Logan reappeared from the Tower and gazed forlornly at the line of men snaking its way into the Grampians. “Yonder’s where he’s more likely to track them down,” he said.
“Aye,” Rheade replied. “Sooner him than us. February isn’t a time to be trekking in the mountains. The Earl and his cronies might freeze to death. Come on, let’s away to Loch Tummel, although I expect only fools will be abroad on the road in these dangerous times.”
~~~
Gripping the side of the wooden cart, Margaret poked her head out of the front of the stiff canvas shelter. “Don’t ye consider it surprising there’s no one on this road?” she shouted to her uncle over Shaon’s shoulder.
Davey turned around in the saddle, and she almost laughed out loud. The incessant sleet had let up, but the frigid air had turned her uncle’s hair, moustache and bushy eyebrows white. He looked like a mountain hermit. Trying her best not to let her amusement show, she rushed on. “This seems to be a main road along the loch, and I believe I espy the castle up in the foothills.”
Her uncle glowered, but it was Shaon who spoke. “Aye. Joss remarked some time ago there’s few travelling. He’s got a strange feeling something’s not right.”
“Poppycock,” Uncle Davey shrieked. “The man canna speak more than two words. How could he tell ye such a thing?”
Margaret shivered and not only from the cold. Her late father had respected what he called Joss’s sixth sense. The man had hinted at dire tidings before news came of her brothers’ drowning.
“How much further?” Aunty Edythe whined. “I am frozen to the bone.”
Margaret looked to Shaon, but wished she hadn’t. The usual half smile was gone. He brought the wagon to a stop. Joss gripped his brother’s arm, his face ashen. Uncle Davey ambled on, until he seemed to realize the wagon had halted.
Everyone looked down the rutted road. In the near distance, a horde of men marched in formation toward them. Two mounted warriors led them.
“Highlanders,” Shaon said. “Don’t seem to be in no hurry.”
Uncle Davey wheeled his mount and came level with the wagon. “Remain hidden,” he growled to the women. “I’ll deal with this. Probably the Earl’s men patrolling the environs.”
Butterflies took wing in Margaret’s belly. For a sennight they’d met no one. Now with Blair Castle in sight—
She rolled the bottom of the canvas up far enough to allow her to crouch down in the wagon and spy on what was transpiring. As the newcomers came closer, she grew more nervous. The stern set of every jaw and the quantity of weapons each man carried spoke of an army on a mission. “They seem heavily armed,” she whispered to Aunty Edythe. “And angry.”
Her aunt pulled her away from the canvas. “Keep out of sight,” she urged.
Margaret sensed remaining hidden would be impossible.
One of the leaders of the approaching column was a youth. Abruptly, the other man called a halt, as if he’d just noticed them.
Her heart careened around her ribcage. The men-at-arms who’d worked for her father were mostly strong and rugged, many of them mercenaries. But they had proven to be men with no loyalty who’d quickly abandoned the Ogilvie estate after Duncan’s death.
None had ever taken her breath away. The tall man studying their wagon had a mischievous face, but in her imaginings devils were dark. This Highlander’s long, sandy hair cascaded over his broad shoulders. His stubbled chin suggested he hadn’t shaved for a day or two.
She wriggled out of the blanket, suddenly overheated.
Edythe scowled. “Wheest!” she hissed, gathering more of the wrappings around her legs.
Margaret had no notion of how many minutes went by. It was as if they were opposing sides frozen in some peculiar game of chess on a rocky landscape. A rickety wagon, driven by two auld men and escorted by an elderly knight mounted on a tired gelding, faced off against a heavily armed band of warriors led by a tall, well-muscled Highlander on a black warhorse.
Cold seemed to be a word he was unfamiliar with, though his saffron léine had ridden up over his knees. His feet were shod in leather boots, his calves sheathed in woollen socks. She soon regretted noticing his knees as every drop of saliva mysteriously disappeared from her mouth.
She should look away as he separated from the pack, but her gaze seemed to be locked on the long, powerful legs hugging the horse’s flanks.
A warm-looking woollen brown plaid draped over one shoulder was held in place at his breast by a distinctive brooch, the like of which she’d never seen before. Gold by the look of it, clover shaped.
Surprisingly, her uncle didn’t flinch as the warrior approached, followed closely by the younger man. The youth had similar features and coloring. Possibly brothers.
Edythe whimpered, her face buried in the blanket.
“Greetings,” Uncle Davey rasped when the Highlander reined his impressive stallion to a halt in front of him.
The devil narrowed his eyes at Davey, then turned his attention to the wagon. “Fàilte,” he finally responded in the welcome of the Gaels, but there was no warmth in his words.
Margaret closed her eyes tight shut as his husky voice wafted into her ears, melting her rigid spine. She blinked them open quickly when a peculiar twinge caused muscles in a private place to clench. She had a lunatic urge to stretch like a contented cat.
As the Highlander moved to the other side of the wagon she lost sight of him and came dangerously close to shrieking with exasperation.
“Who are ye, and what is yer business here?” he asked. Her belly lurched. His tone had gone from suspicious to belligerent. She suddenly wished she hadn’t thrown off the blanket, but didn’t dare try to retrieve it.
“I am Sir David Ogilvie, bound for Blair Castle.”
Her uncle’s steady and calm voice had her believing for a moment her father had joined them.
The sound of metal hissing on metal caught her unawares. Someone had drawn a sword.
“A conspirator,” another voice yelled.
Rumbling grunts echoed in the mob of men only yards away.
Her aunt raised her head and they frowned at each other, neither understanding what was going on. Margaret dug her fingernails into the wood of the wagon.
“Put up yer broadsword, Logan,” her devil commanded, a hint of amused disdain in his voice. “Do these auld men look like assassins?”
“Why else would they be headed for Blair Castle?” Logan asked.
Margaret peeked again under the edge of the canvas as the warrior inched his horse closer to Davey. Her uncle’s gelding shied nervously. “Indeed. What have ye in the wagon?”
“Ye have yet to reveal yer identity, sir,” her uncle replied. Edythe stopped whimpering. She too must have heard the note of fear in her husband’s voice as he struggled to control his horse.
“I am Rheade Donnachaidh Starkey Robertson, brother of Tannoch, chief of Clan Robertson of Dunalastair, direct descendants of the first King Duncan,” the Highlander replied, his proud words startling into flight the winged creatures that had begun to settle in Margaret’s belly. “I am charged with the apprehension of the regicides who murdered King James Stewart.”
The butterflies metamorphosed into a hissing adder coiled around her innards.
“The King is dead?” Davey exclaimed, making the sign of his Savior across his body.
Joss lurched to his feet and wailed like a wolf baying at the moon, his arms rigid at his sides. Shaon tried unsuccessfully to calm him. The carthorse grew nervous and pulled the wagon forward. Margaret attempted to stand but lost her balance and fell against her aunt who let out a loud shriek.
Someone regained control of the horse, bringing the wagon to a halt.
“Ye have passengers,” Rheade Robertson said, his voice once again edged with annoyance. “Show yourselves,” he shouted.
“I must protest,” Davey spluttered. “This is outrageous. We are not assassins. We have travelled from Oban. My wife and I are escorting my niece
, Margaret, to her betrothed.”
“At Blair Castle?”
“Aye.”
“Who is her betrothed?”
“The Master of Atholl, Robert Stewart, and he’ll be outraged at the treatment afforded his future wife.”
In the utter silence that followed, Margaret held her breath, unsure whether to stay hidden. She was a noblewoman, not some peasant obliged to hide like a criminal. Her betrothed was of royal lineage. She swallowed her fear, gathered the blanket round her shoulders and stepped from the rear of the wagon. “I am Lady Margaret Ogilvie,” she announced with as much conviction as her parched throat allowed.
She gripped the cart when the black stallion’s breath warmed her forehead, not sure her legs would sustain her when she looked up into the bleak face of Rheade Robertson.
“Ye’ve had a wasted journey, Lady Margaret,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Robert Stewart willna be marrying anyone. He is one of the kingslayers.”
He turned his horse aside and shouted, “Arrest them.”
As her knees buckled she felt a strange sense of relief. At last she now understood Robert Stewart’s lack of interest in their betrothal.
CAPTURED
The men under Rheade’s command surged forward upon hearing his order, no doubt assuming they’d apprehended the assassins. He wished he’d been less enthusiastic. The startling sight of a beautiful lass descending from the cart had momentarily stolen his wits.
The simpleton carried on his incessant wailing. The driver urged him to be calm as the two were dragged from the wagon and forced to lie on their bellies on the frozen ground. The elderly knight protested as he was hauled from his panicked horse and herded into the wagon. The large woman who must be his wife lay in a moaning stupor, bundled in blankets.
“Logan,” Rheade yelled as he slid from his horse to gather up the young woman who’d faltered, “there is no need for violence. We’ll escort them to the castle.”
“Aye,” his brother replied, sheathing the broadsword he’d continued to brandish aloft. “Tannoch will want to interrogate them.”
Dread filled Rheade as he looked down at the feather-light woman cradled in his arms who stared mutely into nothingness. He was filled with an urge to ensure his brute of a brother didn’t ride roughshod over this delicate creature. Tannoch deemed it his God-given right to beat his own wife.
Margaret Ogilvie was the most stunningly beautiful blonde lass he’d ever set eyes on, but then there were no silver-haired women in Dunalastair. The auld man had said they were from Oban. He’d heard of it, but never traveled so far from home. He wondered if all the women of the western shores were as lovely.
Her pale skin was flawless, marred only by a red nose. The blanket had slipped from her shoulders to reveal appealing mounds of female flesh straining at the fabric of her léine as she struggled to breathe.
A cruel trick of fate had destined this remarkable woman for the traitor, Robert Stewart. She shivered as gooseflesh marched over the bared skin of her neck. An erratic pulse in Rheade’s throat threatened to cut off his breath, and he felt a flush creep over his face. For the first time in days he was warm. But the effect on his manhood was pleasantly startling. His shaft had stood to attention upon hearing a sultry voice utter the words, I am Lady Margaret Ogilvie.
But what to do with this ragtag group who’d arrived at the worst possible time? He inhaled deeply and gave the woman in his arms a gentle shake. “Lady Margaret, I regret we must take ye and yer companions to Dunalastair.”
She seemed to recover her wits and stared at him, her blue eyes wide. “Dunalster?”
In different circumstances it would have been easy to tease her about the mispronunciation of the name of his castle home, to work his charm to make those ice blue eyes flash with—
What was he thinking? There was no flirting with the betrothed of a traitor. Tannoch would make garters of his guts. He cleared his throat, stiffened his shoulders and set her on her feet. “Dunalastair Castle is the seat of the Robertson clan. It’s not far from Loch Tay.”
She gathered the blanket around her shoulders, her teeth chattering. He had an urge to draw her to his body, to breathe his warm breath on her, but he took a step back, colliding with Dubh. The horse nudged him playfully, but with enough force to nearly send him careening into Margaret.
Despite her obvious distress, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Yer horse looks fearsome, but he’s playful,” she said.
Relieved to see some of the sadness leave her beautiful face, Rheade returned the smile. “Aye, Dubh likes to play.”
He should have shoved away his next foolish notion. “Mayhap ye can ride to Dunalastair with me.”
~~~
Margaret took a quick glance inside the wagon. Uncle Davey sat with his arm around his wailing wife’s shoulder, trying to comfort her, his face betraying indignant fear. Edythe trembled, clearly terrified, her head on Davey’s chest.
Riding with an intimidating Highlander atop a monstrous horse seemed more appealing. “I should stay in the wagon with my aunt and uncle,” she said hesitantly.
“I assure ye no harm will come to them,” Rheade replied, taking the reins in one hand and holding the other out to her.
She put her hand in his. The sheer size and enveloping warmth of it did strange things to her innards. His skin was rough, as she’d expected for a man who looked like he lived most of his life outdoors, yet his touch was gentle.
She threw caution to the winds. Their lives might depend on charming this attractive brother of the chief of the clan. She had never been flirtatious, but decided this was the time to learn. She fluttered her eyelashes as she’d seen maidservants do at Ogilvie House when serving tankards of ale to handsome young men. “’Tis clever of ye to call yer horse Dubh,” she teased. “He is Black.”
She wondered if she’d gone too far when he looked at her curiously. “Aye, Dubh is black, that’s why I gave him the name.”
She resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Like most men of her acquaintance this one had no sense of subtle humor. “I’ve never ridden such a horse,” she lied, hoping Uncle Davey wouldn’t contradict her.
“Dinna worry,” he replied with great seriousness. “Ye’ll be safe with me.”
Before her stood the kind of man many young women dreamed of marrying, one she sensed meant what he said. She had no doubt Rheade would protect her—if she were his. But she wasn’t his. She was betrothed to a traitor. The bitter truth left her empty, hollow.
In the fog of her lonely despair it came to her that Joss was still wailing. “My retainers,” she said. “They are good men.”
“Logan,” he shouted. “Get them up from the ground. They can drive the wagon.”
She breathed more easily. “Thank ye,” she murmured. “Joss may seem simple, but—”
She stopped abruptly when he brushed his thumb across her palm. The gesture likely meant nothing to him, but it sent a jolt of yearning spiraling up her thighs. She fluttered her eyelashes again without meaning to, unsure of what was happening.
“They willna be harmed,” he assured her. “And I imagine yer uncle would prefer to ride into Dunalastair on his own mount instead of in a wagon.”
Davey must have overhead and was out of the wagon in the blink of an eye. “Thank ye,” he said gruffly, heading off towards his gelding. Margaret had no recollection of ever seeing him move with such speed.
Edythe had fallen silent.
Margaret got the feeling Rheade was struggling to hide a smile. He cocked his head in the direction of the wagon, his eyes wide, then lifted her up on the back step of the contraption.
“I’ll ride with ye,” she whispered, as if they were co-conspirators. The notion thrilled her, until she thought again of the king’s murder. “Who conspired with Robert Stewart?” she murmured.
The humor left his face. “His grandfather, Walter Stewart, Earl of Atholl, and Robert Graham.”
“And they are all still
at large?”
“Aye,” he replied, mounting Dubh. “But not for long. My brother has sworn to hunt them down, and he’s a bloodhound.”
He held out his hand and pulled her from the wagon into his lap, wrapping his plaid around her. She nestled into the reassuring comfort of his strong thighs, inhaling the dampness of the wool, struggling to undo the knot of dread in her belly. She was not looking forward to meeting the chieftain of Clan Robertson.
DUNALASTAIR
Rheade wasn’t sure what he was going to do with his captives once they arrived at Dunalastair. Logan rode beside him, his brother’s frown echoing his uncertainty. They were drawing men away from the search. The assassins weren’t hiding at Dunalastair.
“What would ye have me do?” he asked in the Gàidhlig, hoping Margaret wouldn’t understand. “‘Tis an obligation to extend hospitality to strangers travelling in the Highlands, especially in this weather. I couldna let them ride on to Blair.”
Logan rolled his eyes but offered no response.
Margaret glanced quickly at Logan but she too remained silent.
The men trudging behind him grumbled, understandably disgruntled.
Rheade inhaled deeply, anticipating another rollicking from Tannoch. It seemed nothing he ever did met with his brother’s approval. Margaret’s perfume stole up his nostrils. There was nothing like the scent of a woman to soothe a man’s worries, but it did nothing to calm his arousal. It conjured a memory, but of what? Mayhap the roses his mother had loved? The lass from Oban seemed to have let go of some of her fear and relaxed against him. The only problem was the effect her closeness was having on his manhood. He wondered if she understood the significance of the hard flesh beneath her bottom, but doubted it. Despite her attempt to impress him with her unpracticed flirtation earlier, he suspected she was an innocent.
The notion only increased the pleasant tugging in his balls.
Nor was she the inexperienced horsewoman she wanted him to believe. She seemed perfectly comfortable atop Dubh, more so than many men of his acquaintance. Had it not been for the unfortunate circumstances, he might have thoroughly enjoyed this ride with a beautiful woman nestled in his lap, especially now the sleet had stopped.
Pride of the Clan Page 2
