Though Robert had barely spared him a look in four days, no doubt because he was intent on securing his own fortune, the two of them were actually acquainted. Not as well as he’d thought, apparently, since he hadn’t even known Cranach was a Highlander, but they were both members of the Society Club and White’s. Evidently everyone was playing games here, and not just the burly, underdressed fellows on the field.
When Winnie had invited him to Glengask, for instance, he’d thought his nearly three-month courtship of her had finally begun to see results. Glengask had miles of property in Scotland, and a great deal of gold in addition to the land. As a bonus, Winnie was pretty, if a touch too sure of herself.
He’d done it all correctly, fluttering and flirting with her, being the pleasant, socially connected man she’d seemed to prefer. Perhaps he had rushed a bit in kissing her, but he wasn’t one to miss an opportunity—and that had seemed a good one. Why she’d decided his behavior was cause for ridicule and insult, he had no idea. That was how the game was played.
Now, though, seeing her pushed at a man with no title and a penchant for poor wagering simply because he’d been born north of Hadrian’s Wall, it all seemed ridiculous. And her family likely had no idea she was plotting and whispering and laughing behind everyone’s backs with that brutish Lord Gray. Was Cranach simply the next man to be lifted up and then cast aside for amusement? Or did Cranach win the prize because he’d remembered to say “ye” instead of “you”?
He took another drink from his quaint, chipped mug, turning his gaze toward where the Duke of Alkirk held court. From what he’d been able to glean, the Campbell and the MacLawry had been deadly enemies until a few short weeks ago. Now they were in-laws, which seemed to make them allies, if not friends.
But not everyone in Alkirk’s circle looked pleased by that circumstance. His gaze went to the broad-shouldered barrel of a man who stood behind the duke and sent a baleful gaze in Lord Arran MacLawry’s direction. Generally he didn’t bother to converse with a fellow who could barely count without using his fingers, but he’d made an exception for Dermid Gerdens. After all, they had something in common.
Standing, Adam strolled by the gathered Campbells and made a show of chatting with several of the young ladies there—though with those accents, he could hardly understand more than every third or fourth word they spoke. When Dermid glanced in his direction, Samston canted his chin in the direction of the loch and then moved off again. With all these Scotsmen present he’d half expected to find scores of them bathing in Loch Shinaig—but that would assume they bathed.
As it was, a few short minutes of heading north along the shoreline found him alone amid a stand of stunted pine trees. Leaning back against one of them, he gazed at the vast, flat mirror reflecting the scattered clouds and the opposite shoreline. It would have been lovely, if it had been closer to London and civilization.
“I’m here,” a thick brogue announced from behind him, sooner and more quietly than he expected.
“You move very quietly for such a strapping fellow,” he noted, turning his head as Dermid Gerdens walked past him, bent down to pick up a stone, and threw it what seemed like half the distance across the loch.
“I like sneaking.”
“You’re proficient at it.” Adam waited to see if that merited a response. When it didn’t, he folded his arms across his chest. “Have you heard from your brother?”
The shaggy red-haired head shook from side to side. “I told ye the Campbell sent him to Canada.”
“Ah, yes. And that was because of his run-in with the MacLawrys, you said?”
“Aye. I was there, with my pistol, but George said it was Donald’s fault. He said Donald lied aboot what happened, and that my brother was trying to start up a war between the Campbells and the MacLawrys.”
Adam already knew all of this—practically everyone in London knew within hours after it happened that Donald Gerdens, the Earl of Berling, had gone after Glengask and had nearly shot both Arran and Winnie MacLawry over some insult or other. No one seemed to know precisely what had sparked the feud, but Highlanders frequently seemed to have little or no idea why they were killing each other. “It would take quite the heroic deed to earn your brother’s return from Canada, then, wouldn’t it?”
Dermid hurled another stone. “Aye.”
“And you’ve been able to send word to your friends?”
“I said I would, and I did. So if ye know someaught that’ll make the Campbell let my brother come home, ye tell me what it is.”
A sliver of uneasiness whispered down Adam’s spine. This man could likely break him in two, if he had half a mind to do so. And half a mind seemed a fair description for Dermid Gerdens. Evidently it was his brother the earl who had the intelligence, though even that could likely be disputed given Donald Gerdens’s present residence somewhere in Canada. “Glengask wants his sister, Winnie, to marry Lord Robert Cranach.”
“I already heard the Campbell talking aboot that. He said the MacLawry would see the rest of us poor and begging by the end of the decade.”
“But only if he married Winnie off to a Buchanan. What if…” With someone else he would have given the opportunity for a man to come to his own conclusions—which would lessen his share of any blame later—but Dermid had likely never had a complete thought in his entire life. “What if that money for her dowry, and the alliance her marriage will make, could assure the Campbells and Gerdenses had a very large share of MacLawry wealth?”
“We’re nae allied to the Buchanans.”
Oh, good God. “I mean to say, what if Winnie married you, instead of Cranach?”
The heavy brow furrowed. “She doesnae like me.”
Adam began to feel like the lone shepherd in a land of sheep. “Does that matter?” he persisted. “I’ve heard stories of brave Highlanders stealing their brides out from under the noses of their enemies. Campbell and MacLawry are practically allies now. It would be very simple, I would think. And since she’s the MacLawry’s only sister, not only will her dowry be enormous, but you’ll be nearly as powerful as the Campbell, himself. He would have to allow Lord Berling to come home.”
A slow smile touched Dermid’s face. “They would write a song about me, I reckon. And I could live with Donald again, and I wouldn’t have to do everything the Campbell tells me.”
“Exactly.”
The mountainous man strode forward and stuck out his hand, so swiftly it made Adam flinch before he realized it was a friendly gesture. He shook Dermid’s ham-sized appendage. “You need to act quickly and carefully. If anyone realizes what you’re doing they’ll try to stop you. They all want the MacLawry wealth and power for themselves.”
Dermid smiled again. “I like to sneak.”
And Adam liked to see that no half-civilized, mouthy chit made him look like a fool. This might be the Scottish Highlands, but no one insulted and embarrassed an English lord. Not this lord, anyway.
Chapter Fourteen
Lord Rob Cranach didn’t participate in the sheaf toss. Lachlan didn’t even have the opportunity to cajole or bully him into it, because Cranach didn’t move from Ranulf’s side all afternoon.
Rowena tried to enjoy watching the competition, tried to be sincerely pleased when Tom MacNamara, the miller at An Soadh, tossed a sheaf up over a bar set at nearly three times his height to win. Every thought she had, though, every prayer, centered on finding a new solution for her to avoid being proposed to by Rob for the next two and a half days.
And since the plan had been to make him not want to marry her, to not even attempt to ask for her hand, she was at a complete loss. And then it got worse.
“He’s smiling,” Jane muttered, as workers removed hay and poles and rakes from the clearing in preparation for the evening’s dancing.
“He’s a damned coward,” Lachlan took up, standing a few feet behind her and ostensibly chatting with Bear. “Going aboot like Glengask’s lapdog so I cannae get close enough to say a word to him
.”
“Ranulf agreed to give him Fen Darach,” Bear said, his voice lower and more dour than Rowena was accustomed to hearing from him. “The old mansion and five hundred acres. As a wedding gift.”
“I thought Arran would take Fen Darach.” Cold anger, at herself, at Ranulf, and at Cranach, burrowed toward her heart. “So he means to punish me by hurting Arran? That’s … It’s awful.”
“It’s effective.” Lachlan slammed his fist into his thigh. “He knows ye’ll nae risk anyone else’s happiness, even fer yer own.”
She closed her eyes for a long moment, still trying to see a path through what was rapidly becoming an endless field of nettles. “In the back of my mind I thought this might be his idea of a test, to see how far you and I were willing to go to prove to him that we belonged together. But it isn’t a test, is it? He decided that we should have realized what we wanted two days before we did, and now he doesn’t care that we’ve changed our minds.”
Lachlan’s hand brushed the back of her arm, then dropped away again. “This is only over if ye surrender, Rowena.”
“And what do we do next, then?” she demanded, standing up and whipping around to face him. “What’s the next plan? Do ye murder Rob Cranach? Do ye kill Ranulf?” She shuddered.
“Rowe—”
“Nae! That’s how high he’s pushed the stakes, because he knows we’ll never do such a thing. I want ye, Lachlan. My heart … My heart is breaking.” She drew in a sob. “But what can we do? Please tell me, because I cannae think of a thing.”
“We could run,” he said, very quietly.
For a dozen heartbeats she considered it. “We would have to go all the way to America. Even then he’d likely find us. And if we married, he’d disown me. He’d banish both of us. We’d have no clan.”
“I’d still have Gray House and the land, and enough money to take us anywhere.”
Running would mean she might be able to keep Lachlan, but at the same time she would lose her brothers, her clan, the only home she’d ever known in the only land she’d ever known. They would never be able to return.
“Ye cannot sell Gray House,” she said aloud. “I wouldn’t allow it.”
“Oh, ye wouldn’t?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“No, I wouldn’t. But we couldn’t live two miles from him. Someone would die over it, Lachlan. And it might be you.” She shook her head, unmindful of the tears running down her face and who might see her weeping. Ranulf knew he’d won; seeing evidence of that fact would hardly surprise him.
“We’ve two days, my fierce lass. Dunnae give up yet.”
“‘Yet,’” she repeated, hearing the bitterness and the defeat in her own voice. With a deep, shuddering sigh she held out one hand. He would never stop. Not until he was dead or Cranach was dead or Ranulf was dead. So she had to make him stop. “Walk with me.”
He took her hand, but she couldn’t look at his face. If she did, her resolve would crumble. She would break into a thousand pieces and never be whole again.
They walked to the edge of the clearing, beyond the rock tumble to the trees. She heard the low murmur of voices close behind her, and turned around. “Go away,” she ordered the trio of large men.
Owen looked down at his feet. “We cannae, Lady Winnie. We’re to watch over ye.”
“Lachlan can watch over me.”
“My l—”
“At least wait by the boulders, Owen. We’ll be right here.”
After a moment he nodded, then gestured at the two other MacLawry men with him. “I can give ye five minutes, my lady.”
As angry and frustrated as she was, as badly as she wanted to sprout wings and fly far, far away, this wasn’t Owen’s fault. She inclined her head. “Thank ye.”
The moment the trio disappeared behind one of the boulders, Lachlan grabbed her by the shoulders. It wasn’t a kiss; it was far too desperate and hungry for something as simple and pure as a kiss. Rowena sank into him, clawing at his arms and his shoulders, wanting to disappear inside him.
“Dunnae quit,” he finally murmured, the raw hurt in his voice tearing at her all over again.
Finally she met his gaze, to find green eyes as bleak and haunted as winter. He knew. He was as stubborn as she was, and of course he’d thought through every twist, every angle, every trick—and more options that likely had never occurred to her. And he knew. They’d run out of luck. And time. And hope. Rowena took a ragged breath, pressing her forehead to his. “I love you, Lachlan MacTier, with every ounce of me. I’ll nae love another. Not ever.” She drew her fingers along his jaw, feeling the hard, clenched muscles there.
“Dunnae say it,” he whispered. “Pl—”
He lurched forward, pushing her hard away from him. Stumbling backward, she caught sight of red just below his left shoulder, and then a blade pushing out through his shirt.
Before she could pull air into her lungs to scream, something hammered against her skull from behind. Everything went white and then black.
* * *
Lachlan coughed. The taste and smell of blood and grass flooded his nostrils, and he forced open his eyes. “Rowena,” he rasped, his chest burning.
Silence answered him. Grunting in pain, he shoved his hands beneath him and pushed away from the ground. A few feet in front of him, something blue caught his gaze, and he crawled toward it. A shoe.
“Rowena!” he called again, louder this time. “Owen!”
Grabbing the shoe, he twisted to sit on his backside. His shoulder throbbed, and warm wet ran down his chest and his back. They’d evidently missed his heart, but not by much, the bastards. What they had done, though, was even worse.
“Owen!” This time he bellowed, and then began coughing again.
The footman trotted into view, then sped into a run. “Laird Gray! What’s—”
“Someone stabbed me,” he growled. “And Rowena’s gone. Get Ranulf. Now.”
“Saint Bridget,” the servant breathed, his face going gray.
Motioning one of the other men to stay behind, Owen ran back toward the meadow. Holding up his right hand, Lachlan clutched the shoe to him with the other. “Help me up, Ben.”
The servant pulled him to his feet. All his blood seemed to have gone, leaving him cold and dizzy, but Lachlan shook himself. He would collapse later. Now, he had work to do. “There were at least two men,” he muttered, moving forward into his own footsteps. Grass didn’t hold prints well, but he’d spent his life tracking animals. He knew where Rowena had been standing, and he knew she hadn’t matted the grass down while he’d been talking to her. She’d fallen—or been pushed.
Black fury thudded into him, followed swiftly by fear. But they wouldn’t kill her, he reminded himself. Rowena MacLawry was of far greater value alive. Unless it was only MacLawry blood they wanted. “Bloody, bloody damnation,” he grunted.
Who would dare? He staggered, putting a hand to his shoulder. Forcing himself to straighten, he looked about, not with the gaze of a worried lover, but a hunter. That’s what she needed, now. For him to find her. Forest to his left, the loch a short distance behind him, the boulders ahead of him, and the meadow with a thousand Scotsmen to his right. He started into the trees, keeping his gaze down, searching for sign.
“Lachlan!”
Ranulf’s bellow stopped him. As much as he wanted to do this on his own and make whoever had taken her wish they’d never been born, he was wounded. And he was one man. Ranulf commanded an army. He turned around. “Stop!” he ordered, putting out his right hand, only then noticing the blood dripping down his palm.
The marquis and his hounds, both his brothers, their Sassenach uncle, and twenty other men ranged behind them skidded to a halt. Most of them were armed—however peaceful the gathering had been, of course Ranulf would plan for the worst. And now the worst had happened.
“We were standing there,” he said, pointing at the ground a few feet in front of Glengask. “I got hit from behind, and I’m certain I saw someone moving up on Row
ena as I fell.”
“At least two, then,” Ranulf said, his voice clipped and precise. “Debny, Peter, look fer sign. The rest of ye, fan oot into the trees. Keep in sight of each other, and yell oot if ye see anything. Anything.”
With a chorus of “aye, m’laird” sounding behind him, Ranulf stalked forward. He avoided the ground where the two men now squatted, searching, but didn’t stop until he stood a foot from Lachlan.
“Why didnae ye see men coming up aboot ye?” he asked, his voice dropping even further.
Lachlan straightened as best he could. “Because I was kissing Rowena, and we were occupied with trying to figure oot how to stay together.” Dissembling now would only be a waste of time, and that was one thing they didn’t have. Aside from that, nothing Ranulf said or did could possibly matter to him as much as finding Rowena. His Rowena, whether anyone else wanted him to have her, or not.
Ranulf curled his fist and swung. The blow to Lachlan’s jaw staggered his already uncertain balance, and he went down on one knee. Blinking, he shoved back to his feet. “Ye may as well hit me again,” he growled, “because I’ll nae step aside from her as long as I’m breathing.”
“Dunnae tempt me,” Ranulf returned.
Sending his brother a frown, Munro stepped between them. “Can ye nae see Lach’s been stabbed? Do ye think he would’ve allowed this if he could’ve prevented it?”
Ranulf strode around them, making for the trees. “He could have prevented it, if he’d stayed away from her. Ye gave me yer word, Gray.”
“Ye knew what was happening,” Lachlan shot back. “Ye could’ve prevented this, if ye’d stopped stomping yer foot aboot Buchanan wool and listened to her fer a damned minute. Listened to either of us.”
Glengask’s back stiffened, but he kept walking. Now that Lachlan had said what he needed to say, worry swept in to replace his anger. Light-headed, Lachlan sagged. Bear put a hand under his good arm. “Ye need a doctor,” he said, starting them back toward the meadow.
If it had only been pain, he would have refused to go. But he needed his feet under him if he meant to do any good here. “Ye can track her, Bear,” he said. “Go find Rowena. Ben’ll help me get patched up.”
Mad, Bad, and Dangerous in Plaid Page 22
