The Black Room: Door Six by Jasinda Wilder & Jade London

Author:Jasinda Wilder & Jade London [Wilder, Jasinda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-11-15T23:00:00+00:00

*

Early the next morning, well before dawn, we prepare to leave. I’ve finally got some warm clothing thanks to the young woman I met yesterday. I wear a woolen shift, a fine cotton dress, thick stockings and sturdy boots, and a warm cloak fastened at my throat with a bronze brooch marked with the insignia of Clan Campbell. Conrad and Angus are armed for conflict once more, each of them with the Brown Bess muskets taken from the dead redcoats, Angus with his broadsword and claymore and traditional dirk, Conrad with a borrowed claymore—plain and rather more crude than the one taken from him but still sharp and serviceable—and the saber taken from the slain officer Martin, Markham’s friend.

The Campbell’s wary hospitality extended so far as to provide us with some basic foodstuffs and a small jug of whisky, which apparently is considered a necessary staple of survival.

And, indeed, as we ride in the blustering cold, the jug is passed around and when it comes to me I take a small slug of the fiery, smoky liquor and feel it slide down my throat and hit my stomach like a firebomb, and then the heat spreads through me, suffuses me, warms me. I cough and snort and wince the next time it goes around, but I do drink, much to the men’s amusement. The warmth is worth the raw burn in my throat.

We’re several hours into the day’s ride when I ask again where we are going. This time, Angus and Conrad exchange meaningful glances before Conrad responds.

“Angus is a MacLeod,” Conrad says, “so we’re heading to the MacLeod laird’s castle in Skye.”

“How far away is that?” I see the men still shifting in their saddles uneasily. “Why the odd looks?”

“It’s a long hard ride to the north and west,” Angus answers, “and we’ve to pass through Fort William to get there. There is no much choice, given our lack of supplies.”

“What’s the problem with that?”

Conrad rattles the hilt of his borrowed English saber. “It’s a massive garrison for the redcoats. If Markham’s gone anywhere to lick his wounds and rally forces to find us, it’s there. And we’re walking right up to him.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Aye,” Angus says. “Oh.”

“Isn’t there anywhere we could go that wouldn’t take us to Fort William, then?” I glance at Conrad. “Your clan, maybe?”

“It’s not quite that simple,” Conrad says, his expression tight and dark. “Though I wish it were.”

Signalling the discussion is at an end, he kicks his horse into a canter, his long black hair flying behind him.

I glance at Angus, who merely shrugs and says, “Touchy subject for the lad. He doesna really have a clan, you see. My own father raised him and I both from the time Conrad was just a wee little lad. We’re brothers more than friends, but he’s never been really accepted as a MacLeod. Not as such—he’s too ornery, too difficult, too given to trouble for that. But he’s no other family as such either, so it’s Skye or nothing.

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