27 April 1739
Rosa paced from one side of the room to the other. She knew, even with her eyes closed, that it was eight steps between locked door and locked window, four steps from the end of the bed to the creaky desk and half a step between the bed and the battered bedside table.
Three days she'd been locked in this room. It might not have been a cell like Newgate Prison's she'd read about, but it was a cell nevertheless.
She pressed her ear to the door. Footsteps sounded as someone made their way up the stairs, but they quickly passed her by, disappearing into a room further down the narrow corridor.
Nobody had come to visit her since she'd been locked up except for the grumpy housekeeper who brought her breakfast and dinner each day. She also supplied Rosa with another secondhand dress, just as ill-fitting as Mistress Thomas's had been.
McWilliam hadn't been lying when he'd told Rosa that she'd find no allies amongst his people. Rosa had given up trying to talk to Fenella after receiving a continual stream of cold-shoulders and threatening glares. Even Cameron hadn't shown his face. (He'd called her a 'sassenach'—what did that even mean?)
It wasn't hard to imagine the headline. Governess fades away, alone and friendless.
Followed by: 'Locked in her bedchamber for three days without a single book, Rosa Blair, aged 20, dies in her sleep of acute boredom.'
"Miss Blair was kidnapped by Scottish laird Anndrais McWilliam in the wake of her surrender to a Bow Street Runner.
"She pleaded guilty to the theft of 3,000 pounds from the Uilleim Estate earlier this year. But Blair has since retracted her statement, claiming she only admitted to the crime after receiving letters threatening the life of her cousin, Miss Amelia.
"Six days on, Blair passed away in her sleep from acute boredom brought on by a complete lack of any reading material supplied by her kidnapper.
"She is succeeded by her uncle, Viscount Oliver Blair, and cousin. However, Rosa's untimely death prevented her from attending the magistrate in Leeds on the 15 May and, subsequently, Amelia too is now dead."
She ground her teeth. Locked up here she couldn't work on persuading McWilliam of her innocence. Nothing was going according to plan, and she didn't even have a back-up.
Governess fails to out-think her Scottish capturer and is imprisoned for the rest of her life.
It sounded just like something she'd read in The Public Ledger—a story of betrayal, pain and sacrifice. Bennie Cooke would lap up a story like this.
Counting out the days on her fingers, it became increasingly obvious that five of her precious thirteen days had passed. That left only eight, including today.
That was it. If she couldn't get out of here by only telling the truth, then she had no other choice but to escape.
The instant that thought flashed through her mind, her shoulders dropped. She couldn't get out of here. It was a fortress, and she wasn't a fighter, she was a governess, her only assets being an over-creative imagination and a taste for grisly true crime. Sure, she could practically recite every murder that had been reported in London's popular press since 1728, but that wasn't exactly a useful skill when it came to picking a lock or sneaking over a drawbridge.
Rosa made the eight steps across the room to the window. The window's glass had broken and instead of being repaired someone had boarded it over, blocking out most of the light. With her face pressed against a gap in the wooden boards, she could see part of the courtyard and even a little of the open fields beyond the great wall.
Scaffolding had been erected against the eastern wall, but there didn't seem to be anybody working on repairs. The Uilleim Estate must really be almost bankrupt. It would certainly explain the boards over the window. Broken glass was expensive to replace.
Her eyes settled on the kilted soldier guarding the front gate and, while open, the portcullis hung threatening over the entrance, ready to snap shut at a moment's notice. Only a soldier or a spy would have any hope of stealing a horse and escaping the clutches of Fortress Doom.
Or perhaps, she thought with a thump of her heart, a journalist. Last year, she'd read about how Bennie Cooke had bravely snuck into Fleet Prison, London's notorious debtors prison, for an exclusive interview with several inmates, and two years before that Bennie had crept into Bethlem asylum after dark to see if it really was haunted. If Bennie Cooke could brave criminals and madmen and all the while avoid capture by the Bow Street Runners, then surely Rosa could escape the throes of Laird Anndrais McWilliam.
That was it. She had no other choice. She was going to have to run away.
Oh, sweet heaven.
She didn't want to run away. She really didn't want to travel through Scotland all by herself with the highway robbers and thieves around, but McWilliam hadn't left her with any other option. If he wasn't even going to hear what she had to say, she couldn't very well convince him of her innocence. And if she couldn't convince him of her innocence, then he was never going to take her back to Leeds. No, it was up to her.
If she wanted to save Amelia, Rosa was going to have to take things in hand.
She tapped her forehead, marshaling her thoughts. If she was going to escape, then she'd need supplies—food, water, extra clothes and, most importantly, a horse. She'd also need to work out how to break free of her bedchamber and cross the drawbridge without being seen. With an hour or two head start, she might be able to make it back across the border before McWilliam caught up with her. And once she was back in England, everything would be all right.
Sure, she'd have to keep attempting to persuade McWilliam of her innocence. If she stopped now, he'd get too suspicious, but her future no longer rested in his hands. Even if he never believed her, Rosa would get back to England, and she would save Amelia.
"McWilliam." she mused, taking his name on her tongue. He would come after her, there was no doubt about it.
While Rosa had kept an eye on the comings and goings of the courtyard through the gap in the window boards, she had yet to catch sight of the elusive laird. It was almost as if she'd imagined him.
She smiled at that thought. He was more annoying and stubborn than any man she could have dreamt up. More masculine, muscular, commandeering and certainly more handsome than anything her imagination could conjure.
In short, Laird Anndrais McWilliam of Uilleim Estate was unlike anyone she'd ever met—or read about—in her entire life.
Rosa took a deep breath. She could manage McWilliam. She'd have to if she didn't want to spend the rest of her life locked up in this tiny life-sucking room or worse.
* * *
McWilliam's feet stalled as he neared Rosa's room. He hadn't once been to see her since they'd arrived back at the castle three days previous. He'd told Cameron he didn't want anyone near Rosa, that he wanted her to stew in thoughts of her complete and total surrender.
Fact. But he also needed some space from her. They'd spend two days and three nights traveling together, with almost no other human contact. Rosa was out of bounds, but over the course of those days his body had begun to forget she was a thief and had begun focusing on her many feminine qualities—the curve of her body from shoulder to breast and waist to hip.
Just the idea of her slim but curvaceous figure appealed to him. Or, rather, to his body. When she looked at him with fire in her eyes, looking fit for battle, his body snapped to attention like a goddamn soldier ready for action.
It was perfectly understandable, he reassured himself. She was a beautiful, young woman with a temper to match. Any man would find her damn-near impossible to resist.
She was, without doubt, much too beautiful for her own good or, more to the point, for his good.
If he was going to uncover Rosa's guilt and prove to everyone of his household, and two hundred tenants, that he was fit to be their laird then he needed to focus on Rosa the Thief, not Rosa the Stunning Temptress. Or Rosa the Vixen.
He strode on, ducking into his sister's bedchamber at the end of the hallway instead.
Rhona let out a squeal, a smile lighting up her face. "Andy!"
She was the only one who called him that. She was the only one he let call him that.
"How's the patient?" McWilliam asked as she shuffled over to give him room on her bed. He sat beside her, letting his legs dangle off the side.
"I'm bored!" she exclaimed, throwing a look of longing towards the window.
It was one of those rare days when the sun was almost showing its face, making it impossible not to want to go outside.
"You should have thought of that before jumping off the stable roof," he scolded. She was lucky it had only resulted in a sprained ankle. It could have been so much worse.
"I wasn't in the mood for common sense that day." She crossed her arms, pouting in a way that he knew would have the local lads panting in her wake. It was a strange sight he was not yet accustomed to seeing. Rhona with her womanly curves and a porcelain face that would be able to melt the coldest ice. Their mother had always called her a 'heartbreaker' and McWilliam was beginning to agree. He'd have to start keeping a closer eye on her now that she was approaching her sixteenth birthday. He didn't want anyone getting any ideas.
He glowered. "I'm away for a week and you throw your common sense off the stable roof. What am I going to do with you?"
"Is this the beginning of a lecture?" Her pout deepened as she eyed him warily.
He sighed. "Ach nay." Cameron had probably scolded her when it first happened. His uncle had always had a soft spot for Rhona, but he also practiced tough love, especially when it came to propriety.
"What are you thinking about?" Rhona poked his cheek with a finger as she made a popping noise with her mouth.
He swatted away her hand. Rhona had more energy than anyone else he knew and being cooped up in her room while her ankle healed wasn't helping.
Wrapping an arm about her shoulders, he pulled her roughly against his side. She laughed, swatting at him. If their mother could have seen them now she would have had a fainting fit.
"That's not how you treat a young lady," she would have snapped, ordering McWilliam off Rhona's bed and away from her bedchamber. He didn't care. Now their father was gone, Rhona and Cameron were his only family, and he intended to make sure his baby sister never wanted for anything. Even if the estate was almost in ruins.
"What's wrong?" Rhona pushed his cheek again, the smile fading from her face. "What are you thinking about now?"
"Athair," he said, using Rhona's pet name for their father.
"Don't." She shook her head, sadness suddenly ageing her appearance.
"It's been three weeks. We have to talk about him sometime."
"Nay, we don't." She crossed her arms, turning her head to stare back out the window.
"Ye know I went away for a couple of days," McWilliam continued. His heart ached for her pain, but he couldn't put this conversation off any longer. Rosa had been in their house for three days already and Rhona couldn't keep pretending anything different. "I went to England. To Bradford."
"Maybe if I ask Mrs Fenella she can set up a seat for me in the courtyard," Rhona said, ignoring him. "I'm sick of being stuck inside."
"I went to Bradford because I'd heard news of Rosa Blair."
"Ye could carry me down the stairs." Her voice cracked. "I'm not very heavy."
He rested his hand on her knee through the blankets, speaking slowly and clearly so there was no way she could pretend she hadn't heard. "Rhona, I brought Rosa back with me. She's here."
"Don't." A tear slipped down Rhona's check, catching at the bottom of her chin. "Please don't."
"Lass." He stood up so he could better see her face. She was flushed, and her bottom lip wobbled. He understood how much effort it was taking her not to cry. "I had to bring Rosa here. It was the only way I could make sure justice was carried out. An English magistrate would never have punished Rosa the way she deserves. It has to be Scottish justice."
Rhona wiped a hand across her face. "Where is she?"
"In the spare room, three doors down."
"In our tower!" Rhona struggled off the bed, ignoring her bandaged ankle. "I'm think I'm going to be sick."
She doubled over, pressing her hands to her knees. All color leaked from her face.
"Rhona." McWilliam caught her around the waist, keeping his sister balanced and gathering her red hair up in one fist away from her face.
"Why?" she demanded, between deep, ragged breaths.
"It's complicated."
A bucket was sticking out from under the edge of her bed. He frowned. How many times had she been sick? Was it grief making her feel this way or the pain of her ankle?
"Nay. It's not." Rhona straightened and tried to pull from his arms, reminding him of Rosa's many attempts to free herself from his grasp. He let her go, and she wriggled back an inch or two.
"Are you all right, lass?"
"She killed Athair," she said, using the Gaelic for 'father'. "She stole our money. To me, it's perfectly simple." She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand but otherwise the sickness seemed to have passed for now.
"Everything has to be done properly."
Their family used to be trusted by all their tenants and neighboring clans to hand down just the right amount of humility and retribution to those who'd broken the law. Now it was just another thing his grandfather had destroyed.
But not for much longer. McWilliam wholeheartedly intended to revive that family tradition and prove to everyone that his family was worth trusting.
Rosa was his first big magisterial case as laird. Just because he already knew her to be guilty it didn't mean that he didn't want to be seen to be doing the right thing. If he got a full confession, then there could be no doubt in anyone's mind that he was right to hand down punishment.
"Everyone has to see that you and I are treating her with respect until she has been formally pronounced guilty at the hearing," he continued. "We cannot be seen to be taking sides."
"Of course we're taking sides. She's guilty. Rodd saw her birthmark."
"I know. But you and I aren't like everyone else. We're Clan McWilliam. We're leaders, and we have to lead by example."
"Lead by locking her up for a very long time."
"I will, but everything must be done properly. You cannot expect anyone to trust me with their problems if I cannot even fix my own with a clear head."
Silence fell.
Her room was warm and cozy. She'd hung a couple of tapestries and cross-stitch samplers on her wall while the floor was covered by a great woolen rug. Glancing around McWilliam thought the room looked like a mish-mash of childish toys and grown-woman's furniture. A little like Rhona. She was quickly growing into a beautiful young woman, but whenever McWilliam looked at her he continued to see the bairn she once was.
"Lass," McWilliam said, unable to stand the silence any longer. "I promise Rosa will admit to her guilt, and when that happens, when it is clear without a doubt in everybody's mind that she's guilty, she'll be justly punished."
"And until then you're going to let her stay in Mathair's old room."
"We can't afford an extra guard to mind her. At least in Mathair's room she can't escape and it's easy for us to keep an eye on her."
Rhona shook her head. "I can't believe this. She's responsible for our athair's death and you think she's really going to admit to that." She climbed back into bed. "Get out."
"What?"
"Get out of my room."
"Rhona." He could understand her anger, but she needed to understand how important it was that they do everything properly. He had to prove to everybody he could be a fair and just laird.
"Now!"
He strode to her bedchamber door. "Rosa will admit she's guilty," he growled. "She'll have no choice."
* * *
Rosa's bedchamber door was flung open. It hit the wall with a bang, and she jumped. McWilliam stopped in the threshold with arms cross over his chest, his dagger still hanging from his belt.
She moistened her lips. Even eight feet away she could feel anger radiating off him.
"You took your time visiting, my lord," she said, attempting nonchalance.
"I've had better things to be getting on with."
"Like being yelled at," she suggested. "Was that your sister or mother I could hear?"
"That's none of your business," he groused.
"You were talking about me, weren't you?"
"My sister is none of your business," he repeated, his voice darkening with a warning.
"Fine, Laird Cantankerous." Rosa turned her back on him, pretending to look out the boarded-over window. It was obvious he cared very much for his sister, and it was obvious his sister was angry at him—snippets of her shoutings had penetrated the walls. His sister's bedchamber must have been the room at the end of the hallway that Rosa kept hearing people entering.
"Do you know what happens on Whitsunday in the Lowland?" he asked, walking a few steps into the room. She heard the lock click shut. He still wasn't taking any chances.
Rosa almost laughed. It wasn't possible he thought she was strong enough to overpower him. He was only looking the door as a demonstration of his control over her.
She tapped her foot in protest.
"Do you know what happens on Whitsunday in Scotland?" he repeated.
"No." In England it was a holy day. In Scotland it was probably a celebration of the devil or some other pagan event.
"It's one of the four most important days in our legal calendar. On Whitsunday, contracts and leases are renewed, new servants are hired and old servants retried, and the rent is collected." He looped his hands into his belt. The stance was relaxed, even though his arms and neck were knotted with tightly strung muscles. "More importantly, on Whitsunday all debts and lawsuits are resolved."
Her own shoulders tensed. She could guess where he was going with this.
"By that day you will have admitted stealing my money and you'll be tried for your crimes."
Whitsunday was the seventh Sunday after Easter. That made it—she quickly added the days together—15th May. The same day as her trial in Leeds. In eight days.
"And how exactly are you going to make me?"
"I won't have to make you."
She let out of a huff of air. "There's no way I'm doing anything just because you, Mr Righteous, says so."
"You'll do it of your own accord." No hesitation. No doubt. Absolute certainty. The tenacity!
"Are you threatening me, my lord?" she said in her best don't-mess-with-me-governess voice and pressed her hands to her hips.
"Don't look at me like that," he snapped. "I'm not threatening you. I'm giving you fair warning. Thistle, ye will admit your guilt by Whitsunday next all of your own accord."
"I won't admit to something I didn't do." He might be able to boss around Lowlanders, but she wasn't one of his dewy-eyed tenants. And if she could deal with a drunk father and three snooty-nosed Wright boys, then she could deal with Anndrais McWilliam.
"Are you willing to bet
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