Page 68 of Highland Spy

Urquhart Castle.

His castle.

And all the ghosts suddenly welling in his thoughts.

Arrow slits dotted the face of the castle. Were the castle full, he would have several dozen arrows trained on him.

Connor stopped at the entrance and swung the hook over the lower wall to his left. He climbed it in three quick kicks while holding the rope. He could have attempted to climb the main front of Urquhart, but that would have required more rope. The side curtain wall was considerably lower.

Breaching the castle was no easy feat considering its heavy fortification. He crossed the grassy front and the thought swam in his head, around and around, the same as it had for years.

Someone must have been helping from the inside.

A traitor.

Surely the Gordons could not have acted on their own.

He stopped just under where the curtain wall dipped lower and pulled the coil of rope from his shoulder. It landed on the sodden ground with a wet whump.

Though the rope was slippery and waterlogged, he held it snug in his fist, the way his father had shown him, and let it spin to gain momentum.

The weight of the hook pulled it faster and faster through the air overhead. His father’s voice was deep and rich in Connor’s mind, as if they stood side by side.

Steady, lad. Steady.

Now!

Connor let the hook fly from his fingers. It arced high into the air before landing with a clank somewhere over the crenellations.

A solid yank on the hanging rope in front of him gave only a fraction of a moment before the spines of the grapple snagged on stone and caught.

Hand over hand on the rope, he stepped up the wall of the castle. Rainwater slapped at his face and the muscles of his back were burning with effort by the time he reached the top.

The courtyard stood below him, stark and open, and suddenly his heart was as vulnerable as the raw pink skin of a wound not yet healed.

Rain drove against his face and ran down his chin, emulating the tears he had never allowed himself to shed.

His father had stood in the courtyard that day, tall and proud, hands bound behind his back.

Still he had not kneeled.

Men surrounded him… Gordon men.

Connor jerked his head from the courtyard.

He could not think about what came next.

Instead he jogged down the stairs toward the gatehouse, where the winding contraption to the portcullis was housed in the constable’s lodging. Ariana was waiting on him and he would not let ghosts keep her in the rain.

The musty smell of disuse permeated the small living quarters of the former constable. A fine layer of dust left everything muted and clad in soft gray.

Without the deluge assaulting his ears, the room was disconcertingly quiet, holding tight to all the secret horrors it had once witnessed.

The way to open the portcullis was just up the stairs. Then he could leave.

He took the stairs two at a time until the solid door came into view and the memory of the room beyond tugged at Connor. The various objects neatly arranged on the large wall-mounted cupboard, the pair of chairs often set before the fireplace where the constable was often found sitting with his only child, Murdoch.

The constable’s death had been a hard blow for Murdoch, and they’d never discussed it as a result. Just as well. Connor hadn’t wanted to bring up his own father’s demise either.