She leaned on him, needing his physical as well as emotional strength.
Alex rode in the carriage, too. The rest of the Brotherhood traveled in Andrew’s carriage in front of them.
“The fact that ye recovered so many memories is very encouraging,” Alex said. “It indicates that there was a mental reason why ye forgot, not solely a physical head injury.”
“Do ye think I’ll recover any more memories?” Eilidh asked.
“Only time will tell, unfortunately.” Alex shook his head. “It’s most likely that your memory loss is a combination of both physical and mental injury.”
She turned to stare out the window. “Of course, I may easily hang before anything else surfaces.”
“Not if I can help it.” Alex’s expression was resolute. “There have been precious few times I have been glad to inherit the title of an English marquess, but right now? I am decidedly relieved that I have the power tae do something to protect ye.”
“Aye. We’ll fight this with everything we have,” Kieran nodded.
Eilidh wanted to believe them.
She wanted to believe that Cuthie wouldn’t accuse her unjustly.
She wanted to believe that perhaps she hadn’t blown up the ship deliberately.
But each mile they drew closer to Aberdeen, her heart rate increased.
Far too soon, the carriage wheels were clattering over cobblestone streets, past shops and fine townhouses and wagons laden with wool bound for the ports.
They rolled by the celebrated Mercat Cross in Castlegate, the ancient monument where the Old Pretender had been declared king in 1715.
The gibbet of Gallowsgate quickly followed, the hangman’s noose swaying ominously in the breeze.
The carriages rolled to a stop before the High Court, the gallows still in sight. It was a fitting bit of theater, Eilidh supposed, to make would-be criminals stare at the possible end of their journey—for both the day and possibly mortality—as they entered the courthouse.
An officious-looking man led them all into the Judge Admiral’s wood-paneled chambers. Eilidh fisted her hands to stop their shaking.
The Judge Admiral sat behind an enormous desk, his gray hair trimmed with military precision and his neckcloth immaculately tied. Mr. Patterson sat beside him shuffling papers, looking the same as he had previously—bureaucratic and perfunctory. Neither man wore traditional court robes, as this was an unofficial, fact-gathering inquiry.
But it was the two other men seated against the wall to the right of Mr. Patterson who immediately drew Eilidh’s attention—Captain Cuthie and Mr. Massey.
Her skin prickled at the sight of them. The men were older and battered—their skin more lined, their bodies hunched—but the predatory gleam in Cuthie’s gaze was as chilling as ever. It sent gooseflesh pebbling up her arms.
A burley constable shut the door, standing at attention just inside the room. The Judge Admiral rose and walked around his desk.
“Lord Hadley. Lord Lockheade.” He nodded in deference to the two high-ranking peers among them, shaking their hands. If the Judge Admiral was cowed by their presence, it didn’t show. “It is a pleasure to have you here.”
Everyone murmured greetings in return. Rafe adopted his most upper-crust, English accent. Andrew and Alex exuded aristocratic hauteur. Ewan nodded his head and loomed a full head taller than anyone else in the room. Kieran added a polite greeting. Eilidh bobbed a curtsy.
Cuthie snorted, clearly taking umbrage at the genteel manners on display.
“Let’s get on with this,” he said.
“Patience, Captain.” The Judge Admiral returned to his desk. “Please be seated, gentlemen.”
A solitary stool had been placed in the middle of the room.
The Judge Admiral motioned for Eilidh to take a seat on it. She did so gingerly, perching on the edge.
Her heart rattled and lurched in her chest.
She was a prisoner facing the guillotine, praying reprieve would be granted.
