Page 111 of Taming the Highland Misfits
“Why are you delaying the execution of Alex MacNeill?” Aidan demanded. “You know how dangerous he is now. I would not put it past him to somehow get a message to MacNeill at Cairnheugh.”
“I am delaying it because I want him to have a fair hearing,” the Laird said angrily. “Everyone deserves that. I know that you two are desperate to see the end of him, but he will have a chance to state his case.”
“But you have proof,” Aidan protested. “The letters we found!”
“Which have inexplicably disappeared,” the Laird pointed out. “Now, you have asked your question, and I have answered you, so if you don’t mind I am going for a well-deserved rest.” He stood up and practically pushed the two men out of the room, taking wicked pleasure in their annoyance.
He was preparing for war, but first he needed to see if there was anything he could do to avoid it. He still had many doubts about Alex MacNeill’s guilt, and he knew that he should give him a chance to plead his case, so why was he delaying it?
He knew the reason why, but he would not admit it to himself.
* * *
Alex was not exactly starving, but he was not being given the kind of food he was used to eating, and though the monotonous diet of gruel, soup and bread was enough to keep body and soul together, it was not really appetizing. He had not realised how the taste of food affected how much he wanted to eat, even if he was hungry.
Neither could he wash to his satisfaction, although a bucket of cold water was provided every day so that he could at least make an effort. His thick blond hair was matted from lack of combing, and he could smell the odour of sweat on his clothes.
He was staring down at yet another bland concoction of water and oats, then decided that he might as well eat it and be done with it. He reflected on how he would love a great juicy cut of beef at that moment, and his mouth began to water. However, he put the thought out of his mind. He was torturing himself for no good reason.
As he ate the unappetizing porridge, he thought, as he did almost every waking minute of his day, about Freya. He had been unjustly accused, but he was resigned to his fate now; he would either be imprisoned for the rest of his natural life or hanged, and he could not decide which was worse.
However, that was not what hurt him most. The fact that he would be condemned as a guilty man in Freya’s eyes was what caused him the most pain. Everything he had ever done in his life had been for her, and he could not bear the notion of her disapproval, but more than that, he could not stomach the idea that she thought he had hurt her deliberately.
He finished off his tasteless meal and lay down on his straw pallet to try to get some sleep, but thoughts and memories of Freya chased themselves through his mind and kept him awake. How he wished he had had just a few more minutes with her! He would have kissed her, told her how much he loved her, then made love to her. That was what he regretted more than anything else; he had never made her his. He felt tears of anger and sadness pricking his eyes, and dashed them away impatiently, annoyed with himself that he was behaving in such a childish manner.
When he heard footsteps approaching he sat up at once. They were not the heavy clumping of a guard’s boots, but the softer sound of a gentleman’s shoes. Alex shuffled to the back of his cell, expecting Aidan or Gerald to come and taunt him, as they had done every day of the last week. At first, it had made him furious, but now it was merely a mild irritation, like a persistent, buzzing fly. He sighed. It would not last long, he told himself.
Yet it was not either of his two persistent torturers, but Bearnard Murdaugh who looked at him from the other side of the bars. Alex had never been so glad to see anyone in his life before, and he jumped to his feet, smiling from ear to ear.
“Bearnard!” he cried, getting to his feet. There was not much room to move in the cramped cell and he had to bend as he looked at his friend through the metal rods separating them. “I am so glad to see you! Is Freya well?”
Bearnard looked angry, and Alex reflected that he had never seen him that way before.
“I have not seen Freya for over a week,” he answered, “and neither has anyone else apart from her maid and her companion, and no one can get a word out of them.”
“What about your father?” Alex asked anxiously. “Has he not seen her?”
“If he has, he has not told me about it,” Bearnard answered, shrugging. “I am the last person around here to be consulted about anything.” His tone was bitter as he glared at Alex. “Why did you betray us, Alex? We gave you everything you needed at a time when you were absolutely desperate. What made you hate us so much?”
“I did not betray you!” Alex hissed. He was unable to yell, because he knew that he might be beaten on Aidan or Gerald’s orders, and he suspected by the furtive way Bearnard was acting that he had been forbidden from coming to see him. It would mean enormous trouble for Freya’s brother if he was caught.
“That is a vicious lie! I would never do anything to harm any of you, especially not Freya. I love her with all my heart, and I would do anything for her.”
Bearnard glared at Alex, but for the first time, he saw doubt in the younger man’s eyes. At that moment, they heard a door closing at the other end of the passage and the sound of footsteps coming towards them. They did not sound like the heavy boots of a guard.
“Someone is coming,” Alex said urgently. “Hide! Please don’t ask any questions. I do not want the guards to know you have been speaking to me.”
Bearnard gave him a strange, quizzical look, then did as he had asked.
21
For the first time in nine days, Freya came down to the dining room and sat with her family to have dinner, but she looked like a shadow of her former self. Her cheeks were sunken, and although she had lost only a few pounds through lack of eating, she appeared haggard in the extreme. There were big dark circles under her eyes and they looked dull and lacklustre. Although her hair was as carefully coiffed as it always was, it had lost its shine, and the drab deep brown dress she was wearing did nothing to brighten up her general air of misery. She was clearly deeply unhappy.
“It is good to have you with us again, Freya,” the Laird said as he poured her a glass of wine. His smile was forced; he was dreadfully worried about his daughter’s wretched state. “I have not disturbed you for the last few days because I wanted to give you time to think. However, I said I would give Alex a fair hearing and I did. I spoke to him yesterday and he denied everything, as I expected him to.”
Freya did not meet his eyes as she said, “Thank you for hearing him out, Father.” She took a sip of her wine, not really tasting it; red wine had always been her favourite drink, but now its deep red colour reminded her of blood and made her feel nauseous. Such was her mood that she could hardly taste the succulent piece of meat she was eating, chewing and swallowing it without realising what she was doing.
She had sunk into a pit of despair; Alex was to be hanged in the morning, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She did not think she could bear to watch, and reasoned that the best thing she could do would be to shut herself in her room and empty a bottle of her father’s best whisky. If she drank a whole bottle, perhaps it would kill her, then hopefully she could go to the same place as Alex after she was dead, if such a place existed.
