Page 11 of Keeping Kate
Chapter 4
Voices droned somewhere beyond her, though she hardlylistened. She stood in stockinged feet, hands manacled with iron, her gown sagging around her. For hours now, her guards had not permitted her to sit or even move. A length of chain ran from the manacles to a bolt high in the wall, so that any attempt she made to sink or to shift her weight jerked the chain until it pulled painfully on her arms. Not long ago, she had fallen, and a guard had come in to prop her up. He barked at her to be careful before he left the cell. She was glad he left. A guard alone in here with her, with no others to see or care, was a constant threat.
Weary, near collapse but determined not to show it, she watched as darkness gathered in the small stone cell. Cold seeped through the straw on the stone floor. She shivered. Somewhere beyond the cell door, lantern light cast her shadow on the wall. She turned her head a little, but the iron links held her in place.
Through the dirty golden tangle of her hair, she saw other shadows—the stripes of iron bars, the moving shapes of guards out in the corridor. Dizzy, she closed her eyes, but her head spun even worse. She swayed on her feet, jerking upright when her knees buckled and the irons bit again. Loosed from its braiding, her hair spilled in a thick curtain over her face and shoulders.
She knew she was in the dungeon at Inverlochy Castle near Fort William, where government troops were garrisoned under General Wade. Days ago, after her arrest in Captain Fraser’s tent in the Perthshire encampment, she had been led away by dragoons to endure a journey by cart through rain and cold winds until they reached the Great Glen. She recognized the hills, knew the place well. Knew how far north it was, how remote, and that she was in English hands now.
She remembered how Captain Fraser had watched as the dragoons took her. He had frowned in silence, then growled to her guards not to fasten her bonds too tightly and to see that she was kept safe. Then he had turned his back and walked away.
In that instant, her foolish heart had broken. Betrayal and abandonment swamped her at the loss of a precious dream, a silly fantasy. Then she had gathered her wits and fostered her anger, hoping she would never see Fraser again. She had spit on the ground as he walked away. He may have heard her, but he did not look back.
Now, the memory bit deeper and more forcefully than the iron cuffs. She sucked in a breath, sighed it out. But what of Allan? She had not seen her cousin that night and had prayed he had not been caught. None of the guards mentioned him, so she clung to the hope that he had escaped and would bring word of her dilemma to her brother and their clansmen. But she knew they could do little, if anything, to help her without endangering men and lives.
Soon after her arrival, Colonel Francis Grant had come to interview her—the same colonel she had met weeks ago in Wade’s Perthshire encampment. As he questioned her, she had refused to answer, and so he ordered that she stand chained in her cell until she decided to talk.
Her physical strength was waning, but her stubbornness and loyalty were firm. She had not given her surname to her captors. That alone would reveal her kinsmen, and Grant would have sent troops to Duncrieff to arrest whoever was found there.
She understood the risks well, though her mind was muddled. And she knew that Captain Alexander Fraser, who had shown her such tender passion, had arrested her, summoned the guards, and abandoned her to them. He had not accompanied her here. She told herself he was not the man she hoped he was. Despising him felt good.
She stretched a bit to ease her aching shoulders, but discomfort nagged at her in every muscle, in chilled hands and swollen feet, in her full bladder. Ignoring it best she could, determined to endure, she stared ahead in silence.
After a while, she heard hard footsteps in the corridor, the scrape of a chair, low murmurs. On the wall, shadows moved. The door creaked. Someone came toward her.
“Katie.” The man’s voice was nasal. “Katie Hell.” Francis Grant. She tensed.
Black boots and cream breeches entered her view. Thin legs, the long tail of a red coat, the sash of an officer. The very air around him held loathing in it.
“You must answer my questions if you want to live.”
Glancing up, she looked into long-lidded dark eyes in a narrow face under a gray wig. She glared at him, and remembered seeing him weeks ago, sprawled and snoring in shirtsleeves and loosened trousers, a silver flask in his hand. He had been so fond of the contents of that flask that she had needed neither potion nor a knock on the head, only an offer of more whisky. Grant had sucked it up like a babe when he was not pawing at her bodice and sucking at her mouth and cheek. Strong and wiry, his clumsy advances had left bruises on her arms and throat that had lingered for two weeks.
Her kinsmen had wanted to head out to kill him, but she had stopped them, saying no real damage had been done to her. For the sake of the Jacobite cause, her kinsmen could not chance harming a regimental officer.
Staring past him now, she wished she could tell Grant she had saved his life, that he owed her. She was silent.
“You must be thirsty and tired by now. Tell me what I want to know, and you will be permitted to rest and given water and a decent meal.”
The thought of water and food made her tremble. But she stared past him, willing the strength of immovable rock into her legs to keep her from collapsing.
“Tell me your full name and who sent you.” The edge in his voice was like a knife in velvet. “Why were you in the camp again? Your mistake was our great fortune.”
Greater than anyone knew, she thought, imagining Fraser. Her eyes stung.
Grant touched her arm, and she jerked in surprise. His grip tightened. “Four days since they brought you here,” he said. “Four days without a word, and now nearly a full day on your feet. You cannot take much more.”
She stared at his boots and swallowed, her mouth dry. If she blacked out, she need not speak. If she blacked out—it nearly took her then.
“Stubborn little strumpet,” he hissed. “You will not outlast this game with me. Talk, or die on your feet.”
Kate wondered if he was right. She struggled for breath and against his grasp.
“I do not wish to see you suffer. When you came to me before...so tantalizing,” he whispered, stroking her shoulder. “You should have stayed. We could have enjoyed such delights.” He leaned close. “I could have been the man to learn all Katie Hell’s secrets, to sample her intoxicating magic.” His hand slipped over her bodice, over her breast above the pinch of the stays. “I still could be that man. You can choose to cooperate.”
She shuddered and leaned back, chains clanking. Grant stood closer.
“Tell me what I want to know, or I will tell everyone that Katie Hell was mine before she died,” he said, his breath hot and meaty on her cheek. “Or you will be mine for certain, every night,” he growled, “every goddamned night until you die.”
