They were nearing the front of the theater when Sophie gasped as if she’d just seen the shade of her dead mother. Connor and Brodie instinctively drew their pistols.
It was no wraith that had materialized on the stage in front of them, but Lady Astrid. She no longer looked like the perfect lady. Her hair was as wild as her eyes and her white dress was rumpled and stained. Connor could only pray the stains were soot and not blood.
“Lady Astrid,” he said coolly. “Or would it be Lady Macbeth?”
She lifted her chin to give him a smile that was almost flirtatious. “I believe it was Shakespeare who said, ‘All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.’ I’m guessing that would include you and your pretty little whore.”
His finger twitched on the trigger. “Where is my fiancée?”
She crooked a pale finger toward stage left and a squat man wearing a crude burlap mask came shuffling onto the stage, shoving Pamela in front of him. Her hands were bound behind her and a man’s cravat had been used to gag her beautiful lips. When Connor saw the ugly bruise marring her creamy cheek, it was all he could do not to shoot Lady Astrid and her henchman dead right then and there.
But he couldn’t take the risk because Pamela’s captor had his burly arm locked beneath her breasts and the mouth of his own weapon rammed against the tender underside of her jaw. It was a delicate one-shot pistol—nearly identical to the one Pamela had used to take him hostage. Judging from the terrified glint in her eye, this one was no toy.
Connor had expected her eyes to light up with hope when she saw him, but instead they darkened with dread. She shook her head frantically, moaning around the gag.
Crispin stepped out of the shadows, his own pistol held at the ready and his face taut with revulsion. “What have you done now, Mother?”
Lady Astrid looked briefly surprised to see her son, but she recovered quickly. “What I’ve always had to do, my dear boy. Look after your best interests.”
“My interests? Or yours? You know damn well I never gave a flying fig for Uncle’s title or his fortune. I would have gladly traded them both for an approving pat on the head every now and then.”
Her lips twisted in a sneer. “Then you’re every bit as witless as your father was, aren’t you? He hadn’t a drop of ambition in his entire body. But he had an ample supply of brandy flowing through his veins, didn’t he? I’ve always wondered if it made him burn faster when I left that cigar smoldering in his bed.”
Sophie blanched but Crispin didn’t even flinch. Connor knew in that moment that Crispin had been hiding his mother’s terrible secret for most of his young life. That she must have somehow convinced a petrified young boy that he had to keep his silence because she had done it all for him. That he was to blame for his father’s death.
Sophie edged nearer to Crispin, reaching out to gently touch his arm as he gazed up at his mother and said softly,
“Even as a boy I never knew whether to pray that you weren’t mad or to hope that you were.”
“We’ll have plenty of time to sort out whether she belongs in Bedlam or Newgate after she frees Pamela,” Connor said grimly. “What do you want from me?” he asked her.
Lady Astrid’s voice was deadly calm. “You’re a Highlander. You should understand barter. The equation is simple. Her life for yours.”
Connor snorted. “What are you going to do, woman? Shoot me dead in front of all these witnesses, including your own son? That’s not really your style, is it? You don’t usually like to dirty your lily-white hands.”
“Nor will I have to.”
Pamela began to struggle even more frantically, her tear-filled eyes silently pleading with him.
“I know just how squeamish the London authorities can be, especially when under the thumb of a man like my brother,” Lady Astrid said. “Anticipating that tonight might not go as planned, I took the liberty of contacting an old family friend—a man who has always respected the letter of the law and the responsibility bestowed upon him by the Crown.”
Connor’s hand tensed on his pistol as two dozen English soldiers came melting out of the ruins, muskets at the ready. Before long, he and his party were surrounded on all sides by those hateful red coats. Their ranks parted just long enough to let their commanding officer through.
“I’m sure you remember Colonel Munroe,” Lady Astrid said as if she were introducing the two of them at a tea party. “From what I understand, you made quite an impression on him at your last meeting.”
As Connor eyed the gloating officer, he remembered standing in a sunlit meadow with Pamela by his side. Remembered how she had boldly defied the colonel and passionately defended him, even though he’d done nothing to deserve it.
The colonel locked his hands at the small of his back, taking up his familiar bowlegged stance. “I must say it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Connor bared his teeth at the man. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same.”
Lady Astrid beamed at them both. “Colonel Munroe has graciously agreed to escort you back to Scotland, where you will stand trial for your many crimes.”
Brodie growled beneath his breath.
“And if I were you,” she added, “I wouldn’t expect my brother to save you. Even his arm can’t reach as far as the Highlands. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure your little strumpet gets the reward she was promised. I’m sure she earned every half-penny of it on her back.”
Connor turned in a broad circle, sweeping his gaze and the mouth of his pistol over the steely-eyed redcoats who surrounded them—weighing his options, weighing the odds.
“Oh, you can fight if you like,” Astrid assured him with an airy wave of her hand. “But I should remind you how easy it will be for your poor fiancée to get caught in the crossfire.”
Connor knew there would be no crossfire. Just Lady Astrid’s henchman pulling the trigger of his pistol and blowing Pamela’s brave and bonny head clean off.
By the time his gaze returned to Pamela, there was no Munroe. No redcoats. No Lady Astrid. There were only the two of them.
Connor smiled at her the same way his mother had smiled at Davey Kincaid in the moment before she’d pulled the trigger that had ended her life. With all his heart, with all his soul, and with every expectation that someday they would be together again—if not in this life, then in the next.
Pamela was keening low in her throat now, tears streaming down her cheeks to soak the gag. She shook her head and strained against her captor’s grip, silently begging Connor not to do what he was about to do.
He heard Brodie groan and Sophie gasp as he laid down his pistol and slowly raised his hands. The redcoats swarmed around him, wrenching his powerful arms behind his back and clapping them in irons.
He did not look at Pamela again but simply stared straight ahead as they marched him from the theater and out of her life.
Chapter 29
Catriona Wescott gazed down at the letter in her hand through a shimmering haze of tears. A footman had delivered it only moments ago, interrupting the nap she and her husband were about to take with their two wee poppets. The children were still curled up in the blankets of their bed, fast asleep and blissfully unaware of their mother’s agitation.
“What is it, darling?” Simon asked. He was standing beside the bed, his green eyes darkened with concern.
She glanced up at him, eager to show him that her face was alight with joy, not sorrow. “It’s from my brother. It’s from Connor. He’s alive!”
Simon leaned over the bed, giving her shoulder a tender squeeze as she tore open the letter with shaking hands. Connor had disappeared from her life more than fourteen years ago and from his own life more than five years ago. She’d been searching for him ever since returning to the Highlands to claim Castle Kincaid, but to no avail. The clansmen who had ridden by his side for more than a decade and who now served her had all warned her that if Connor Kincaid didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be.
&nb
sp; She tore open the letter with shaking hands, fresh tears springing to her eyes when she saw the familiar scrawl inside.
My wee kitten,
Since I have no way of knowing if you ever received the letters I sent all those years ago when you were just a girl, I realize this missive may come as something of a shock.
They are going to hang me for my crimes and when I’m gone, there will be some who will tell you I was a bad man. But I’m here to tell you that the love of a good woman made something better of me, if only for a short while.
It might also be a shock to learn that I have seen the woman you have become and that it made my heart sing with pride. Tell that handsome Englishman of yours that if he doesn’t treat you well, I will return from beyond the grave to haunt him. As for those two bonny wee bairns of yours, never let them forget that they are not only Wescotts, but Kincaids.
After I am gone you may hear things about our mother as well, but all you need to remember is that you have every reason to be proud of her. She was a true lady in every sense of the word, just as you are. Godspeed, my dear kitten. I will ever be…
Your devoted brother,
Connor
Catriona lifted her stricken eyes to her husband’s face. “Oh, Simon, we have to do something! He’s writing to say good-bye. They’re going to hang him!”
As they clapped the irons on his wrists and led him from the jail, Connor squinted up at the stark silhouette of the gallows. They were as familiar to him as a dear friend or an old lover. Even during those brief stolen moments of joy he had found in Pamela’s arms, somehow he’d always known they’d be waiting for him at the end of his journey.
This was one dance to which he knew all the steps.
He marched between two redcoats, a balmy breeze ruffling his hair. It was a glorious Highland afternoon, with fluffy white clouds drifting across the crisp blue canopy of the sky. A lark was trilling somewhere in the distance and the rich smell of Caledonian pine scented every breath.
Connor drew a breath deep into his lungs, knowing it would be one of his last. He scowled, haunted by a faint whiff of lilac that seemed to be dancing on the wind. His final regret in a lifetime of many was that he would never again inhale that intoxicating scent from Pamela’s hair, never know another taste of her sweet lips.
He’d never even told her how much he loved her. He’d told her bedchamber door, but somehow he didn’t think that counted for much when all was said and done.
He and his stony-faced escorts reached the foot of the gallows far too soon. Connor’s gaze traveled up the broad wooden steps to find the masked hangman waiting for him at the top of the platform, his patience enduring but not inexhaustible. Connor closed his eyes briefly, hearing once again the creaking of the rope as his father’s body swayed against the night sky. He was forced to open them when one of the soldiers gave him a harsh shove.
As Connor began to climb the steps, the hangman folded his arms over his chest, his sleeveless vest showing off his bulging muscles to their most intimidating advantage.
Connor had nearly reached the top of the platform when he heard a burst of merry chatter and a ripple of feminine laughter. He turned to find scores of well-dressed gawkers pouring onto the lawn that surrounded the gallows, parasols and picnic baskets in hand. All of the women wore bonnets and the men wore hats to shade their fair skin from the afternoon sun, leaving their faces in shadow.
Connor snorted. He should have known the English would come to watch him hang. As far as they were concerned, there was no finer entertainment than watching a Scotsman’s neck snap at the end of a rope. Not even fox hunting or horse racing could compare.
He shook his head in wry disbelief as they spread out their lap rugs and settled down to unpack their afternoon tea. If he wasn’t fortunate enough to break his neck in the initial fall, they could savor the added delight of watching him gasp and twitch and kick his last while they sipped their wine or nibbled a freshly baked biscuit.
He glanced at the man calmly watching the proceedings from the balcony of the jail, knowing that Colonel Munroe would be delighted to have an audience for their little farce. Perhaps he could even use it to wrangle a promotion from his superiors.
The soldiers guided him to the trap door while the hangman took up his position at the lever, his eyes glittering through the eyeholes of the dark sack covering his head.
When they offered Connor a similar mask, he shook his head. After watching his parents die, he wasn’t about to hide from his own death. He would leave this life as he’d lived it—with eyes wide open and fixed on the freedom promised by the sky.
One of the soldiers was draping the noose over his neck when a disturbance broke out below.
Connor squinted against the sun to find a slender woman shoving her way through the crowd of gawkers. She wore a long black hooded cloak as if she was already in mourning.
She ran up to the soldiers stationed at the foot of the platform and caught one of them by the front of his scarlet coat, her voice rising on a note of hysteria. “You have to let me see him! He’s my brother and I haven’t seen him in nearly fifteen years.” Her voice caught on a heartrending sob. “Oh, please, you have to let me say good-bye!”
Connor felt as if his own heart was being rent in two. He’d had no way of knowing if his letter would reach Catriona before he was gone. As he witnessed her anguish, he was almost sorry it had.
When the young soldier firmly detached her hands from the front of his coat, shooting the other soldier a disgusted look, she dropped to her knees and threw her arms around his thighs. “Please, sir, I beg you! If you’ve an ounce of Christian mercy in your soul, you’ll at least let me give him a kiss of farewell.”
“Let the poor chit say good-bye!” someone called out from the crowd.
“One kiss won’t hurt,” a man shouted. “After all, ’twill be his last.”
A chorus of catcalls quickly rose from their audience as the woman’s piteous pleas shifted the mood in Connor’s favor.
“Colonel?” The young soldier looked to his commanding officer, his face flushed with uncertainty.
Both Connor and Munroe knew exactly what harm it might do to the colonel’s reputation should word get out that he had denied a condemned man’s sister her last chance to say good-bye. “Oh, very well,” Munroe snapped. “But tell her to make it quick. Kincaid has wasted enough of my time already.”
The crowd fell into a respectful silence as Catriona slowly climbed the steps with her head bowed and the hood still shielding her face. Connor hadn’t wanted his sister’s last memory of him to be with his wrists in irons and his neck in a noose, but there wasn’t much he could do about that now.
He stiffened as she slipped her slender arms around his waist, filling his nostrils with the impossible fragrance of lilac water. She tipped her head back, revealing an impish smile and a pair of sparkling amber eyes.
“Hello, brother dear,” she said in a husky murmur. “Miss me?”
Chapter 30
For an agonizing moment Connor thought his heart was going to stop, sparing the redcoats the bother of hanging him. He strained against the irons, desperate to wrap his arms around Pamela, even though he knew he ought to be shaking her insensible for taking such a terrible risk.
He lowered his mouth to her ear, his own voice a frantic whisper. “Have you lost your wits, lass? If Munroe recognizes you, he’ll have no qualms about hanging you right alongside me.”
Her lips moved against his throat, their irresistible softness caressing the old rope scars they found there. “Which is exactly where I’d want to be…if you were going to hang.” She let out a muffled sob for the benefit of the soldiers, tightening her grip on his waist and burying her face in his chest.
Connor nearly laughed aloud. Here he was standing at the very gates of hell itself and she still had the power to arouse him. Never more so than when she slipped the key to the irons she had pilfered from the hapless soldier at the bottom of the steps i
nto his hand.
He clenched his fist around it, shielding it from the soldiers’ eyes. “And just what am I supposed to do now?”
“Wait,” she whispered. She tipped her head back again, eyeing him with open longing. “What about that kiss I was promised?”
Connor knew he should brush her cheek with a brotherly peck. That’s what everyone would expect of him. But he’d spent too many long days since the redcoats had dragged him away from her dreaming of this moment. Too many lonely nights dreaming of other moments he’d spent in her arms…and her bed. If this was to be their last kiss, he had every intention of making it one she would remember for the rest of her life.
Knowing he was risking everything, he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers, coaxing her to open for him so he could drink deeply of her sweetness. She kissed him back with a tender fierceness that tasted of love and hope and all the dreams he’d surrendered on the night his parents had died.
As the crowd on the lawn hooted and whistled, one of the soldiers on the platform nudged his wide-eyed companion. “Two of them must have been close.”
“That’s enough,” Munroe shouted in disgust. “Remove the woman at once. It’s savage rabble like this who give decent, God-fearing Scots a bad name.”
Before the soldiers could lay their hands on her to drag her away, Pamela separated herself from Connor. With the dignity befitting a soon-to-be-bereaved sister, she adjusted the hood of her cloak, bowed her head and retreated down the stairs.
She melted back into the crowd without a backward glance. If not for the icy metal of the key burning a hole in his fist, Connor might have believed he’d imagined her. That the hangman had already pulled the lever, leaving his air-starved brain to conjure up one last beautiful, feverish dream.