He supposed he should be thankful the change of leadership had gone smoothly. His hasty support of his father in Stirling was a big mistake. He resolved to be a wiser man in the future.
He could only hope they’d find Caitlin at Drummond Castle, though there were a few choice words seething in his brain he’d like to say to her and Shaw Drummond.
A Difficult Evening
Brodie didn’t appear for the evening meal. Shaw tried not to make it obvious he was glad his father wasn’t present to foul up things. Fiona had assured him their sire didn’t intend to contest his claim, but then he’d gone along with the betrothal until his temper, and the whisky, got the better of him.
The mood in the hall seemed almost festive. Even Merryweather’s presence hadn’t dampened the relief folk evidently felt now the threat of losing Drummond had been averted.
Fiona sat between Shaw and the soldier. She flirted shamelessly with the Englishman, even batting her eyelashes at him. Her victim preened, rising to the bait, clearly having no suspicion of her hatred and distrust of Sassenachs.
Shaw chuckled. Good job, Fiona.
His sister really was a canny woman. It was a pity she’d never married. A mon could do worse than have Fiona as his helpmate.
He loosened his belt, having eaten his fill of the first meal he’d enjoyed since being informed of the betrothal weeks ago. His angry reaction was nigh on comical now he looked back on it, but how could he have predicted the alchemy between him and Caitlin? His cock stirred pleasantly at the mere thought of seeing her again on the morrow.
It was likely the king had sent troops to Ardblair as well, and the Blairs would be as unwilling to abandon their castle as the Drummonds. They’d see reason and agree to reinstate the betrothal.
He couldn’t explain the vague foreboding lodged in his gut that something might yet go awry.
*
Fiona couldn’t deny Marcus Merryweather was quite a handsome man, for a Sassenach anyway. Flirting with him gave her a chance to play a part in convincing the English all was well.
As a lass, she hadn’t been permitted to flirt with the young men who’d courted her, but her father’s reign was over, so why not experience what it was like to bat her eyelashes at a mon?
The gleam in the soldier’s eyes and the appreciative smile came as something of a surprise. He found her attractive, she could tell. Everyone at Drummond treated her like an old maid, but this man saw something else, a part of her she’d buried long ago.
“Are ye married?” she found herself asking.
“No,” he replied. “Though there’s an understanding between my family and another—for the future.”
His reply was bittersweet. She was glad he had a bride waiting, and happy for Shaw that he would wed his Caitlin. For her, there was no one. If she fluttered her eyelashes at Rory Blair, for example, he’d probably snort in response.
“I wish ye every happiness,” she said to the soldier, though her thoughts were elsewhere. She pondered how she might contrive to accompany Shaw to Ardblair on the morrow. It was incumbent upon her to apologize to Caitlin, and perhaps also to Rory. His black eye should be healing by now.
“Your pardon?” Merryweather asked.
Mortified she’d apparently spoken out loud, she smiled weakly. “Er…will ye return to yer camp, or shall I arrange for a chamber?”
She wished the suggestive words unsaid when he wiggled his eyebrows. “What I mean is…”
He chuckled. “I know what you meant, Lady Drummond. Don’t worry. I’m an honorable man and I wouldn’t dream of complicating matters further. I can see there’s many a jealous Highlander in this gathering who’d have my hide if I dallied with you. I shall be returning to camp.”
A wave of heat rolled over Fiona. She’d never been dallied with in her life, and the hostile glares he had noticed had to do with his nationality. Tall and well-muscled as the Englishmon was, only a broad-shouldered Highlander would do for a dalliance. Someone like…
Ye gods! This had to stop.
*
Rory swallowed his resentment and behaved as the consummate host with Gaskell, seating him on his right hand at the head table in Ardblair’s Great Hall. It was of no importance if the Englishmon failed to grasp the significance of the honor, but the people of the clan understood. Even his father had shown up and was restricting himself to merely glaring at the soldier.
Rory had deemed it wise to send a tray of food to Nairn’s chamber. He had no way of knowing if she was aware of Caitlin’s plans, though he doubted it. When she left, Caitlin had made it clear she didn’t want her little sister’s company. He cursed inwardly that he hadn’t prevented her from leaving, but he’d never imagined she’d run off to Drummond. Shaw must have been waiting close by, since she hadn’t taken her horse.
It was difficult to grasp when and how they’d planned such an escapade.
He intended to speak to Nairn on the morrow, before he left for Drummond but, for now, she was safely tucked away.
“That’s quite the shiner you’ve got there,” Gaskell declared, his mouth full of roasted chicken.
Rory gritted his teeth, determined not to touch the bruise that he’d nigh on forgotten about but that suddenly ached like the devil. “Aye. A bit of a spat. Naught serious.”
“I heard Drummond gave you what for, eh?”
Tempted to throttle the ignorant man, Rory forced a smile. “As I said, ’twas naught.”
“His Majesty is correct when he says these silly feuds must end. Don’t you agree?”
Rory gripped his eating dagger, itching to whittle off the man’s ridiculous mustache. In some ways the soldier was right; it was shameful how many lives had been lost or ruined over some slight neither side could accurately recall. However, what did a Sassenach dragoon know about life in the Highlands?
The morrow would hopefully bring an end to the feud Gaskell deemed silly, though he wasn’t looking forward to facing Shaw Drummond in his own stronghold. That is, if English troops hadn’t occupied it.
He hoped for Fiona Drummond’s sake that wasn’t the case. She’d be heartbroken at the…
Ye gods! What on earth did it matter if the harridan was cast out of her home?
*
Keeping one hand on the dirt wall of the cavern, Caitlin limped as far as she could into the blackness, the remains of the loaf clutched to her breast. She chanted her mother’s favorite mantra:
All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.
The cavern narrowed. However, the further she went, the colder it got, though perhaps that was simply the evening chill.
She pulled the tam lower and wrapped her plaid more tightly around her body, panic-stricken at the prospect of enduring a night in the black hole.
She’d hoped walking might ease the discomfort in her ankle, but the pain was worsening. If the tunnel did end up in Ardblair, her home was at least a mile away and she was certain she hadn’t walked even a quarter of that distance.
Rescue could only come from the place she’d fallen in. Seeing the sky would hopefully feel less like being entombed.
Wiping away tears, she turned and hobbled back to the opening. Slumped on the ground, she removed her boots in an effort to ease the pain in her swollen ankle. She bit off a chunk of bread and looked up at the stars blanketing the heavens. Her betrothed was perhaps looking up at those same stars, believing she was safe and warm.
She’d heard tales of folk dying in agony after long periods without food, and her throat was a parched desert. “Come soon, Shaw,” she murmured.
Dawn
Major Merryweather assigned a contingent of six dragoons to remain at Drummond. He and Shaw set off with the rest of the troop before sunrise.
The prospect of seeing Caitlin again had kept Shaw awake most of the night. He’d dreamed of their wedding night and woken with an uncomfortable arousal.
Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling something was wr
ong. The catastrophe of Stirling had been too easily resolved.
Riding in darkness allowed no opportunity for conversation. Doak was sure-footed and keen-eyed, but Shaw didn’t intend to put his beloved horse at risk.
Once the sun was up, Merryweather seemed more interested in conversation. “I compliment your sister on her sense of humor,” he said.
Shaw wasn’t about to criticize Fiona to a Sassenach but sense of humor didn’t feature in his list of her attributes. “Enjoyed her company, did ye?” he replied noncommittally.
“Very much so,” the soldier replied. “Don’t misunderstand. I have a fiancée in England.”
An English brother-by-marriage was the last thing Shaw wanted, but he couldn’t help but feel sorry for Fiona. Well-bred, educated, honorable men were usually spoken for. It was likely his sister would remain unwed.
“Did she never marry?” Merryweather asked.
Shaw bristled. It was none of this man’s business that her own father had denied his daughter the chance for a family. He’d never seen the sad reality of it as a lad, but he did now. Was it jealousy, or just plain orneriness that had prompted their father to scare off suitors? “Nay, Fiona likes her independence.”
He wondered if that were true, or did his sister wear her independence like a protective mantle? The irony was that the more she flaunted it, the less likely it was she’d ever attract a man.
Two hours later, Merryweather signaled a detour to the army’s headquarters in Perth. “To find out the lay of the land,” he explained.
Shaw was impatient to get to Ardblair, but the major’s words convinced him a troop of soldiers had also been dispatched to Caitlin’s home. He hoped they’d managed to convince Laird Ian Blair to agree to the betrothal.
*
Caitlin shivered with cold all night, afraid to fall asleep lest some nocturnal creature appear in the cavern. She could hear the high-pitched squeaks of bats, but they seemed far away, probably in the ruin. She’d always been especially terrified of the flying mice, but wished she had their ability to navigate the darkness.
She longed for dawn to break. In daylight her situation might not seem so hopeless.
Hunger gnawed, but she was determined not to take another bite of the loaf until the sun was well up.
The green tinge of the dawn sky seemed odd. She recalled the green light she’d espied from Ardblair. Panic knotted her belly when the green brightened, and began to pulsate. Clearly, she was losing her wits.
She should call out. Men might be in the ruin with lanterns, searching for her. On the other hand…
“Help,” she croaked pathetically from her dry throat when green light flooded the shaft and came to rest on her feet.
The Sunday-school story of Christ’s ascension came rushing back. She had died and was about to be lifted to paradise by God’s heavenly light. Feeling a strange sense of peace, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the inevitable, vaguely aware of thunder in a cloudless sky.
*
Anxious to be on the way to Drummond before the sun was fully up, Rory waited impatiently while Captain Gaskell hemmed and hawed about which soldiers would remain at Ardblair and which would accompany them. Influential connections had clearly secured his commission rather than an ability to lead.
Rory’s conversation with Nairn had been unfruitful. It seemed she knew nothing of her sister’s intentions the previous day. She’d admitted the purpose of their foray into the cellars had been to search for a tunnel, which he dismissed as an old wives’ tale someone had told them.
Ethan Blair had agreed to stand as tanist, and Rory was reasonably assured his intelligent second cousin would keep a watchful eye on his father.
Once underway, he decided to set the pace in view of the late start. As they thundered past Newton, he realized the ruin was likely the place where Shaw and Caitlin had trysted. He cursed that it hadn’t occurred to him to search there, though there’d been scant opportunity to do so and the pair would be long gone by now.
He let Gramm have his head and ignored Gaskell’s attempts at small talk, quietly pleased the incompetent Englishmon was having a difficult time keeping up on the moorland terrain.
When Gaskell indicated he wanted to detour to army headquarters in Perth, Rory galloped on, leaving the indecisive captain with no choice but to follow.
With the wind in his hair and his powerful horse beneath him, he laughed. He felt every inch the proud Highland chieftain leading English soldiers by the nose.
“If Fiona Drummond could see me now,” he shouted to the wind.
Fyke.
Back and Forth
Shortly after midday, Shaw and his military escort rode up to the single tent pitched in the meadows surrounding Ardblair’s loch. The paltry number of dragoons camped there surprised him, and Merryweather’s frown indicated his puzzlement.
A soldier emerged from the tent, buttoning his uniform while attempting to salute Merryweather.
“Who is your commanding officer?” the major demanded.
The soldier stood to attention, squinting into the sunshine. “Captain Gaskell, sir.”
“Is he in the castle?”
“No, sir.”
“Then where the deuce is he?”
“Gone, sir.”
Merryweather exchanged a look of exasperation with Shaw, then glared at the soldier. “Gone where?”
“Drummond Castle, sir.”
“Drummond?” Shaw exclaimed. “Why has he gone there?”
“Don’t rightly know,” the soldier replied, looking at Shaw.
Merryweather bristled. “I’ll ask the questions,” he snarled. “Did Gaskell arrest the laird?”
The soldier frowned. “No, sir. The laird went with him.”
Tired of the back and forth and fearing Ian Blair had somehow convinced royal soldiers the Drummonds were opposed to the king, Shaw urged his horse across the land bridge.
Merryweather followed and shouted for the gates to be opened. “Let me handle this,” the major commanded when they were allowed entry.
Shaw’s instinct was to ransack the castle until he found Caitlin, but Merryweather had so far proven himself a reasonable man. “Aye,” he agreed grudgingly. He expected Rory Blair to greet them, but another fellow he didn’t recognize approached as they dismounted in the courtyard.
The newcomer ignored Shaw, though he must have known the identity of his tartan-clad visitor. “Ethan Blair, Clan Tanist,” he informed the dragoon.
“Major Marcus Merryweather. We understand Laird Ian Blair has gone to Drummond Castle.”
“Nay.”
The major let out an exasperated sigh. “Is the laird here, then?”
Blair didn’t blink. “Nay.”
Shaw took a step towards the tanist. “I’m The Drummond, and I’ve come to claim my bride.”
For the first time, uncertainty flickered in the young man’s eyes. “But ye took her already.”
Shaw raised his fist, but Merryweather restrained him. “Why has Ian Blair gone to Drummond?”
“Nay, ’tis Laird Rory who’s gone to find Mistress Caitlin. She left to tryst with ye yesterday.”
Convinced some trickery was in play, Shaw growled. “’Tis a lie. I havena seen Caitlin since Stirling. Ye’ve hidden her.” Ethan’s words penetrated. “Rory Blair is the laird?”
“Aye. His father ceded the chieftaincy to him.”
Shaw gritted his teeth. “Willingly?”
“Aye.”
Shaw tasted bitterness. At least Ian Blair had accepted it was time for a new leader, whereas his own father…
However, Rory’s behavior in Stirling proved he was firmly against the betrothal. Shaw’s gut feeling something was wrong had been justified. “I dinna ken what mischief is afoot here,” he told Merryweather, “but if Rory Blair is on his way to Drummond, he hasna gone for Caitlin. Ye ken yerself she isna there.”
“My men will search this castle,” Merryweather informed the tanist.
&
nbsp; “Ye willna find Caitlin,” he replied.
Shaw seethed, torn between aiding in the search and hastening back to Drummond. He’d give Rory Blair more than a black eye next time he saw him.
*
Caitlin came awake, gradually becoming aware she felt warm. Glancing up, she saw the sun was shining. Evidently, she wasn’t dead, which came as a relief, but she was still trapped.
She got to her feet carefully, and took a tentative step. Her ankle seemed perfectly fine. She lifted the hem of her kirtle, startled to see the swelling had gone down. Had the strange green light that had settled on her feet eased the pain, or…?
Whatever the case, her spirits lifted. Today, she might be able to explore further into the tunnel.
Fortified by chewing two chunks of the dwindling loaf, she tugged on her boots and set off.
Again keeping one hand on the rough wall, she felt confident retracing the path she’d taken the previous day. Perhaps the sunlight had rendered it a little easier to see.
She paused to listen when she judged she’d reached the turnaround point. Deep inside the tunnel, far from where she stood, water dripped. She licked her dry lips. Water meant an end to the thirst raging in her throat, but the cavern might be flooded. Especially if it had been dug under the loch.
After long moments of uttering one paternoster after another, she resumed her trek at a slower pace, listening every once in a while. The dripping still seemed a long way off.
*
Fiona and her Uncle Jamie were sitting in his cottage below the walls of Drummond. They were discussing the future of the clan in light of recent events when a rider galloped past, drawing their attention to the window. “Did someone wearing the Blair plaid just ride by?” she asked, tamping down a peculiar hope that Rory Blair himself had come to confirm the end of the feud.
Before Jamie could answer, dragoons rode past at speed.
“What’s going on?” she asked, hurrying to the door.
As they started up the slope to the gates, she was alarmed to see Rory and the dragoons demanding entry.
Kilty Party Page 8
