Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(86)
Celia found herself surrounded by Scotsmen, all of them injured in some way, many of them too ill to lift their heads. Gair, a slightly built, evil-looking man with a thin queue of hair hanging from a mostly bald head, complained incessantly that his hold was taken up with filthy, stinking Highlanders, but Celia noted that he found a hammock or pallet for every man and made sure they were tended.
During the trip, Celia assisted in nursing them, bathing wounds, helping men shave themselves, or covering them with warm blankets at night. Her heart went out to these Scotsmen, hurt, starved, a long way from home and journeying even farther from home to save themselves. They didn’t complain, they made jokes—usually bawdy ones—and settled in to heal.
Will Mackenzie recovered quickly, as did his friend Stuart Cameron. The big men were rough speaking and joined Padruig in toasting their freedom with Scots whisky—the ship seemed to carry many casks of it.
Gair gave over his captain’s cabin to Alec, Celia, and Jenny, but not, he warned, from the goodness of his heart. The cabin would cost them extra. Alec only nodded and promised the money when they reached shore.
“Never pay Gair up front,” he explained as he and Celia sat in the bow, Alec wrapped in a dark green plaid he’d brought out as soon as they sailed. “If he finds a cargo that will make him wealthier halfway to your destination, he might send you off in a skiff and take on the more lucrative cargo.”
“Would he truly do that?” Celia asked, glancing at the man chivvying one of his sailors up a mast. “I’d think no one would trust him after a time.”
“No one does. I exaggerate to make the story better, but not by much. Gair prides himself on being underhanded.”
They’d slid down the Thames under cover of darkness, Gair competently avoiding naval ships at Gravesend and Southend, slipping through marshland and mist, heading to open water as the sun rose. The Channel tossed the boat wildly, and the freed men groaned, seasickness not helping their weakened state.
Alec slid his arms around Celia, holding her close, as the wind of their passage chilled them. They could have hunkered below, but Alec had said he wanted clean air, and Celia agreed.
Will found them, dropping onto the board seat opposite them, wineskin in hand. “Now is time for that story, Alec.” His eyes were alight, his jaw clean and shaved, showing a sharp Mackenzie face, albeit one bruised and cut. “Rescuing a pack of Highlanders and finding yourself a bride in the space of a few weeks? Tell me everything.”
Alec shrugged. “Why don’t we wait until we reach home? I’ll only have to explain all over again to Dad and Mal and Mary.”
He teased—Celia had sensed the lightness in him since they’d made it on board. Will scowled. “I can always beat it out of you, little brother.”
“Ye can try, ye mean. Why don’t you tell me why the devil you were so angry at me for turning up to free ye? Did ye enjoy being prisoner of British soldiers ready to flay ye alive? And why the devil did ye spring up in front of a troop and tell them ye were Prince Teàrlach?”
“So they’d capture me, of course.” Will took a pull from the wineskin, which Celia knew held whisky—Mackenzie malt, Alec had told her.
“Of course,” Alec repeated with a scowl. “Who were ye protecting? Teàrlach himself?”
Will shook his head. “I never saw the man. He’s gone to ground well and good in the western Highlands somewhere. Good luck to anyone trying to find him. Of course, the soldiers were certain I knew where he was, so they took me to their special interrogation prison, which was all to my plan.”
Alec spoke into Celia’s ear, his breath warm against the sea wind. “He’s a madman. Only explanation.”
“Only a little mad,” Will said. “I’d heard rumor of men high-placed in Prince Teàrlach’s army who were being kept in a secret prison. They’d vanished—no one knew what had happened to them, not even their own families. Stuart Cameron was one of them, and he’s an old friend, for his sins. Also Mackenzies who didn’t get themselves murdered on the expedition looking for French gold.”
Will paused, his expression bleak. Celia had heard the story of a ship carrying gold from France and other weapons and supplies that had landed in the north of Scotland, the gold and goods immediately seized by Highlanders loyal to King George. Jacobites who’d gone to find the gold had been cut down nearly to a man. The gold had been the last hope of the Jacobite army, according to Edward, and that hope had died, making their defeat at Culloden inevitable.
“I heard that rumor too,” Alec said. “Which is why I was looking for you. But I stayed in a comfortable house and questioned people instead of jumping in front of a troop to get myself captured.”
Will shrugged. “I like to be more direct. Anyway I found the prison. They moved it about, from house to house, so if anyone got wind of it, they’d be gone before the area could be searched. The men running it were very aware that they risked their careers, because it wasn’t sanctioned by King Geordie or even Cumberland, as much of a bastard as he is. The plan was to ferret out everything these men knew and present it to the king, in hopes he would lavish them with rewards, money, whatever a greedy man wishes for. Your uncle is ambitious, lass. He also very much enjoyed thinking of ways to torture us.” He rubbed the side of his head, which was crossed with contusions under his scraggly hair. No wonder Will had punched Uncle Perry so thoroughly.