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“Jacobite, sir. Surgeon,” he read.
Keyes raised a bushy eyebrow. “We dinna free Jacobites.”
“Therein lies the problem,” Bruce replied. “He isna a Jacobite.”
“Says here he gave succor to the enemy, sir,” Trout added.
“He’s a surgeon, for goodness sake,” Ambrose interjected, unable to keep silent a moment longer. “Surgeons help people no matter what side they are on.”
“And you are?” Keyes asked, eyeing him with suspicion.
Perhaps Ambrose should have kept silent, but it was too late now. “Dr. Pendray. I’m also a surgeon. I’ve known Giles Raincourt my whole life. I became a doctor because of him. He isn’t a Jacobite. In fact, he hales from Birmingham, which, in case ye dinna ken, is a staunchly anti-Catholic town.” He took a breath, painfully aware he was ranting.
“A Sassenach, is he?” Keyes asked. “And did ye also come from the Lowlands to provide succor to the enemy?”
Clearly, his mode of speech had alerted the warder to his roots. He was about to reply when Bruce interrupted. “Dr. Pendray saved my son’s life after he was wounded at Sheriffmuir.”
Keyes frowned. “Some say yer son fought for the rebels.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Bruce blustered.
Ambrose feared things were going from bad to worse. He was wracking his brain for the right thing to say when Neville stepped out of the shadows.
“Neville,” Keyes exclaimed, extending a hand. “I didna see ye there.”
“Andrew,” the publican replied, shaking Keyes’ hand. “Dr. Raincourt’s the feller who saved my Ollie’s life.”
Keyes narrowed his eyes. “That time he was choking?”
“Aye.”
Ambrose risked a glance at Bruce who looked as gobsmacked as he felt. Clearly, Neville and Keyes knew each other well.
Keyes smiled a toothless grin. “Weel, why didna these gentlemen tell me that in the first place? Trout, free the prisoner. A Yuletide gesture, if ye will.”
Neville smiled.
Bruce fumed.
Ambrose recognized that, sometimes, friendship can carry more weight than power.
A Wedding
Eala sat across from Mrs. Bruce in the garishly decorated parlor of Bruce Manor, feeling very uncomfortable. She’d enjoyed the wonderful hot bath, grateful to have her hair washed by a friendly maidservant. Her undergarments had been laundered, her boots cleaned. Her gown had been sponged down, though the odor of the lye and urine solution lingered. She toyed with the notion that was the reason for Mrs. Bruce’s nose being in the air, though she knew it wasn’t.
The silence stretched between them as they waited for the return of the menfolk from the Tolbooth. They’d run out of conversation after the first formal greetings.
In retrospect, she decided silence was fine. She had nothing to say to this woman who’d never made her feel welcome or worthy of her son. There’d been no expression of gratitude for her efforts to help Ambrose save Evan’s life. Were it not for Eala’s clever ploy at the inn, Evan Bruce might be dangling from a rope by now.
Strangely, though, she felt pity rather than resentment for this woman. Her husband ruled her life. Eala acknowledged she was blessed to have found a loving man who, she knew instinctively, would never try to control her. She shuddered at how close she had come to being married to Evan Bruce. Chances were he’d have been the same kind of husband as his father—manipulative, domineering.
Ambrose had clearly been brought up to respect women and was a better man for it. Men who bullied women—her own father among them— didn’t seem to realize it lessened their stature.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Mrs. Bruce she ought not to allow her husband to intimidate her when the bully in question strode into the parlor.
She was glad to see Ambrose enter behind him, but where was Dr. Raincourt?
* * *
