Page 94 of Go, Rogue

Chapter

37

McGann has slept through an entire day and night at his grandmother’s before insisting, this morning, on moving into the empty cabin a few doors down. The place is unfurnished, but it doesn’t take long for him to spread out the bundles of grass he once used to lengthen his grandmother’s bed and fashion them into a makeshift pallet of his own. For a man accustomed to hanging a hammock or unfurling a bedroll wherever he can, a bed of grass makes a more than passable place to sleep. His gran lends him a chair, too, and he drags in a stack of old fruit boxes to serve as a table.

Now he sleeps again, fitfully, throughout the day, and rises in the early evening to survey his new quarters with a clearer head. It will do. He doesn’t need much—only a place to recover now that the immediate danger of infection has passed. A place apart from his grandmother’s house, in case anyone comes looking for him. And they will soon enough, he knows.

And his own place gives him a bit of privacy, too, which Elphame help him, he has a million thoughts on how to use. Every one of them revolving around Catherine West.

He paces the small room as the sky darkens into evening, his injured leg dragging slightly behind him. It’s much improved from the care he’s received from his gran—his wound is clean and stitched—but it’ll be a long while before he’s healed. And he may never be completely so; he might carry this limp around with him forever. A reminder of the hell his brother put him through. And, in light of his conversations with his grandmother, which have swirled nearly nonstop in his thoughts, a reminder of how much of his brother’s malice he’s unintentionally absorbed.

He truly hadn’t realized how deeply those insults had penetrated his thinking, how much of what his brother and father thought of him had tainted his own mind. How he’d consumed that term half-breed as if it were the Gospel truth and not a poison fed to him in dribs and drabs the entirety of his life.

He isn’t half; he is whole, just as his gran told him. He could kick himself for not knowing it for so long. And his father for hauling him back to England when he could have stayed here with her. He wishes he knew why the man did it, but he has to accept that he might never understand.

He paces again. His leg hurts and he needs a cane. A cup of tea, too. And to know where Catherine is. And Barclay. He sighs.

It’s time.

He’s not going to wait around for Barclay to come looking for him. Or James, more likely. His brother would never be so industrious as to do the job of hunting him down himself.

McGann dresses quickly and leaves. He smiles a little to himself as he shuts the door behind him. Rushing off half-cocked in the dark without a plan in mind is not his usual style. It’s Catherine’s.

It doesn’t take long for a plan to assert itself, however, because Rogers, his former first mate, is waiting for him right outside the cabin.

“Captain,” Rogers calls. He’s close enough that McGann can make out his devil of a black eye, mottled in shades of purple and blue, and a scattering of scratches and abrasions elsewhere.

“Rogers,” McGann says evenly, and both men stare at each other for a moment, assessing. “What in hell are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Rogers says. “Get in the carriage, Captain.”

“Nay.” McGann doesn’t even think before the word is out of his mouth. He doesn’t trust Rogers. There’s something, he’s certain, the man isn’t telling him.

“Captain,” Rogers says again, more slowly this time. Placating. “I understand you’ve a great many questions, but I must insist you come with me as quickly as possible. I know where the lockbox is hidden. And I know who has the key.”

“Do you now?”

How in hell does he know about that? The last time McGann saw his first mate, he hadn’t even known the lockbox was missing, let alone its whereabouts.

“Would it help if I told you Lady Catherine West is intent on putting herself in harm’s way to help you? She’s somehow convinced the constabulary to search the Duke of Barclay’s residence. I understand they’ve been there all day.”

McGann casts Rogers another assessing glance, but he’s already making his way toward the carriage, his limp a slow and painful impediment to his movement that he ignores as much as possible.

“Hurry up then,” McGann snaps. “You can explain it to me on the way.”

Catherine slumps over, exhausted. Elizabeth is by her side in the duke’s ostentatiously ornate parlor room. The whole ordeal of getting here took so much longer than either of them wanted. By the time the chief constable answered Elizabeth’s note the morning after she sent it, and they’d convinced him to take the constabulary to Barclay’s estate, afternoon had waned into evening.

They’ve searched for hours but found no sign of Rogers. Nor of McNeil or Childers. Only house staff furious at the commotion.

“Ladies,” the chief says and checks his pocket watch. “I believe it is time we retire this search. There is nothing to be found here and it is quite late.”

“Are you certain there is no sign of Hawthorne?” Catherine asks, but Elizabeth is already rising.

“Come,” she says, and holds her hand out. “Let us go home. We’ve caused enough damage.”

Catherine rises reluctantly. There is nothing more they can do here, and she’s made a fool of herself. What’s worse, she’s made one of Elizabeth too. Elizabeth, who has treated her more generously than she’s deserved.

“Alright,” she says wearily and turns, only to find herself watching the enraged countenance of the Duke of Barclay storm into the room.