To Love a Scottish Lord Page 26

  “We should have sent word of our coming,” Ian said.

  “As I recall,” Leitis teased, “you were intent on getting here.”

  “Intent on getting the voyage over, you mean.”

  Out of habit, he looked around for Douglas, and seeing him standing talking with the first mate, he felt somewhat reassured. Of all the MacRae sons, Douglas was most difficult. He’d wanted his own way since he was born. Nor had the events of the past months made it easier to deal with him.

  Barely seventeen, he was well on his way to becoming a man. He’d proven that he was as virile as any MacRae.

  Frowning at that thought, Ian determinedly put his youngest son out of his mind and turned back to his wife.

  Mary heard the muffled sound of voices outside her cell. Night after night the guard and his cronies drank and wagered on a toss of a coin, activities she doubted would please Sir John if he knew. Their drunken jests had been her lullaby many nights, the sound of their companionship oddly comforting, however.

  She walked to the window, placed her palms on the high sill, and braced her forehead against them. She didn’t want to remember Gordon and how horribly he’d died, didn’t want to feel the surge of guilt that accompanied each recollection.

  Sometime later, she heard the bar in front of the door slide back and tensed in response. Slowly, she turned to face her visitor, hoping that she had the courage to refuse Charles. But the figure that gained shape and substance as he came forward, a lantern in his hand, wasn’t Charles or Mr. Marshall, but the one person in the world she didn’t wish to see.

  Hamish seemed to know it as well. He closed the door and put the lantern on the floor. Reaching out, he placed a hand on her shoulders, let it fall when she stepped back.

  “Did Sir John send you? Or Mr. Marshall?”

  “Neither,” he said, his voice one she’d longed to hear all these lonely days. “The guard, I’ve found, has a predilection for Mr. Grant’s whiskey. In exchange for a cask, I get five minutes with you.”

  In the faint glow of the lantern, she watched his face. She’d always thought him a master of control. Rarely did he reveal his emotions, but it was different now. His brown eyes sparkled, and there was a faint smile on his lips, as if he were certain of being welcomed.

  “Why are you here, Hamish?”

  Instead of answering her, he moved his hand to her cheek. He was warm where she was frigid, her skin feeling as if she were made of ice.

  Stepping back once more, she looked at his left arm. “Are you doing the exercises I gave you? You must massage your arm every day so that the gains you made aren’t lost.”

  “Mary,” he said, “I didn’t come here to talk of treatments.”

  She frowned at him. “Then tell me why you’re here.”

  “Have you forgotten those weeks at Castle Gloom?” he asked.

  She was tired, and frightened, and so chilled that it felt as if she’d never be warm again. She told him a truth that might have been wiser to keep hidden.

  “I’ll never forget those weeks,” she admitted in a voice barely more than a whisper.

  “And me? Have you forgotten me?”

  A more dangerous question, and one she’d be wiser not to answer. “No,” she said simply.

  “Then why wouldn’t you meet my eyes all day, Mary? And why won’t you look at me now?”

  “Haven’t you heard what they’re saying about me, Hamish?”

  “Do you think I care what anyone says about you?”

  “You should, but then hermits don’t care what other people think, do they?”

  “Do you?”

  “I find, oddly enough,” she told him, “that I do.” To know that anyone could so easily believe her guilty of murder was painful. She had looked out at the sea of faces and only a few had smiled back at her. Elspeth, and her family, Betty, Cook, and a few others, but not as many as she had tried to heal. She felt almost like a stranger among her neighbors, or someone who’d been labeled an enemy.

  She turned and walked back toward the cot.

  “Did you know?”

  There was no point in pretending to misunderstand him.

  “That Gordon was taking the doctor’s potion as well as mine? Of course I didn’t.”

  “There, I’ve asked and you answered. As far as I’m concerned, you’re innocent.”

  She whirled and faced him again. “What makes you believe me so much more easily than anyone else?”

  “Because I know you,” Hamish said, the hint of his smile disappearing. “Or did you think the only thing we shared at Castle Gloom was our bodies?”

  She wanted to go to him and put her hand in his, let him pull her into his arms. She wanted to be told that this nightmare wasn’t real, but of course it was. She was too ashamed, too deeply shamed, even to look at him. However much she wanted to remake the past, she couldn’t.

  She heard him move behind her and prayed that he wasn’t coming close. Or if he did, that he wouldn’t touch her. Now she needed to be strong, as stoic as he had been during his captivity. She couldn’t afford to think of good memories, or feel any regrets.

  “I won’t let anything harm you, Mary.”

  “It’s too late for that,” she said listlessly.

  The door opened, and the guard stood there glowering at both of them. Hamish turned and made his way to the man’s side.

  “You’ll remember your promise, then?” the guard asked. “Another cask of the same whiskey tomorrow?”

  “I’ll bring it myself,” Hamish said, “as long as nothing of this meeting gets back to Sir John.”

  The guard grinned. “He’ll not hear a word of it from my lips.”

  Hamish turned to look back at Mary. Without speaking further, he removed his cloak and returned to her, draping it over her shoulders.

  “I won’t let anything harm you, Mary,” he said again.

  Suddenly, he was striding to the door and gone, leaving only the cloak still warm with the heat from his body. For the first time since she’d entered this cell, she felt warm.

  Slowly, she sat on the edge of the cot and buried her face in her hands. Only then did she cry, for the future, in fear, but most of all for the loss of Hamish.

  Chapter 22

  A lone woman escorted Mary into the courtroom but led her to the witness chair instead of the accused’s box.

  “Are you ready to give testimony?” Sir John asked, staring down at Mary.

  She looked at him squarely, her expression somber. “I am,” she said clearly.

  If she was afraid, it didn’t show in her voice or her manner as she sat.

  “Identify yourself.”

  “My name is Mary Margaret McKee Gilly. I’m a lifelong resident of Inverness. For years I resided with my parents at number seventeen Ashley Street until my parents died. At that time, I married Gordon Gilly.”

  “Your husband was a goldsmith, was he not?”

  “He was.” She folded her unbound hands on her lap and stared out at the crowd, but Hamish wondered how many people she actually saw. Her lips were pale, as was her face, and she appeared exhausted. His chest ached in sympathy for the ordeal she was enduring.

  “You inherited his shop and his inventory?” the sheriff asked.

  “I did.”

  “So, you were a prosperous wife and became an even more prosperous widow.”

  Mary glanced up at him. “Losing my husband offset any wealth I may have inherited,” she said dismissively.

  “Yet surely you must have known your husband would predecease you. Was he not much older than you?”

  “He was,” she agreed.

  “There are those who say you married him only for his money.”

  “There are those who will say a great many things, Sir John,” she said, looking at him again. “But that does not mean their words have any truth to them. If a person speaks nonsense firmly enough, some fool will believe him.”

  “Are you saying that such was not the case with y
ou? Did you not marry your husband for his wealth?”

  “Why else are marriages arranged, if not for the protection of one party and the comfort of another? I would be foolish not to align myself with someone who could bring me security. It’s a cruel world for a woman alone.” She looked around the courtroom as if to illustrate her point.

  Sir John, no doubt feeling as if he were losing ground, became even more strident in his questioning. “Did you ever administer to your husband any substance that would prove injurious to him?”

  Mary hesitated. After a long pause, she finally spoke again. “There are a great many substances that, if taken to the extreme, will prove injurious, Sir John. Water, itself, is one of these. A glassful is beneficial, but a man can still drown, given enough.”

  “You know what I’m asking, Mrs. Gilly,” the sheriff admonished. “Did you administer to your husband any substance that might prove injurious to him?”

  Again, she hesitated. When she spoke, however, her voice was clear and audible. “I prepared a drink for my husband, some herbs in ale that I believed would aid his digestive problems. However, when it became apparent that it was not helping, I discontinued it.”

  “Did you give your husband this drink every evening, Mrs. Gilly?”

  “I did,” she said, seemingly unaware that the entire courtroom had subsided. Hamish could hear his own breathing, it had grown so quiet.

  “What else did you put in this drink?”

  Hamish leaned forward, noticing that several other people were doing the same.

  Mary looked out over the assembled crowd, as if knowing that everyone was hanging on to each faint word.

  “Mercury.”

  A murmur began in the courtroom again, and this time the judge’s frown could not silence it. He stood finally and looked out over the assembled townspeople. Only by asking Mary another question was he able to quiet the crowd, who moderated their conversation to hear Mary’s answer.

  “Did you know that your husband was also being treated by Dr. Grampian at this time?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Would that have changed your treatment?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice ringing through the courtroom. “I’ve consulted the very best texts on medicine. I know the dangers inherent in the dosages of certain medications. A tiny amount of foxglove, for instance, will aid the beating of a damaged heart, but too much will cause it to falter. Mercury is one of those substances to be administered with a great deal of care. A little will aid digestion and eliminate obstruction. Too much will kill.”

  Sir John said nothing in response.

  A moment later, Mary was led back to the accused’s box. Sir John sat frowning at the vial in front of him. It was all too evident to Hamish that he’d made up his mind, and that the next words were going to be those that would send Mary to Edinburgh to stand trial for murder.

  “Why now?” Hamish asked, standing.

  The sheriff glanced up, frowning. “Do you have something to say to this court, sir?”

  Hamish studied the sheriff with narrowed eyes. “Why, after all this time, were charges brought against Mrs. Gilly?”

  “Who are you, sir?”

  “My name is Hamish MacRae,” he said. “I was the captain of the Sherbourne until last year. A trading vessel under the flag of the MacRae Shipping Company.”

  “Why do you question this court?”

  “Because you do not see fit to seek the truth, Sir John.”

  The two guards on either side of Mary looked in his direction, and Hamish couldn’t help but wonder if he were about to be arrested. Not before he spoke the truth, he vowed.

  “Question Charles Talbot again,” he said, looking directly at the apprentice. “Ask him why he has the vial of mercury.”

  The crowd around him was beginning to pay attention, a fact that evidently didn’t please the sheriff.

  Hamish turned and took Marshall’s Bible from him, holding it aloft toward Sir John. “Ask him to swear upon a holy book that Mrs. Gilly knew Gordon was being treated by a physician.” When the sheriff made no move to do so, Hamish only smiled derisively.

  Hamish sought out Charles again, and the two locked gazes across the courtroom.

  “The physician would have Mrs. Gilly portrayed as too feebleminded to treat the ill and injured, yet you would have Mrs. Gilly seen as a deliberate murderess. Charles Talbot would have us all believe that Mrs. Gilly treated her husband on one hand and poisoned him knowingly on the other.” He glanced toward Betty. “Her maid says she wept for her husband. Her patients attested to her care.

  “I was Mrs. Gilly’s patient for the last month.” That revelation only seemed to intensify the whispers, but he continued. “She treated the injuries I sustained while in India,” he said. “But I’ve had plenty of opportunity to study her, and to get to know her well. It is my belief that she could never have murdered her husband.”

  “What makes you so certain of that, Mr. MacRae?” Sir John asked.

  “A variety of reasons. First, she loved him. She always spoke of him with fondness and friendship.”

  “But you’ve no proof that she is innocent of such an act?”

  The words were so close to Marshall’s that Hamish felt a surge of irritation. “Nor do you have proof that she’s guilty, Sir John. Why would a woman who takes great pride in healing the ill administer poison to her husband?”

  “That, I believe, is the decision I must make,” Sir John said coldly. “Have you any other reason to believe her innocent?”

  Hamish turned and looked at Mary finally, and she was staring at him, a look on her face that he’d never forget. As if he were water and she was thirsting.

  “A man comes to know a woman he admires,” he said slowly. “Mary Gilly doesn’t have it in her to kill. I know that better than most, because the world would call me a murderer.”

  The whispers intensified, but Hamish didn’t look away from her. He couldn’t.

  “She doesn’t hate,” he said, “but hatred isn’t necessarily a requirement for being a murderer. A man can kill someone he doesn’t even know well, if that man gets between him and something he desperately wants.”

  Was this to be the punishment for his sin after all? To bare his soul in front of a packed courtroom of interested spectators, none of whom knew him, but all of whom would judge him in the next few minutes?

  “I spent a year in India, imprisoned, taken from village to village and put on display for the natives. I realized early on that I wanted very much to live. I woke in the morning and thought about staying alive. It was my last thought at night.”

  There was no sound in the courtroom, and even the sheriff looked sufficiently intrigued to remain silent.

  “When the opportunity presented itself, I escaped with two other men. One of the men, a man named Thompson, was injured, but we bound up his leg wound and headed across the tip of the southern desert, one of the most inhospitable places on earth.” He stood up straighter, never moving his gaze from Mary. “On the third day we ran out of water.”

  The courtroom had grown so quiet that Hamish thought he could hear the wind outside the building. Her eyes hadn’t left him, and he drew a curious strength from her intense look.

  “We found an oasis two days later, and remained there until we regained some strength. One of the things we’d not considered was that being in our cages for so long might have made walking long distances difficult. We made or gathered what we could to hold water and began our trek again. Harrison died four days later.”

  Hamish could remember the instant he’d turned to see the man facedown in the sand and scrub. He’d been stunned to find him dead, and then angry. He’d yelled at the man, he remembered, so infuriated that after so long Harrison had simply given up and died.

  “Thompson became ill with fever and began having deliriums three days after that. He could no longer walk because of the wound in his leg, so I carried him as long as I could. Finally, my own strength wa
s giving out, so I laid him down. He burrowed into the sand, thinking that it was a warm blanket, and that he was home in Surrey in the dead of winter. I left him there to die so that I could live.”

  In the silence, Hamish took a deep breath and continued. “I know what it’s like to consider another human being’s life less important than your own. Mary Gilly does not have that type of heart or damaged soul. Her spirit is generous and loving. She would never have killed her husband.”

  For a long time, there was silence in the courtroom, and then the sheriff spoke again. “I have taken into consideration all that has been said here.” His words, however, didn’t ease Hamish’s increasing sense of dread. Hamish knew, in that instant, that Mary wasn’t going to escape the sheriff’s punishment.

  Sir John stood, an imposing man in his somber attire. Anyone who saw him could easily recognize that he was a man of power and influence. There was no compassion in his eyes, however, and no softness in his tone. Only a note of finality that made Hamish doubt Mary would ever be set free.

  “Despite the accused’s reputation, I believe her culpable in the death of her husband. There is sufficient cause for her to be bound over to Edinburgh for trial.” He hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “God have mercy on your soul, Mrs. Gilly.”

  The hours ticked by slowly, as if the minutes were carried on the back of a turtle. Mary stood, then sat on her fragile cot, then stood again to pace the cell. She knew its dimensions well—a week of residence had acquainted her with every stone, each bar in the window, all the flagstones beneath her feet. Fourteen steps to the far wall, and ten from the window to the door. A mausoleum of a cell, it seemed even colder than normal tonight, as if even the stones knew her fate and retained no warmth for her.

  She was going to die. Dear God, she was going to die. She hadn’t been able to get the magistrate’s voice out of her mind for the last four hours, his words ringing in her ears as if they echoed back on themselves. God have mercy on your soul.