“And if I dunnae help ye, we’ll all be at sword points again, I assume?” The duke blew out his breath. “No, I dunnae think Dermid could manage this on his own. He might stab ye or club ye, but Glengask would have tracked him doon by now. As fer who he’s with, I dunnae have any idea. I left half my nephews and grandsons well away from here, to avoid any trouble.”
Lachlan nodded. “Thank ye, Yer Grace.”
The duke faded back into the darkness of the tent, and Lachlan headed up the slope toward the trees. Torches and lanterns ranged for a mile north and south of where he and Rowena had been attacked. The fact that some of the Highlands’ best trackers still hadn’t found any sign of where Rowena and her attacker had gone meant his suspicion was likely correct. Dermid Gerdens hadn’t done this on his own.
“Where’s Glengask?” he barked, reaching the glade. It had been hours. Rowena could be miles away by now. She could be hurt. Damnation.
“I’m here.” Ranulf strode into the firelight. “Are ye patched up?”
“Aye. Well enough.” Lachlan didn’t know why he’d bothered to ask; they were only allies until Rowena was safe. “The Campbell found me,” he said brusquely. “He says Dermid Gerdens has gone missing.”
The marquis’s stark expression paled a little. “Dermid Gerdens. I knew that lout would be trouble. I figured it was his brother leading him aboot by the nose, though. Bloody hell.”
“Someone must still be leading him aboot, dunnae ye think?” Lachlan pursued. “Nae that I expect ye to name all yer enemies. We dunnae have that long.”
“I didnae do this, Gray. Owen said she sent her men away so she could talk to ye. This is on yer head. And I swear, if—”
“Stow it, Glengask. If she’s hurt, I’ll kill every man who had a hand in this. If…” He swallowed, his mind refusing to travel that path. “Alkirk suggested they might be headed to Denune Castle, half a day northwest of Fort William. It’s one of Berling’s holdings.”
“Berling,” Ranulf growled. “I’ll kill him this time.”
“The Campbell exiled him to Canada. If ye want him dead, ye’ll have quite the voyage.” He gathered up the reins. “Me, I’m headed fer Denune Castle.”
The marquis took a step closer, reaching out as if to snag the bay’s reins. Lachlan backed him out of the way. “Ye’re in no shape to ride anywhere, Lachlan.” Glengask scowled.
“I’m in no shape to stay sitting on my arse looking fer a trail when I’ve an idea where she’s headed.” He patted the rifle strapped beside his saddle. “I have what I need. And just so ye know, yer future brother-in-law is doon at the tents dining on a fine venison. That’s who ye’re giving her to.” With that he kicked Beowulf in the ribs, and they set off south at a gallop.
Dermid and whoever else rode with him would have to know that MacLawrys wouldn’t be far behind them. They would therefore be in a hurry. He cut across the valley beyond the loch, heading for the nearest open road going in the correct direction. It was the first time he’d ever felt grateful to that damned Irishman General George Wade. The man’s obsession with building roads in the Highlands might have led to the English overrunning Scotland, but tonight all he cared about was that Wade’s road south was the only easy path through the mountains.
His shoulder ached, but with every pounding footfall it only reminded him how much danger Rowena could be in. It would likely have been wiser to slow his pace in the dark, but he knew this part of the Highlands as well as he knew his own fields. He would have to be more cautious later, but at the moment he preferred speed.
“Lachlan!”
The loud bellow echoed through the hills around him. With a curse he slowed, but didn’t stop. A moment later hoofbeats rode up on him, and he rolled his good shoulder as he turned. “I’m nae going back.”
“I dunnae expect ye to,” Bear returned. “How certain are ye that it’s Dermid, and that he’s headed fer Denune?”
“I’ve nae better idea, and the lot of ye spent three hours looking fer tracks and didnae come up with a damned thing.”
“Then ye can say we all fell on our arses today, I suppose. I’m here because she’s my little sister, Lach. She’s the best of us, and I’ll nae sit back and pound my chest while she’s oot there. And I brought them”—he jerked his chin toward the three riders with him—“because I reckon that improves the odds of at least one of us getting to her.”
Lachlan nodded. “As ye say. Let’s go, then.”
* * *
“It’s done,” Arran said, walking into Ranulf’s office. “There’s nae a cotter’s shack or a duck blind for a hundred miles that doesnae have a MacLawry man on his way to search it.”
Ranulf nodded. “Close the door.”
His brother complied, but stayed close by it, as though he was ready to charge into action should any news arrive. They both were; the entire household was. Everything had stopped. The tents down in the meadow were nearly silent, the dozen bonfires of the night before reduced to two. No pipes sounded into the still night, no one sang, no one even seemed to be speaking.
He picked up his accounting book and flipped it open, then snapped it shut again. With a growl he hurled it into the opposite wall. “Why the devil am I standing here?” he demanded, hoping Arran could give him an answer. “Why am I nae oot there with Munro and Lachlan?”
“Because ye’re the MacLawry,” Arran answered. “Because when someaught’s amiss, yer clan looks to ye.”
“My sister is looking to me. To help her.” His voice caught on the words.
“In all honesty, Ran,” his brother said, his tone cautious and very worried, “that’s yer guilt talking. Because I’m fairly certain Winnie’s looking fer Lachlan.”
“It doesnae matter,” the marquis said dismissively. “Nae as long as she’s found.”
The one time he’d let himself be distracted—by Charlotte, by a wedding that now would not be taking place until Rowena was safe and home again, by arranging for employment for more of his cotters and trying to see Rowena happy and safe from further heartache—he’d lost her. The lass he looked on not only as his sister, the warm light of Glengask, but almost as a daughter. She had been solely his responsibility since she’d turned five and their mother had swallowed poison, with him just eighteen. The age she was now.
“They’ll find her,” Arran was saying, though it sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “There’s nae a place in the Highlands any man could hide from ye.” His grim smile held more anger than amusement. “I considered that very thing a few weeks ago, and I came to the conclusion that the only place Mary and I could hide from ye would be in an American forest somewhere.”
That snagged his attention—and better yet, drew his thoughts away from Lachlan’s parting words. “I know we werenae … I was damned furious with ye, Arran, but did ye truly think I would harm ye? Because I wouldnae. I couldnae.”
“Now’s nae the time to debate that, Ran. Suffice it to say both ye and all the Campbells were after us, and I didnae mean to be separated from Mary. By anyone.”
Slowly Ranulf nodded. He knew he was supremely sure of himself; a man couldn’t be weak-willed and still see to the well-being of three thousand men, women, and children. But he’d made a mistake with Arran, and it had nearly cost him a brother. “Did ye find Lord Rob?” he made himself ask.
“Aye. Eating a fine venison at the Buchanan tent. I refrained from cracking him in the jaw, but it was a close thing.” Arran eyed him. “I ken that a man has to eat. But we havenae taken the time fer it, and neither did Munro.”
Or Lachlan. Arran didn’t say that, but it hung there in the air between them, anyway. The viscount had been stabbed back to front, and a few short hours later he was riding across some of the wildest parts of Scotland on a hunch. In the dark. “Rob’s known Rowena fer only a few days,” he said aloud.
“And she’s money and land and an estate to him. She’s nae something precious. Nae something that cannae be replaced.”
Ranulf slammed his fist on the desktop, and Arran jumped. “He ignored her fer eighteen bloody years!” Of course they both knew who “he” was. “All she did was follow him aboot, until she finally realized he wasnae the only man in the world.”
“If I say someaught else, are ye going to throttle me?” Arran asked.
“I may feel like doing just that, but nae. Ye know I value yer opinion. Even when ye’re wrong.”
“Well, thank ye fer that.” Arran refused to sit, but he did cross his arms over his chest. “Ye made no secret of the fact that ye favored a match between them.”
“I wouldnae have allowed her to be aboot him so much if I didnae.”
“And so every day from his eighth birthday on, Lachlan knew his future. And she was a wee, clinging bairn.”
“He doesnae look at her that way now.”
“Because ye took the yoke off his shoulders, I imagine. Ye stopped trying to force them together.”
Ranulf narrowed his eyes. “So in yer opinion, all this is my fault?” he asked stiffly.
“I wouldnae accuse ye of any such thing.” Arran scowled. “All I’m even suggesting is that ye look at who defied ye to go after her, and who didnae bother to volunteer.” He lowered his hands again. “And now I think I’ll take a ride aboot the loch, just in case we missed someaught.”
Ranulf motioned at him. “Go. But take Fergus with ye. Rowena may nae be the end of it, and Charles Calder put a ball through ye once already.” He paused, ice forcing its way into his chest.
Across from him, Arran abruptly swore. “Ye dunnae think—”
“Ye go riding,” Ranulf ordered, striding for the door. “I’m going to have a word with the Campbell.”
Arran pulled open the door and fell in behind him. “Nae. I’m going with ye. I’ll nae breathe again until I hear that Calder’s in Canada with his damned cousin.”
Taking the stairs two at a time, cursing himself with every step, Ranulf made for the front door. He’d offered the Campbell a fine bedchamber, but evidently Alkirk didn’t feel comfortable enough to rest his head beneath a MacLawry roof. What that meant now was that he wouldn’t just be speaking to one man; he would be asking some hard questions about a difficult subject in front of all the Campbells who’d arrived for the wedding.
The wedding. Damnation, he was supposed to be married the day after tomorrow. “Where’s Lady Charlotte?” he barked at Cooper as they reached the foyer.
“I’m in here,” her sweet voice called back from the morning room, before the butler could answer.
Changing directions, he walked into the quaint, comfortable room. It didn’t feel so comfortable at the moment, though. Charlotte, her sister, their parents, and Arran’s wife Mary sat huddled close together near the door, while his own Sassenach uncle, Myles Wylkie, stood still as a statue, his gaze fixed out the window.
Charlotte rose as he entered, walking up to him with her hands outstretched. He stopped her at arm’s length, though, not wanting her embrace. With her in his arms he couldn’t be as angry, as sharp, as ready to strike as he needed to be right now.
“We’ve sent men to every building fer a hundred miles,” he said, to the room in general. “Lachlan’s headed toward Fort William with Bear, to an old holding of Lord Berling’s.”
Charlotte gasped. “Berling?”
“It may be his brother who’s taken Rowena.”
Myles finally turned around. “Then send everyone,” the viscount stated, his voice unsteady and his hands clenched. “You command a damned army, Ranulf. Send them all. Get her back.”
Ranulf shook his head. “If our suspicions are wrong, we’ve wasted two days there and back. Bear took Peter Gilling and two others with him. They’re nae alone oot there.”
Jane made a broken, sobbing sound. “Winnie’s all alone,” she whispered, and dropped her head into her hands.
He didn’t want to think about that now. He couldn’t. Everything he had, everything he was, looked for a way to rescue his sister. The rest he put aside for later. “I need a word with ye, Charlotte.”
“Of course.”
She followed him into the far corner of the room. “I’m sorry, leannan,” he murmured. “This isnae anything that I…” He trailed off.
Charlotte put a hand on his sleeve before he could say anything else. “Find Winnie,” she said quietly. “Everything else can wait.” She reached up her free hand and cupped his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m nae accustomed to hearing how a lass might react to having her wedding postponed,” he returned, fighting the urge to simply be with her and let the rest of the world fade away, “though I imagine it’s generally more full of yelling. But ye’re nae any common lass, are ye?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”
“I love ye, Charlotte, in case I dunnae say it often enough.”
“And I love you, Ranulf. Do what you need to do.”
He kissed her, hard and without caring that her parents were watching. Then he nodded. “Ye’d best nae go anywhere. Because I do mean to marry ye.”
* * *
“I’m nae going to do anything while ye have this sack over my head,” Rowena stated, trying not to stagger as pins and needles pricked up and down her legs now that blood and feeling returned to them. “I dunnae trust a one of ye to keep yer word.”
“Put her back on the horse, then,” Calder’s voice said, flat and annoyed.
“I dunnae want her pissing on me,” the highest-pitched of the voices, Arnold Haws, she knew, complained.
She worked her jaw again, lowering the gag down her chin just a little more. “I will, too,” she assured them. “Take the sack off my head, and untie my hands. Where do ye think I’ll go?”
The sack was pulled off her head, and she blinked, sucking in the cool, damp air of the Highlands night. Thankfully it was a mostly clear evening, with a three-quarters moon just sinking past the sharp peaks to the west. The cold breeze had gone past chilling her, but she’d been cold before. She’d even been lost before, though not since she’d been ten years old. Ranulf had been frantic, she remembered, and refused to let her leave the house for three days after that.
A large face with a blood-streaked cheek loomed in front of her. “I’ll untie ye, and we’ll nae look while ye piss, and ye’ll behave yerself.”
Rowena returned his gaze levelly. She had no qualms at all about giving her word and then breaking it. Not to these men. They had no honor, and she wouldn’t be held back by her own. “I’ll behave myself,” she agreed.
After a minute of increasingly painful fumbling, the rope about her wrists loosened. She held in a gasp as sensation flooded back into her fingers. Then she sent them each a glare. “Face away from me,” she ordered. “Make a triangle or someaught so I can’t get past ye without ye seeing.”
One by one they complied, Calder of course, turning his back last. They stood in a broken meadow, covered here and there with heather and thistle and bluebells. It was likely lovely in daylight, but she was more interested in the rough boulders that poked up among the flowers.
Squatting, she relieved herself, at the same time reaching all about her for something, anything, she could use as a weapon. Her fingers touched a half-buried rock, but when she dug it out, it was too small to even be an annoyance.
“Are ye finished yet?” Dermid asked, shifting.
“I can barely feel my legs and arms,” she retorted. “Give me a blasted minute, ye heathens.”
Aside from the weapon, this was all about slowing them down. Annoying them, confusing them, turning them against each other—only the first seemed plausible, but every second she could keep them from riding was a second Lachlan could use to catch up to her.
Her fingers found another rock, and she tugged, trying not to lose her balance. It came free, a nice, fist-sized specimen. Straightening slowly and quietly so the men wouldn’t hear her skirts rustling, she looked at each of them. She could hurt one of them, but that would only get
her slapped and thrown back onto a horse again. No time gained at all.
Rowena then turned her attention to the horses. They all had their heads down, grazing. And because this was only a momentary stop, none of them were hobbled or tethered.
Drawing as much air into her bruised lungs as she could, she cocked her arm, just as her brothers and Lachlan had taught her. She’d once killed a rabbit with a well-thrown stone, and they’d had it for dinner that night.
Not daring to wait any longer, she screamed—as loudly and fiercely as she could. As the men jumped, whirling around to face her, she stepped forward and hurled the rock. The nearest horse reared, screeching as the rock caught it squarely on the nose. It bolted, the other two following at a gallop.
Someone, Calder, she thought, cuffed her on the back of the head, and she went down onto her hands and knees. “Get the damned horses,” he snarled.
Cursing, the other two ran off into the dark, whistling. If the animals were as well trained as those at Glengask, they wouldn’t run far, and they would return when called. But that didn’t matter, as long as it took time.
“It’s a shame ye have to look pretty when we show ye to the parson,” Calder continued, yanking the gag back up and this time tying it so tightly that she couldn’t close her mouth around it.
Her hands and feet were still free, though. And he’d been shot in the leg by his own grandfather, Arran had told her. Flinching forward, she turned to face him and kicked—wishing she’d been wearing the riding boots Lachlan had given her for her eighteenth birthday instead of one stupid blue walking shoe.
He stumbled, cursing, then threw himself on her before she could dart away. They fell to the ground with him at her back. “Wrong leg,” he hissed into her ear.
She flailed, kicking and punching at him, trying to twist beneath him so she could hit harder. He was both larger and heavier than she, though, and he was certainly meaner. Grabbing hold of her left arm, he twisted it up behind her, shoving her own hand into the small of her back.
“I’ll break it,” he panted. “Stop fighting.”
Mad, Bad, and Dangerous in Plaid Page 24
