Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series

by Collette Cameron

  “Ye two stay.” He pointed to the skinny girl and the servant holding the gown.

  Everyone else obediently turned to file from the room, Angus at the rear. He took her measure, his keen gaze lingering far too long on her bosom. “Have ye eaten?”

  Surprised he would concern himself with something so mundane, Isobel returned his appraisal and resisted the urge to cover her breasts. “No, not today. I had some broth and bread last night.”

  “That be all?” He pivoted toward the guards waiting in the entrance, bitter lines carved into his scarred face. Dead calm, he stared pointedly at the messy contents of trays strewn outside the door. “Ye ate her food?”

  His tone chilled her to her toes and raised the hair on her arms.

  The sentries exchanged anxious glances.

  A second later, Angus plowed his fists into their faces, one right after the other.

  They slumped to the floor. Blood dripped from one man’s gashed cheek and oozed from the clearly broken nose of the other.

  Trepidation glinting in their eyes, the rest of the terrified servants stood stock-still.

  They reminded Isobel of a family of mice cornered by a ravenous fox, not daring to flee, yet certain if they remained, they would be the beast’s next victim.

  His knuckles bloodied, Angus pointed to the youngest Scotswoman. “Fetch a generous tray for the lass, includin’ ale, and if ye dare to eat a crumb, I be guttin’ ye.”

  He jammed his thumb in the door’s direction. “Git. Send Dunbar to stand guard, and take these worthless pieces of shite with ye.”

  Angus kicked the nearest guard in the ribs.

  The servants scampered to do his bidding, except the women he’d told to remain.

  If the situation weren’t dire, Isobel might have appreciated the ridiculousness of the oversized men cowering before Angus. What kind of man inspired such intimidation?

  She didn’t really want to know. What she’d experienced at his hands explained much about the man. What humanity he had once possessed had long since departed.

  He turned his peculiar, dispassionate gaze on her. He had rendered two giants unconscious, and not a whit of emotion lingered on his bland countenance.

  Despite the fire burning brightly, she shivered but refused to avert her eyes.

  His full lips edged upward a fraction. “Eat first, and then bathe. I canna have ye swoonin’ durin’ the ceremony.”

  MacHardy’s here? Already?

  She’d missed his arrival. No surprise there. The gatehouse entrance graced the opposite side of the keep. The urge to tear to the window and screech for help until she was hoarse choked Isobel.

  Assuredly, Ewan tracked her, but she couldn’t wait for her brother. She must escape before MacHardy saw her and revealed she wasn’t Lydia. Isobel’s very life depended on it.

  Angus strode to the door as the women hustled about, preparing her bath and repeatedly sent him apprehensive glances beneath their lashes.

  “When . . .” Isobel licked her chapped lips, forcing her panic aside. How much time did she have to escape? “When does the ceremony take place?”

  He turned halfway back to her. “As soon as the rector arrives. Should be sometime before the evenin’ meal.”

  Angus smiled then, a humorless bending of his wide mouth. “It’s meant to be our weddin’ feast.”

  Yancy loosely tied Skye’s reins to a branch before squatting and inspecting the tracks pressed into the drying ground. They’d been made by a horse carrying two riders, and not more than a few hours old, if he had to guess.

  A few hours.

  How many? Four? Eight? More?

  Still crouching, he exhaled a long breath. Where the hell was Sethwick? This was his area of expertise. He should have overtaken Yancy yesterday. Unless Sethwick chose to take a different route or something at Craiglocky had delayed his departure.

  Damn, had Gregor died?

  Sethwick’s delay became increasingly worrisome by the hour. Yancy frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. His studied the rugged track ahead. Not the most travel-friendly course he’d ever taken, to be sure. Truth be known, he preferred a comfortable carriage for extensive journeys.

  Unaccustomed to such long hours in the saddle, his legs and arse ached. He wrinkled his nose. And he stank, almost as foully as MacHardy.

  The Scots had headed straightaway for Blackhall lands, which meshed with Tornbury Fortress’s borders for a good seventy miles. To his knowledge, the Blackhalls had no grievance against the Farnsworths. What exactly were the scunners about, then?

  Isobel was of no use to them.

  He’d thought long and hard on that particular, and the conclusion he’d arrived at sent dread snaking along his spine.

  The bastards had snatched the wrong woman.

  He clenched a fist and pounded his thigh. Miss Farnsworth had been the intended victim. He didn’t want to contemplate what they would do to Isobel when they discovered their error.

  Yancy fully expected a hostile reception at Dounnich, and there wasn’t a by-blows’ chance of inheriting a dukedom he would get farther than the outer gate without a plan and massive reinforcements.

  How had it come to this? He’d journeyed to Scotland to restore order amongst the clans, and instead found himself on the receiving end of a sword’s tip, the woman he adored in jeopardy.

  The knowledge sent another wave of ire boiling through him, especially since his chance of rescuing her was slim to none without a vicious fight. Good men might die—would surely die—in the skirmish.

  Perhaps Sethwick had concluded the same and sent word to the nearby clans. Waiting for the recruits to arrive would have delayed him.

  In the meanwhile, Isobel remained at the mercy of fiends.

  “Bleeding hell.” Yancy heaved a stone at a nearby tree. He smiled in grim satisfaction as bark splinters exploded every which way.

  Exactly what he yearned to do to the faces of the bastards who’d taken her.

  He traced the hoof’s indentation.

  The Scots didn’t appear to attempt to hide their trail after the first day and a half. They hadn’t expected anyone to tail them so speedily. Bold as ballocks they’d been, waging an attack on Craiglocky lands, no doubt certain of a victory.

  Arrogance and stupidity on their part. They’d started a conflict they were destined to lose. Not only was Sethwick a powerful chieftain, but Prinny favored him, and as War Secretary, Yancy had authorization to use British troops at will.

  He would pulverize the MacGraths and Blackhalls into dust and pave the streets with their crushed bones if they’d harmed Isobel in any way.

  Skye snorted and pawed the ground, and Yancy twisted to gaze at the horse. “I know, I’m frustrated, too.”

  Something white beyond the gelding caught Yancy’s attention.

  Another sign from Isobel.

  Straightening, he hurried to the spot and collected the soiled strip. He pressed the scant cloth to his nose. Her subtle, mellifluous scent lingered on the scrap.

  What other woman would dare, or have the faculties, to leave bits of fabric and makeshift arrows or partial words scraped into the ground to guide her rescuers? Each time he found one, his heart lifted the merest bit.

  It meant she was well; at least as well as she could be given her perilous circumstances. He folded the scrap before adding it to the others nestled in his pocket.

  Skye nudged his shoulder then nibbled his coat.

  Yancy chuckled. “No, you cannot eat it. It belongs to your future mistress.” He swung into the saddle. “We’ve a damsel to rescue, old chap. Both our sweet tooths will have to wait to be satisfied.”

  Several hours later, he skirted a pitiable village, nothing like Craigcutty, the thriving hamlet on Sethwick’s lands
. Wisdom dictated Yancy keep his presence a secret. Likely the villagers had orders to inform the keep the moment anyone noticed a stranger in their midst.

  Though a road split the forest as neatly as parted hair, he kept to the shadows and outer woodland border as he advanced toward the castle.

  Dismounting, he surveyed the sky. Charcoal-colored clouds promised more rain and darkened the dismal afternoon, much like a fine mist blanketed his depressing thoughts.

  He led the horse around another downed tree and after tethering Skye to a lengthy branch poking upright from the center, inspected the area. Well away from the road, yet far enough inside the woodlands to be invisible from the meadow, Skye should remain undetected.

  The castle, a bleak, rectangular, stone monstrosity, interrupted the otherwise pleasant horizon. A high curtain wall with strategically placed turrets wrapped the front portion of the keep. The drawbridge lay open, as if the castle residents expected welcome guests rather than an army of enraged Scotsmen.

  Had the Blackhalls thought their actions through at all? This was not the fifteenth century, for God’s sake. Surely, they had to be aware there would be consequences for their rashness.

  Perhaps they intended to start a war with England and the clans who’d pledged their fealty to the crown decades before. He didn’t doubt that two hundred years from now, some Scots would still strive to regain independence from England.

  Blister and rot, nothing good could come of this nonsense.

  Giving Skye a final pat on the shoulder, Yancy left the gelding. Mindful to keep hidden from the lookouts posted, he crept from trunk to trunk. Slim chance existed that he’d be spied him amongst the pines. However, he deemed caution prudent. A wounded or dead man couldn’t rescue anyone.

  Subtle movement to his left caught his attention. He silently withdrew his dirk and turned, ever-so-slowly.

  A traveller crouched behind a fallen tree, staring at the castle. If the gypsies collaborated with the Blackhalls, why did this man hide in the forest?

  Suddenly, the man straightened and shaded his eyes.

  Yancy followed his gaze.

  A third story window framed a black-haired woman.

  “Tasara.” The man’s agonized whisper floated through the trees.

  Another woman appeared in the next window.

  “Isobel.” This time Yancy’s murmur penetrated the forest’s half-light.

  His gaze flashed to the traveller. He had moved forward, his hands on his hips.

  A twig snapping under Yancy’s boot gave him away.

  Blade drawn, the gypsy spun in his direction. Fury darkened his already-swarthy skin. “Who are ye?”

  Yancy didn’t doubt the man’s ability to use the weapon he wielded.

  “I might ask you the same question.” Yancy lowered his blade marginally. “I mean you no harm.”

  Never taking his gaze off the gypsy, he inclined his head in the keep’s direction. “Someone dear to me is being held there.”

  “Me chi and chavvis, son and daughters, be as well.” The man’s harsh features eased, although misery immediately replaced the tension.

  “Bartholomew, Earl of Ramsbury.” Yancy sheathed his dirk and approached the man, his hand outstretched.

  The tinker returned his evil-looking knife to his waistband, before shaking Yancy’s hand. “Balcomb Faas, yer lordship. Ye be English?”

  “Yes, brought to Scotland on His Majesty’s business.”

  Balcomb bowed his ebony head nobly. “I be a member of the Scottish Highland travellers. Someone from that castle”—he pointed without looking behind him—“took me children captive almost three weeks ago.”

  Yancy’s gaze drifted to the keep.

  He blinked, shook his head, and then blinked again.

  “Holy, bloody hell.”

  Chapter 19

  A shudder of revulsion skittered down Isobel’s back.

  Our wedding feast.

  Angus’s words echoed over and over in her head. He intended to marry her himself.

  Over my dead body.

  Mind churning, she fingered the lavender-blue satin at her waist. Though a trifle too short and low-cut—her breasts threatened to spill from the bodice if she took a deep breath— the gown would do nicely.

  If her circumstances weren’t so dire, she would be agog over the confection. How had such an exquisite gown come to be here? Perhaps the dress belonged to the lady of the castle or the laird’s daughter.

  An insidious notion slithered into her mind.

  Or, had the gown been ordered for the wedding? Come to think of it, the garment did seem perfect for someone Lydia’s size. That meant the abduction had been planned for some time.

  By whom? MacHardy? Laird Blackhall?

  Isobel frowned, her fingers stilling. She hadn’t met the laird, or anyone else for that matter, with the exception of Dunbar, Angus, and those petrified servants earlier.

  Wouldn’t the clan’s leader want to meet his prisoner?

  When she’d been ushered into the keep, she had caught a glimpse of a disheveled, gray-haired man seated at a table on the great hall’s dais. He and several others had been hunkered over tankards, but no one had turned to see who’d entered the fortress.

  They had appeared deep in their cups, at midday, too.

  Ewan wouldn’t tolerate such drunken slothfulness.

  Dunbar said Angus was the Blackhall war chief. Was he related to the laird then? Precisely who governed here?

  Somewhat revived and blessedly clean, although scared witless, she’d eaten a bowl of surprisingly tasty mutton stew. She would need her strength if an opportunity to flee presented itself.

  The women, occupied with preparing her bath, had taken no notice of her. The sheathed knife now lay secured to her thigh with another strip from her chemise. If ever a garment were worthy of reward, that decimated scrap of fabric had earned a place of honor.

  Worry gnawed, its hundreds of razor sharp teeth nibbling at her stomach. She had expected to be escorted below promptly upon completing her toilette. Pray God something had delayed the cleric, although in Scotland one needn’t be present for a couple to wed.

  Anyone could officiate, as long as the bride and groom agreed to the union. A reverend did bind things up a mite tighter should anyone contest the joining later, but since the Scottish kirk permitted divorces, even church marriages could be dissolved.

  If she didn’t agree to wed him, Angus would kill her, and if she did, he’d kill her when he discovered she wasn’t Lydia.

  Opening the shutter, Isobel searched the landscape. A disheartened sigh escaped.

  They won’t get here in time.

  “Hello?”

  Isobel whipped round.

  The young woman from earlier stared at her from the adjacent window. A puzzled expression furrowed her forehead and worry shone in her heather-colored eyes. “I thought I heard someone over there today. I am Tasara Faas. Are you held captive too?”

  Should Isobel reveal her real identity?

  Everyone would know soon enough.

  She moved as close as the window would allow. Brushing her hair behind her back, she whispered, “I am Isobel Ferguson, and yes, I was abducted. They intend to force me to marry the war chief this evening. Although, they believe I’m someone else, and I fear for my life when they learn the truth.”

  She patted the windowsill. “If I had a rope, I would use it in a blink. What of you? Why are you here? I saw a young boy earlier. Your brother?”

  Tasara sent a swift glance behind her. “Yes, he and my sister are sleeping.”

  “You have a sister with you as well?”

  An entire family? The Blackhalls had much to account for.

  “Lala’s four. We were s
eized many days ago—almost three weeks, now—when I took the children to collect the stray goats.”

  She glanced inside her room again. “I don’t dare try to escape with the little ones, and I cannot leave them behind. I think we are being used as blackmail.”

  Fear shadowed the delicate lines of Tasara’s bruised face. She’d suffered at the hands of those brutes too. She toyed with the fringed end of the scarf tied around her head. “I overheard one of the Scots mention something about forcing my tribe to help them.”

  Isobel frowned. What in God’s precious name were the Blackhalls about? Abducting gypsies and noblewomen? Coercing the travellers? Did they want to start a war, for heaven’s sake?

  “Help them? With what?”

  “I dinnae ken. I haven’t seen this Scottish clan before.” Tasara’s lovely face brightened. “I shall help you escape. Then you can send others to rescue us.”

  She tore the scarf off her head. A cascade of ebony tresses billowed about her shoulders. Pushing her hair over a shoulder, Tasara turned her attention to untying the scarves at her waist.

  She held them up. “With these and lengths of blanket, we can make you a line to escape. I have a knife.”

  Isobel shook her head. “I don’t have anything with which to tie a rope in my chamber.”

  Uncertainty swept across Tasara’s features. Her gaze fell to the ground before meeting Isobel’s again. “Can you walk along the edge to my room? There is a heavy bed in here.”

  Licking Angus’s filth-covered boots held more appeal, but providence had handed Isobel a means of escape, and she wasn’t going to let a phobia ruin her one chance.

  “Yes.” She forced air into her constricted lungs and offered Tasara smile that probably wobbled.

  “I have a knife too. Start cutting the blanket and tie the ends together. I’ll do the same over here.”