She would survive this—she must, in order to warn Damien and Penelope and stop this stupid plot before people died for it. She had to tell Egan, who could send messages to Nvengaria in the blink of an eye.
She touched Ivan’s mind, wondering what they intended for Egan, and found bright, vicious anticipation. Egan would be a pleasure to kill, Ivan was thinking. Egan had tried to take their beloved princess away and mire her in this nowhere place called Scotland. He had to die.
Zarabeth knew they’d find Egan more difficult to kill than they imagined, but still, enough blades turned at him would do the job. She flinched away from a vision of Egan’s kilt stained red with his blood, and blocked Ivan’s thoughts from her head.
* * *
Egan and Hamish and their men searched every inch of the tunnels under Castle MacDonald and out into the Ring of Dunmarran, but found nothing. Zarabeth could not have been taken far, the reasonable part of Egan’s mind told him. No horses had gone missing, and there were no signs that other horses or carts or even people on foot had come to the Ring recently.
Egan sent his men to check the abandoned cottages at Strathranald and the homes of his own tenants. He believed his tenants loyal, but times were hard in the Highlands, and if someone had offered thousands of pounds to kidnap or hide Zarabeth it might have been difficult for a poor crofter to resist.
Adam came to help, with Jamie in tow. Egan tried to keep his emotions under control as he divided his men and family into teams, gave everyone maps, and carefully blocked out grids to search.
Within, he raged and fumed. If Valentin had hurt Zarabeth despite Zarabeth’s insistence that he was trustworthy, he’d break every bone in the man’s body, logosh or no logosh. He also wondered what had become of Ivan and Constanz, and whether he’d come across the lads’ bloody corpses strewn along the way.
Over all this, he ached for Zarabeth. He needed to touch her, to assure himself that she was all right, whole, and alive. He was to have protected her, and he’d failed her. He’d thought leaving her snug in the castle while he walked a hundred yards down the road outside it would be adequate, and he’d paid the price for his idiocy.
He’d search every inch of the Highlands and beyond, if it took him the rest of his life, to find his Zarabeth. No one would part him from her ever again.
The winter day grew short, and darkness began to fall soon after four. Egan and his men and cousins, and Adam and his men continued to search the night but found no trace of Zarabeth, her footmen, or Baron Valentin.
Chapter 21
True Colors
Mary Cameron learned about Zarabeth’s abduction while in the village with Dougal—one of Egan’s retainers rushed into the shop where Mary was hesitating over a skein of ribbon and blurted the news. Dougal joined Egan’s man, and Mary hurried home in the carriage on her own, her heart squeezing with worry.
Egan would be beside himself, she knew. Her brother loved Zarabeth deeply, she could see that in his usually enigmatic eyes.
She heard the details of the abduction when she arrived at the castle—how it looked as though Valentin had orchestrated the kidnapping, and how the two Nvengarian footmen were missing as well.
Mary listened to Gemma’s tale, feeling more and more hollow. Valentin could not have taken Zarabeth—he was not that kind of person, she was certain, and besides, he was far too injured to have thwarted Zarabeth’s two young bodyguards and carried her off. Mary’s face flushed with heat as she remembered his fierce kiss—perhaps she only didn’t want to believe it.
She ought to have been sitting with Valentin instead of leaving him for Mrs. Williams and Zarabeth to look after, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to enter his room today. Their kiss on Hogmanay night had taken her breath away and stolen her sanity, and she no longer trusted herself near him.
Valentin had been sore hurt, but perhaps he had tricked them all by pretending to be more hurt than he was, and then seduced Mary to make her believe in him. Her chest ached with humiliation and anger, the rage of her ancestors flowing as cleanly through her as it did through her brother.
She took herself to the kitchens and helped Mrs. Williams prepare cold meals for the searchers, then she lifted a lantern from its peg, lit it, and went down to the tunnels to search herself. Mary was not afraid of the darkness, and if she could find something that might lead to Zarabeth’s whereabouts, she wouldn’t shirk.
She found nothing. Tired and downcast, Mary returned to her chamber, heartsick and footsore. It was well after dark, and lanterns bobbed along the hills and roads in the distance.
“Mary.” The low voice came from the shadows behind her. She swung around and pressed her hands to her mouth to stifle her scream.
Valentin stood a few steps from her, his bandages stained with new blood. He’d pulled on a pair of breeches, which were muddy and torn as though he’d run through bracken, but the rest of his body was bare.
“Do not be frightened,” he said in his dark voice. “I won’t hurt you.”
Mary drew a sharp breath, feeling the edge of hysterics dance in around her. “What happened to you? They think you’ve taken Zarabeth—were you shot?”
“Shh.” Valentin’s scent spilled over her as he closed the short distance to her, the smell of outdoors, blood, and wildness. “The bullet grazed me only. I must find Zarabeth. Damien charged me with protecting her, and protect her I must. Help me, Mary.”
Mary’s voice shook. “How can I possibly? I’ve been searching, and my brother—”
“I can scent Zarabeth,” Valentin broke in, “but I need to get outside.”
“Scent her? I don’t understand.”
Valentin hesitated a long moment, his blue gaze shuttered. “You will see.”
Mary took the final step toward him, her heart pounding. “They believe you kidnapped Zarabeth, or at least helped. Did you?”
Valentin cupped her shoulder, his hand hot. He put his face close to hers, and she saw that his irises had widened strangely, the pupils nearly swallowing the blue.
“I must ask you to trust me.” He leaned closer, his breath touching her lips. “Trust me, Mary.”
All her life Mary had avoided making difficult choices. As the only daughter in the family, she had been petted and spoiled, never experiencing the rivalry Charlie and Egan had lived through. She’d been able to keep her father’s bullying distant by pretending Egan and Charlie’s troubles had nothing to do with her.
She’d been a coward, and she knew it. After Charlie’s death and Egan’s departure, she’d buried herself in her married life in Edinburgh, taking care of her husband and Dougal. By the time her husband had died, her father had passed away as well, and she’d returned to Castle MacDonald, pretending that she was stouthearted and could carry on.
Valentin was forcing her to face the truth of herself. She’d never been comfortable with close examination of her feelings, but Valentin was giving her no choice.
Trusting him went against every grain of Mary’s common sense. The woman inside her who liked to run away from problems wanted to flee from this one. Valentin frightened her as much as he intrigued her.
She thought of the kiss she’d been reliving since it had happened, remembered how hot her blood had pounded. She pressed her hand to his bare shoulder, even now thrilling to the hard muscle beneath silk-smooth skin.
“Mary,” Valentin said. “I need you.”
She wished he meant he needed her, but she knew he only asked for her assistance.
Mutely, she nodded. “Tell me what to do.”
Valentin traced her cheek, his eyes so close. “Get me out of the house with no one seeing us.” His lips touched her forehead, and then he turned away, leaving her cold and bereft.
* * *
Egan searched for hours. He rode along the shore of Loch Argonne, trying not to think of Zarabeth’s lifeless body floating in its black waters. The edges of the loch were thick with ice, but the middle still flowed deep and cold.
I’ll find you, lass. I won’t stop ’til I find you.
It was well dark, the stars out in a thick white swath, when Egan finally rode back to the castle. His mount was tired and cold, and while Egan could have gone on all night, he knew his horse could not continue.
Egan remembered his desperate search for Charlie’s body outside Talavera and the despair when he could not find his brother anywhere. Zarabeth might be dead as well, lying in the heather, her black hair trailing across the snow. Or she might have been carried a long way off, perhaps to a ship waiting at Ullapool to bear her away.
Rage washed over him as he crested the hill to the castle. Zarabeth had been right. Egan could never have stopped Charlie joining the battle at Talavera. Charlie had never listened to Egan in his life, blithely doing whatever he pleased, and laughing when his older brother advised caution.
Egan’s father had expected Egan to have full control of Charlie in a way Gregor MacDonald never had. He’d sliced Egan’s portrait to ribbons, had told Egan to his face, I wish to God ye’d been a bastard so I could have pinched out your life when ye were a bairn. Charlie, with his laughter and his charm, had deliberately set his father against Egan so subtly that no one, not even Egan, had understood what he’d done until too late.
If Charlie hadn’t died, Egan was certain his father would have come up with schemes to keep Egan far from home while he and Charlie ran the place. Egan might be the rightful heir, but in his absence, Charlie could do as he pleased.
Egan’s chest tightened with emotion he’d never let out, anger and rage he’d bottled up all his life. He’d accused Zarabeth of being a shell of a woman, when all this time he’d denied his own bitter anger at his father and younger brother.
Egan reached the courtyard and slid from his horse at the same time a figure loomed out of the dark. “Anything?” Olaf asked him.
“No.” It took all Egan’s energy to say the one word.
Olaf’s face was lined with grief. “I can’t lose my Zarabeth. I lost her when she married, and I never realized it. I drove you away because I did not understand what would make her happy. Seeing her with you now … I can’t forgive myself …” His voice broke.
Egan growled at him. “We’ll find her. I’ll nae stop looking for her. Ever.”
He threw his reins to the groom, who was also drawn with worry—everyone had grown to love Zarabeth.
As Egan strode into the castle, Gemma met him inside the door with a new problem. Mary had vanished, and Gemma had found blood in her bedchamber.
Egan swore in every language he knew then bellowed for a fresh horse.
Olaf followed him, eyes wet. “What are you going to do?”
“Go after them. I think I know where my sister is and what she’s up to.”
“I want to come with you,” Olaf said adamantly. “I’m an old man, but I swear I won’t slow you down.”
Egan gave him a grim nod. “Good. Mary’s a fool, but this time I think she’s done the right thing. And I’ll need you there to help me calm down that bloody logosh.”
* * *
“May I have more water?”
Constanz glanced at Zarabeth in concern, and she sensed his worry for her. He and his brother could hardly expect to put a figurehead princess on the throne of Nvengaria if the figurehead princess died of dehydration along the way. Ivan, not as concerned, nodded at him, and Constanz refilled the cup.
As the footman brought it to her, Zarabeth wondered where they were finding the fresh water. This cupful tasted as muddy as before, but also wonderfully cool.
Were they near a well, or perhaps a stream? She thought about the land she’d ridden over with Egan, of the loch, the river where they’d fished, the pools filled with roiling water that cascaded from the hills. Of Castle MacDonald poking up in ancient majesty from the rocks around it, in stark contrast with Adam Ross’s elegantly modern house. Egan wild, Adam cultured.
The Ross family hadn’t always been cultured, she knew. They’d lived in a stout castle like their neighbors had until the day it had been razed by the English. Until not one stone was left standing on top of another, Adam had said.
Zarabeth wondered suddenly what lay under the ruins of Castle Ross.
“Where are we?” she asked, trying to sound merely curious.
“In a safe place,” Ivan assured her. “No one will hurt you here.”
“Are we near the coast? How will we get away?”
“We’ll go soon,” Constanz said before Ivan could answer. “Everything will be all right, and you’ll be back in Nvengaria where you belong.”
Zarabeth nodded, feigning hauteur. “They are a bit barbaric here. Not much in the way of society, not even a spa or casino near the lake. And my clothes …”
She plucked at the plaid of her gown, and her heart nearly broke. It was MacDonald tartan, the same as she’d worn to her wedding.
Egan, please find me. I love you.
“You’ll have all the clothes you want, and jewels,” Constanz assured her. “You’ll be the most beautiful princess that ever lived, and we will be your slaves.”
Zarabeth stifled a sigh. Constanz read far too many fairy tales, which all ended with the beautiful princess loved by everyone in the kingdom. The princess never had much to do, Zarabeth reflected, except look lovely in a tiara and wave at her adoring subjects.
But Constanz had forgotten that every fairy tale had its prince—the handsome man who perhaps eked out a living as a farmer or other laborer before he decided to ride off to rescue the captive princess. He’d turn out to be a prince in disguise, of course. In Zarabeth’s case her handsome prince, or knight in shining armor, was a Highlander in a threadbare kilt.
Egan had found her on the Devil’s Teeth when she’d thought herself beyond help—perhaps he would find her now. Of course, at the moment, Zarabeth had no idea where she was.
The flickering light of Ivan’s lantern showed little—hard-packed earth on the floor, walls too far in the shadows for her to see. It was cool but not cold, as though they were well sheltered from the winter chill. She strained her senses to hear or feel thoughts outside the room and found nothing.
“Is there anything to eat?” she asked. “I’ve had nothing since breakfast, which I assume was some time ago.” Her stomach recoiled at the thought of food, but her question would tell her how thoroughly they’d planned.
“Give her the bread,” Ivan said.
Constanz faded into the darkness. “I need the light. I can’t see.”
Ivan uttered a profane word and caught up the lantern to assist his brother.
Zarabeth sat in darkness, watching Ivan and Constanz, who were lit like actors in a play. Ivan’s lantern showed her board shelves against ancient stone walls—manmade stone, not natural rock. She’d seen similar stones in the cellars and tunnels under Castle MacDonald.
She knew she could not be under Castle MacDonald—if she’d been there, Egan and his cousins and nephews would have found her by now. They knew every inch of those tunnels, and they could use Valentin to sniff her out.
Zarabeth remembered Valentin falling with the shot, and her heart ached with worry. Valentin was a good and noble man and did not deserve to die so ignominiously.
Constanz brought Zarabeth half a loaf of bread, which looked suspiciously liked the sort Mrs. Williams baked every morning. Zarabeth took it gratefully and chewed its nutty crust.
She blinked back tears as she did so—the taste reminded her of every meal she’d eaten in Castle MacDonald. The mornings when Jamie goaded Egan about getting married so Jamie wouldn’t have to become laird, and Egan snarling at him. The family suppers with Hamish poking fun at Angus and Gemma, Angus blushing and Gemma grinning broadly. Mary trying to keep them all civilized with talks of what she’d seen or done in Edinburgh or London, while Jamie and Dougal argued, and Williams joined in debates while he served the roast or venison with his wife’s bread.
I’ve finally discovered what true happiness is, Zarabeth
thought. I’ve found a family who loves one another, where I can be myself, with the man I want to spend the rest of my days with. I can’t lose it all now.
“I hate to mention this,” Zarabeth said casually when she swallowed the last bite of bread. “But I will have to use the necessary, you know.”
“There isn’t one,” Constanz said at once.
“Oh dear. Well, I suppose a corner will have to do, as long as you don’t wave the lantern about. I am quite shy.”
Ivan shook his head, regretful. “We can’t let you wander about alone. You might get hurt. This place is strewn with rocks and debris.”
“Well, you ought to have thought of that before you carried me in here. If you’d brought a maid to help me, she could tend to my needs and make sure I didn’t trip in the dark.”
“We did not know who we could trust,” Ivan told her. “The maids are all Scottish and could force you back to Egan MacDonald.”
“That is true,” Zarabeth conceded, “but I will need a maid eventually. All sorts of servants—ones who are loyal, of course—to tend to me.”
Ivan nodded. “That will be taken care of, he assured me.”
“Who did?”
“Your benefactor,” Ivan answered with confidence.
“What benefactor?” she asked, but Ivan shook his head. His thoughts were on food, the lad hungry himself, and she couldn’t pick up a name or an image.
One of Sebastian’s friends, or a leader of a new faction? Zarabeth suppressed a sigh. Never a dull moment in Nvengarian politics.
“Be that as it may,” she went on. “There is still the question of the necessary. Perhaps you or Constanz can lead me across the room with the lantern, and then return for me when I am finished.”
Ivan thought that through. “Very well. I’ll take you.”
Highlander Ever After Page 28
