Page 78 of Go, Rogue

Although, the thought of casting up his accounts on James’s shoes does bring a smile to his face. It’s short-lived though, as another set of divots and bumps in the road makes his head swim and his stomach churn. He grips his fists into balls at his sides to keep himself steady.

Eventually, they turn off onto a long, winding road that does nothing to help McGann’s queasiness, although this one is better kept than the main road. Less bumpy, more private.

Lush greenery springs up on either side of them, and suddenly they’re enveloped in the landscape of McGann’s memories. This is the Jamaica he saw the day he found his gran, and the one he’s dreamt of returning to these past four years. The smell of flowers embroiders the air, and the day’s final golden rays of sunlight reflect off the leaves that surround them, highlighting every shade of green imaginable.

He loves how many colors Jamaica has and how different they are from Scotland’s. Here, they feel brighter and bolder, made in shades he wouldn’t have thought possible if he wasn’t seeing them with his own eyes. The creamy pinks and yellow of plumeria, the bright fuchsia of hibiscus. So many different greens, it boggles his mind.

One day, he thinks, he’ll catalog them and store them in his head next to his volume of Catherine’s smiles. A directory for the things he loves.

He startles momentarily at the thought, but not for long. Of course he loves her. Loving his Menace comes as naturally as breathing, once he lets it. She’s his wild windstorm of a woman. Chaos to his order. Passion to his placidity. Not that he’s ever placid around her. No one makes him lose his temper like she does. No one gets under his skin and lifts his spirits and makes him smile like her.

Apart, they’re loose ends, but together, they fit. They make something whole.

He pictures her walking the streets of Boston, pint-sized warrior that she is, head held high. She’ll be running the place soon enough, he has no doubt. The Americans have no idea who they just let loose within their borders, Elphame help them all.

He smiles to himself and leans slightly to his side to peer out the carriage window. Through the vegetation, he can just make out the edges of a looming manor house up the road, but the conveyance stops well away from it.

James alights first with the coachman. Together, they drag McGann out of the carriage and force him through the underbrush to a dark, grated hole in the ground.

“What’s this?” McGann asks.

“Root cellar,” James says.

McGann stares at the dark pit in front of him. He’s just got out of one prison cell and has no desire to be in another. He wonders briefly if begging would do any good—he knows he’s in no shape to fight his way out—but one look at James’s face tells him it won’t, so he doesn’t bother. Just holds his breath while James opens the grate, and he and the coachman shove him into the dark, stone hole at their feet.

From prison to prison, he thinks just as he hits the bottom with a hard thwack.

He exhales and bends his knees to take the impact but feels his ankle twist beneath him nonetheless. He perceives only the shock of his landing first, the moment of disorientation when all the air leaves his body. And then he registers the pain. An unbidden howl escapes his lips as James pulls up the ladder he hadn’t bothered to use and flings the grate back down.

It isn’t locked. Or McGann thinks it isn’t, because it doesn’t need to be. The root cellar is too deep for him to climb his way out, especially with a twisted, possibly broken, ankle. And a knife wound in his thigh.

He glances around the dim shadows for anything of use. There isn’t much—no boxes or tables or shelves for him to stand on, just the remains of moldy carrots and parsnips scattered around the ground.

Bloody hell.

He hates parsnips. But he’ll eat them if he has to; he needs every ounce of strength he can muster. For now, he reaches for a carrot and eats it for supper before he curls himself into a ball to sleep. Tomorrow, he’ll figure out how to escape.