When the Laird Returns

by Karen Ranney

  But there was no sign of Alisdair.

  The jarring clank of metal against metal made her realize how quiet it had become. One by one, the crewmen turned to stare as she walked to Brian’s side.

  “Have you seen Alisdair?” she asked, making no pretense of hiding her worry. “Is he here?” Holding her hands tightly together, she willed them not to shake.

  “I haven’t seen the captain, mistress,” he said. His frown changed his face, made it oddly older. “Not since you and he left the Fortitude. Has something happened?”

  She told him the story, willing her voice not to quaver. Brian listened without comment, then turned to study the horizon. If smoke still rose to the sky, darkness had masked all signs of it.

  “We’ll find him, mistress,” he said grimly, signaling to another crewman.

  Did he actually expect her to sit and wait? She left him, striding toward the horses.

  “Let us go instead, mistress,” Brian said, following her.

  She didn’t bother arguing with him, didn’t attempt to defend her position or obtain his agreement; she simply ducked beneath the rope, selecting the nearest horse.

  The glen would be treacherous at night, with uneven earth cropped clean by the sheep, and holes in the ground that a horse couldn’t see. But Iseabal gave no thought to the animal that carried her, aware only that she must find Alisdair. Choosing a bridle and bit, she adjusted them, then led the horse out of the enclosure.

  Using a fallen block of masonry as a stepping-stone, she mounted, feeling safer on the animal’s back than in an unfamiliar saddle. Turning the horse, she retrieved a lantern from its pole.

  “Follow me,” she told Brian, holding the lantern at her side. That was the last thought she had for any of them. Her attention was focused ahead of her, to the place where she’d seen the smoke.

  The unmistakable sound of hooves caused her to glance back. Three large and looming shadows followed her. Evidently, Brian and his companions had chosen to ride bareback also. What they lacked in experience, she thought, Alisdair’s crew made up in determination.

  Following the edge of the forest, the line of trees a guide, they turned southward, then west again. A longer journey than Alisdair might have made, since they couldn’t cut through the thick trees. The earth began to rise beneath them as they rode, the terrain becoming more hilly. All of a sudden the stench of burning was in the air, and Iseabal knew they were close.

  Her stomach tightened, one hand gripping the reins tensely, the other holding the lantern with such fierce possessiveness that the iron handle felt embedded in her palm. Fear was an icy feeling, leaving her cold and trembling.

  She had never traveled this far before, Gilmuir marking the boundaries of her secret rebellions. Her skirts were bunched up in front of her as she rode astride, her ankles exposed, and her hair flowing behind her as if she were a maiden and not a married and chaste woman. Modesty, however, didn’t concern her, the only thought in her mind to find Alisdair.

  The horse’s hooves on the rocky ground sounded like his name. Alisdair. Alisdair. Alisdair. An entreaty echoing through the empty glen until it was swallowed up by the forests.

  There, on the slope of a hill, protected by an outcropping of stone, was a small clachan. Like lumps of still smoldering coal, the cottages glowed from within, their stone walls blackened. In the center of the village stood a clump of people, only dark shadows themselves, the only clue to their humanity an occasional faint sob.

  Riding to the edge of the trees, Iseabal hung the lantern on a branch before dismounting. Her knees sagged beneath her, but she forced herself to pick up the lantern again and walk the distance to the crofters’ huts.

  Behind her, the three men from the Fortitude also dismounted, following her wordlessly, their silence a gesture of support.

  “I’m looking for Alisdair MacRae,” she said as the shadowy forms turned. She held up the lantern so that they could see her, and to better view them.

  Soot marred their faces and hands, darkening the front of their clothing. They were all old, people for whom death waited with an outstretched hand. The elderly should be cherished for their wisdom, venerated for their age, not left without homes.

  The question of what had happened here was second to her desperate need.

  “Have you seen him?”

  An old woman studied her for a moment. “There was a man here,” she said faintly. “A stranger come to our aid, for all the good it did him.”

  “What became of him?” Iseabal asked, her palm flattening across her stomach. The lantern sputtered and popped as she waited. Instead of answering, however, the old woman looked confused.

  “I don’t know,” she said uncertainly. “There were so many men around. I don’t know what happened to him.” Her eyes veered to one hut. Emerging from the doorway was a body, half consumed by the fire.

  Slowly, each step measured by a ponderous beat of her heart, Iseabal neared the cottage, holding the lantern aloft. The only people she’d seen dead had been prepared for their lykewake, washed and readied for their burial in simple ritual.

  The lantern jiggled in the wind until Iseabal realized it did so because she was shaking so badly. Forcing herself to look down, she studied the form. Long legs, half buried beneath rubble. But they weren’t his boots, she noticed suddenly, feeling almost faint with relief. This poor man wore shoes so worn that the soles were nearly bare.

  Turning away, she called out to the others. “Did anyone see what happened to the stranger?”

  “They shot him,” a quavery voice replied.

  Her stomach calmed in the instant Iseabal stared at the old man. The breeze ceased to blow and the world might well have turned entirely dark. She could not look away from the sight of him slowly stroking his white beard, nor could she speak. Words had blackened in her throat until Iseabal tasted soot when she swallowed.

  “They carried him off,” another man said, stepping forward. “With the others. The able-bodied men and the women and children. They wouldn’t have bothered if he were dead. Dead slaves don’t fetch much coin.”

  “Slaves?” Iseabal asked faintly. She was beginning to tremble all over, as if the breeze were chilled instead of being as warm and as soft as a lover’s breath. Inside, however, the cold mounted until Iseabal felt brittle with it.

  “The glens have been emptying for months now,” the first man said. “The Highlands are being stripped of its people. Whole villages disappear and in their place are sheep.”

  “We should be grateful to be old,” the second man interjected. “We’re supposed to die here.”

  “They carried him off,” she repeated, the ringing sound in her ears making Iseabal feel if she were speaking beneath water. Perhaps she was drowning in grief. “Where would they take him?”

  “We don’t know,” the old man said, shaking his head slowly. “There is no one left to tell the tale.” He looked around him, then turned back to her. “Except for the aged, and half of them so confused they cannot be certain.

  “He was shot, that’s all I do know,” he said, glancing at another man, who reluctantly nodded in agreement.

  “We should go back to Gilmuir, mistress,” Brian was saying. “We’ll send riders out to see where they might have taken the captain.”

  Iseabal said nothing, moving her horse to a fallen trunk and mounting. She left the lantern behind, feeling part of the darkness, a shadow as dim as the one now veiling the moon.

  She turned her horse, wishing the mount were one familiar to her. But Iseabal could find the way well enough back to Gilmuir and on to Fernleigh.

  “Where are you going, mistress?” Brian asked, calling up to her.

  Staring down at him, Iseabal willed the words to come. “To find my husband,” she said.

  “We’ll come with you.” Raising his hand, he signaled the others.

  “Go back to the ship,” she said curtly. “See these people to Gilmuir,” she ordered, glancing away from him and addressing t
he villagers. “We will see you fed and given shelter,” she promised.

  “And who, exactly, would you be?” the old man asked, his wrinkled face twisting into a suspicious scowl.

  Instead of answering him, Iseabal positioned her mount toward Fernleigh and her father.

  “Pick him up,” Thomas Drummond said, pointing to two men with the barrel of his gun.

  Glancing down at the fallen man between them, one of the prisoners spoke. “He’s a heavy brute.”

  “Pick him up,” Thomas said again. “You’ve carried him this far, you can finish the job.”

  The two men each hooked a hand beneath the MacRae’s arms, pulling him along, his head lolling, his feet dragging in the dirt behind him. Either the journey to the ship would kill the MacRae, Thomas thought, or he would survive long enough so that Drummond was paid for his worth as an indentured servant. Either way, the MacRae would be gone from Gilmuir permanently.

  Thomas had long ago surmised that his fortune lay not in what he could do, but for whom he could do it. Times were hard in the Highlands, and even more difficult for a man who wished to make a name for himself. There were no wars to fight, nothing to raid in this poor stretch of country. He owned no property, and no wealthy widow had yet agreed to wed him. Therefore, he had settled for aligning himself with his cousin Magnus. In serving him, Thomas reasoned, at least he was seen as an important person.

  Any man who could kill without thought of punishment was powerful.

  He rode ahead, following the line of villagers. By dawn they’d make the port of Cormech and would be loaded aboard ship.

  As was his custom, he’d left the old behind, huddled near their burned-out huts. He wouldn’t fetch a coin transporting them from Scotland. In fact, the ship’s captain might well charge him for their fare.

  The infirm would die, and the aged would age further still. But that was the way of nature itself, and he only mimicked God in his actions. If the old ones learned to live in the open, like animals, they would soon become accustomed to it. Become stronger, Thomas reasoned, thinking that they might even be thankful for their trial.

  Smiling, he rode to the head of the line.

  Chapter 26

  T he stench of smoke was being carried with Iseabal in the breeze. To travel at night and alone was unthinkable, even if the destination was her childhood home. But there were considerations more vital than safety.

  Where was Alisdair?

  Fernleigh stood tall and ominous in the darkened countryside, not one glimmer of light penetrating its thick walls. No welcoming lantern was hung by the front door, and the moonlight, shining silver on its corners, made her childhood home appear like the chimney of Hell.

  Iseabal dismounted, tying the horse’s reins to the ironwork in front of one window. Rage and grief vied with each other, rising to fill her chest and swamping any other feelings. She pushed her way past the guard, determined that no one would stop her from finding Alisdair.

  Inside the clan hall, a few tapers had been lit in a grudging concession to night. Her mother sat in her customary place beside the cold fireplace, her father drinking at his table. For once he was alone, his cadre of followers absent for the night.

  Leah glanced up, her expression one of shock upon seeing Iseabal. She stood, dropping her needlework on the chair behind her. A second later Iseabal was enfolded in her mother’s arms.

  “I thought you gone, Iseabal,” Leah said, patting her cheeks, examining her from toes to head in a sweeping glance.

  The screech of wood against the stone floor made Iseabal turn. Her father sat back in his chair, surveying her.

  “You’re not welcome in this place, Iseabal MacRae. Go back to your husband and tell him that I’ll not return his money for you.”

  “Where is he?” she said, standing in the middle of the clan hall. Her hands were clenched behind her, and her heart beat a pounding rhythm so strong she could hardly breathe. “Where is Alisdair?”

  “Have you lost your husband, girl? Barely a month wed and he’s already fled from you?” He glanced at his wife, and added dismissively, “I should have suspected as much, if that one taught you in the womanly arts.”

  As she took one more step toward him, Iseabal could feel the cold stone of the flooring through the leather of her shoes. Stone no more warm than this man’s heart.

  “Where have you taken him?” she asked, her voice level and harsh. Did he sense what she was feeling? Was that why he straightened in his chair, loosening his grip on the tankard? His eyes narrowed, his lips turned down, expressions of disfavor she’d seen every time they’d met.

  “What has happened, Iseabal?” Leah asked.

  Without taking her gaze from her father, Iseabal answered her.

  “He burned a village, Mother. For the sake of his sheep. Alisdair tried to intervene. He’s been missing ever since.” She couldn’t utter the other words, images that remained out of sight, just beyond thought. He had not been shot; he was not dead. She would know it, be feeling something other than this killing rage.

  Drummond stood abruptly, striding to her side. He raised an arm to her and she smiled, the gesture halting him.

  “Hit me,” she dared him. “Silence me with your fists. I have thirty men at my command,” she said in a low, threatening tone. “Thirty men who would willingly force you to reveal what you know. Or kill you. We’ll see how brave you are when confronting someone other than my mother and me.”

  He struck her then, but Iseabal didn’t flinch from the blow.

  “Where did you take him?” she asked, wiping the blood from her lip. The pain inside was greater than anything her father could do to her.

  “To Cormech,” her mother whispered.

  Iseabal spun around to find her mother staring at Drummond. Leah knew, Iseabal suddenly realized, wishing that the knowledge wasn’t there in her mother’s stricken look.

  “He sells his clansmen at Cormech,” Leah said, her voice trembling. “As bonded servants. Or as slaves.”

  “Shut up, woman,” Drummond snapped. “You know nothing of my business.”

  “I know that you used to send them to the Carolinas, in the colonies,” Leah said, “but with talk of the rebellion, you had to find another place.” She pointed to her chair. “I sit there day after day at your command. Do you think that I don’t hear you, don’t know what you’ve done?”

  She took Iseabal’s arm, standing in mute defense of her daughter. Not the first time she’d done so, Iseabal thought, but the only occasion in which Iseabal had known the extent of her father’s greed and crimes.

  “I don’t know where he sends them now,” Leah said.

  When her father raised his hand again, Iseabal grabbed his wrist. “Are you going to beat us both, Drummond?”

  Releasing him, Iseabal stepped away. The anger she’d felt had deepened, altering her. She was no longer afraid of him. She felt nothing at all, neither fear nor conscience. In the depths of her heart there might have once been a wish for understanding, or a seed of compassion.

  At one time she’d wanted to believe the best of him, had wanted him to be the kind of man who, instead of frightening her, would show some affection. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d thought that a piece was missing in the puzzle that was her father. All Iseabal had to do was find it and then she would understand why he was the way he was. Why he took so much pleasure in his power over others, why he treasured money over his family.

  But there was, she abruptly realized, no missing piece of Magnus Drummond. He was always as he had been; the only difference now was that she was seeing him without hope clouding her vision.

  Leah bowed her head, the arch of her neck rendering her vulnerable at that moment. She became, as Iseabal watched, a frail woman in a world that was not disposed to tolerate the weak. But there were other victims this night, people who might have been spared, had Leah spoken earlier.

  “Why?” Iseabal asked, moving back from her mother. “Why did you never say an
ything? Or do anything?”

  Leah raised her head, her eyes swimming with tears. “What do you expect me to have done, Iseabal? Do you think people would listen to me? There were enough to know what he was doing, and not one hand was ever lifted to stop it.”

  “Get out of my house, daughter,” Magnus said, his voice slightly slurred.

  Glancing over at him, Iseabal allowed her anger free reign. “Don’t call me that again,” she said sharply. “I wish to God I weren’t of your blood. But rest assured, I’ll spend my entire life making amends for it.”

  “You do that,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know where your husband is, but you can tell the MacRae that I’ll be watching as he’s driven from Gilmuir. I’ll go to court and win that land back as rightly mine.”

  “I doubt you’ll fare well against English magistrates,” she said dismissively. “Alisdair MacRae is an English lord now. The Earl of Sherbourne.”

  “Is he, now?” he asked, striding back to the table. Sitting, he peered into the bottom of his tankard. “Or maybe he’s just a ghost.”

  Iseabal knew, as she passed beneath the arch, that she would never come here again. The Fortitude had proved more a home. This had never been a welcoming place, and now it truly was an empty shell.

  Looking back at the two of them, Iseabal wondered why she had never before seen her parents quite this way. She might as well have been a foundling, so removed did she feel from either of them.

  She would go to Cormech with the crew of the Fortitude and search every ship in the harbor in order to find Alisdair. And if that did not prove successful, she would travel the world to rescue him.

  Chapter 27

  M oonlight illuminated the loch, granting a silvery hue to each undulating wave and touching Gilmuir with amplifying shadows. For centuries the fortress had stood, a welcoming haven to any MacRae and a warning to the invader. Tonight the lanterns glowed brightly, and when someone closed a shutter or moved the light across the courtyard, it appeared as if a dozen glowing eyes were blinking at her.