Page 28 of Highlander’s Sloth

“Why didnae ye tell me Cal had gone to England?” Laird Macanroy wheezed, whipping his head from one man to the other. “I have but one son, one child, and I would expect my clan to keep better care of him!”

The sound of Lady Elspeth’s weeping made the two men even more bewildered. Surely, it was the laird and lady’s duty to look after their heir, not their servants and friends?

Dunn replied, “He must have gone there without telling anyone, M’Laird.”

The steward added, “He left—or at least his manservant did—with the last bottles of our ten and eight-year-old aged whisky, sir. All we have left are the five-year-old aged bottles and even younger batches...not worth nearly as much at market.”

Laird Macanroy was adamant. “This much I ken: I’ll die before I see the whisky receipt in Sassenach hands! And besides, the clan cannae survive without it.”

Lady Elspeth screamed, “I care no’ for yer wretched whisky! They have me son!”

Laird Macanroy pulled the bedcovers over his head and waved everyone away, saying, “Let me think on things. Go away, and tell that rascally messenger he can tell this baron to go hang.”

Kirsty and Callum were heartily sick of their bedchamber after so many days trapped within it but had come to loathe the sight of the triumphant baron even more.

Every evening, a hand would bang on the door, heralding the baron’s arrival as he came to gloat and crow over them. Usually, he would smell of whisky and be slightly drunk from it. His face would be red and flushed, and he would even stagger sometimes. When Callum observed this behavior, it made him want to swear off drinking whisky ever again. Macanroy whisky had the uncanny ability to turn men into torpid layabouts.

It was from the baron’s evening visits, however, that Callum and Kirsty came to know about Fotheringham and Laird Duncombe’s plans: they wanted to keep the whisky and steal the receipt at the same time. Messengers had been flying back and forth over the border between the two men while Callum and Kirsty remained trapped. Duncombe had had spies positioned around the Macanroy estate for many months, circling like carrion crows since the news of the laird’s terminal illness got out. The two men had hatched the plan to get the whisky for a cheap price at the start, but now their ambitions and schemes were expanding to include taking the receipt as well. And they were prepared to go to great lengths to do it—even if it meant marching on the lodge and taking it by force.

And for the first time in his life, Callum became frustrated with day after day of inactivity.

“I dinnae care to wait for me faither’s reply, Wife,” Callum said, pacing from side to side of the bedchamber like a caged lion. “I think we must make shift to get out of here as soon as we can. Help is no’ likely to come from anywhere; this wretched estate is too well hidden.”

Kirsty had to agree. Between the baron’s manor and Laird Macanroy’s lodge, she held out little hope of either man gathering the gumption to make a push to resolve this predicament. The baron seemed happy enough to leave things up to Laird Duncombe, and she had no trust in Laird Macanroy’s ability to make shift either.

“Have ye noticed he’s starting to become complacent?” Callum asked her.

Kirsty nodded. “Aye. Last evening he arrived to gloat with only one man to guard him. D’ye think we could overpower them?”

Callum shook his head. “I’ll no’ risk it while the guard has a musket, me dear. If we are to escape, it must be done with a fair bit o’ cunning. And don’ forget there’ll be sentries most likely posted here and there, and we’ll need horses. Not to mention taking Brock and the groom with us when we flee.”

But Callum was right; the baron was becoming laxer and less vigilant as the days passed by. The baron presumed the captives had become dulled by their bedchamber sojourn, a supposition Callum and Kirsty were keen to foster in Fotheringham.

“We’re looking at this the wrong way,” Callum said after sitting and thinking for a long while. “We should break out of this cursed room when the maid comes with the dinner tray and to clean our room. That’s when all the guards will be at their most careless. I’ve noticed that everyone at the manor loves their food and afternoon nap as much as their master does.”

And so this proved to be true. Not two days later, when the maid pushed the door open with a tray of food in her hands, the man with the musket was nowhere to be seen. Only a lazy-looking sentry was standing beside her, a sword hanging down by his side. As the maid walked into the room, he was distracted by the toothsome smell coming from the tray and lifted up one of the cloches, saying, “My oh my, let me sample that before they get to eating it.”

Callum saw his chance immediately. He darted around the startled maid and had the sword out of the guard’s fingers, and his large hand clamped over the man’s mouth before he could even utter a squawk of surprise. When he looked up to see how to handle the maid, Callum realized he need not have bothered; Kirsty had quickly snatched up one of the knives from the tray and was holding it to the maid’s throat, saying, “There ye go, lass, put down the tray nice an’ slow on the table over there.”

In a trice, Callum and Kirsty had the two servants trussed up tighter than a Sunday chicken, and from the somnolent hush coming from the rest of the manor, they could tell everyone else was asleep.

They lost no time creeping down the passage and down the stairs. The house was still and silent; the sound of snoring came from the guard room, and the only things that sprung to life when they tiptoed were dust motes flying up into the sunbeams poking in the windows. Even the kitchen staff were chatting in a desultory manner, which Kirsty and Callum heard when they ducked under the scullery windowsill. Everywhere they went, the fumes of whisky told them everything they needed to know: the Macanroy distillery brewed more than whisky—it brewed laziness and sleepiness too—and the baron’s staff had their fill of it.

Brock and the groom gave a silent cheer from the tack stall where they had been held when Callum kicked the stable door open. The wood was brittle and burst apart the moment his boot connected with the frame. There was no time for explanations or greetings, and not much time passed before four of Fotheringham’s finest horses were being led into the thick woods surrounding his grand manor house.