And she wanted to strangle her father, though she understood the decades of clan rivalry and mistrust that had caused him to insult her husband—and his own daughter, since she was now a MacKeegan.
“’Twill be hard to find,” she said to Kyla. “I’ve lived here my whole life and havena seen it for years.”
But the bairn had already wriggled out of her father’s arms and was pulling him to the door.
He shrugged and smiled. “Any suggestions where to begin the adventure?” he asked.
His happiness was so clearly written on his face, she didn’t have the heart to naysay the search. She was certain Darroch would regale her with every word that passed between them once they returned. “Nay,” she lied. “I have no inkling.”
Abduction
Darroch sat on the pebbled beach below the cliffs, arms stretched around his bent knees. He’d spent an hour teaching Kyla how to skim stones into the waves and was content to watch her practice in the determined way she tackled any challenge.
Before that, they’d explored every nook and cranny of the castle, particularly disappointed when the Faerie Flag was nowhere to be found in the so-called Faerie Tower. He was at a loss to explain to his daughter why the eighth chief had built and named it thus if he didn’t intend to keep the flag there.
Then she’d suggested they scour the smaller caves along the beach and he’d agreed.
He had to admit to a degree of fatigue, whereas Kyla fairly brimmed with energy. He put his tiredness down to the emotional upheaval of at last conversing with the bairn he loved. She’d made his head spin with all her questions and comments about the castle. Itching to ask why she’d refused to speak to him for so many years, he decided against doing so, afraid to spoil the progress he’d made.
He was relieved they’d found no trace of Ghalla and her son anywhere in the castle. In his haste to spend time with his lass, he’d gone off with her alone, which might have turned out to be a grave mistake.
He looked up and down the deserted beach, then squinted into the clear blue sky where only raucous seagulls soared. Yawning, he lay back and meshed his fingers behind his head, listening to the pleasant tinkle of his daughter’s laughter and the sound of surf caressing rock further down the beach.
He may have drifted off, until the crunch of a booted foot on the pebbles startled him awake. He sat up, but a blow to the back of his head sent him spinning into blackness.
*
As the late afternoon shadows lengthened, Isabel became concerned. Coira made enquiries among the servants and reported that Darroch and Kyla had been seen entering the Faerie Tower earlier, but had left there after an hour or two. A stable boy had saddled a horse and thought he overheard Darroch mention going down the path to the beach.
Boyd sent out search parties, but all returned with no news, until the men who’d gone out to the cliffs came back with Darroch’s horse. Blue had been unable to pick up a scent.
When darkness fell, Isabel frantically paced her chamber, her heart in knots. “My husband and stepdaughter have met with foul play,” she told her uncle.
“And there is only one person who could be responsible for such a dire circumstance,” he replied, his jaw clenched as he opened the door.
“’Tis past time for my father to face the truth,” she told Boyd as they made their way to the sickroom. “We should have told him before.”
He nodded his agreement.
Fanny came to her feet as soon as they entered the chamber. “Any news?”
If Isabel paused in her mission, she would collapse into her cousin’s arms and weep. Instead she kept her gaze on her father, relieved he was awake and sitting up in bed. She prayed she would be able to hold on to her courage and not shake him until he saw the truth.
“News of what?” Rory asked.
His confusion indicated Fanny had said nothing, for which she was glad. This was her responsibility. “My husband is missing,” she said sternly.
He shrugged. “Men come and go as they please, lassie, husbands included.”
She fisted her hands, glad of the pain as fingernails dug into the flesh of her palm. “He has been abducted,” she asserted.
“In my castle? Nonsense. Who would do such a thing?”
She paused to make sure he was paying attention. “Ghalla.”
He snorted. “My wife? Ye’re mad. She’s missing as weel.”
“She left the castle when it became obvious her plans for ye were doomed to failure.”
He snarled. “Plans for me? She has been nothing but a kind and loving companion.”
“She insisted on being the only one to tend yer wound because she wanted ye dead.”
“I’ll nay listen to these accusations,” he shouted, swiveling his legs over the side of the bed with surprising speed, and holding out his hand to Boyd. “Help me,” he commanded.
“Nay,” his brother-by-marriage replied. “Isabel speaks the truth. Ye’re missing an arm thanks to the tainted salve she applied to yer arm.”
Rory glowered at those gathered around him, one after the other. “Why would she want me dead?”
“So Tremaine will become chief,” Fanny replied. “She drugged ye to the point ye even agreed to the twit succeeding ye.”
For the first time, Rory seemed to falter as a frown wrinkled his brow. “I did?”
Isabel sat beside her father, hoping he’d recovered enough of his wits to understand what she was about to tell him. “’Twas Ghalla caused the misunderstanding about the wedding. The documents she sent to Dun Scaith were not the same ones ye signed. Darroch MacKeegan was waiting for me in Sleat.”
Rory absently stroked the bandages of his amputated arm. “Drugged, ye said?”
“Opium,” Fanny replied. “Probably from the first day she arrived and fussed o’er ye.”
He stared at her. “I thought she cared.”
“She took advantage of our grief, Dadaidh,” Isabel said, wanting to ease the desolation in her father’s gaze.
“I actually agreed Tremaine would become chief?” he asked.
“Aye, but that right belongs to yer flesh and blood,” Isabel replied, barely able to hear her own voice over the thudding of her heart, and deeming it wiser not to mention Ian at this point. “’Tis why they’ve taken Darroch and Kyla.”
Rory raised his eyebrows. “They’ve kidnapped the bonnie lass who asked about the Faerie Flag?”
Isabel’s sobs refused to be held back any longer.
“So ye must ken where they might have taken them,” Fanny snarled.
Rory sank back against the bolster. “There’s a grotto.”
An urge to scream seized Isabel. “Our secret grotto? The one only ye and Mamaidh and me knew about?”
Tears welled in her father’s eyes as he reached for her hand. “Forgive me, Daughter,” he rasped. “I’m a foolish auld mon.”
*
Darroch awoke in a cave. Of that he was certain. Other things seemed less clear, possibly due to the headache boring into his temples, the vile taste in his mouth and the heavy weight on his chest.
He was obviously in some difficulty, yet wanted to laugh hysterically. The rocky walls spun around him, as if he’d drunk too much whisky. But opening his eyes didn’t solve the problem. “That ush…usu…usly does the trick,” he muttered, feeling like his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. And why was the person crawling on him patting his face?
“Dadaidh,” a voice whispered close to his ear.
Kyla? Nay, canna be. She doesna speak to me.
“Dadaidh.”
Louder, more insistent.
He opened one eye. Red curls. He laughed. Kyla had spoken his name. He reached to tussle her hair, but his hands seemed to be tied together and fastened to the wall.
What the fyke?
“Ye mustna swear, Dadaidh,” Kyla said.
He was in heaven. His daughter had spoken to him. “Sleep,” he mumbled, frustrated he couldn’t hug her with his wrists bound.
He feared his eyeballs might fall out when she grasped hold of his shirt and shook him. “Nay. Ye slept all night. Maine will come back soon with more of the poison that made ye sleep.”
Something about the name seemed familiar. It settled in his confused brain he’d been drugged. “Poison?”
She wrinkled her nose and made a choking sound. “Black.”
Fear stopped his heart. “Did he make ye drink any?”
“Nay.”
The uncontrollable urge to laugh suddenly turned to an overwhelming need to cry. He inhaled deeply, struggling to keep a grip on his befuddled wits. The dizziness worsened when he tried to rise but got only as far as steadying himself on all fours, staring at the rocky ground. “Do ye ken where we are?” he asked.
“After whacking ye, Maine lifted ye onto his horse like a sack o’ grain. He kept cursing that ye were too heavy and the horse wouldna obey. I kicked at his shins. Till he slapped me.”
In a flash of blinding clarity, Darroch now knew who Maine was. “Tremaine Nellis will die for striking my brave little lass,” he managed, holding onto the damp wall as he got to his feet. Another vague memory tickled. “He’s afraid of horses,” he rasped.
“Dogs too,” she replied. “Boo hates him.”
Being tied across the back of a horse would explain his sore ribs. “Then he brought us here?”
“Aye. A hill behind the castle. He cursed and swore so much about how steep the trail was, I think he forgot about me. ’Twas hard, but I followed.”
Pride swelled. Given the opportunity to flee, she’d stayed by his side through what must have been a long and terrifying night for her.
He had to clear his head, devise a means of escape before Tremaine returned, possibly with his evil mother.
The echo of boot heels and a whining voice scolding a horse told him he’d waited too long. Summoning the last of his strength, he opened his mouth to tell his daughter to stay behind him, but she was suddenly nowhere to be seen.
The Warrior
Darroch braced his legs and leaned back against the rough wall of the cave. He tugged at the rope binding him but it seemed to be tied to a metal ring embedded in the wall. A twinge at his elbow put paid to pulling too hard.
He was woefully aware that he’d fall flat on his face if he attempted to defend himself against the beak-nosed miscreant who moved gingerly towards him.
He searched the shadows for any sign of Kyla but, thankfully, she had managed to conceal herself. He hoped the courageous lass wouldn’t be a witness to her father’s demise.
Tremaine’s eyes darted cautiously here and there, but he didn’t seem surprised Darroch was alone. Perhaps, he’d been unaware the bairn had trailed them to the cave.
He risked a taunt. “I’m surprised ye came without yer mother.”
Tremaine halted a few feet away and brandished a small vial made of dark glass. “I dinna need her help. Besides, she’s got more important things to tend to in the castle.”
Darroch’s gut tightened. Ghalla intended to finish off Rory MacRain. How she thought to accomplish that with so many people surrounding the chief was a mystery, but he’d already underestimated the woman.
Still feeling the aftereffects of the opioid, he resolved to do what he could to avoid taking another swig. “Ye had to knock me out last time. What makes ye think I’ll take yon drug willingly?”
Tremaine chewed his bottom lip, as if just now realizing the difficulty he faced. “’Tis important ye keep drinking the opium,” he said, as if talking to a bairn, “then ye’ll be useless to yer wife.”
“That’s yer mother’s plan, is it?” Darroch sneered, disgusted he’d allowed himself to be captured by such a brainless nincompoop.
“Aye,” Tremaine replied. “And if ye refuse…er…yer son will suffer. He’s my prisoner.”
At that precise moment, Darroch caught sight of his daughter near the opening of the cave. Tempted to laugh out loud in the moron’s face, he clenched his jaw lest he distract her aim with the loaded sling.
The missile caught Tremaine on the temple as he turned towards the whirring sound. He dropped like a stone at Darroch’s feet. Black liquid oozed out of the fractured vial still held firm in his grip.
“Ye’re a marvel, lass,” Darroch rasped as his daughter ran towards him. “Get his dagger and cut me free.”
Leaning back on the wall, he used his feet to help her roll Tremaine over, chuckling when she planted her foot on his chest like a true pirate and yanked the blade from its sheath.
“Remind me one night at bedtime to tell ye the ancient tale of David and Goliath,” he said hoarsely as she sawed through his bindings.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
Even in his lingering stupor, it occurred to him that taking a life might not sit well on a young girl’s conscience. He’d killed men in battle and knew the toll it took. “Nay, just wounded. And he’ll have a fearsome headache when he wakens.”
She smiled briefly then continued her task.
Once he was free, he took his daughter’s hand and staggered to the entrance, still feeling lightheaded.
He inhaled the fresh air deeply, taken completely off guard when a sobbing Tremaine bolted out of the cave and shoved them both hard.
Darroch lost what little balance he had and narrowly missed falling on his daughter. He struggled to his feet and scooped up his little lass, alarmed to see blood oozing from a gash on her forehead.
Tremaine ran to his horse, mounted after two unsuccessful attempts, rode off down the steep incline and disappeared into the trees.
*
Isabel and Boyd rode at the head of a small army of clansmen until it became evident they’d make better progress on foot. They dismounted, tethered the horses and continued the climb. The sun was fully up now, though they’d set off as soon as the first grey streaks of dawn painted the sky.
Scaling the challenging terrain seemed more difficult than when she was a child. Her hips ached and she was out of breath as she grasped branches as handholds; however, the trews she’d insisted Coira find for her made the task a little easier. She didn’t care that Uncle Boyd and her father had protested her appearance. Darroch’s life was in jeopardy. It was no time to be wearing a skirt. Fanny had supported her decision wholeheartedly.
She paused for breath, irritated every male soon outpaced her. Suddenly, shouts of warning filled the air as men leapt aside. A horse came barreling out of the trees down the narrow trail. Heart racing, she launched herself into the prickly gorse. Only a lunatic would ride at breakneck speed down such a slope. Seconds later, a chilling scream sent gooseflesh marching across her nape. A horse whinnied in distress. Uncle Boyd and some of his men hurried down the slope to see what had happened.
Frantic, she carried on up the hill, praying she would find her husband and child still alive.
“’Tis Tremaine,” her uncle shouted from below. “Horse threw him. Broke his neck.”
Feeling somewhat dizzy, she was tempted to reply that it seemed fitting the youth who was afraid of horses should die in such a manner. But her throat was too dry and she needed every drop of saliva to yell her husband’s name. “Darr—och.”
“Up here,” came the hoarse reply. “Hurry, Kyla’s hurt.”
*
Darroch swayed unsteadily as he lifted his daughter.
“Ye dinna need to carry me,” she protested. “’Tis only a scratch.”
Fearing he might cause them both to topple down the hill if he persisted, he set her upright and dabbed the blood off her forehead with his plaid.
“Do ye think ’twill leave a scar?” she asked, sounding too hopeful.
“Mayhap,” he allowed.
“I canna recall,” she said. “Did Cú Chulainn have scars? They say all warriors have scars.”
He chuckled. “Ye’re a warrior right enough, with or without scars.”
Just then, Isabel staggered out of the bushes. Her hair was a spiky mess of leaves and twigs. Sh
e gulped air, her red face scratched and smeared with dirt and tears. And she was wearing trews tucked into the boots he loved so much. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight in his life.
She rushed into his arms and buried her face against his chest. “I thought I’d lost ye both,” she sobbed.
Kyla wrapped her arms around his wife’s thigh and looked up at them. “I saved him for ye, Bel,” she said.
He swallowed the lump in his throat as Isabel stooped to pick up his bairn and hug her tightly. “’Tis true. She knocked Tremaine out with her sling.”
Boyd entered the clearing and shook Darroch’s hand. “I’m relieved to see ye,” he panted. “The fool broke his neck, but there’s no sign of his mother.”
Eyes wide with alarm, Kyla cupped Isabel’s face in her hands. “She’s gone after yer father.”
The fog lifted from Darroch’s brain. “She’s right. Ghalla knew ye’d all come to our rescue, leaving Rory unprotected. Tremaine bragged about it.”
The Fiery Depths
The descent was a nightmare. They were all acutely aware of the urgency, but it was evident from the way Darroch slowly picked his way down the path that he’d been drugged. It touched Isabel’s heart that Kyla insisted she help guide him.
When they reached the ledge where they’d left the horses, her husband suggested she take Storm’s reins. He mounted behind her. A man who acknowledged his weakness and deferred to his wife was a rare find; his trust bolstered her courage.
Kyla seemed content to sit on Uncle Boyd’s lap, regaling him with an account of what had happened in the cave.
They were forced by the thickly wooded terrain to take their time, even on horseback, but the warmth of Darroch’s arms around her waist calmed some of Isabel’s anxiety for her father.
He slid from the horse once they reached the bailey. “I’m feeling a tad better,” he said, reaching up to help her dismount.
Kilted at the Altar Page 16
