might ensue. It was Roisin who had the presence of mind to put a diplomatic stop to it.
“Och, my dear, ye dinna want her,” she simpered, sliding next to Frazer, and teased a finger over his scarred cheek. “She’s lovely to look at, aye. But the pretty ones never have any skill.” Her finger moved down over his chest, then down even farther, tracing the fabric of his kilt at the junction of his thigh.
“Besides,” she added, then leaned in and whispered something into his ear. Whatever she said made Frazer snap his eyes to Eleanor. His stark features puckered with distaste.
“Right, then,” Frazer announced to MacLellan, “ye take that one.”
He threw an arm around Roisin’s small shoulder, and with a sharp, “Come, ye wee harlot,” he nearly dragged her off. Somehow, Roisin managed to keep her wits and play along, pretending to be pleased.
Worry twisted in Dougall’s gut for the frail-looking lass. He prayed that she truly could take care of herself like Eleanor said.
Godspeed, lass, he thought. We’re counting on ye.
Frazer led Roisin across the central chamber and down a narrow column of stairs. When they’d disappeared from sight, MacLellan’s shoulders slumped, and he exhaled. “That was close. Now come, the both of ye. We haven’t much time.”
He hurried them down one of two offshoots from the central chamber.
“Where are they going?” Eleanor demanded, concerned for her friend.
“There’s a watch post down the steps there, on the other side,” MacLellan answered. “A small alcove in the wall. He’s likely taking her there. Hurry now. If I ken Frazer, he’ll have the business over and done wi’ in no time at all, no matter how skilled yer friend is.”
The offshoot ended abruptly at a locked wooden door. The wood was moldy and moist, but solid. MacLellan took out a large ring of keys that had been tucked inside his breastplate and fastened on a chain to his belt.
The click of the lock was like cannon fire. It echoed off the stone walls so loudly that they all looked behind them nervously in case Frazer had heard. Swallowing visibly, MacLellan grabbed a burning torch from the wall and swung the door inward, sweeping the torch into the inky blackness beyond.
What Dougall saw on the other side of that door hit him like a punch to the gut; beside him, Eleanor let out a strangled gasp. Against the far corner was slumped Lord Albermarle, Edward Douglas—or a shell of the once formidable Edward Douglas. The waif before him was positively unrecognizable from the man Dougall had known. His hair hung in lank strings, pasted to his forehead and skull from the grime of battle that was still on him even two months later. His right leg was in irons, and his left was bent at an odd angle. And he was painfully thin, eyes and cheeks gaunt. Skeletal.
The odor of the cell was tremendous. A bucket had been left for the earl to relieve himself in, but it was overflowing, the contents concentrated. Dougall doubted whether in all this time it had been emptied even once. Making the smell worse was the fact that it looked as though the earl had long ago given up trying to use it.
Dougall recoiled at the stench. But either Eleanor had a stronger stomach than he, or she was made oblivious to it by the shock of seeing her father in such a state. She rushed to his side, throwing her arms around him and sobbing into his shoulder.
“Father, oh, Father,” she wept. “What have they done to you?”
Her impassioned lamentations roused the earl. “Eleanor?”
“Yes, Father. It is your Eleanor, I am here. Can you see me?”
The earl’s hand groped blindly for her head. When he found it, he stroked her hair like she was a child, his eyes staring blindly forward.
“My Eleanor,” he said in a weak, raspy voice. “My beautiful Eleanor. God in his mercy has given me a wonderful dream. A dream of holding my Eleanor one more time.”
“’Tis no dream, Father. I really am here. Your Eleanor truly is here, Father. Look at me.”
She clasped his face with both her hands, forcing him to look upon her.
Dougall knew the moment it registered on him, for the earl’s dazed expression melted, and he began to cry.
“Eleanor,” he wept, pulling her close. “Oh, Eleanor. Ye canna be here. Ye mustna be here. ’Tis no place for one as fair and gentle as ye. Flee, lass. Flee from this hell.”
Dougall glanced to MacLellan. “I dinna like the way he talks. Is he feverish?”
“Nay, I dinna think so.”
Hearing the exchange, Lord Albermarle peered over his daughter’s shoulder, squinting against the torchlight. “Who—who is that?
“’Tis Dougall MacFadyen, Yer Lordship,” MacLellan answered. “From Kildrummond.”
“Ah, yes, Sir Dougall. I remember ye.” The earl’s brow smoothed in understanding. “Ye’ve brought Eleanor to me for the last time, is that it? This is to be my last earthly visit from my loved ones before the king takes my head. I confess I am disappointed; I had hoped to waste away before they set the date.”
Eleanor pulled back. Gripping her father by the upper arms, she shook her head urgently. “Nay, Father. Nay, yer execution has not yet been set. And ye must no’ let yerself waste away. We’ve a plan, Father, a plan to free ye and the rest of the Douglas men here—”
“Are there Douglas men still here? I thought they would have died by now. I havena heard anything from them in a long while.”
“They havena died, Yer Lordship,” MacLellan answered. “No’ all of them, anyway. They’ve been moved to the lower dungeons from the towerhouse a month ago, when it was determined they were of no strategic importance.”
“Nay, they wouldna be, would they? No farmer, no landless peasant would be of any strategic importance. They are no’ even worth fighting for, are they? Best flee to England and leave them to their fate.” Bitterness thickened his words at the reference to the Earl of Douglas’s cowardice.
“But they are important,” Eleanor insisted. “They’re important to ye. To us. They need ye to stay alive, Father. We need ye to stay alive. Ye’re the rallying force, d’ye no’ see? Ye are the reason that Douglases from far and wide have come to Stirling. We’ve come together to free ye. Even now, a plan is nearly in place. So ye see, ye must hang on. For all our sakes. Ye must no’ let yerself die, ye must live!”
The earl looked to Dougall, skeptical. “Is this true, Sir Dougall?”
“It is,” he answered solemnly. “Yer Douglas kinsmen have united to set ye free. But if ye let yerself die, I fear their determination will dissolve. So ye canna let that happen, for the sake of yer fellow Douglas prisoners. The men in here dinna ken it, but they’re counting on ye to pull them through.”
Lord Albermarle glanced from his daughter to the two men at the door, as if considering whether he should believe them. Dougall nodded, doing his very best to convince the earl. It worked. Lord Albermarle leaned his head back against the wall and sobbed silently.
“Oh, Father, dinna cry.” Eleanor clung to him more fiercely. “Please, Father. Dinna cry. Just promise me. Promise me ye’ll do all ye can to stay alive, aye? Do it for me. Do it for yer men.”
He gave a weak, unconvincing nod.
“We havena much time, Nolie,” MacLellan warned.
“Nay, we dinna.” She kissed her father’s cheek. “I have to go now, Father. But I will see ye again. Very soon.”
She embraced him once more and stood. When Dougall saw her face, it broke his heart. The anguish of having to leave her father behind was too much for the lass. As soon as they left the cell and the door had closed behind them, Eleanor covered her face with her hands and wept.
Dougall put his arm around her, holding her to his side as they hastened back along the corridor to the central guard’s chamber.
“Let us hope Frazer is still enjoying his wee gift,” MacLellan murmured behind them.
Frazer and Roisin, it turned out, were indeed nearly finished with one another, but not for the reason MacLellan would have thought. Their encounter couldn’t have gotten off to a worse start. After nearly causing her to fall as he pulled her down a short flight of stairs, Frazer flung Roisin into a recessed watchtower with a window that looked out over the motte. His force was so strong that the momentum would have carried her out into the beyond if she hadn’t anticipated it and put her arms out to stop herself.
“’Tis beautiful, nay?” she said, trying to catch her breath and pretending to be fascinated with the view of the city beyond. “A beautiful sight, that.”
“I dinna give a damn about the view,” Frazer grunted.
He came up behind her, his one and only purpose evident in his careless handling of her. Roisin sidestepped him just in time.
“What’s down there, I wonder?” She gestured to another, steeper flight of stairs.
“Wall walk,” Frazer snapped.
“Oh, the wall walk. Show me? I’ve never been inside the prison before.”
“No.”
Roisin pouted. “Och, dinna be like that. D’ye no’ want to go outside and take yer pleasure? Imagine it—the moon above ye, and yer bare arse to the world as ye’re giving me just what I deserve.”
“I dinna give a damn about the moon or my arse. Now get yerself over here before I beat yer sorry self.”
He was being difficult, the nasty-arse bugger. Simpering was not going to accomplish her goal of stalling him. Making a quick, mental assessment of what she knew of the man so far, Roisin changed tactics. Shrugging, she slinked up to Frazer, who promptly took her by the shoulders and shoved her against the wall next to the watchtower window. A jagged piece of stone dug into her back painfully. She winced, but managed not to cry out. She had one final hand to play, and she was not about to lose her advantage by weeping or some such nonsense.
When his big, scarred hands began to yank up the fabric of her fine gown, she played her hand.
“Sweetling, ye’ve taken me for my skill. Ye dinna want to spoil yerself before ye’ve been taken care of proper, do ye? I’m a high-class whore, after all, paid for wi’ good money. Ye dinna want to use me like ye do some common tavern wench.”
Her words hit their mark. Realizing that this was an opportunity he’d never have otherwise, Frazer considered what she’d said with mild interest.
Roisin wasted no time. Coyly, she snaked her hands down his body, teasing him a little before taking him in hand and stroking him beneath his kilt. Bile rose in her throat as she remembered the reason why she vowed never to do such things again.
It’s for Nolie, she told herself. Nolie needs ye, Roisin. Get a hold of yerself. ’Tis nothing ye havena done before.
“My prices arena meant for a quick bang-bang in the alley,” she continued, persuading Frazer. “My business is pleasure—yer pleasure. Ye’ll be wanting to make the most of my skill.”
He regarded her for a moment longer, deciding whether to ignore her and simply take his pleasure or not. Finally, he relented. His bulbous eyes closed, and he allowed her to do what she would. Roisin did not waste her turn of fortune. She attended him with all the sordid tricks and techniques she had in her arsenal, disregarding the disgust she felt all the while.
“Are ye sure that other one has the pox?” he questioned in between grunts.
“Oh, aye,” Roisin promised. “We share a room, she and I, and I can tell ye, she may have a beautiful face and a beautiful body, but beneath her fine gown she’s covered in boils. They’re catching, too. I keep an account of the men that have had her, and I won’t go near them, for they always come down wi’ the pox, too. Now me, on the other hand, I’m clean. And I’m good at what I do. D’ye no’ like this?”
“Shut yer gob, woman. I didna pay ye to talk.”
Roisin gritted her teeth. Ye didna pay me at all, ye great heifer’s arse.
Though her intimate attentions were indeed giving the man great pleasure, she could only stall for so long. Soon, Frazer tired of her “skill.”
“Enough,” he growled. “I’m ready for ye.”
Roisin prepared herself to be taken with her back against the wall, as she had been in the days when this was her trade. The lusty smile on her lips belied the heave in her gut at the thought of being defiled by such a slimy, ugly man. But, to her shock, Frazer spun her around, flinging her face down and half-hanging off the windowsill. Her arms waved frantically in the night air for a terrifying heartbeat before her hands found the masonry on the outer wall. Bracing herself, she held on for dear life.
Ye’d better be quick, Nolie, she thought desperately. This bastard is bound to be quicker.
And then, This had all better be worth it. If he throws me out the window when he’s done wi’ me, I’d at least like my death to have been for a purpose.
Her legs and abdomen seized, an automatic reaction to the grotesque stiffness of him, pressing and prodding against her. Before he could complete his conquest, though, there was a dull thud. Frazer let out a strange gurgle then released her. Without his hands digging into her hips, Roisin could feel herself sliding farther out the window. Her nails scrabbled at the masonry as her feet lost their grip on the flagstone floor.
Dear God, I’m going to die, she screamed inwardly.
Except she didn’t. Just as her feet left the ground, something grabbed her around the middle, and pulled her back in to the watchtower.
“Are ye all right, lass?” came an urgent voice from somewhere far away. Large, capable hands gripped her by the shoulders, shaking her.
Roisin looked up to see a pair of anxious eyes, set in a kind face, gazing intently at her.
It was Will Douglas, Nolie’s man.
“Will,” she gasped when she caught her breath. “What on earth are ye doing here? What have ye done to Frazer?”
“Dinna concern yerself wi’ him. The bastard deserved it.”
“Is he dead?”
“Nay, just unconscious. Are ye all right?”
Was she all right? Her heart was slamming into her ribs, and her knees were unaccountably shaky. But other than that, and a tender spot next to her spine where she’d hit the jagged piece of the wall earlier, her feet were on firm ground, and her neck was not broken from a fall into the motte below.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Enough about me, why are ye here?”
He did not answer, only gave her a brief look of longing before taking her arm.
Roisin allowed him to pull her away from the watch window and back up the stairs to the central guard’s chamber. And this was how Dougall, flanked by Eleanor and MacLellan, came upon them as they all converged at the same time.
“Will!” Dougall and Eleanor both exclaimed in unison.
“What in the bloody hell is this?” barked MacLellan.
“Will, what are ye doing here?” Eleanor cried. “Ye could ruin the whole thing if someone sees ye.”
“How did ye get in?” Dougall demanded.
Will moved in so that he was toe-to-toe with Glendalough’s captain. Taller by a head, he glared down at him. “I’ll no’ be answering to the likes of ye.”
“Roisin, I hope ye didna have anything to do wi’ this,” MacLellan said in a clipped voice. “No’ when Angus Beag assured us that ye could be trusted.”
Roisin threw her hands up, genuinely affronted. “Dinna look at me. I had no idea he’d be here. One minute I’m hanging out the window wi’ that bastard’s grand old how-do-ye-do poking me, and the next, Will here fells him.”
“Oh God.” MacLellan wiped his face with a hand. “Tell me ye didna kill him, man. How the bloody hell am I going to explain it if Frazer’s dead?”
“He’s no’ dead. He’s just…having a wee lie-down,” Will confirmed sheepishly.
“Well…perhaps it could pass unmentioned if he thinks Roisin knocked him out. If the prisoners are still in their cells, and nothing of his personal property is missing—ye didna take anything, did ye, lass?”
“Och, just his purse,” she sighed, and dug reluctantly into the bodice of her gown. Out popped a small leather drawstring purse. The coins inside jangled lightly as she tossed it to MacLellan.
Eleanor looked sternly at her friend. “Roisin, ye’re no’ fooling anyone. Ye didna just take his purse.”
Dougall smothered a grin as Roisin rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right!” She reached into her left shoe and pulled out a handful more coins, which she plunked into MacLellan’s outstretched hand.
“Roisin,” MacLellan pursued.
The lass looked from Eleanor to Dougall to MacLellan, eyebrows raised in innocence. Then she stamped her foot.
“Fine! Am I no’ to receive any compensation for the indignities I’ve suffered this night?” She stuffed her hand farther down her bodice and pulled out a few remaining coins. Then she plunked those, too, into MacLellan’s hand. “But that’s it. Ye’ve cleaned me out, I swear on my dear mother’s life.”
“Yer mother’s dead, Roisin,” Eleanor pointed out dryly.
Roisin shrugged. “Well, then, ye’d better take this back, too.” She bent and unstrapped from her calf the silver-handled sgian dubh Dougall had seen Frazer whittling with.
“Good Lord.” He wiped his face with his hand. “All right. Are we good? Have we done what we came here to do?”
They all nodded.
“Then we’ll leave ye,” he said to MacLellan. He extended his hand, and MacLellan gave it a good, hearty pump. “Good luck wi’ Frazer.”
They were off, four now, instead of three. Halfway down the tower stairs, Will slipped away to escape from whichever way he’d gotten in.
“Should someone go wi’ him to make sure he gets out okay?” Roisin questioned, uncharacteristically concerned.
“He’ll be fine, lass,” Dougall assured her. “We need ye wi’ us. Ye must be seen leaving the gaol if we dinna want to be causing any suspicion.”
“Aye,” she said. “Aye, ye’re right. Let us leave here, then.”
When they came to the bottom of the stairs, the Douglas man on the gate greeted them exuberantly. Though, Dougall detected a visible strain in his eyes that his smile could not hide.
“So, how did it go? Were yer customers well satisfied?”
“Very satisfied,” he emphasized. Ye’ll want to be taking note of that. My lassies always perform.”
Relief swept over the Douglas guard’s face. “Excellent. That’s just excellent. I’ll have to come find ye when I’ve saved enough to be able to afford ye.”
“Aye. Come find me at…at Druisgear’s place.”
Eleanor’s shoulders shook with mirth at the name. Dougall cursed himself for potentially setting her off.
“Och, Druisgear’s. Aye, I ken it. I’ll do that.”
Nodding a farewell, Dougall led Eleanor and Roisin away, strolling at a leisured pace.
“Druisgear’s place?” Eleanor questioned when they were out of earshot. “As in, Druisgear’s, where ye went to drink back in Kildrummond wi’ my brothers?”
Dougall shrugged and gave her an offhand grin. “Only name I could think of.”