The McKinnon Read online

Stopping at the panel, she placed her ear to the cool surface to listen for any evidence of anyone in the chamber. With her Uncle Lester still in London for the Easter celebration, she doubted there was any activity in this part of the castle, especially at this hour. Yet caution was still the rule. She had not survived this long by being reckless.

  Just a few days earlier, she had oiled the hinges with the goose fat she kept stashed away, a precaution she had taken routinely over the last five years. Silently the latch released, and holding the panel from springing open, she cracked it ever so slightly. Peering through the crack in the panel, Morgan could see there was no one in the study. Breathing a sigh of relief, the coast was clear.

  Crouching down behind the desk, she silently closed the panel behind her, gently placing pressure until hearing the soft click of the latch. In the silence of the night it sounded very loud. No one came to investigate. She had cleared another hurdle.

  This second escape hatch was a scuttle hole through the bottom of the stone floor to a landing for a set of very narrow stairs leading down into the maze of tunnels beneath the castle. Peeling back the rug just covering the outer edge, Morgan lifted the stone designed to move with ease. Again, an engineering wonder that a massive stone could be moved by a slip of a woman. She looked around the darkened room for what she hoped was the last and final time.

  This was the same room she once played chess in with her father. That wonderful time seemed ages ago. It had been before the fire consumed her family at her Uncle Lester’s estate, leaving her sole heir to the fortune, the dukedom called Seabridge. She had become the Seventh Duchess that fateful night which claimed the lives of her father, mother, twin sister and brothers. To her knowledge, authorities never recovered her sister or baby brother’s bodies in the rubble of the aftermath, leaving a feeling of uncertainty lingering in her about the true fate of Baby John and Rhiannon. In a flash, she had become the ward of her father’s stepbrother, her only known living relation.

  The man was sadistic, and over the seven years that she had been under his care, he had placed his share of emotional and physical scars upon her. With good reason, she had grown to suspect he had killed her family for his own personal gain. If she stayed, Morgan knew he would eventually kill her, too.

  “No more. It ends tonight,” she vowed as she stared into the void left by the stone. Morgan inhaled the stale, cold air bubbling up from the frigid depths of the castle. She knew it was the smell of liberty.

  Morgan stared into the gaping mouth of the dragon. This yawning darkness was the final barrier between her and freedom. Only three hundred yards of underground tunnel separated her from the edge of the paddocks, and her means of escape. She had spent years exploring the miles of labyrinth tunnels in hopes she would find the one tunnel that exited out past the castle walls. After years of searching, she had been victorious not only in finding the bolt hold but also finding the contract between her father and the King.

  And none too soon, Morgan thought.

  She was aware King Henry had refused Brentwood’s petition to marry her the previous summer. Lester argued unsuccessfully there was no blood relation between them. Her grandfather's second wife was Lester's mother and he was ten years old when they married. It had not mattered to the King. Henry really did not care if her father and Brentwood had shared neither the same father nor mother. Brentwood was not of noble blood. His mother only married it. Morgan by contrast was a distant relative to the King and royal family. The King had given him a royal sit-down and sent him packing. She overheard some of the house servants laughing at his ousting by the King feeling it was less then he actually deserved. Morgan agreed.

  At the time, her triumph had been very short-lived.

  Brentwood must have vowed that if he could not marry her to secure the Dukedom and titles from himself, he would marry her to someone he could control. Consequently, he had paraded her in front of a score of potential husbands as if she were a piece of property to go to the highest bidder.

  Wealthy and intelligent, she felt strongly she had no use for marriage being more than capable of making her own decision about her life. If she could only survive another couple of weeks until her birthday, she would then be truly free. She would never to have to answer to any man except for the King himself.

  After years of searching through the cracks and crevices of the castle, she had finally found the contract her father had drawn up between the King and himself when she was a child. Her mother had shown it to her only days before the fire, reading it to her and explaining paragraph by paragraph how the agreement worked. The decree stated clearly that should she find herself in the hands of a guardian and not find a husband of her own choosing, and that was the key to the whole thing - a husband of her own choice then on her twenty-first birthday Seabridge would be hers to run as she saw fit without any outside interference.

  It was unprecedented.

  Furthermore, her father knew that it was unprecedented when he drafted the document at the insistence of her mother. Her father gave her mother everything her heart's desired, so there was not much pushing that her mother had to do to get her father to barter this agreement. Henry signed the agreement in September 1485 the first year of his rule and ascension to the throne.

  Morgan was certain her Uncle Lester could not possibly know of the agreement’s existence. Otherwise, years ago the man would have had no qualms of forcing her post haste into marriage with a lackey of his own choosing before the King could object. It was certainly not to her Uncle's advantage for her to reach her birthday still unmarried.

  However, in the meantime, Brentwood’s greedy nature was playing into her plans. Knowing Lester was in no hurry to see her placed into the care of any husband, Morgan felt certain her uncle would not release the reins of Seabridge quietly. She also had a gut check a few weeks back. Coming to terms with the fact that he would eventually reach the realization that she could not live if he was to keep Seabridge for himself, she knew that without hesitation the bastard would kill her. There was no one to stop him.

  It was the catalyst she needed to bolster the courage to make her escape.

  Her Uncle was not going to control her any longer.

  She would go to the King and beg his indulgence for an audience. Morgan was not quite sure how to go about that request, but she would figure it out. If he declined her audience or did grant the audience, but declined her request outright, she would use the document. However, she was also smart enough to know it was never wise to push a King into a corner. She would allow Henry to select her husband and pray for the best.

  And in this instance, it was better to dance with the devil she did not know than for her to continue this serenade with the one she did.

  She pushed down the fear. She pushed aside the uncertainty.

  Tonight she was leaving it all behind, carrying nothing except her courage, a small sack of belongings, and the contract her mother had told her never to forget. That contract was between her father and the King.

  It was a commitment that would truly set her free.

  Chapter 2

  In the distance Lord Lester Brentwood saw Seabridge sitting on the jagged cliffs. It was his Seabridge, or it would be soon enough, and had been for the last seven years for all intents and purposes.

  He had been gone for several months to escape the boredom of the long winter months and to sample the excitements London offered. Such diversions were not available on an isolated estate that sat on a piece of rock. He never would understand what his brother had seen in this hulking granite and limestone structure. Other than the wealth, he saw no advantages. However, he took the bad with the good. On the way back he had decided to appoint an overseer and spend his days in London. Problem solved.

  Bordering on the west coast of England, Seabridge was a fearsome enough place in summer. In winter it was dreadful. With no company or entertainment, his boredom was complete. So he spent the Christmas season at the court of his King, Henry VII, an
d had decided to stay on past Easter, which was a bit longer than was his custom.

  It was also a bit longer than he was welcome if Henry's reaction to his actions was to be believed .

  Nevertheless, he was glad he had lingered, even if he wore out his welcome with Henry. Had he left when originally planned then he would not have gotten the news until it was too late for him to counter the move the King was about to make in regard to his niece.

  Henry had decided it was time for Morgan to marry, and had promised her to a trusted knight of the king’s short list of favorites. He knew The McKinnon. The man was not one he would tangle with in a fair fight.

  Damn, he thought again.

  He should have been expecting this after Henry forcefully declined his petition to marry her the previous summer. In retrospect, it had been a poor strategic move on his part. Henry denied him the right to his dead brother’s daughter, and therefore, all her holdings. Making matters worse, he only succeeded in calling to the king’s attention that Morgan was of marriageable age, wealthy, and still not betrothed.

  Lester reasoned he would marry the girl himself and deal with the fallout and Henry’s wrath. He'd claim ignorance and marry Morgan before Henry had a chance to finalize the formalities. Then he'd be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams and wondered why he had not married her sooner.

  Besides, what could the King do after he compromised the girl? Henry was already angry with him, and no titled Lord would have her once she was a damaged commodity. Such a man would be the laughing stock of the kingdom. The wealth and title of Duke might be enough to sooth male egos, but he doubted it would be enough where the truly upper crust was concerned.

  Brentwood smiled. His plans always worked one way or the other. Throw enough money, men, or threats at something, and it usually happened as planned.

  Chapter 3

  Riding his prized Arabian into the courtyard and looking about, Lester wanted to be sure his groom was waiting to take his horse on his arrival at the stables.

  “Gordon, I rode ahead,” Brentwood said looking down his nose at the servant. For Christ’s sake, Brentwood thought looking at Gordon, the man who had been the stable master for his dead brother. Now, Lester only allowed him to mucked the stalls. It was never a good thing to let a man have pride.

  Why was he in rags and his face gaunt with hunger, Lester wondered.

  “Why are you not dressed properly?” Brentwood was haughty enough to ask such a question, never seeing his own responsibility in the decline of the once magnificent holding.

  The stableman knew better than to reply that Brentwood was an evil man and did not take care of those under his watchful eye. The Sixth Duke was a good man, and was probably rolling in his grave at the way Seabridge had deteriorated under Lester's oversight.

  “Laundry day, sir,” Gordon replied.

  “See to it you don’t look like this in public. You offend me,” he said, bringing his handkerchief to his nose.

  “Yes, sir.” What was he going to say?

  “The supply wagon will be along shortly. Take care of my horse and for God’s sake, make sure you do it properly. I had to beat that stupid boy of yours the last time for failing to do as I directed. My horses are extremely valuable.” Lester had spent a fortune of Morgan’s money on his stables. She would never miss it was his reasoning. “I trust you shall not make the same mistake?” Brentwood’s voice, although soft, carried total authority.

  “No, my Lord, I'll not make the same mistake,” Gordon spoke, his head bowed, his pride crushed years ago. Raising the anger of his overlord in any way was never a good idea. Any man brainless enough to cross this devil simply disappeared after being sent on an errand.

  Brentwood hurried to the stronghold. Before the sun set, Seabridge would be his to do as he saw fit. His lifestyle would be no different from the past seven years, he mused. It would just be permanent. No one would dare to challenge his right to the holdings once he had married and properly bedded the Seventh Duchess.

  “Bring Morgan and the priest to me at once!” he bellowed as he burst through the castle doors.

  “Welcome home, Lord Brentwood,” his housekeeper spoke, yet startled at his sudden return. Darcy was thankful for having spent those extra hours cleaning his chamber in spite of the fact it was her usual day for resting.

  Brentwood smiled sadistically feeding off her fear. She was afraid of him. Everyone was afraid of him. He knew the hold he had over the individuals in his charge. It gave him a thrill to know he had such power over their pathetic lives. He did not care about them except that they serve. The outcome and consequences of poor action was his to dole out and he did so in good measure.

  "I wish you had sent a messenger ahead. I could have seen to your meal," she prattling on nervously.

  “Shut up and go find the priest! Bring him and the girl to me in my study at once.”

  At that same moment, Cyril stepped in from the courtyard. As Seabridge’s Captain of the Guard, it was his duty to be the bearer of the news all had been dreading to deliver. They still killed the messenger these days in the remote outposts.

  “That directive is impossible to follow, Sir.”

  Brentwood slowly turned to see who would dare to counter his demands. “And, I wait with baited breath as to why.” His voice was cold as steel and dripped with sarcasm.

  Shit, Cyril thought. This was not going to be pretty. Not that he expected it to be. After all, this was Brentwood he was facing.

  “She is gone, Sir,” Cyril said flatly.

  Brentwood’s veins rose thick on his forehead and neck, giving Cyril the impression the masochistic devil was about to explode. Cyril had seen him angry many times before, and he feared for Darcy who was standing too close for Cyril's comfort. Brentwood was an evil man, never bothering to hide that personality trait. This far out in the Marches there was no one to stop him.

  “Gone! What in the devil do you mean she is gone?”

  His eyes hardened combing the foyer waiting for an answer. No one was crazy or stupid enough to speak. The silence was deafening, but more to the point, the silence was deadly.

  Cyril spoke, breaking the silence that would bring more bad than good the longer the question went unanswered.

  “Sir, we set the guard to watch the door. That said, we do not know how she escaped. She simply vanished. The best we can determine is it has not been more than three days based on the last time she ate.”

  “Have you been starving her? If I find that to be the case, I will kill you myself for overstepping your boundaries.” In his mind, he was the only one with the authority to punish her.

  Darcy spoke, coming to Cyril’s defense. “Oh no, Sir, it was not our doing. It was her Ladyship’s choice. I swear on me mum's grave.”

  Darcy explained how Morgan refused to eat and had starved herself for some time. It did not seem out of the ordinary that the duchess did not touched her food for several days.

  Cyril drew Brentwood’s gaze from his wife.

  “On the third day we went to give Her Grace some exercise as you had ordered and the room was empty.”

  “What did she take with her?” Brentwood had to know what resources she had managed to steal from him.

  “The only possession we know that disappeared around the same time was Demon.”

  “Demon?”

  That was a surprise. Brentwood doubted Morgan could handle the magnificent beast, but if she were desperate enough, he supposed anything was possible.

  “She could not have taken such a beast and managed him. I think it is just coincidence.” Cyril made the mistake of offering his unsolicited opinion.

  “I pay you to guard. I do not pay you to think!”

  By this point, Lord Brentwood was blood red in the face. Without warning, he backhanded Darcy slicing her face open with his signet ring. The blow sent her to the polished stone floor. On reflex, the captain stepped forward to defend her. Cyril was not so fortunate. Brentwood drew his sword and ran the
man through on the spot without warning or just cause in a sane man's mind.

  Looking down, Brentwood watched in sadistic satisfaction as the blood began draining out of his guard. That crimson fluid slid like a serpent across the floor pooling at his booted feet as if to point the way to the one who bore the guilt. Darcy was sobbing over Cyril’s body. He kicked her like an errant dog nipping at his feet.

  “You will stop your infernal wailing at once and get this mess cleaned up or I will have you joining your husband."

  "You devil! I'll kill you!" Darcy scrambled to her feet.

  Brentwood was ready. Driving his dagger through her heart, he shoved it in to the hilt then pushed her back to fall over her dead husband.

  "Anyone else want to cross me?" Brentwood asked the staff that had gathered and looked on in horror. They began to scatter, not wanting to be the one he turned on next.

  Lester grabbed a man by the arm before he could escape. "Toss their bodies over the cliff. They do not deserve a Christian burial. And you," he pointed to another, "have Stewart meet me in my study!”

  Taking the stairs, two at a time he needed to survey the tower for himself. From the center of the cold and bleak cell, he made one slow turn.

  She had cost him dearly in the loss of his Captain of the Guard. His killing the man was entirely Morgan's fault. Her confinement was Cyril’s responsibility.

  Cyril had failed.

  She would pay once he got his hands around her slender throat. He smiled bitterly as he headed back downstairs to his study. Yes, she would pay for a great many things, and, oh yes, she would pay in a great many ways.

  Chapter 4

  Stewart Whittaker stood facing the fireplace as Brentwood entered. With his hands behind his back, he studied the over-sized portrait of the Fifth Duke of Seabridge, Lord Brentwood’s stepfather.

  Stewart resented the feeling the painting gave him, as if even from the grave, the Fifth Duke was lording over him, mocking everything he had ever tried to become, knowing all the while, he had fallen short in the eyes of this great man.