“I’d not question a man’s loyalties when he’s not here to speak for his own self,” MacLeod said flatly. He turned and glared at James. “But you’re here, are you not?” Another humorless smile split his face. “You’re brought under this roof, so mayhap there’s your answer, aye?”
They entered the room, cavernous and empty but for a long table and chairs. Night had fallen, and shadows clung to the fabric-draped walls, untouched by the candlelight that studded the table. Curtains in an indiscernible dark color bracketed a panel of windows whose dull, glassy eyes stared blindly into the blackness outside.
A fire burned low in the hearth, fronted by an enormous mastiff, his languorous pose belying the thick knots of muscle poised under fur and ready to pounce.
"Please,” MacLeod said, pulling a chair from the table for his guest.
James sat warily, not taking his eye from the laird whose inscrutable ways had him at his guard. Two glasses waited for them on the table, thick leaded goblets each bearing a dram of whisky.
"To the king.” MacLeod raised his in a toast.
“Aye,” James said, “to Charles.”
The wrong smell of it in his sinuses registered too late. No sooner had James placed his glass back on the table than he felt the effects. Buzzing came loud in his ears, and seeing MacLeod’s expectant gaze, he knew.
“What treachery is this?” Clinging to the arms of his chair, James forced himself to stay upright. “Bastard, you’ve poisoned me.”
"Not poison, no,” MacLeod said.
“We don’t want you dead, Graham.” The voice came from the shadows. James heard the clicking heels approach at his back, though his body was unable to turn and see. “I’d not rob my fine countrymen from such a sight as your death. The execution of James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, would-be champion to his king and country? No, that shall be performed for a crowd of thousands. I’d not covet it for myself alone.”
“Campbell,” James bit out the name with disgust. “I’d know your snake’s hiss anywhere. So you”—he managed to cant his head and catch the eye of the MacLeod—"you’ve played me false, is it? Is that how the wind blows here in the Lowlands?”
Campbell chuckled, the candlelight glistening on the damp of his thin lips. Elaborately settling and tucking his brocaded waistcoat, he sat by James’s side.
James began to tremble violently, and the effort to remain seated took all his will. Numbness crept up his legs and deadened his hands, which were still clinging to the arms of his chair like lifeless claws.
"But”—James shuddered a deep inhale—"you’re a Highlander. Why sully yourself with this . . . pig?”
“Oh, he has twenty-five thousand reasons to do so,” Campbell answered for the laird.
"Aye,” MacLeod added, "the bounty on your head is too great to ignore. For twenty-five thousand pounds you’d sell your own sister, I wager.”
“Then . . .” James struggled, “you . . . wager wrongly.”
"Och,” MacLeod spat, "’twasn’t just the reward. You’ve associated with too many Catholics for my tastes.”
“I fight . . . with papist and Protestant alike.” Head quivering, James’s words were loosely formed now, spoken through lips nearly frozen with paralysis. “B-bigger than religion. For king. F-for country.”
“King,” Campbell said with a wave of his hand. “Your King Charles has fled. Parliament now wants his head for treason, so he’s disappeared, some say to the Isle of Man.”
Campbell took a small snuffbox from his pocket. It was crafted from horn, and the candlelight warmed the golden brown colors of its lid.
“It seems they’ve grown tired of him. Perhaps it’s that he was born in Scotland.” Campbell took a pinch of the powder and sniffed. “But Charles seems to have forgotten he’s been sitting on anEnglishthrone these past years.”
“No court . . .” James began. “None can try a king.”
“Really?” Campbell absentmindedly picked the dark residue from under his thumbnail. “You must inform Parliament of that en route to Mercat Cross for your hanging.”
James only gaped now, his body rigid but for the faint in and out of his breath.
“Oh yes,” Campbell smiled. “Parliament has taken over, under the hand of Cromwell.”
James sat like a statue beside him. Campbell caught his eyes and held them. “So you see, Graham, there is no one to protect you now.”
Chapter 37
Magda tore frantically through the trunk, and was dismayed to see that it was filled with yet another pile of old clothes. Mildew and dust hung in the room, tightening her lungs. She dropped back to sit, wiping the damp from her brow.
