Swift Torree smiled as she swung her beaded reticule in time to her lively stride. It was a braw day in New Town. The bluebells were just beginning to bloom, the apple blossoms smelled like a wee bit of heaven, and the sun had made a rare spring appearance, sparkling on Edinburgh like firelight on brilliants. Stilling her tiny purse so as to avoid striking any oncoming pedestrians, she tucked it tight between her arm and her well-dressed ribcage. Today she wore a walking gown of pink muslin decorated with intricate embroidered flowers she had stitched herself. It was, after all, the details that separated the middling pickpocket from the truly gifted. And she was gifted.
Her pert little sleeves were capped at her shoulders, then hugged her arms all the way to her knuckles, making it frightfully simple to slip recently purloined items from her hand into hiding. Her straw chapeau was wide-brimmed enough to conceal her face, and her undergarments were nonexistent; she was all for keeping up appearances, but why bother with frills no mark would ever have a chance to appreciate.
Besides it was a warm April day and …
Ho there. A likely looking couple had just turned the corner on to Princes Street and was strolling towards her. The woman was small, plump and cute as a kitten. The man was tall and fit, which was rather a disappointment, for though Swift’s name was aptly given, it spoke more of her dexterity than fleetness of foot. Just then, however, the gentleman glanced into the lady’s upturned face, and in that instant Swift recognized his expression: adoration. Fascination. And maybe … if her luck held … maybe a smidgen of obsession.
Swift smiled to herself. Fifteen feet separated her from them, and there was no easier mark in the world than a man in love. It addled his thinking, slowed his reflexes, lightened his mood.
And this one … this one kept his wallet in his breast pocket. How very kind of him. Oh, and the lady, paragon of generosity that she was, seemed to be wearing a diamond bracelet. What a big-hearted lass. That little bauble would go a far ways towards Tavis’s education.
Unfortunately the cobbled walkways were all but empty, making it impossible to appear to have been jostled from behind. Another tactic, then, Swift thought, and gripped the little reticule in her right hand. Inside, the initials SVT were embroidered, but that didn’t bother her. For all she knew her own name had contained just those letters. She’d pilfered the bonny bag from a manor house on Brunswick. Perhaps she should have taken the snuffbox she’d seen there, too, but ’twas wrong to be greedy. Blind Pete had instilled that thought into her consciousness from her earliest memory.
The couple was closing the gap between them. Just enough time to glance into the reticule’s empty interior. Just a second to bobble inattentively on the uneven stone. Just an instant to gasp and teeter and grapple for stability. But too late. Oh dear, she was already falling, hands splayed, skirts flying, and eyes wide with dismay as she lifted them towards the gentleman.
With the grace of a diving swallow, she collapsed five inches in front of him.
“Gracious!”
“Careful there!”
The pair took a guarded step to the rear. Swift knew that without glancing up, knew and realized she must do something quick. A little moan might turn the trick.
She emitted a soft sigh of misery, remained absolutely still and hoped to God her feet were tucked firmly beneath her beribboned skirt. Her gown may be Parisian in design, but her shoes were better suited for the mines … or a lively chase. Despite her eye for detail, she was no slave to fashion. Or anything else come to that.
“My dear?” The lady lisped a little as she crouched. “My dear, are you quite all right?”
“Yes. Yes,” Swift said and lifted her head as if disoriented.
“Here then, you’ve taken a nasty spill. Let me help you sit up.”
“Oh.” She looked into the woman’s eyes, catching her full attention as they clasped fingers. “I fear I am a dreadful clod. Murdoch always says as much.”
“You’re no such thing,” said the lady. “Is she, Henry?”
The man seemed late to the party, but rallied when he realized he was about to look the clod should he fail to show some sympathy post-haste. “Certainly not,” he said. “’Tis these damnable cobbles. Rough as the sea at midday. You didn’t twist your ankle did you?”
“No.”
“Better let me take a look. I’m a physician, you know, and––”
“No!” she repeated and jerked her feet more firmly beneath the lacy hem of her stolen skirt. If the damned thing had any more frippery, she’d be tripping for real and earnest. “I’m quite well. Not to worry.”
“Ah, well, can I give you a hand up at the least?”
She caught his gaze with her own lavender eyes. He had a long, hooked nose, a narrow face, and sallow skin. While Swift was … well … today she had chosen to be almost plain. She’d made certain of that in the small shard of mirror she kept stowed beneath her bed.
“That’s ever so kind of you,” she said, and carefully keeping her homely footwear well hidden, shifted her feet beneath her. She was the best dipper in all of Edinburgh, but it was entirely possible that she’d have to be hot-footing it down Hanover Street in another few seconds. Reaching for his hands, she held his gaze as they rose in unison.
“My thanks, good sir,” she said and smiled tremulously into his eyes.
“’Twas nothing at all. Are you certain you’re quite all right?”
“Of course,” she said, then let her eyes drift closed and bobbled as if about to faint.
He caught her about the waist. “Here now,” he crooned and drew her close to his chest … and his wallet.
“Oh my,” she said and lifted her hand to her heart as if to still its palpitations. It was just a matter of inches and nerve to his inside pocket. Inches, nerve, and the innate ability to appear to be what you are not. “Oh, my most abject apologies.” She stood with her back to the lady and steadied herself on the gentleman’s chest for a fraction of a second. If what Terrible Tull said was true, most things involving men took no longer than that.
“No, no,” she said and straightened resolutely. Her cheeks felt flushed. It was one of her most notable abilities. “I’ve inconvenienced you and your beautiful lady far too long already.” She stepped back, goods firmly stowed away. “Please, do be about your day,” she said, and, happy with her morning’s work, stepped carefully past them.
She hadn’t taken five full strides before a voice from her right startled her. “Nicely done, luv.” A man stepped out of an alleyway, lips twisted with derision. “Quite impressive.”
Her heart stopped dead in her chest. Indeed, she no longer cared if the couple behind her realized she’d robbed them or not. Knobby Hooks had seen her poaching birds in Cryton’s territory. And that was enough to strike terror in any dipper’s heart had she half a brain in her noggin. But she forced a cocky smile, curtsied prettily, and matched his harsh Glasgow accent. “My thanks, good sir. Praps you’ll give us a bob for the performance.”
“A bob is it?” He stepped forward. There was something in his eyes, uncertainty maybe. Could it be that he thought she actually hadn’t recognized him? She would remember Knobby Hooks till the day she died twitching on the gallows and probably long after.
“A bob ain’t nothing for a gent like you,” she said, edging her voice with just a sparkle of flirtation.
“And what would I get for my coin?” he asked and stepped up close.
“You want a wee sample, do ya?” she asked.
He shrugged, mouth tilted up, smug as hell.
She smiled as she reached for his shoulders, tilted her head prettily, then slammed her knee into his crotch. But her aim was a little off. He jerked back. Her knee skimmed his thigh, just injuring him, but that was enough for her. Grabbing her skirts in both hands, she pivoted like a charger and bolted across the street. She could hear him rally before she’d reached the opposite side. He straightened with a growl. The feral sound raised the hair on the back of her neck, but it did nothing to slow her flight. She glanced over her shoulder. He was already giving chase. And he was fast, devouring the distance between them.
She dashed down Castle Street and careened on to Rose. One glance over her shoulder assured her she was not alone. Knobby was behind her and gaining. Up ahead, the market would be bustling with people. Maybe she could get lost in the crowd. Or maybe she’d get snatched by a constable. But there was little choice. Knobby was behind, crowds were ahead.
She turned the corner like a courser digging for the home stretch … and ran smack into a tall gentleman’s back.
She staggered, momentarily stunned. He bobbed forward a few steps, then turned slowly. “I say, what goes on here?” His expression was stern, his tone the same, suggesting London roots. But she realized those truths in only a vague sort of way, for he was wealthy.
He was wearing a fob watch on his waistcoat, a black billycock on his head, and a sharp-cut ruby on his right ring finger. For a moment the entirety of Swift’s attention was riveted on those facts, but a squeal from behind brought her abruptly to her senses.
“My apologies, sir.” Her London accent was a bit rusty, but she pushed ahead. “I fear I’m in a terrible rush. I was to meet my dearest father at the …” Behind her, a man growled a warning. Feet scuffled. She imagined Knobby careening towards her. Her mind stalled, frozen in terror, but she kicked it impatiently back into gear, raised her gaze past the gentleman’s left ear and found inspiration in the small stone church at the end of the street. “At the chapel,” she finished breathlessly, “And I must away.”
It was all she could do to remain steady as she strode past the venders and hawkers that lined the boulevard. Behind her in the growing crush, a woman gasped and a man cursed. Reaching up with stiff fingers, she slipped the straw chapeau from her head. Every fibre in her ached to glance over her shoulder, but she resisted. Instead, she pulled the copper pins from her hair and dropped them into her reticule. Chestnut curls fell around her face and down her back as she shifted her eyes side to side, searching for relief. And then she saw it.
Two young men were watching the crowds from a dark alcove. One was tall and gawky, one near her own height. And now she did chance a glance over her shoulder. Knobby was not yet in sight.
“I’ve a proposition.” She joined them in the shadows. They straightened abruptly. Perhaps their cocky, devil-may-kill expressions should have scared her, but she knew nothing of these boys, and far too much of Knobby Hooks.
“A proposition?” said the gawky one and shifted his weight restlessly. “Might it involve you flat on your back with me––”
“It involves this hat,” she said, and kept herself from wasting precious time by listening to him jabber.
“Methinks I’m more interested in you.”
“How about in this?” she asked and held up a fob watch. She hadn’t really meant to take it from the gentleman she’d last bumped into, but if he didn’t want it filched why did he wear it right out in the open like that?
“You giving us a watch, Strawberry?” asked the shorter of the two.
“I shall,” she said, “if you’ll wear the hat and run through the crowds until you reach the square.”
They stared at her for a second, then snorted in derision.
“Tell me this then, Strawberry, why don’t we just grab you and the watch all together?”
She took time to give them her most comely smile. She’d left plain behind some minutes ago. “Because I’ll knee you in the forbiddens and scream bloody murder. How long do you think you’ll last when that swell mob finds you molesting one of their own?”
“I think––”
From some yards away a man’s affronted voice rang out. “Hey there, watch what you’re about.”
“Time’s up!” she said. “Do it or don’t.”
“I’ll do it,” said the shorter of the two, and snatching the hat from her hand, slammed it on to his head. She handed over the watch with barely a shiver of regret, and then he was gone, leaping from the alcove towards Charlotte’s Square.
Swift hid in the deepest shadows, but even from there she could see Knobby dodge past, skirting skirts and careening after her straw chapeau.
She almost smiled as she watched him go, but just then she noticed a baby-faced constable scowling in the direction of the rapidly retreating Knobby. Chances were good the authorities would never connect her with the criminal element dressed as she was, but there seemed little reason to take chances. She’d had a fine, relaxing morning thus far and had no wish to ruin it now. So, dodging her eyes right and left, she stepped from the alcove and strode to the end of the street. Ducking her head in silent reverence, she opened the arched, iron-bound door of a small, stone kirk. Inside, it was cool and dim. A dozen stout candles flickered near the chancel.
She paused momentarily, admiring the stain glass windows, the vaulted ceiling, the trio of wooden confessionals.
She’d always appreciated churches. They were fine places to hide. Quiet and dark, they more often than not had a mite box set out to collect alms for the poor.
She was poor.
Bowing her head, she made the sign of the cross against her chest as she’d seen others do. Kneeling on a padded plank, she glanced surreptitiously from side to side. No one seemed to be minding the store. And, thank the good and gracious Lord, there was the collection box. Iron bound, it was cylindrical in shape and crafted of dark wood. A small slit had been cut into the top and it was kept by a rusty metal hasp.
God was with her.
Opening her reticule, she rose to her feet and stepped forward. To an observer, it may well have seemed as if she was fetching a coin. Instead, a small copper pin came away in her hand.
Head bowed again, she sheltered the wooden box with her body while fiddling soundlessly with the lock. In less than ten full seconds it made a rusty creak as it popped open. One more glance to the rear assured her she was alone. The top rose almost soundlessly.
Her fingers were as quick as minnows as she fished out the coins and dropped them into her reticule. One more. Just one more and––
“Might I help ye, child?”
Her breath froze in her throat. The voice came from behind her, cutting off her exit. But surely there was another door. Without moving her head, she glanced right and left. No hope on either side. Easing the mite box closed, she prayed the man behind her was short, ponderously fat and older than black pepper. The lock clicked quietly as it sank home. She gritted her teeth, then fixed a humble expression on her bonny face and turned slowly, eyes lowered.
“Father.” She said the word reverently and raised her gaze to meet his. Her eyes travelled up a goodly distance, but they did not encounter the woollen robes she’d expected. Instead, he was dressed in a simple tunic and dark tartan. Belted at his lean waist with a broad strap of leather, the plaid was pinned at his brawny shoulder with a brooch the size of her fist. Beneath the plaid, his thighs bunched with strength. Every shifting muscle spoke of power. His hair, however, was laced with grey. A small indication, perhaps, that the Lord did, indeed, have a rare sense of irony.
“Oh …” She smiled shyly. “I assumed you were a priest.”
He remained absolutely silent, neither confirming nor denying. If intimidation was his intent, he had a fine start; muscles roiled like mooring lines beneath the turned-up sleeves of his tunic. She swallowed but refused to fidget. “Well, I’d best be off. I but came to leave a wee contribution for the city’s poor,” she said, and making sure her little purse was well hidden in the folds of her voluminous skirt, glided towards the door.
He said nothing. She could feel the tension build in the soles of her feet and creep up the back of her legs, but she held steady. Many had fallen from weak nerves. She would not be amongst them. Not Swift Torree of Canongate. Instead, she let her reticule fall gently against the slope of her gown and tumble noiselessly behind the solid leg of a pew meant for a parishioner not important enough to obtain one of the private boxes. Though she was loathe to leave it, ’twas far better to be parted from it for a time than to be caught red-handed with the alms in her possession.
“’Tis very generous of ye lass,” he said finally. His Highlander’s burr seemed to rumble from the very earth beneath them, but she managed to inhale and lowered her gaze modestly. Even staring at the floor, however, she could tell he was already stepping forward, stealing the air from her lungs. And though she told herself to remain calm, she couldn’t help but snap her attention to his stern countenance.
Their gazes met and melded, his as grey as a winter storm.
“Is something unright, lass?” he asked.
Unright how? Did he suspect her of thievery? Or—
“Mayhap there be somemat ye wish to tell me?”
“No!” she blurted, but caught herself and lowered her lashes carefully. Who the hell was he? A priest in plain clothing? A parishioner? A guard? A braw Highlander meant to test the fortitude of frail maids? The last seemed most likely, for though his face was stern and unyielding, it spoke volumes of strength and self-control. If a body needed protecting, he’d be just the sort for the task. Luckily for Swift, she was not the needy kind. Nor was she the type to dwell on girlish dreams, though there was that about him that prompted them. “Well, yes. Yes, there is something,” she admitted. “I fear I have sinned.”
“Have ye now?”
“Might I …” She glanced at the narrow trio of rooms set aside for sinners. Had her luck held, the damned boxes would have been adjacent to the door, but anywhere was better than near the alms box. “Might I make an admittance?”
He studied her. He was close now, within four strides. If she bolted would he catch her? He was not a young man, probably past five and thirty years, but judging by the size of his thighs she rather doubted another fifty would make him slow enough to best.
“Might ye mean a confession?” he asked.
“Yes. Of course.” She felt herself blush. How the devil had she forgotten that word? “Might I make a confession?”
“Aye,” he said and remained absolutely unmoving.
She scowled a little. “I meant … in the …” She glanced towards the boxes, but when she turned back, he was just lifting his gaze from the floor. Had he noticed her shoes? Tipped on to the edge of panic, she stood very still, not deigning to draw her feet beneath her skirts. Surely that would do nothing but signify guilt. And who was he to judge her attire? He was garbed in a wee skirt, for God’s sake. Though, in truth, he wore it well. And the tiny, leather-wrapped braid beside his left ear did even less to decrease his manhood. “I meant in one of them confessional …” She caught herself just before spinning into her native tongue. The inhabitants of Old Town’s Canongate were not known for their elegant speech. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin a little. “I was hoping to be seated in one of the confessional boxes.”
“But the confessionals are to hide one’s identity,” he said and for an instant something flickered in his eyes. She couldn’t quite make out what it was. “And I’ve already seen your face, lass.”
“Well …” Was there interest in his expression? Was he attracted to her? Because she sure as hell could work with that. “Perhaps you could forget,” she said and glanced coyly through her lashes.
His lips twitched with humour. “I fear the Lord has blessed me with a long and faithful memory, lassie. I shan’t forget features such as yours.”
So he was attracted. Praise God! “You’ve a distinctive visage yourself, Father.” She was desperately digging for information regarding his reason for being there. Did priests go about in Highlander garb now and again? She had no way of knowing. It wasn’t as if she spent her days in the company of clergy, but her words concerning his features were true nevertheless. Although he was by no means a pretty man, his jaw was chiseled and broad, his chin well nicked by a scar that ran out of sight towards his throat.
“Distinctive,” he said and chuckled a little.
The sound was deep and soothing. She smiled, allowing herself a moment of pleasure at the sound. “Did I use the wrong term?”
He shrugged his shoulders. Even through the voluminous tunic they looked heavy with muscle. “I suspect distinctive is well suited,” he said. “’Tis the word ‘father’ that failed the test.”
“You’re not …” She raised her brows, searching for words that wouldn’t make her sound like an uneducated guttersnipe, though the description would be apt. “Not ordained?”
“Nay. I am but a postulant hopeful.”
So he could copulate without guilt. Or at least he could hope to copulate with less guilt. God was gracious. “Well,” she said, and took a step forward. She wasn’t above using the heady aura of attraction that lay like opium smoke between them. “Humility looks good on you. But surely postulant hopefuls can hear confessions as well as any.”
They were very close now, forcing him to bend his broad neck to look down at her. Just a few more inches and she would be within striking distance.
“And what grievous sins has such a wee lass as ye committed?”
The question caught her off-guard, for there was no flirtation in his tone. Indeed there seemed to be earnest concern. Concern she wanted no part of. “I thought all sins equal in the eyes of the Lord.”
His brows rose slightly. “You know the scriptures, lass?”
She shrugged modestly. Blind Pete had taught her to read even before he’d trained her to lift a brooch. Thievery had proven to be the more valuable of the two, but quoting biblical passages had come in handy at times. She hadn’t foreseen a use for it on this particular occasion, but she had learned long ago to roll with the punches, literally and otherwise.
He took a seemingly unconscious step closer. Perhaps she would be wise to leap for the door, but she doubted her ability to best him in a footrace. Surely it was not his masculine allure that kept her there. Nay, she stayed only to incapacitate him. And for that she needed proximity, which she now had. They were inches apart, their bodies all but touching.
She gazed up at him. He looked down at her. Neither breathed.
“I know scriptures well enough to realize I’ll sin again,” she said, and gripping the belt that encircled his waist, rose on her toes as if to kiss him. His eyes seemed to darken as she drew nearer.
Their lips almost met. His parted.
“By kneeing a postulant hopeful in the stones?” he asked.
“What?” Startled, she tried to step back, but he had already caught her wrist.
“Or were you about to confess for stealing the alms, lass?”
She tugged at her arm. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Alms that are meant to aid the city’s impoverished youth.”
“You’re mistaken. I put coins in the box just for that reason.”
“Ah, so you’re concerned with the wee ones that land in the gutters and brothels of this dark city?”
“Of course.”
He watched her, eyes as steady as stone. “Then we’d best check to make certain your donation got safe to its destination,” he said and began tugging her towards the mite box.
“Release me!” she insisted, but the air had all but abandoned her lungs, leaving her voice weak. She drew a deep breath, remembering the image she had so carefully erected. She would play it till the end, professing her innocence. ’Twas the only way to win the day. “Loose me this instant!” she demanded. “Or I shall scream for the constable.”
He turned towards her, one brow raised over stormy eyes. “That I doubt,” he said.
There was challenge in his face. And try as she might, she had not yet learned to resist a challenge.
“Help. Help me!” she shrieked.
She expected him to release her, or at the least, to jerk in surprise, perhaps allowing her a chance to escape, but he barely shifted a muscle.
She caught his gaze with hers, meeting the challenge full on. “Rape!”
The iron-bound door at the end of the ancient kirk thudded open. A constable raced into the sanctuary.
“You there, unhand … Mr Mackay?” He slowed to a walk, his tone uncertain. “I thought I heard someone scream.”
“Aye,” said the Highlander, his gaze never shifting from hers. “’Twas the wee lass here.”
“Oh?” He lowered his gaze to hers. ’Twas the baby-faced constable she’d seen but minutes earlier by the alcove where she’d handed off her chapeau. Her heart was beating like a hammer in her chest. Had he seen her pass her bonnet off to the gawky lad? Had he guessed her intent? “Is something amiss, lass?”
“Yes. This man …” Her mind spun. She hadn’t a leg to stand on. She’d gambled and lost, but surely it was better to deal with a man of the church, no matter how damnably unflappable, than a constable paid to bring in her sort. “This man startled me.”
“Startled you?”
“I shouldn’t be so fidgety. Everett tells me so time out of count. But my mind had wandered. You see, my poor father is so dreadfully ill, and I’ve been caring for him endlessly. I don’t think he’s going to last much …” she began, and sniffling softly, buried her face in her free hand.
“Oh.” The constable shuffled his feet uncomfortably, suddenly eager to be off. “Is that what happened, Mr Mackay?”
The Highlander was silent for several tense seconds. She prayed for divine intervention.
“’Twas sommat like that,” he rumbled.
There was a moment of silence. “Well then, I’ll leave you to comfort her,” said the constable, and hurried away.
When the door closed, Swift lifted her head and scowled. Mackay raised one brow and stared a question.
“I had no wish to find trouble for you,” she said.
“Is it me that should be worried?” he rumbled.
“What would the good constable think if he found you accosting a perfectly innocent woman?”
“Innocent are ye, lass? And here I thought ye had sinned.”
“In the past,” she said. “Minor offences. I certainly did not take the church’s money. I would do no such thing.”
“Me own mistake then, lass. Let us fetch your wee bag. I believe ye dropped it beneath the front pew,” he said and began dragging her in that direction.
“I don’t have a …” she began, but he was already bending to retrieve her little purse. Frantic, she kicked at his face, but he twisted abruptly. The blow struck his shoulder. He grunted slightly but didn’t loosen his grip on her arm.
“Sir?”
Swift jerked her gaze to the right. A boy of nine or so stood twenty feet away. A red stain marred his cheek, but his eyes were bright.
“Is something amiss, sir.”
“Nay, Rye, all is well.”
The boy’s brows rose above mischievous eyes. “I thought fisticuffs were forbidden, sir.”
The Highlander’s brows lower slightly. “We’re not fighting, lad.”
The boy’s lips twitched in uncertainty.
“We’re not fighting are we, lassie?” the Highlander rumbled.
Although Swift would never be certain why, she straightened her back and shook her head. “Certainly not. That would be wrong.”
“There now, go back to your bread and jam,” Mackay ordered.
The boy skimmed his quick gaze from him to her. “And you’ll join me?”
“As soon as I’m able,” he vowed, and the lad disappeared.
Mackay sighed, straightened, and tugged Swift back to the front of the sanctuary. Their gazes met, and then, with one callused hand, he opened the draw string top of her reticule and dropped the contents on to the baptismal font. A wallet, a diamond bracelet, a ruby ring and a mixed handful of coins clattered on to the stone font, spraying against the solid, ceramic pitcher that stood in the exact centre.
She made her eyes go wide. “How dare you rummage through my private possessions like a wild boar on a rampage?”
“Your possessions, lass?”
She almost winced as she noticed the name stamped into the wallet’s fine leather.
“So you’re … Sir Edgar Templeton?”
A string of curse words stormed through her head. But she had set her course, thus she held them at bay as a dozen possibilities presented themselves. All of them were flawed. Thus, she cried. It was as simple as that. Her eyes teared up on command. Her nose began to sting, and one hot droplet rolled down her unhappy cheek. She sobbed gently, prettily.
He watched her. “It won’t work, lass.”
She hiccupped, as pathetic as a lost babe. “What … what won’t work?”
“Half the young ones in Edinburgh be going to bed hungry most nights of the week. The other half is beaten or raped. Consider yourself fortunate I’m letting you go free,” he said and loosed her arm.
She staggered a little. “What?”
“I’m setting you free,” he said. “If you’ll vow not to steal …” He paused, seemed to read her face and toned down his conditions. “If you’ll vow not to steal from this wee small kirk again.”
She narrowed her eyes and watched him. “What do you want?”
“What’s that, lass?”
“I won’t prostitute myself.”
“But you’ll steal for Cryton.”
She felt herself tense at the sound of his name. Cryton was the personification of evil. “Not so long as I draw breath,” she said.
He nodded. “’Tis good to know ye draw the line somewhere, then.”
She watched him in silence for a moment. “You’re setting me free with no strings attached?”
He nodded once.
“Why?”
He straightened his back, broad and intimidating. “What’s that?”
“I asked you why you’re doing it.”
“Surely a scholar such as yerself kens that the scriptures has a good deal to say concerning forgiveness.”
“So you’re …” She shook her head. “So you’re just going to let me walk out of here.”
“Aye.”
“Even though the constable is just outside the door.”
He shrugged as if weary. “Ye made a fair play of it for a bit, lass. I was beginning to doubt meself.”
“What the devil gave me away then?” she asked and tilted her head at him, curious.
“Naught but the evidence. I fear I saw ye drop your wee bag.”
“And what of my shoes? Surely you noticed them ugly buggers,” she said, lifting her right foot for inspection.
He glanced at her homely footwear, unsurprised. “You don’t command the Black Em …” He paused. “I’m fair observant.”
She remained silent for a moment, thinking. “You were military.” She’d heard of the Black Embers. The ensuing tales of heroism and bravery were rarely considered true, but there was something about this man that made the ridiculous seem plausible. She watched him. He had the bearing of a general. The build of a god. “You look the part.”
He said nothing.
“A brawny bloke like you must have made a fair bit of coin at it.”
Still he remained silent.
“More than you can come by here,” she said. “Even if you claim the mite box yourself on a fair regular basis.”
He made a quiet sound of derision. “You’d best be off now before the constable––”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because he might not believe you’re the blushing innocent the second time around, and Father Thomas takes theft rather––”
“Why are you here?” she asked.
He watched her, face solemn. For a full ten seconds he failed to answer. But she waited.
“Have you ever caused a man’s death, lass?”
She shook her head.
“’Tis a hideous thing. A horrible soul-wrenching thing. But it cannot compare to the death of a child.”
She said nothing.
“War …” He shook his head. The tiny braid brushed his left ear. “’Tis the children what suffer most. The wee––” He stopped, drew a heavy breath and forced a laugh. “Truth be told, I quit when I became weary of the scars. The church is more staid. Less violent,” he said and rolled the shoulder she had kicked only moments earlier. “Usually.”
“So that’s why you joined the kirk here.”
“Aye.”
She nodded. It was a lie, and not a particularly good one. “I don’t suppose you’d be a sweetmeat and let me take the bracelet.”
He shook his head once. “It’ll fetch a fair bit for the lads.”
“So you’ll not try to find its owner?”
He shrugged a heavy shoulder. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. I dare not question his methods.”
She chuckled, charmed by the spark in his eyes. He’d seen pain. That much was clear. But he was not beyond seeing happiness. ’Twas a rare gift these days. “I don’t think you and I are so very different, Mackay.”
“Your fingers be a good deal smaller. Better for sleight of hand.”
She smiled and turned away. “Would you believe me if I said I, too, was trying to free a young lad from poverty?”
“I fear our brief acquaintance has made me a wee bit of the sceptic.”
She stopped at the baptismal font and glanced over her shoulder at him. “I promised old Pete I’d see to Tav’s care.”
“Blind Pete?”
“My mother,” she said, then laughed at his expression. “Or as close to one as I’ve known. He took me in when I had nowhere else.”
“And this Tav?”
“Just another urchin he fostered. Too big for the chimneys, too small for the mines,” she said and didn’t admit that the lad’s happy smile had stolen her heart years ago, long before old Pete’s death. “I hope to see him educated. Find him a trade.”
“There are better ways to go about it than this, lass.”
She heard him approach from behind, felt his hand on her shoulder, and knew he was not immune to her charms.
“Like I says, I’m not one for whoring.”
“’Twas not exactly what I had in me mind,” he said.
She turned her head slightly. The chemistry was back, that sharp twang of interest sparked by his strength and an unexpected sense of humour. But she had no need for chemistry. “Ah, shall we call it love then?”
He paused a second. “If you like,” he said and turned her towards him. But in that instant she lifted the solid pitcher and swung for his head with all her might. It struck the side of his pate like a hammer. He staggered back. It wasn’t until that moment that she noticed the bracelet dangling from his fingers.
He stared at her, then dropped to his knees, big body slumping. “I but meant ye could keep the brilliants,” he said.
“Oh,” she breathed, but a commotion outside caught her attention. No time for regrets or apologies or second guesses. Snatching up her purloined possessions, she fled.
“So you insist on continuing on this foolhardy path?” Father Thomas’s tone was disapproving, his face pinched as he leaned heavily on a hewn oak cane.
“I was a stranger and you took me in.” Brenan Mackay enjoyed quoting scripture to Father. It made him livid. “When I was hungry––”
“I know the gospel of Matthew far better than a bloody mercenary.” The old man oft reminded Mackay that he did not belong behind hallowed walls.
“Then you’ll know ’tis our duty to help those in need.”
“They’re thieves and cutthroats, born of thieves and cutthroats,” Father said. “You truly believe you can set them right?”
“I believe we can but try.”
“As you tried with that girl?”
Mackay stifled a wince, remembering the feel of the pitcher against his head. Not a single dent had appeared in the pitcher. He couldn’t say the same of his head. “As I said at the outset, I am sorry to have lost the coins.”
“As well you should be. It is not as though we took you in for your spiritual gifts, Mackay.”
They had taken him in in the hope that his massive presence would discourage just the sort of thing that had happened with the girl. Well, for that and the coin he had to offer the coffers. She had been right, after all; killing people had paid considerably better than saving them. Thus, they had struck a deal; he would guard the sanctuary in exchange for the right to collect money in an effort to free a child from poverty now and again. “I believe I have guarded the church well enough these past nine months,” he said.
“Had I known you’ve a weakness for women I would not have accepted you at the start.”
“We all fall short of the glory of God.”
“Don’t quote scripture to me, you hulking Highlander.”
Mackay almost laughed. He shouldn’t enjoy seeing his superior riled. He was sure of that, but the girl … Swift Torree … he had learned her name some days after first hearing her melodious voice, would turn the head of any man who still breathed. Except perhaps Father Thomas. His fondness for ale made all other weaknesses dim by comparison.
“As you are sure aware, I replaced the coin that was taken with me own. Added to that what’s been collected in the past, I believe I have enough to free a wee lad from the streets.”
“You’ve replaced the coin.”
“Aye.”
“That makes me wonder from whence a postulant of this humble church secured those funds.”
So he was a postulant now. Earlier, he had been informed that he would not be accepted to that lofty position until he had proven himself worthy.
“No answer to that, Mackay?”
He brought his attention back to the aging clergy. “Be not curious in unnecessary matters; for more things are shewed on to thee than––”
“Cease––” cried the priest and raised his cane as if to strike, but Mackay caught it easily.
“I shall be going to Cryton’s hovel,” he said, “and I shall take the coin with me.”
Turning, he dropped the money pouch into the horsehair sporran that hung from his belt and left the ancient kirk. It was only a middling walk to Old Town. Less than a full mile. The city disintegrated with every stride.
Near Gregor Wynd, an old woman sat hunched and immobile on a stump fashioned into a stool. Outside a tilted pub, a dog leaned against its leash and snarled a slavering warning.
At the corner of two crooked, unmarked streets, a tall, narrow house slumped towards an alley. Its foundation was sagging, its mortar crumbling. Two men lounged beside the listing door. One was tall and scrawny. The other was short and scrawny.
They rose warily to their feet as he stopped nearby.
“Sod off,” said the smaller of the two.
“Good day to you, too, lad,” Mackay rumbled.
The pair glanced narrowly at him then each other.
“Who the devil are you and what do you want?”
“I am naught but a man of peace,” Mackay said and gave them his best smile, but some had likened his best to a snarling glower.
“Gaw, them men of peace be awful big buggers these days ain’t they?” the tall one said and his companion guffawed.
Mackay made certain his own expression never changed. To this sort fear was like the scent of blood to a starving hound. “I’ve come to see Cryton.”
The short, scrawny lad shifted restlessly. “I don’t know no one by that name.”
“Nay?” He held his smile with stout resolve. “Then I’ve come to see whoever you’re beholden to.”
“I ain’t beholden to no man,” said the tall one, but just then the door opened. A round-faced fellow with a top hat set at a jaunty angle sauntered through, his right arm thrown over the bare shoulders of a woman one could only call a trollop.
“Ho there, what goes on here?” he asked, voice jovial and a little too loud.
“This bloke here says he wants to talk to Cryton. I says I don’t know no one by that name.”
The man in the top hat shifted his gaze to Mackay and smiled. “Brother Brenan,” he said. “You have to forgive Kerry here. He don’t have no good memory. ’Tis a pleasure to see you again.”
Mackay remained as he was. He was a man of peace, but at times such as these it was difficult to remember why. “I’ve come for a boy,” he said.
The man called Cryton stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head and guffawed at the murky sky. “Ah, you wouldn’t know it to look at him would you, luv?” he said, addressing the girl at his side. “But the big beast of a Highlander here has a weakness for the lads.”
The girl turned her eyes towards Mackay, but they were all but dead to the world. Too far gone to save. He had seen it a hundred times.
“I heard you have a child called Burch.”
“Burch?” Cryton grinned again. His teeth were straight and unstained. His soul was not. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Brother. We’re good-hearted people here. But we ain’t running no foundry.”
“Nay, you’re––” Mackay began, but stopped himself carefully. “I’ve coin for his release, same as the last time.”
“Release! You make it sound as if we’ve got children chained to the walls. That’s not the case atall, is it, Sil?”
The tall fellow shook his head.
“Sure we stumble across the odd orphan now and again, but we do the godly thing. Give them a place to sleep, maybe a loaf of bread to keep ’em from death’s yawning door.”
Anger rumbled ominously in Mackay’s innards. “You make them steal and beat them senseless if they fail to produce––” He stopped himself again. “As I said at the outset, I’m a man of peace and willing to pay for the child.”
Cryton canted his head. “Wear out the last lad so soon, did you?”
Mackay felt his hands grind into fists. “There are brothels and rum houses on half the streets in this burg. Bring the boy out now or I’ll take me coin elsewhere.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t have no spare lads lying about.”
Mackay stared at him a long moment, then nodded once and turned away, but Cryton caught his arm. Mackay stared at the hand on his biceps, kept his emotions in careful check, then slowly glanced over his shoulder at the offender.
The younger man dropped his hand and took a cautious step back. “All the lads are out earning their keep.” He grinned, but his cockiness had frayed a bit. “Delivering milk and whatnot. Ain’t that right, Annie, luv?” he asked. She nodded vaguely, eyes bruised and ancient.
“Why don’t you come in and sit for a bit?” Cryton invited. “They’re certain to be back soon.”
“Aye.” The shorter of the two guards pushed the door wide. It moaned like a tortured ghost. “Aye, come on in. We’ll fetch you some tea and crumpets.”
Mackay knew better than to comply. Knew a serpent when he heard its hiss, but according to his sources the boy named Burch had just arrived there two days before. Not too long to bring him back from the brink. Not too long to find his soul.
He took a long step across the broken threshold.
Inside, it was dark and musty. Debris was scattered across the bare wood floor. He scanned it briefly. No children were in sight, but a slim woman stood against the far wall with her back to them. She was dressed in a ragged, grey frock facing a window that had long ago lost its panes.
“Here we are. Home sweet home. It looks a bit rough now, but … Swift!” His tone took on a bright menace. “I believe I told you to clean up this mess.”
Mackay’s heart thumped at the sound of the name, stopped as she turned towards them.
It was her in flesh and blood. The lass who had struck him unconscious. The lass who had stolen the kirk’s alms. But what had they done to her? There was a welt on her temple and purple bruises stretched like long fingers across her throat. Chains encircled her ankles, chafing the skin of her bare feet, but her eyes were the same, sparking with intellect, snapping with life.
Their gazes met with a clash. For a second there was something there. Hope or regret or fear. He wasn’t sure which, but in a moment she turned to Cryton and smiled. “Go to hell.” Her voice was as softly melodious as he remembered.
The villain’s lips curved into a snarl. Then he leapt across the floor and struck her across the face. She staggered back, hitting the wall with a sickening thud.
The sheer violence of it stole Mackay’s breath away, but Cryton was moving again, grabbing her by the hair, drawing back his fist for another strike.
Without being entirely aware he had moved, Mackay crossed the distance and caught the villain’s wrist, twisting hard, then turning to watch the room at large.
“Hey!” Sil yelled. “Let him go ’less you want your brains spattered clear to Holyrood.”
Mackay stood perfectly still, eyes steady on the man with the pistol. “I’m a man of peace.” The words were more for himself than anyone. A mild reminder not to snap the other’s arm like a dry chicken bone. “Don’t make me do something for which I must pay penance.”
“Get your fookin’ hands off me!” Cryton snarled.
Mackay smiled. The expression felt predatory and tight. “That which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth the man.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Cryton hissed, bent away at the waist.
“I’m talking about you telling the tall scrawny lad there to put the gun down.”
“Go to––”
Mackay cranked up his arm a little, refusing to enjoy the other’s whimper of pain.
“Sil!” he shrieked. “God dammit, drop the pistol.”
“But––”
“Drop it!”
Mackay watched it hit the floor and drew a careful breath through his nose. “Now tell the other scrawny lad to drop the knife.”
“He ain’t got no––”
A little more pressure on his arm. “Tell him.”
“Kerry!”
An eight-inch blade struck the hardwood.
“Much better.”
“You’re dead, you’re worse than dead,” Cryton snarled, but Mackay ignored him.
“I’ve changed me mind,” he announced to the room, looking at no one in particular. “I want the lass there instead of the boy.”
A slow smile spread across Cryton’s pale complexion. “Titties like that could make a saint randy, aye?”
Mackay refrained from shattering the bone, though it was a close thing. “You’ll let her go,” he said.
“The fook I will. She was poaching goods on my turf.”
“Leave her to me. She’ll poach no more.”
“Going to keep her too busy on her back to––” he began, then grunted in pain.
“Unchain her and I’ll give you the coin intended for the lad.”
Cryton sniggered. “You’re bad cooked, old––”
“What lad?” Swift asked.
Mackay didn’t turn towards her, though he heard her chains clatter as she moved. “Release her,” he ordered.
“What lad?” she asked again and strode towards him, links jangling. He glanced at her against his will. Anger burned like acid at the sight of her bruises.
“Good Brother Brenan here comes to our side of town to buy a fair-haired lad now and again,” Cryton said.
“Why?” Her eyes were steady.
“Why do you think, girl?” Cryton asked and made a rude gesture with the arm that wasn’t trapped behind his back.
Her face paled as she turned towards Mackay. “Is that true?”
He said nothing in his defence.
“The boy in the kirk …” She paused as if remembering back. “The one eating bread and jam …” She cleared her throat. “The one you called Rye. He was one of them?”
“I did not bring him from here,” Mackay said.
“But you took him in. Fed him.”
“Maybe he likes his slaves fat when he foo––” Cryton began, then shrieked in pain.
Swift jerked her gaze from Cryton to Mackay. “Tavis … you’ll find him in Newberry House on Wendy Close. Take him. He’s a good lad. Kind-hearted. Take him before stench like this get their hands on him.
“Stench am I?” Cryton snarled.
“Go now!” Swift pleaded. “Before …”
But just then there was a sliver of noise from behind, a momentary warning. Mackay twisted about. A pistol appeared against the mouldering window frame. Fire exploded from its muzzle. Pain seared the side of his head. Swift screamed He stumbled backwards. Something struck him from behind, and then he fell, dropping into darkness.
“Are you alive?” a voice hissed.
Mackay opened his eyes, but it did little good. The world was as black as old sins. His head pounded with pain, his body throbbed with feverish heat.
“Wake up.” The voice again, whispered from deep shadows. But he recognized it as Swift’s. It was still melodious though it had lost the polished sheen he’d first heard from her lips.
“Where am I?” His own voice was barely human, guttural with pain, rusty with disuse.
“The cellar.”
Thoughts swirled murkily in his head. Memories streamed past. “Beneath Cryton’s hovel?”
“Aye.”
“And the lads he keeps?”
“Upstairs.”
He nodded. She exhaled quietly as if she’d been holding her breath.
“For such a brawny big bloke, you go down terrible easy, Highlander.” Her words may have been sardonic, but her voice trembled, cranking up a little guilt for the worry he had caused her. “Do you oft let others knock you unconscious?”
He raised a hand, testing the wound. Pain shot through him, but the bullet seemed to have just grazed his skull. As luck went, that was as good as his was likely to get. “’Tis a poor habit of mine. That I see now.”
“And little else in this damnable hole. Why the devil––”
“This defileth the man.” he quoted numbly. His head rocked with pain.
She was silent for a moment. “You don’t approve of cursing?”
“Nay, but this seems the proper place for it if there be such a thing.”
“Can you sit?”
He shifted, trying. It took all his effort, but finally he was slumped against the rocky wall. She sat beside him, leaning her head against the damp stone. He saw now for the first time that she was chained again and realized that he was too.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“Well?” There may have been humour in her voice, which did not seem quite right considering the circumstances. “They’ve taken my hard-won baubles. I’m chained to a wall, and … oh, Cryton plans to kill me upon his return, but otherwise, aye, I’m fair to middling.”
“Why would he wish you dead?”
“You heard him, Highlander,” she said. “I was picking pockets in his territory. And doing a rather handsome job of it.”
“If you’re good at the task, wouldn’t he be wiser to use your skills than kill you?”
“Wiser?” she said and laughed a little. “Aye, I’ll mention that to him. He’s sure to see sense.”
Mackay exhaled wearily. “Me apologies,” he said.
“Apologies?” Her voice was soft.
“For this …” He motioned towards the darkness. “I did not mean to cause you trouble.”
She was silent for a long moment. “What did you mean, Highlander?”
He remained silent.
“Why did you come? Truly.”
A fine question. He glanced to his right, perhaps looking for a way out, but there was little to see. “To make amends, mayhap.”
“I believe I struck you.”
So she had, clever little nymph. Truth to tell, he didn’t oft allow that to happen. He must be getting old. “Amends to God,” he corrected. “Or mayhap …” He shook his head. It hurt. “Mayhap to the world at large if there be no god.”
She didn’t seem to wish to argue religion. “So you truly do take in lads.”
“I’ve no wish to see them end up to be the likes of me.”
She was silent for a moment. “Foolish enough to let themselves be bested twice in one week?”
He snorted softly. That hurt too. “Without skills,” he said. “Good for naught but killing.”
“Is that what you are then?”
“’Tis what they wished me to be. ’Tis why they sent me to battle. To war. And war is killing,” he said. “Little matter how you dress it in pageantry and honour. ’Tis naught but murder made legal. But the murderers are allowed to walk free. Nay, are honoured as if they were heroes and not beasts sent to slaughter the––” His voice failed him. He pressed his eyes closed.
“You are no beast,” she whispered.
When he opened his eyes, he saw that she sat a little closer.
“You know not what I’ve done, lass. I have––” he began, but she reached up and cupped his cheek with her palm. Her touch was warm and tender.
“I know you came to save a boy you’ve not met,” she whispered.
“’Tis only––” he began again, but she trailed a finger across his lips.
“I know you would have saved me.”
For a moment he was lost in her eyes, but he would not allow himself to be soothed. He shook his head.
“Do not make me out to be sommat I am not.”
“Very well. But I insist you do the same. You are not a beast,” she whispered and he wished to believe.
“What am I then, lass?”
She smiled a little. “You are a man,” she said. “The good and the bad of it. But in you …” She splayed her fingers gently across his cheek. “I think there is more good.”
“Then ye are mistaken.”
She was silent for a moment. “And here I was thinking the scriptures mentioned something of forgiveness.”
“As it turns out, I am not well suited for that sort of thing. For myself or others,” he said and she laughed.
“Tell your stories to someone who didn’t see you spare Cryton. Or me, come to that.”
He ignored the latter part of her statement. “Mayhap you forgot his minions were armed.”
“They were not armed like you,” she said and slipping her hand from his cheek, ran it down his biceps. “No,” she said. “You are good. Better than this world deserves.”
Their gazes met. A thousand hopeless wishes soared momentarily between them. Each was more foolish than the last, and yet he could not resist kissing her.
Their lips met with careful warmth, pressed, held, healed.
She drew back, breathless. “You’re rather good at that for a priest, Highlander.”
“Postulant hopeful,” he corrected.
She smiled, then sobered and slipped her hand across his chest and on to his throat. Her fingers seemed to burn there. “I’ve a favour to ask.”
He nodded once. It was all he could manage. How long had it been since he’d felt a kind woman’s touch?
“Will you take Tav to the kirk where you reside?”
He drew a careful breath through his nostrils. “The boy on Wendy Close.”
“Aye.”
He lifted an arm. A chain drooped from it. “I fear I’ve no means to do so, lass.”
She nodded stiffly, lavender eyes painfully solemn in the darkness. “If I can free you, will you care for him?”
“If we are free why not care for him your––”
A scrape of noise from above stopped his words.
“Shh!” She jerked towards the sound, then scooted closer, lips all but touching his ear. “Cryton will return in a minute.” He could feel her shiver. “To gloat and to …” She paused. “He likes untried girls. He’ll not kill me before he takes me.”
Mackay sat very still, absorbing her words and trying to remain calm. But the beast in him was already rearing its vengeful head.
“He’ll have the keys to our chains on his person. I can filch them and toss them to you.”
“I cannot kill him, lass,” he said, but even in the darkness he could discern the welt on her temple and felt rage flare through him like flame set to pitch. “Though I ache to avenge the marks he put on …” He drew a deep breath. “I’ve made a vow.”
“That I know,” she whispered, pressing closer still. “You’re a good man. A kind man. I do not ask you to bloody your hands. In fact, you must not. You must muffle the sound of the keys and wait. Promise me. He’s got underlings. More than you know. He’ll take me above. He likes an audience and it’s too close down here. We’ll leave this hole. But you must stay. They’ll think you still confined. Wait till the house goes quiet.”
He pulled her hand from his lips, feeling the deep tremble in his own body. “So I should wait till you’re dead?” he asked, his voice all but lost in the darkness. “Wait till he’s taken your innocence and your life before––”
She breathed a laugh. “I’m no innocent, Highlander. You know that as well as any. I’m a thief. A good one. In truth, I’m the best. And for that he’ll let me live.”
“You lie. He’ll––”
“… our guests.” Cryton’s laughing voice rang from upstairs. His footfalls thudded across the floor.
“Lie down,” she hissed and shoved him.
He wanted to argue, to resist, to save her. But with the sudden movement, his head spun. He slumped to the floor.
The trap door creaked open.
“Do you need help down there, Cryton?”
“Not from the likes of you, Knobby,” he said, and hanging a lantern on a peg on the nearby wall, descended. “Well then …” His voice was jovial with success and stale beer. “I see you’ve waited for me, luv.”
Swift rose to her feet, shielding her eyes against the glare of the lantern. Fear made her limbs stiff, hope made her eager. “Let me go.”
“Of course.” He chuckled. “Of course I will, luv.”
“Now. Before he regains his strength,” she said and jerked a nod towards the Highlander.
Cryton’s brows rose. His perfect teeth gleamed in the lantern light. “So Snake didn’t kill him?” he asked and kicked Mackay’s heavy leg.
She prayed he would remain still. He didn’t disappoint her. “No, he’s not dead,” she said. “But it’s not too late.”
“Ho, I didn’t realize you were such a bloodthirsty wench.”
“I’m not bloodthirsty. Not like him,” she said.
“Him?” He laughed. “I think you’re lying to me, sweet Swift. He’s a man of peace. Said so hisself.”
“And I suppose you’re daft enough to believe he won’t kill me because––”
He struck her across the mouth. For a moment, the world went grey. She stumbled backwards, pressing shaky knuckles to her bleeding lips.
“Does he look like a saint to you, Cryton?” she asked, forcing herself to speak past the panic. “He’s a warlord. A mercenary. He’s killed more men than you’ve robbed. Children too. And women. He told me so himself. Bragged about it.”
“Truly?” His tone was intrigued. Thrilled even.
“I swear it’s true. He plans to have me, to use me up and murder me.”
“You don’t say. Why you?”
“I stole from him.”
“From a man of God?” He crowed with laughter. “Jesus Christ, you’re even more of a bitch than I imagined.”
“I stole from him in his church. Shamed him. He’s obsessed. Said no other man will ever touch me.”
“Did he now?” he asked, and kicked the Highlander again. This time he moaned. “Is that true, old man?”
Mackay rose groggily to one elbow. “Leave her be.” His voice was little more than a growl.
“I fear I can’t do that.” Cryton laughed. The sound was hollow and empty in the narrow space. “She’s mine,” he said, and reaching out, grabbed her by the hair.
Pain thundered through her scalp, skittered down her neck, chasing fear before it. “Get me out of here,” she hissed, “I’ll do whatever you wish.”
“Believe this, lass,” he snarled. “You’ll take my orders little matter what I do.”
Swift braced herself, playing every card she held as she looked up through her lashes at him. “But how much better would it be if I were willing?” she asked and skimmed one chained hand down his chest to his crotch.
“You want it now?”
“Soon,” she said and squeezed. The keys were inches away, bulging in his pants’ pocket. “When we’re alone.” There was no better way to convince him to stay than to ask him to leave. That she knew.
He pressed up against her. “I rather like the idea of him watching,” he said and reaching up, ripped her ratty gown down the front.
She couldn’t stop the gasp of disgust that rattled from her throat as he pushed her against the wall, but covered it with as moan as she pressed her head against the stone behind her and grappled with his trousers.
“Leave her!” the Highlander snarled, but in that instant she nipped the keys from Cryton’s pocket. It was a simple thing. A beautiful thing. For a fraction of a moment she dipped inside, then cupped him intimately with her left hand as she flicked the keys towards Mackay with her right. They sailed silently through the dimness, but her chains impeded the throw. The keys soared for an instant too long, sailing past Mackay’s outstretched fingertips to clatter like wind-swept hail against the rocky floor.
For a moment the world went absolutely silent. Cryton turned with careful precision to stare at the keys, then, “You bitch!” he snarled and hit her.
She stumbled back, struck the wall and crumpled, but he was already reaching for her, pulling her to her feet, hitting her again.
She saw Mackay lurch away, grappling for the keys, but his chains snatched him up short.
“You conniving cow!” Cryton rasped and kicked her in the ribs. Pain screamed through her.
Mackay strained towards the keys, but Swift could no longer concern herself with his escape. She scrambled along the wall. Cryton came after her. Slavering with rage, he kicked her again. She sprawled forwards, found her hands and knees and lurched on.
Cryton strode after her, cocky, enraged, and in that moment, the Highlander rose to his feet and lunged towards them.
Cryton was still moving forwards as Mackay swung his arm wide. His chains whipped up and out, encircling Cryton’s neck like a loop.
His eyes popped wide. “Sil!” His voice was warbled but loud.
Footsteps clattered above.
“They’ll kill you,” Cryton rasped, grimacing a smile as he grappled to free himself. “They’ll kill you, then fook her till––”
Mackay snapped the links tight against the other’s throat. Bones cracked. Cryton jerked spasmodically, eyes bulging, then hung still, suspended by the chains.
Mackay let him fall just as a half dozen others dropped to the floor nearby.
One of them fired a shot. Sparks sputtered in every direction as they struck the wall and ricocheted madly.
Swift screamed. Mackay roared in rage, wrapped his arms in his chains and heaved.
The restraining metal rings popped from the walls just as two men leapt at him, knives drawn. Another bullet hissed past his ear. But in less than thirty seconds, the dungeon went silent.
Seven bodies lay motionless on the floor.
The Highlander staggered, starring dazedly at the carnage. “I’m a man of peace,” he whispered. Swift unlocked the last of her chains and stumbled towards him.
“Highlander.”
He turned towards her, eyes haunted. “Peace,” he said again. His voice was broken, his expression shattered, and she cupped his beloved face in her palm.
“They would have tortured me, Highlander. Tortured and killed me as they’ve done to others.”
“There are better ways …”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, sometimes. But not this time. This time your strength was necessary.”
He shook his head, but she stilled the motion with a trembling hand. “The boys upstairs will live because of you. Tavis will live,” she said.
He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time since Cryton’s arrival. “How many lads are there?”
“Five at last count.”
He winced. “I can’t care for––”
“Six counting Tav.”
He shook his head, seeming more himself. “I have funds to help them,” he said. “But they’ll need more than coin. They’re damaged. Broken––”
“We’ll mend them,” she whispered.
He lowered his eyes to hers.
“We’ll mend us,” she whispered and kissed him.