To Love a Scottish Lord Page 23

  She shook her head vehemently from side to side. “I don’t want to see Gordon. Not as he was toward the last. He was wasting away with that dreadful illness, and there was nothing I could do. When he died, he looked more skeleton than alive.”

  Had she given him something to make his death easier? Was a guilty conscience the reason she didn’t want to see Gordon?

  He would have known if she carried that sort of guilt. If nothing else, they would have recognized each other for the burden they shared.

  “No, I wouldn’t care,” he answered honestly.

  He was going to do everything he could to save a woman who might well be guilty of the deeds ascribed to her, because he knew something the sheriff and Brendan probably didn’t. A good person could still perform a vile act.

  Sir John Pettigrew did not appear to Matthew to be a man with whom one could reason. Or a man with any type of warmth in his heart, for that matter.

  “You can have five minutes with her, no more, and that only because of your ministry, Mr. Marshall.”

  “I would need more time than that,” Matthew said patiently, but the sheriff was not to be moved.

  “No more. And I will not have you,” the man continued, pointing one imperious finger at him, “bringing her foodstuffs or any other article from outside the prison walls.”

  “She has not yet been found guilty,” he gently reminded the sheriff.

  “I have no doubt that she will be,” Sir John said, gazing at him with narrowed eyes. As if any compassion directed toward the prisoner was suspect.

  “Very well, five minutes.” There was, after all, no other choice. Either he capitulated or he would be forbidden to see Mary. Everyone else who’d petitioned the sheriff had been refused.

  “I see myself as a fair man, Mr. Marshall, although I’m aware that others sometimes view me as unnecessarily harsh. What my critics do not realize is that I see criminals like rats entering a corn crib. If they are allowed to proliferate, the damage would be incalculable. By being severe with my punishment, I am guaranteeing safety for the greater population of Inverness.”

  Matthew couldn’t think of a tactful rejoinder, so he remained silent.

  “I’ll have a man take you to her,” the sheriff said.

  “Thank you for your consideration.”

  Sir John nodded and remained seated as Matthew stood.

  As he turned to leave, he dared to ask another question, one that had not yet been answered to anyone’s satisfaction. “When will the hearing be held, Sir John?”

  “Tomorrow,” Sir John said, eyeing him impatiently. “I grow weary of petitions for visits from this woman’s proponents. You, of all people, should be interested in what they say about her, Mr. Marshall. They extol her virtues as if she’s a saint, and call Mary Gilly the Angel of Inverness.”

  “I myself have heard her addressed as such,” Matthew said.

  “It’s a pity that heretics are not still burned.”

  Matthew had the distinct impression that Sir John would have liked to have been born a few hundred years earlier, so that he might have participated in such tribunals.

  As he followed the guard through the labyrinth of corridors, Matthew realized that he couldn’t fault the sheriff for the condition of his jail. It was clean and airy, and had none of the stench of places he’d seen in London. However, with the first snow having fallen a few nights ago, it felt colder inside the building than it did outside.

  The guard who led him to Mrs. Gilly’s cell looked to be warm enough, but he doubted the condition of the prisoners would be as comfortable. A thought struck him as they came to yet another hallway. There was little noise. The only sound was a metallic bang from time to time, or a whimper, but no conversation.

  “Is this where the women are kept?”

  “Sir John don’t like many women in jail, sir. He prefers them to be shipped off as soon as their verdict is read.”

  “How many of them are pronounced innocent?”

  The guard turned and looked at him, smiling crookedly. “All them’s that’s here are guilty, sir.”

  Matthew remained silent as the guard nodded to another man standing outside a door at the end of a corridor.

  “A visitor for the woman. He’s to be allowed five minutes, no more.”

  The second man nodded, fumbled with his key, and opened the door, standing aside.

  Matthew thanked him and entered the room.

  The room was bright with sunshine, but frigid. He bundled up his hands in his sleeves and wished he’d thought to bring his gloves. He would have given them to the woman he addressed now.

  “Mrs. Gilly?”

  She stepped forward, into a beam of light. Something about her instantly reminded Matthew of his wife, a younger Madeline before her frown was etched permanently between her eyebrows. Mrs. Gilly had obviously made some effort to remain clean and tidy, even in this barren place. She’d carefully braided her hair, but her clothing was wrinkled, and as he scanned the room, he realized, with some shock, that there was no place to sleep.

  “Have you no blanket?” he asked. Her arms were folded around her midriff, less a stubborn stance than one designed to stave off the cold. Even from where he stood, he could feel the wintry wind coming in through the window.

  He’d expected a much older woman, someone with less vulnerability in her eyes. Her head tilted to one side and she was so obviously attempting to recognize him that he hastened to introduce himself.

  “We’ve never met, Mrs. Gilly,” he said. “I’m Matthew Marshall.”

  Her face instantly changed, becoming even younger with delight. “Mr. Marshall. How pleased I am to meet you, sir. I’ve read your books from cover to cover. I consider you a great source of information about medicine and healing.”

  “I regret that we must meet under these conditions,” he said. “I was greatly anticipating our talk.”

  She nodded, and he wondered if her smile would also remind him of Madeline’s. There was little resemblance between the two women in actuality. Her hair was brown while Maddy’s was lighter. Her eyes were brown as well, while his dear wife’s were blue. What had recalled Madeline to mind? he wondered, and then realized what it was. She wore her hair in the same way, in a braid in a coronet, and her dress was likewise similar to what Maddy wore, a soft stripe with a contrasting colored scarf that crossed in front of the bodice.

  “I will talk to Sir John about getting you a blanket,” he said, angered that the sheriff had provided nothing in the way of kindness to her.

  “I would not be overly hopeful. Sir John does not seem to be responsive to my requests. I’ve petitioned him every day I’ve been here to know when I am to be tried, but I’ve heard nothing.”

  He had the information, but he wasn’t entirely certain it was good news he brought her. “Your hearing begins in the morning, Mrs. Gilly.”

  She looked down at the floor, still hugging herself.

  “There are a great many people who have rallied to your side, Mrs. Gilly. People who will do all that they can to ensure that you are proven innocent.”

  “That is very kind of them,” she said. “But I don’t know if it will be enough. The sheriff must be convinced.”

  What he’d seen of Sir John made him doubt the man would be easily persuaded of anyone’s innocence.

  “I must ask this question, and I pray that you will understand why. Is there any truth to the charges against you?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “Except, perhaps, for wishing Gordon free of agony. He was suffering so terribly toward the end. That’s as close as I’ve ever come to wanting anyone dead.”

  He, too, had visited patients in extremis, and had known a fleeting hope that he might be able to do something to aid them. Occasionally, he’d prayed that a life might be ended quickly when it was all too evident that God had already chosen that path for the patient.

  “I must keep this visit short, Mrs. Gilly, but I will return. I bring you several messages from
people, and although I did not receive approval from Sir John to pass them to you, I can’t think it that great a sin.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheaf of envelopes. “Perhaps you could destroy them after you’ve read them? Or hide them, at least.”

  She nodded again. “Thank you, Mr. Marshall.” She smiled, and he halted, arrested in the act of placing the letters in her hand. He’d thought her young and unbearably fragile in this stark place, but he’d not realized until now that she was beautiful.

  The guard peered in, and he quickly stood in front of her so that Mrs. Gilly could hide the letters from him.

  “It’s time, sir.”

  “I’m coming.” He glanced at Mrs. Gilly. “Is there anything I can tell anyone for you?”

  “Tell them to pray,” she said softly.

  Outside the Sheriff’s Court, Hamish and the others waited for Marshall to emerge. Mr. Grant sat on one of the stone pediments that marked the boundaries of the square. His gout was troubling him, but it was a mark of his regard for Mary that he was nonetheless there. Brendan was smiling at something Elspeth was saying, the picture one of sweet courtship. Hamish realized that envy fueled his sudden, unexpected anger. Because of that, he looked away, his attention fixed on the door.

  When it finally opened, Hamish strode toward Marshall. “What did he say?”

  “I was allowed to see Mrs. Gilly.”

  “How is she?”

  “As well as can be expected,” Marshall said, adjusting his hat. “Given her conditions, that is. We must apply to Sir John for a blanket and a cot, however. And perhaps a candle or two.”

  “She’s left in the dark? She hates the dark,” Hamish said.

  Marshall glanced at him. “The sooner she is cleared of the accusations against her, the sooner she will be freed of that place.”

  “She shouldn’t be there at all,” Hamish said tightly. He’d wanted to rescue her from the jail the moment he’d heard she’d been placed there, but the sheer number of guards proved that unwise.

  “She won’t be here long, if Sir John has his way,” Mr. Grant said.

  Hamish turned at the older man’s words.

  “The Sheriff’s Court has jurisdiction over some crimes, but not murder. If there’s enough evidence against Mary, Sir John will send her to be tried by the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh.”

  “When is this damnable hearing to take place?” Hamish asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Marshall said.

  The five of them turned and began making their way back to the Grants’ home.

  “He can’t believe that Mary actually killed Gordon?” Elspeth asked.

  “I believe Sir John is intent upon seeing himself as the arbiter of justice in Inverness,” Marshall said, seeming to choose his words carefully. “If there’s a hint of murder, he will ferret out the truth, even if he must create it to satisfy himself.”

  “What evidence do they have against her?”

  “I’m not entirely certain,” Marshall admitted. “Sir John was not very forthcoming. But I imagine we’ll discover that tomorrow.”

  “I’ll not just sit by and let them lead her to the gallows,” Hamish said, icy cold fear settling in the bottom of his stomach.

  Elspeth turned and looked at him, her expression one of horror. Not one person spoke.

  After Mr. Marshall left her, Mary returned to the corner Annie had once made hers. The older woman had been taken from the cell days earlier, leaving Mary alone. From time to time, an occasional female prisoner would be led into the cell, but she never stayed long. Mary had begun to keep track of the elapsed time by scratching a mark on the wall. By this method, she knew that four days had passed since she’d been taken from Castle Gloom.

  What a silly name to call such an enchanted place. This was gloom, this horrid cell with its long shadows. She remembered thinking, once, that she should remain alone in the dark until she lost her antipathy for it. After all this time, she still hated the sunset and the promise of hours and hours of darkness.

  Now, however, the sun gleamed brightly, almost warming the space.

  She withdrew the packet of letters from below her scarf. The handwriting of the first one was unfamiliar to her. Bold strokes of black ink proclaimed her name. Mary. Just that, and it seemed as if she could almost hear his voice. Her heart pounding, she inserted her nail beneath the seal, and scanned the signature. Hamish.

  He was here.

  She held the letter to her chest, pressing both palms on it. How many times had she dreamed that he might come? A hundred? A thousand? Her thoughts had not gone further than that.

  For an instant, she imagined what he might say. Perhaps he’d set to paper words he’d once spoken to her. I would have you stay with me, for as long as you wish. He’d asked nothing from her, but he’d promised little as well. She discovered that she wanted demands placed on her. Give me your heart, he might say, and she’d tell him that he’d had it for a very long time.

  There were only three sentences in his letter, but they took up most of the page in his large handwriting.

  Mary,

  We will find a way to get you released. I tried to see you but was not allowed. My thoughts are with you, always.

  Hamish

  A simple letter, not revealing much to a casual reader, but she heard the words he hadn’t written. He’d tried to see her. He’d come to Inverness in search of her, leaving his hermitage. Dear Hamish. Dearest Hamish. Dear Love. Her fingers pressed against the inked words as if she could feel him through the strokes of the quill.

  One tear fell on the back of her hand, slid over her knuckles to wet the page, dampening his signature.

  In all this time, she’d not cried, even being as afraid as she was. Tears would weaken her and give Sir John a victory over her before they ever met face-to-face.

  How had Hamish borne his imprisonment? Hers had been only days, while his had been more than a year. Nor had she been tortured as he’d been. His words came back to her. I found that I very much wanted to live. However poor her conditions, they would never equal the deprivations he had endured.

  She held grief at bay, pushing it from her behind a wall of tears. If she didn’t cry, she wouldn’t mourn. If she wept, everything would overwhelm her until there was nothing left of the Mary Gilly she’d always known.

  She missed him. How could she not? What would the sheriff say to know that she, a proper widow, felt this loss so acutely? That she grieved not for her husband but for her lover?

  Hamish. His name was an invocation, a whisper of yearning.

  One by one, she opened the other letters, brushing her tears away as she read the words of support and encouragement from Elspeth and her family. Tucking the letters back into her bodice, she returned to her corner, sitting on the stone floor and wrapping her scarf around her in a futile attempt to get warm.

  Her hearing was tomorrow. The truth would come out then, and she could go home. Please God, let her go home.

  She laid her head against the wall and pretended she was at Castle Gloom again, standing in the tower room. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel Hamish’s arms around her, his cheek against her temple, remembering one particular moment.

  “What are you staring at so assiduously, Mary?”

  “The horizon, the loch,” she said.

  “To what purpose? To mark the boundaries of the world or to extend them?”

  “Simply to marvel that the water is so many different shades, Hamish. Green, to dark blue, to almost lavender.”

  “You’ve not seen the Mediterranean. Or the Caribbean. Sometimes, it’s like sailing over amethysts or sapphires, the water is so clear and perfectly colored.”

  “Do you miss the sea?”

  He’d hesitated, and then answered. “I do. My older brothers have been able to give up their ships without a backward glance, but I find myself thinking of mine, instead. Or a ship I’d commission Alisdair to build for me.”

  “Perhaps one day you’ll
return to the sea.” Strange, how those words had pained her.

  “Perhaps,” he’d said.

  “How could they leave this place?” she’d asked, speaking of the former inhabitants of Castle Gloom. “How could they simply abandon its beauty?”

  “Sometimes the most beautiful sites are the most inhospitable. It’s a lonely place. Perhaps some who lived here died out, and the rest simply wanted the company of other people.”

  Mary blinked open her eyes, the image of Hamish, Castle Gloom, and the loch fading from her view.

  She wanted to be anywhere but here, someplace safe, and warm with a fire and a view of the sea.

  Chapter 20

  T he Sheriff’s Court was held in a building that looked to predate Inverness itself. The walls, made of pink harl, were two feet thick, and the broad doors leading into the courtroom itself were ten feet high and thickly carved.

  Hamish wondered if the structure had once been a church before Scotland’s reformation. If so, then it was not a setting for Sir John’s brand of justice. He had no liking for the sheriff, even though he’d never met the man. His actions alone dictated his character.

  He and Brendan found seats beside Mr. Marshall in the first row. They’d come early, suspecting that the hearing would be well attended. Less than an hour later, the room was filled with spectators. The gallery, located above the main floor, and surrounding the chamber on three sides, was likewise fully occupied.

  The space in front of him appeared almost like an empty stage waiting for a performance to begin. To the left was a high desk set up on a pedestal, no doubt so that Sir John could look down on the accused and the audience. To the right was a paneled box five feet high and surrounding a chair on three sides. A guard moved to stand on either side of the box, making him certain that that was where Mary would sit. In the center, again on a pedestal, was a large chair with a high back upholstered in green leather. Here was where the witnesses would give their testimony, beneath the disapproving gaze of Sir John.