Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(82)
“Highland soldiers are not men,” Uncle Perry said with exaggerated patience. “They are animals. They don’t feel things and understand them the way we do. Leave the thinking to me, Charles. It’s always best.”
“Not this time.” The duke drew himself up. “I am the head of this regiment. None can countermand my orders but the king. If you’d like to draw him into this, I am happy to send a messenger and invite him to the discussion.”
Lord Chesfield and Uncle Perry exchanged glances. “Now, don’t be so hasty, Charles,” Lord Chesfield began.
Uncle Perry set his jaw. “If you are that much of a stickler for the rules against filthy brutes that nearly overran us, brother-in-law, then yes, we will have them executed. We will do it right now.” He picked up the pistol Lady Flora had dropped to the floor. “Give me that gun, Celia. Come along, Charles. You can be witness to our mercy as we shoot the bloody lot of them.”
Chapter 27
The sentries, as Alec had suspected, had taken advantage of their officers being away to gather for a celebration of their own. Their sergeant joined them as they passed around a fat jug of something, laughing together in a circle of firelight, well away from the house.
One of the men was about to go on leave, to return home where his wife had borne their first child. He took a lot of teasing, growling at their remarks, but he remained good-natured.
They were, in short, bored soldiers who’d taken the King’s shilling for the pay, and didn’t much care whether they guarded a house in the English woods or camped in mud in the middle of France. They obviously were not worried about their captives escaping or of anyone walking in to rescue them.
Malcolm might have set off an incendiary device deep in the woods to attract their attention, but Alec did not want these lounging soldiers to come alert. He’d had a better idea when he’d seen the penned-up sheep on the farm at the other end of Hungerford Park, which were released during the day to keep the lawn trimmed.
Padruig had not been happy with his part to play, but he took Alec’s coin and melted away to obey.
Timed to the second, the sound of bleating filled the woods, and the soldiers groaned. “Bloody hell,” the sergeant snarled. “That’s the second time this week. Can’t the man fix his fences? He’s a bleeding duke after all. Go on, corporal—take your men and herd them back. Next time, we’ll dine on fresh mutton and to hell with it.”
Most of the guards trudged into the woods, making plenty of noise. The sheep, happy with their midnight freedom, dashed hither and yon, leading them on a merry chase.
The door sentry left to help.
Alec darted out of the shadows, sank down, and inserted a stiff wire into the back door’s lock. Wilfort stepped in front of him, hiding him from anyone who might happen to glance from the woods. After a moment or two, the lock clicked open.
Wilfort stayed behind as a lookout as Alec slipped inside. The story Wilfort would tell if caught was that he’d grown bored with the duke’s ball and had taken a walk—more or less the truth.
Alec moved swiftly through an empty hall that ran the length of the house, doors on either side of it. None were locked, he discovered, but the rooms held no Scottish prisoners. He found cots, a makeshift kitchen, an office—the barracks of the soldiers.
Two doors very close to each other opened to stairs, one flight going up, the other going down. Alec had reasoned they’d keep the prisoners in the cellar, but a muffled groan from above changed his mind. He started up silently.
At the top was another hall, also lined with doors, but each of these had been fixed with a solid wooden bar that rested in slots in the doorframe, bolting them firmly shut. A man inside might pick or break open a lock, but escaping through the thick bar would be a different matter.
The doors were paneled and painted, once elegant, but the bolts fixed on them were roughhewn, the effect like a lady covering a lovely gown with a course, homespun cloak.
The hall held a dozen doors. Will might be behind one of them, or not here at all.
Alec grunted as he heaved the first bar out of its slots and then picked the lock. He swung the door open but took a quick step back as a thick miasma of unwashed bodies and un-emptied slop pails wafted out at him.
No light flickered here, and the shaft from Alec’s dark lantern barely illuminated two unmoving lumps of men, chained, on the floor of a room devoid of furniture, the window shuttered and covered with iron bars. The men wore linen shirts and breeches and were barefoot, with no blankets against the cool of the night. Their hair was thickly matted, beards hid their faces, and each had one hand manacled to an iron bar in the wall.
They didn’t stir as Alec looked in on them. Neither of the men was Will—they didn’t possess the length of limbs or flame-red hair of his brother. Alec moved inside, removed another tool from his pocket, and unscrewed the manacles.
The men never woke. Alec left them and went to the next room to find a similar scene. This time, when he went to loosen the manacles, a hand came out to seize Alec’s throat in a surprisingly strong grip.
Alec looked into blue eyes, which widened. “Alec Mackenzie?” came a hoarse whisper. “Bloody hell.”
“Stuart Cameron?”
A Highlander, friend to Will, a man Alec had seen often enough in his lifetime. Stuart’s face was covered with a filthy beard, his face creased with blood and dirt, but his eyes held fire.