Chapter Ten

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McWilliam took off down the hallway without glancing back, as though he fully expected Rosa to follow.

She halted in the doorway. There was nobody else around—the hallway was completely deserted and even the door at the far end where she guessed his sister lived was closed and the room beyond silent.

Where was he taking her?

"Come on," McWilliam called, striding down the spiral stairs and disappearing from sight.

Rosa hurried to catch up. It was too good of an opportunity to miss. If she was really going to escape Fortress Doom she needed to gather information about the layout as well as the comings and goings of the staff. That's what Bennie Cooke would do.

McWilliam had paused at the bottom of the stairs. He didn't look any happier at having to wait for her. They left the tower house through the same door they'd entered three days ago. It seemed this door was the only way in and out of the family residence. That, in itself, was important information, and she stored it away for later consideration.

Outside, a fresh breeze tickled her face. It smelt faintly of wood smoke and what she could only imagine was sheep. She took a deep breath.

She never realized it was possible to miss being outside this much. While this courtyard was nothing like the hustle and bustle of the streets of London, or the more quiet contemplative alleyways of Bradford, anything was a hundred times better than being cooped up in that ten by eight foot soul-crushingly boring bedchamber.

Back at ground level, Rosa could now see the entire courtyard. It was almost perfectly square with a squat tower house at each corner as well as a kitchen and veggie garden, blacksmith's workshop, and guard house. And everything was surrounded by the great, heavy stone wall. There was nothing romantic about it. The rough stone loomed overhead so that from the ground she could see nothing of the horizon beyond; just wall and then, above that, the depressingly overcast sky.

A cluster of servants worked by one of the other towers, beating dust from carpets they'd strung between two wooden poles. They looked around, bobbing their heads in greeting to the laird before their eyes came to rest on Rosa.

She could feel the anger and curiosity in their glare even at this distance.

The blacksmith stepped out from under his sheltered workshop, hands on hips as he looked Rosa up and down. He also wore a belt plait, the excess material tucked back in on itself to create pockets that were bulging with hammers and other tools Rosa didn't recognize.

"This way," McWilliam grunted, apparently oblivious to his servants' glares angled towards Rosa as he headed towards the portcullis.

It was open, and the drawbridge was down. From her bedchamber window, Rosa had noticed that a guard opened the gate every morning and closed it again each evening. Were the Lowlands really that dangerous? She sped up, keeping pace with McWilliam. She couldn't imagine anyone willingly attacking him. It would be like trying to topple one of the rocky mountains surrounding Fortress Doom. Nigh on impossible.

The worn heels of her hand-me-down half-boots clicked against the cobblestones as they crossed the courtyard.

"Where are we going?" Rosa asked as they passed under the spiked portcullis locked over their heads like a death trap.

He hadn't brought a horse, so they couldn't be going too far. On the other hand, there looked to be nothing more than fields and sheep within walking distance. There was quite literally nowhere for them to go.

"I want you to meet someone."

"Who?"

"You'll see."

"Are you trying to scare me?" Rosa hurried to match his long strides, taking two steps for each of his. "It won't work, my lord Laird. I'm not afraid of you."

"Oh." He laughed, dark and aggressive. "I think ye are."

She shook her head, pressing her lips together.

His gaze slid over her body, his expression suddenly pained.

The top of her head nearly reached his shoulder; if he was going to kiss her again he'd have to lean right over or she would have to stand up on her tippy toes. She blushed with the unwelcome thought.

"Am not," she returned. She sounded like a child.

"Bollocks."

She bit back a retort, dropping her gaze to the ground. In truth, it was a good question. Was she still afraid of Anndrais McWilliam?

He'd promised not to harm her and had given Rosa no reason to think he would. But, he'd also promised to make her admit stealing the money and punish her for that crime.

No, she realised, she wasn't afraid of the Scot. And she wasn't afraid he'd make her admit to a crime she hadn't committed. She was a governess by trade and temperament—determination and stubbornness were the very nature of her profession.

In fact, she hadn't been afraid of him for quite a while. Sure, she'd been frightened when she thought they were going to be drawn and quartered by highway men and she'd panicked when she thought McWilliam was going to lock her in a dungeon—who wouldn't have?—but the last time she had been honest-to-God afraid of the broody laird was back at Mistress Thomas's establishment, five days ago.

As far as kidnappings went, this was nothing like what she'd read in the papers. So-called thief Rosa Alice Blair treated with begrudging politeness by Scottish kidnapper.

I'm no gentleman. His words came unbidden to the surface of her thoughts. No, he wasn't like any English gentlemen—he was so much more...complex.

He strode along beside her, his hands swinging gently by his side, his shoulders relaxed and his step light. Everything about him suggested the quiet confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was going. But, even as she watched, she saw his eyes dart left then right. He glanced over his shoulder, back at the fortress, seeking—she didn't know who. Hidden attackers? More highway men? Bow Street Runners?

The latter was highly unlikely, she'd never heard of one crossing the border to chase down their prey. She'd been lucky Smith had travelled all the way to Bradford. Lucky, ha!

She bit her lip. A light breeze played with the short strands of McWilliam's hair, brushing the brown, almost black, locks against the back of his neck. She had to tip her head back a little to see his face. He was certainly taller than the average Englishman. But his height suited him well, with his broader shoulders and masculine frame.

She blinked. McWilliam was handsome. Was she mad to think her kidnapper handsome? She gave her head a mental shake. No sane woman could deny his looks. He wasn't a dandy, like the society men in Hyde Park. He was rugged and dark. Surly. That was the word she'd use to describe him if she was a journalist. Surly.

No, she wasn't afraid of McWilliam. But she was afraid he wouldn't believe her to be innocent until too late. And she was bitterly afraid she wouldn't be able to escape him in time to save Amelia.

"I'm not afraid of you anymore, Lord Laird," she said, this time letting the truth of it touch her words.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. "No, maybe you're not," he conceded reluctantly, a strange expression flitting across his face.

It had looked, Rosa realized with a jolt, like...pride?

She frowned. That wasn't possible.

* * *

Rosa followed McWilliam along what she could only guess was a shepherd's path. It wasn't cobbled, but the ground was smooth as though generations of people had passed by this way. It twisted and turned around foothills of grazing sheep, leading them away from the fortress and the mountains behind.

Half a dozen crumbling ruins littered the fields on either side. Their roofs had long since fallen in, the stone walls now barely four feet high. They couldn't possibly have been houses, they were barely the length of two rooms and the stone was damp with lichen.

"What are they?" she asked, breaking the silence as curiosity got the better of her.

"The homes of my ancestors."

"But they're so small."

"They're many hundreds of years old. They were here long before the castle was built."

Hundreds of years old. She could barely imagine a time so long ago. It certainly wasn't the type of thing you read about in the popular press.

"My family has been in this area for thirty generations," he continued. "The castle was built by my ancestors in the fourteen century."

"Were they shepherds too?"

"Of course. The best wool in all the world comes from the Lowlands." He ran a hand down his woolen kilt.

"Did your mother weave that for you?" She knew next to nothing about caring for sheep, but she had spent some time learning to sew and knit. 'A governess must possess many useful household skills,' as snobby Mrs Wright used to say.

"My sister made this one." Pride touched his words.

"The girl I heard yelling this morning?"

"Och aye. She's not happy I brought you into our home," he said, making that noise at the back of his throat that only Scots seemed capable of making.

"That makes two of us. It sounds like your sister and I would get along well."

"You'll stay away from her." McWilliam stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

"Are you afraid she'll believe me when I tell her I didn't steal your money? Because if your sister believes me than you'll have to—"

"Do you really think you can turn my family against me? Like you tried with Cameron."

"I did no such thing," she said, alarmed at how easily he'd realized what she'd been doing. "I merely took the opportunity to properly introduce myself before he'd had time to be poisoned by your obsession that I'm a liar and a thief. Next minute you'll be telling people I'm a murderer too."

He let out a single, humorless laugh, and it seemed to echo around the open fields. "I don't think you'd manage to persuade my sister, regardless of what I say. She has a mind all of her own."

"I can see who she gets it from," she joked truthfully, but a heavy silence met her words.

Obviously, he was not amused as he clearly loved and adored his sister. In any other man it would have been endearing. In McWilliam, it only added to his power. Like the strength of his feelings enhanced his muscles and bravado, like it was suddenly possible he could tear apart a mountain if his sister was in danger and that was the only way to save her.

She frowned. If she had that type of raw strength, she'd have saved Amelia days ago instead of being trapped in the Lowlands with a virtual stranger intent on destroying her life.

They continued along the path as it slowly wound its way up the steep mountain side. She was becoming increasingly aware of his every movement, the way he swung his arms as he strode purposely forward, as though this path and this mountain was as familiar to him as the back of his own hand.

Just as she knew the streets of London and the pages of the Public Ledger.

But this wasn't London. This was...she tapped her forehead, seeking the right adjective. Alien. That was it; that's how Bennie Cooke would describe it. Alien. Foreign. Dangerous.

"We're here."

She blinked. They stood before a small stone building. Unlike the others she'd seen, this one was well maintained. The roof was shingled, the walls moss free while someone had cleared away the brambles and nettles, leaving the ground clear. More importantly, at the eastern end of the gabled roof was a wooden cross.

"I don't understand. Why's there a church here?"

She turned a circle, and her mouth dropped open. She could see everything from here. Counterpane, the mountains beyond, a village she hadn't known was there, tucked between mountain and castle, and a loch, the waters of which reflected the cloudy sky above—murky and inescapable.

"This way." McWilliam didn't stop. He moved around the building to the northern side to where headstones littered the ground, some weatherworn and crumbling so that the names of their occupants were indistinguishable, while others were clear, arrangements of flowers still adorning the graves.

McWilliam stopped before one such headstone, shadows clouding his face. "Rosa, meet my father."

* * *

"Your father?"

McWilliam felt a stab of satisfaction. She hadn't seen this coming.

"Now I really don't understand." She'd stopped beside him, starting down at the biblical words on the headstone.

Hearn McWilliam: beloved husband and father, devoted laird. 'Let judgement run down as waters, and righteous as a mighty stream.'

"Why are you showing me this? I wouldn't have thought—" Her voice dropped away, surprise apparently rendering her momentarily speechless.

His features tightened. "You wouldn't have thought I'd want you up here with him. Well, you're right. You don't deserve to be anywhere near my father. He was a great man. He loved his people very much and did everything in his power to restore our family's reputation." He clenched his fists. "It was the stolen money that killed him. His heart couldn't deal with the stress of losing so much hard-earned revenue to...an English wench." He practically spat the last word.

Wordlessly, she opened and closed her mouth, and another stab of satisfaction rocked his body.

Good. He wanted her to see what she'd done. He wanted her to understand the man she'd killed and the family she'd ripped him from. He wanted her to be riddled with guilt every single time she considered spending even a penny of that stolen money. He wanted to haunt her dreams until she couldn't take it anymore. She deserved nothing less.

She turned to face him. A montage of contrasting expressions flittered across her face in quick succession. Confusion, sadness, pity and then, stronger than the others, like a flash of lightning or a clap of thunder, anger. Pure, unadulterated anger.

"I can't believe you brought me up here," she raged, with a ferocity he hadn't been prepared for. "If you think showing me the grave of a dead man is going to make me feel so remorseful that I admit stealing money that I didn't take, you're very much mistaken."

Anger. Of course she was angry! When he wanted her to feel guilt and shame, she defied him, as she always did.

Nobody stood up to him like Rosa did.

"This is my father you're talking about. Not some stranger off the streets of London," he growled. "Show some respect."

"I'm showing as much respect as you. You're ruthlessly using his death to manipulate me. That's not righteous." She gestured at the biblical inscription on his headstone.

He shook his head.

"Don't try to deny it when we're standing up here," she said, not bothering to keep her voice down, although there was nobody near to hear them. "If I told the magistrate about your behavior, he'd call you on it. This is clearly a case of tampering with the witness. It's emotional blackmail."

"I'm not blackmailing you," he informed her. "I'm showing you the consequences of your actions. Back in England, away from all of this, it's too easy to forget that the money you stole was someone's livelihood and that people were depending on it. I refuse to let you forget about my people. I refuse to let you steal from me without understanding how much pain and suffering it has brought upon us."

She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry you lost your shipment. I do understand how much losing that money would have affected you. I don't want anyone to die. I'd never want your father to die—" Her voice broke and she glanced over his shoulder back towards the church. "But I cannot change the past. And I cannot admit having done something that I didn't."

He shook his head, determined not to let her show of sorrow and pity beguile him. "You won't admit it to me, but you were perfectly happy admitting it to an English Runner."

"I lied to Runner Smith. I lied to save my cousin. I've told you all of this."

"Nay, you're lying to me right now." He started back down the hill. "This mightn't have changed your mind, but there's plenty more for you to see yet."

* * *

She followed McWilliam back the way they had come. What was he thinking bringing her up here? A grave, no matter who was buried there, wasn't going to change her mind. Amelia was still alive and if there was a chance Rosa could save her then it was worth fighting for, even if it meant yelling in a churchyard.

But McWilliam hadn't been thinking. That was the problem. His father was dead. He was in mourning. She sighed. When her own father had died she'd mourned certainly, but more for herself than her Pa.

It sounded horrible when she thought about it like that, but without him she was all alone, whereas her father had slowly been withering away since her mother's death, twenty years ago. He hadn't been himself in many, many years.

McWilliam, on the other hand, seemed to have really loved his father. He probably hadn't been a depressed alcoholic with a gambling addiction.

Guilt gnawed at her insides. Reluctantly, she sped up to walk beside him.

"Let's just pretend for a minute that I'm not Rosa Blair and that you don't hate me." She rested a hand on his arm. "I'm really sorry your father died."

His shoulders dropped, and eyes of steel grey looked down at her.

She shivered, tingles running down her spine; his arm hot and hard beneath her hand. "Tell me about him."

A shadow flickered across his face, then: "My father and I never did get along very well when I was growing up. But these last few years, working together to restore the family business..." he shrugged. "Things were almost good between us. And Rhona, she misses him like part of her own heart has been ripped out."

"Your sister." Rhona. Rosa's insides melted. When Emily had died, all those years ago, it had felt like a part of Rosa had died along with her. Everything had ached until it had become almost too hard to breath,

"My younger sister." He ran a hand through his short hair until it stood up on end.

By the sound of it, McWilliam was Rhona's primary guardian.

"So now it's just you, Rhona and Cameron?"

He nodded. "It's just you, your uncle and your cousin, Amelia."

"Yes, I guess." Truth be told, her uncle and cousin had cut off all contact with Rosa when Emily died. The mysterious letter threatening Rosa with Amelia's death was the first she'd heard of them for more than two years.

She twisted her fingers together. "Amelia was always the headstrong one. Emily... Emily was devoted to her sister and wanted to do everything Amelia was doing. It didn't matter that she was three years younger or about two heads shorter. If her sister was doing it, Emily was doing to it."

She could see them both now in her memories, clear as day. Amelia with her long, blond hair and Emily, much shorter with thick brown hair and a little too much flush in her checks to ever be considered a real beauty.

"What about ye?" the Scot asked, his voice surprisingly gentle for a man who claimed he believed none of her stories.

"I was always the voice of reason. Not that they ever really listened to me. Why should they listen to their older, poor cousin?" She could hear the pain in her own voice.

McWilliam must have heard it too because he stepped into her personal space. They were so close now she could practically feel the heat radiating from him. It was comforting and almost familiar, as if all those hours she'd spent riding in the saddle pressed against his chest had

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