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The muffled sound of boots approaching made him look up, but the tears streaming from his eyes blurred the image. “Physician! I need a physician!”

“Ye’ll miss yer boat Kinloch if ye dinna go now!” said a heavily-accented voice.

Nash wiped the tears from his eyes to see George Kinloch bending over him, his guards pulling on him, urging him away.

“I’ll not leave a man to die on my account,” Kinloch said, shaking off their hands and returning his attention to Robbie’s still form.

“Go!” Nash shouted. “Go, while you can.”

“I cannot leave you alone. Let me at least summon a physician.”

“Go,” said a familiar voice from behind Nash. Ailie. “I will get one for him.”

“I am sorry,” Kinloch lamented. “Truly I am. I will pray the wound is not fatal.”

Prevailing over the objections of their charge, Kinloch’s guards swept him across the street and to the waiting ship.

Ailie crouched beside Nash, her hand on his shoulder as she handed him a handkerchief. “Press this to the wound while I fetch the physician.”

Nash nodded. “Oh, Ailie, please hurry.”

As she ran back toward High Street, Nash took off his coat and made a pillow for Robbie’s head. Then he pressed the cloth to the bloody wound.

From the deck of the Panmure, Nash heard a cry of orders and turned to see the sails of the big schooner bloom open and stretch taut. A minute later, the ship pulled away from her mooring, heading into the harbor, her spread of canvas rising higher and higher as she caught the wind and picked up speed.

His heart aching, Nash said a silent prayer for his brother, as he watched the Panmure slant away to the south toward France.

Ailie ran down the street toward Mr. Wilson’s receiving room, her mind filled with images from the horrible scene she had just witnessed.

She had wandered off as the ladies finished handing out baskets and happened to glimpse Nash and Robbie talking to a group of men. Walking toward them, she heard the pistols fire and saw the smoke as one twin dropped to the ground. Terrified, she had run to them and heard Nash shout his brother’s name.

That is how she knew the twin who lay bleeding on the ground was not the man she loved. Guilt assailed her for the joy she felt because Nash had been spared.

Her dreams—both portents of the future and harbingers of danger—had become reality.

Many questions swirled through her mind, but there had been no time to ask. Why had Robbie been shot? She had heard enough to know it was George Kinloch who stood over Robbie and Nash. Why had he come to Arbroath? Why did Nash urge him to go? And why did Kinloch think Robbie might die on his account? The Powell twins had to be more than mere passersby when the pistol was fired, for there was the matter of Robbie’s pistol lying on the ground beside his open hand.

She raced up the stairs to the door, the sign above it announcing “W. Wilson, Physician”. The bell on the door jingled as she entered the small waiting room, her chest heaving from exertion.

The waiting area was empty but the air against her cheek felt almost hot after the cold wind blowing outside. She knew the receiving room as well as she knew her own parlor, for she had been there more than once seeking help for injuries sustained by their workers.

The nurse opened the inner door and approached. “Why, Miss Stephen, what is it? Trouble at the shipyard?”

“No,” she said breathlessly, shaking her head. “One of our guests has been shot down by the harbor and lies bleeding. Can Mr. Wilson come?”

“Aye, I’ll fetch him straight away.”

The nurse disappeared through the door that led to the examining room and returned almost immediately with the middle-aged Mr. Wilson, his brown leather satchel in hand.

The nurse held his bag while he slipped on his coat. “Good day, Miss Stephen. I understand we have a patient lying in the street.”

“We do and I thank you for coming in haste to tend him.”

Mr. Wilson grabbed his hat and accepted back his satchel. “As we go, you can tell me what happened.”

She told him the few things she knew as he ventured down Bridge Street and then onto Lady Loan Shore that ran by the harbor.

“Is the wounded man conscious?”