Page 50 of To Love a Scottish Lord (Highland Lords #4)

In the silence, Hamish took a deep breath and continued. “I know what it’s like to consider another human being’s life less important than your own. Mary Gilly does not have that type of heart or damaged soul. Her spirit is generous and loving. She would never have killed her husband.”

For a long time, there was silence in the courtroom, and then the sheriff spoke again.

“I have taken into consideration all that has been said here.” His words, however, didn’t ease Hamish’s increasing sense of dread.

Hamish knew, in that instant, that Mary wasn’t going to escape the sheriff’s punishment.

Sir John stood, an imposing man in his somber attire. Anyone who saw him could easily recognize that he was a man of power and influence. There was no compassion in his eyes, however, and no softness in his tone. Only a note of finality that made Hamish doubt Mary would ever be set free.

“Despite the accused’s reputation, I believe her culpable in the death of her husband. There is sufficient cause for her to be bound over to Edinburgh for trial.” He hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “God have mercy on your soul, Mrs. Gilly.”

The hours ticked by slowly, as if the minutes were carried on the back of a turtle.

Mary stood, then sat on her fragile cot, then stood again to pace the cell.

She knew its dimensions well—a week of residence had acquainted her with every stone, each bar in the window, all the flagstones beneath her feet.

Fourteen steps to the far wall, and ten from the window to the door.

A mausoleum of a cell, it seemed even colder than normal tonight, as if even the stones knew her fate and retained no warmth for her.

She was going to die. Dear God, she was going to die. She hadn’t been able to get the magistrate’s voice out of her mind for the last four hours, his words ringing in her ears as if they echoed back on themselves. God have mercy on your soul.

A man comes to know a woman he admires. A better voice to remember, a revelation that had made her heart stutter. Hamish hadn’t glanced away, but met her gaze unflinchingly, his courage in evidence again. Dearest Hamish.

If she cried, it would be because she’d never see him again, because her life would never again be enlivened by his presence. He’d never make her smile again, or touch her in tenderness and passion. They wouldn’t have hours to talk or laugh or plumb each other’s minds.

Murderess.

Voices outside her cell made her stop and listen.

A few moments later, a burst of laughter split the silence.

She began to walk again, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come tonight.

Should she count the hours until dawn, measure the time until she was taken to the coach that would take her to Edinburgh? How many days were left to her?

Thank God for Castle Gloom. Thank God that she’d ignored every tenet of her upbringing to lust and love. Thank God for those weeks of hedonism and laughter. She would cling to those memories until the moment death came to her.

She was cold, but not from the wintry winds. Tonight, she wore the cloak Hamish had left for her, but it was no comfort against the chill that started deep inside, accompanied by one word. Murderess.

Would he come again tonight? Would it be wrong to pray for such a thing? She wanted desperately to see him again.

“You’ll wear a path in the stone, Mary.”

Turning, she stared at him. She’d wanted Hamish to be real so fervently that for a moment she didn’t comprehend that he was actually standing in the doorway, attired in a dark greatcoat.

“God granted my prayer,” she said softly. “I so wanted to see you one more time.”

Smiling, he shook his head. “I’ve come to take you out of here,” he said.

“It’s much too dangerous,” she said, feeling a bite of regret. “I won’t have you hurt.”

“It might well be,” he said, nodding. “But I prefer it to the alternative. I haven’t a taste for Edinburgh, Mary. Do you?”

“I’ve never been,” she said, feeling an absurd wish to giggle.

“Then let’s see other places in the world instead. I’ve been charting a few in my mind.”

Her heart seemed to stop and then race ahead.

“Where are we going?”

“For now, out of here. We’ll choose our destination later.”

Gently, he placed his hand on the small of her back and urged her toward the door.

“What did you do to the guards?” she asked as they left the cell. Two men were sprawled facedown over the table.

“I didn’t poison them, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, amusement lacing his voice. “A little of Mr. Grant’s excellent whiskey, laced with a sleeping draught.”

“Will they be all right?”

“In the morning,” Hamish assured her.

They slipped down the hall, following a labyrinth of corridors Hamish seemed to know quite well. When she would have said as much, he shook his head and put his finger to his lips. She remained silent.

Finally, they were out a door, but instead of taking the path to the road, he pulled her into the bushes outside the building.

“What are you waiting for?” she whispered.

“Scream.”

“What?” She wished there was enough light to see his face.

“Scream, Mary. We need to attract attention.”

Aghast, she stared at him. “Shouldn’t we be more concerned about escaping?”

“Do you trust me?” He held her hand in his, brought it to his mouth, and brushed a kiss across her knuckles.

“Of course I do,” she answered softly.

“Then scream.”

Her first effort was a puny sound. She tried again, and this sound was less of a warble. The third scream was loud and strong, summoning the guards to the front door. In a matter of moments, it seemed that all the magistrate’s men were pouring out of the building.

“They’ll find us,” she said, panic making her want to turn and run.

“Wait,” Hamish answered, a thread of amusement in his voice. Before she could tell him that now was not the time for such lighthearted emotion, two riders came out of the darkness.

The lanterns in front of the building were not bright enough to illuminate their faces.

The woman’s hood was drawn down over her face and hair; her companion’s cloak was equally as concealing.

They circled the square, chased by three guards on foot.

They easily outstripped the runners and disappeared into the darkness again, the echo of their horses’ hooves a goad to the sheriff’s men.

Hamish placed the back of his arm over Mary’s chest, keeping her pinned against the building. A whisper was enough to silence her when she would have asked another question.

Commands were yelled, horses were saddled, and a force of ten or more guards soon followed the duo into the darkness.

“Who were they?” Mary asked when Hamish released her. They waited for several minutes in the silence before slipping to the edge of the building, and crossing the road.

“A couple you know,” he said, surprisingly. “Micah and Hester.”

“Hester is masquerading as me? Does she know the danger of her ruse, Hamish? The sheriff will not rest until he’s found me.” Sir John’s zeal for justice had been adequately proven these past days.

“He’ll have to find her first,” Hamish answered. “They’re on their way to Nova Scotia, a journey I doubt Sir John will make in search of you.”

“Have you been planning this for long?” she asked, stopping at a corner.

He placed his hand around her elbow and urged her forward.

The hour was late, the night streets nearly deserted, but he was evidently not taking any chances that they might be seen.

They kept to the shadows, away from the light emitted by doorways and windows.

“Did you expect me to leave you there, Mary?”

“You might have been wiser to do so.”

“When have we been wise with each other?” The shadows seemed to accentuate the boyish charm of his smile.

Never. Not from the beginning, and certainly not now, slipping through the silent streets of Inverness hand-in-hand, his cloak around her shoulders.

“How can anyone become a criminal?” she asked breathlessly, as they slowed a few streets away. They began to walk, more sedate now that they encountered a few late-night citizens of Inverness. “I haven’t the nerves for it. I’m terrified that someone will see us and know what we’ve done.”

“I doubt anyone would think you lacking in courage, Mary,” Hamish said.

She didn’t tell him that there were plenty of times when she’d emulated him, hoping for the same type of stoicism that Hamish demonstrated.

A few minutes later, they entered the back of the Grants’ property. There a carriage, lamps extinguished, stood waiting.

“Where are we going? To Castle Gloom?”

“No, they’ll look for us there. To Gilmuir,” he said. “We’ll go there first.”

She grabbed his hand again and entwined her fingers with his.

“You shouldn’t be burdened with the responsibility of my future.”

Whatever he might have said in response was interrupted by the scullery door suddenly opening. Mr. and Mrs. Grant emerged from the house, followed by Elspeth and Brendan. Mary was immediately enfolded in a series of hugs, while Hamish stood apart.

“We have to leave,” he said a few minutes later, his voice sounding loud in the darkness. “Any delay will only jeopardize all of you.”

Hamish went to the carriage and opened the door. He was pulling down the steps when another voice rang out, his orator’s tone startling all of them.

“No.”

Mary turned, staring at Matthew Marshall. He stood at the head of the horses, his face illuminated by the lantern he held. He raised it high and stared at them.

“I’m afraid I cannot let you leave.”