Bride of the Solway. Joanna Maitland

Too quickly. A searing pain in the back of his skull stopped him dead.

      Ah, yes. Now he remembered. He had tried to escape when they reached the outskirts of Dumfries and had been struck down for his pains. He put a hand to the back of his head and gingerly felt for blood. There appeared to be none, though there was a distinct lump under his hair. Well, he had suffered worse in the wars. He would mend. At least Elliott and his dastardly companion had untied his arms.

      Ross felt about in the dark. He had been thrown down near a wall and so he sat up, rather more cautiously than before, and leant his aching head against it for a few moments. Where was he? Somewhere in Dumfries, he supposed, but clearly a prisoner of the man, Elliott.

      Ross’s fingers began to quest around in the dank straw beneath him. His left hand met something different. Why, it was his sodden coat! He should have recognised that pervasive smell of wet wool. He pulled the coat towards him and quickly checked the pockets. Not surprisingly perhaps, his money was gone. He cursed roundly. Then, with a grim smile, he ran his fingers down the inside of the lining, where the hidden pocket lay. It remained intact. He still had his English banknotes. But it was a pity that he no longer had golden guineas with which to bribe his way out of whatever prison Elliott had thrown him into. Elliott. And that girl. He remembered her vividly, lying crumpled on the ground. Who was she? Whoever she was, Elliott certainly had some hold over her. She—

      Something scuttled over Ross’s foot. A rat. Of course. There were bound to be rats in a place like this. It was bad, but no worse than many a Spanish billet during the war. Ross shrugged philosophically. The gesture reminded him, painfully, that he should not make any hasty movements. His head was not up to it. He must move slowly and carefully. He should explore his prison and find out whether there was any possibility of escape. In this clammy darkness, he could not tell whether there was even a window.

      He pushed himself on to his knees. Then, with a hand on the wall for support, he slowly began to get to his feet. Just at that moment, a door opened in the far wall and a lantern appeared. Ross was temporarily blinded by the sudden light and unable to see what was beyond.

      A man’s voice said, ‘Och, so ye’re no’ dead then,’ and broke into raucous laughter.

      Ross stared towards the doorway, trying to make out the features of the man who stood there. It was neither Elliott nor his henchman, Ross decided. This man was much stouter than either.

      ‘I’ve brought ye a wee bit dinner,’ said the man. The lantern stooped and there was the muffled clatter of a metal plate on the straw-covered stone floor.

      Ross took a step towards the door.

      ‘Stay jist where ye are!’ cried the man quickly. ‘I’ve a pistol here and I’ll shoot ye, if ye come a step nearer!’

      Ross stopped in his tracks, allowing his arms to hang loosely by his sides, palms forward. ‘You must know that I have no weapons,’ he said calmly.

      ‘Aye, but the laird said ye was dangerous. I am no’ to take any chances with ye.’

      ‘And you are the laird’s man?’ said Ross, proudly.

      ‘Nothing o’ the kind,’ protested the man at the door. ‘I do my duty by ye, as I would by any other prisoner.’

      A cold chill ran down Ross’s spine. ‘Where am I?’

      ‘Where d’ye think? Ye’re in the gaol, in Dumfries.’

      ‘And with what crime am I charged, to be held here? I have done nothing to warrant it.’

      The turnkey laughed. ‘That’s no’ the way the laird tells it. He says ye’ll hang.’

      ‘Dammit, man!’ Ross took another step forward. ‘I’ve done—’

      ‘Stop where ye are!’

      Ross stopped dead. However, the gaoler had moved smartly backwards and closed the door between them. The lantern now showed the bars in the tiny window in the door.

      ‘Ye’ll learn yer fate soon enough,’ said the man with a low chuckle as he turned the key. ‘Soon enough.’ The lantern receded and disappeared. Ross was alone again. In the dark.

      He had endured too many hardships in the Peninsula to dwell on might-have-beens. His first thought was to secure the plate and whatever food had been provided, before the rats ate it. He got down on his knees once more and then felt his way towards where the light had been, until his outstretched fingers found the plate. It contained a largish piece of hard bread and nothing else. Ross grinned into the darkness. It was quite like old times.

      He broke off a chunk from the stale bread and chewed it thoughtfully. He needed to get a message to someone. Was there anyone in Dumfries who would help an unknown gentleman from England? Perhaps with one of the banknotes from his hidden store, he could bribe the gaoler to take a letter to the provost or the local magistrate? Yes, he would do that.

      A thought struck him. He was surprised into a burst of hollow laughter. What if the local magistrate was the Elliott laird?

      Cassandra paced the floor of her chamber. Her gaol. Her only consolation was that her clothes had been returned to her. She was decently clad, and shod. But now there were bars on her window, making the room feel even more like a prison.

      She refused to dwell on that. With luck, she might be able to unlock the door using the same trick as before. But first, she must have news of the man who had tried to rescue her. What on earth was keeping Morag? Surely she should have been able to glean some news by now?

      The sound of the key turning in the lock brought a halt to her pacing. Morag?

      The door opened. ‘Morag!’ Cassandra cried as the servant entered, bearing a tray of food. ‘Have you found out what happened to the ma—?’

      Morag frowned warningly and gave a tiny shake of her head.

      ‘She has tried, sister,’ said a voice from the darkness beyond the doorway. James Elliott stepped forward into the room and pushed the door behind him. ‘She has tried so hard that even Tam noticed her eagerness for information. And you will agree that our Tam is not the quickest of nature’s creatures. So, since you are so desperate for news of your lover, I have come to bring it myself.’

      ‘He is not my lover!’ Cassandra protested hotly. ‘I never saw him before yesterday!’

      James ignored her. ‘Return to the kitchen,’ he ordered sharply. ‘And remember what I said, woman. You will not attend on my sister until I give you leave. If I find you have been alone with her, you will find yourself in the workhouse. Or the gutter.’

      Morag had shrunk away from his terrible words. Without venturing even a glance at Cassandra, she hurried out. Cassandra’s only ally had been defeated.

      James threw himself down into the high-backed oak chair and stretched out his long legs. He had every appearance of a gentleman sitting at his ease. But James Elliott was no gentleman. He was—

      ‘Now, sister. We have matters to discuss. First, that woman of yours. She will no longer serve you. Not alone. Tam will make sure that you have no opportunity for private speech with her. Or with anyone else who might try to help you. Understand that I am the laird, and my will is to be respected. No one will be allowed to cross me. Not even you.’

      This time, Cassandra did not protest. She refused to look at him. She clenched her jaw and stared at the floor. Hot words clamoured for release, but she would not give in to them. A moment’s satisfaction was not worth weeks of even greater restrictions on her person.

      ‘Lost your tongue sister?’ James’s voice was now thoroughly nasty. He paused for a few seconds. Then, realising that Cassandra was not about to respond, he said, ‘You wanted information about your lover. You thought I had killed him, did you not? Faith, lassie, I am not such a fool as to put myself on the wrong side of the law. Not when it stands ready to help me.’

      Cassandra raised her eyes to his face. At least Ross Graham was not dead.

      ‘Your