Chapter 25
Alexander strode to the back of the stable, casting a glance into each of the stalls as he walked past them. The calming fragrance of fresh hay and healthy horses had replaced the earlier dank stench of mustiness and rancid manure. They had mounted additional hooks in the stone walls of the cavern turned stable and each held a lit lantern. The dancing yellow flames beat back the shadows, eliminating places to hide. Good. The space was clean and an enemy would struggle to find cover.
Magnus, Sawny, and Tom followed close behind. Alexander pointed to the opening in the back wall. The same opening they’d used in what now seemed like a lifetime ago when they’d snuck their way back into the keep. “I want this guarded or blocked. Well secured, aye?”
“Aye,” Magnus said, glaring at the rocky portal as though it were a traitor.
“Tom and I checked the caves and the mountain pass. It doesna look as though anyone’s been there but us,” Sawny said.
“Good.” Alexander turned and headed out of the stables, motioning for them to follow. Once past the paddock, he strode across the bailey, scanning the curtain wall to his left. With his attention on the wall, he plowed through a flock of meandering hens scratching and pecking at the ground. The plump birds flapped and fussed, scattering with a cacophony of insulted clucks and ruffled feathers.
The men and two boys reached the side gate and the flashback of their failed escape filled Alexander with a renewed burn of anger. Who had betrayed them that night and revealed their intent to escape? Whoever it was could still be a threat. He squinted up at the levers on top of the outer wall surrounding the keep. The control for the outermost gate was in the wrong position. It appeared to be open. He pointed at the levers. “I want the outer portcullis closed and the inner gate as well. We must take no chances.”
Tom scrambled up the narrow blocks of stone embedded as steps in the skirting wall's side. Once he’d reached the lever that controlled the gates, he released the chains holding the outer portcullis open. The heavy gate, basket-like in its weave of wooden strips reinforced with iron bars and bolts, rattled down and hit the earth with a thud. The inner gate made of thicker planks banded together was already closed.
“Our men?” Alexander asked Magnus.
“Duncan and Sutherland are already in the gallery and placed to guard Lady Catriona as soon as she climbs the stairs and takes her seat. Well-armed with pistols and bows, they are,” Magnus replied. “Graham and Ian have taken their posts in the hall and ensured men we trust guard the doorways.”
“Alasdair?” Alexander asked as they walked through the bailey, circling around to the front of the keep. All had to be perfect before the earl and the Campbell arrived.
“Pacing.” Magnus gave a shrug. “He'll most likely wear the floor of the main hall through.”
Alexander understood. Nerves raw and teeth on edge, he prayed for wisdom. He was a man of the sword—not a man of negotiation.
A shout came from the front wall in the guard house's vicinity. The guard’s bell sounded sending a cold sweat across Alexander’s body. The enemy neared their gates.
“Greet them,” he told Magnus as he strode up the wide slabs of stone steps to the main double doors of the keep. “I’ll be waiting in the hall.” He paused on the landing, one hand resting on the latch. “I trust ye to sound the alarm if ye sense the slightest need.”
Magnus accepted his duties with a nod and pointed Tom and Sawny back toward the stables. “Guard the caves, aye?”
Both boys bolted off in that direction as though the devil himself was chasing them. They only stopped long enough to duck into the smithy and re-emerge with extra swords and several daggers tucked into their belts.
Alexander watched them go then yanked open the heavy door and strode into the hall. A glance upward gave him a glimpse of Catriona’s worried countenance as she stood at the railing surrounding the upper gallery. “Back from the railing, Catriona, until they’re seated with their backs to ye, ye ken? I’ll no' have ye an easy target.”
Catriona nodded but before backing away from the edge, she blew a kiss to him.
Alexander’s heart swelled and the burning need to protect her made him pull in a deep breath. The woman owned him heart and soul and he loved her for it. “Almighty God, please help me save her and her clan,” he prayed under his breath as he hurried to cross himself.
He scanned the hall as he strode down the length of the room. Spotless floors and both hearths swept and scrubbed within an inch of their lives. The smell of beeswax wafted about and the eye-burning scent of lye soap mixed with the smoky scents of roasted meat and herbs filling the air.
Banners hung at the sides of each hearth, both fireplaces crackling and bright with a cheery fire. Tartans of Neal greens, grays, and blues and sashes of MacCoinnich reds, greens, and blacks decorated the columns marching down either side of the hall. The chieftain’s table sat close to the room's center, already laden with the best Clan Neal offered considering that winter had been long. Venison roasts surrounded by platters of carrots, parsnips, and turnips. Baskets of bannocks and loaves of brown bread. Crocks of butter and wedges of cheese. Bottles of port and wine stood at the ready.
The earl and the Campbell would be treated like respected guests and given the opportunity to act as such. Satisfaction filled Alexander. Mrs. Aberfeldy and Cook had done as instructed. His distrust of Mrs. Aberfeldy lessened the slightest bit.
Alasdair gave him an aloof nod from where he waited beside the table, hands clasped in front of him. The man was the picture of a self-assured solicitor. Alexander smiled. Alasdair filled the role well.
He turned and nodded to the men standing guard, then motioned for Ian and Graham to come forward. “I’ll no' bear arms at the table and neither will Alasdair. Ye ken what to do, aye?”
“Aye,” Graham said as both he and Ian nodded.
“We stand ready with pistols loaded should they forget their manners,” Ian remarked with a glance toward the door. “They’re here,” he added in a hushed tone. Ian and Graham returned to their posts. Each widened his stance and settled a hand atop his pistol.
Alexander recognized Lord Crestshire as soon as he set eyes on him. He remembered the staunch man in full British uniform as Edward John Cunningham. But he would no’ admit to such until he saw whether Edward remembered him.
Campbell stalked forward like a great angry bear reared up on its hindquarters spoiling for a fight. “MacCoinnich,” he growled, his great bulbous nose pockmarked and wrinkling as though he smelled a stench. His unkempt mustache and beard twitched and shifted as he scowled and bared his teeth.
Alexander graced him with an imperious tilt of his head. “Campbell.” Then he shifted his focus to Lord Crestshire and gave him a curt nod. “M’lord,” he said, interest piqued to see the earl’s reaction. He didn’t have to wait long.
