by Paula Quinn
“It is all true,” Graham assured him. “When my lord asked for her name, she gave it. Annabel, a fostered child of her captors.”
Annabel. His heart thumped hard in his chest. “That doesna make her my daughter. Why would they take her? What about my wife?”
“Those questions, you would have to put to them, but as for the girl, are you not curious?”
Aye. Aye, he was. “Who are they?” Lachlan stood from the chair. “I’ll go to them and see fer myself.”
Graham offered him a quavering smile and held up his finger. “I don’t know who has her. Do you think Sinclair would send someone from whom you could torture the information? Only Lord Sinclair knows, and he will be glad to tell you.”
Lachlan stared at him. “Aye, but only on the condition that I kidnap the daughter of a Jacobite warrior.”
“’Tis not a condition, my lord, but a favor, a gesture of thanks for reuniting you with your daughter.”
Lachlan’s smile was deadly. “Tell Sinclair I’m coming to Caithness for him. I’ll get the name withoot kidnapping a woman.”
“He is not in Caithness,” Graham let him know. “He thought you might feel this way. He is no fool. He’s clever and dangerous. If you do this, you would do well not to underestimate him. The MacGregors will suspect him, so he cannot be in Caithness when she is taken. You will keep her hidden until things settle a bit. I will return to Caithness with news of your agreement and have word sent to him. He will then agree to meet with you.”
Lachlan plucked his knife from his belt and stepped closer to him. “I should kill ye and send Sinclair your head. Do ye think my answer to his offer will be clear enough?”
The emissary bolted from the room and ran for the door without giving him a reply.
Alone, Lachlan fell back into his chair. He wondered if Sinclair was in Caithness or not. He’d like to go there and kill the bastard for giving him false hope. Who was the Earl of Caithness? Lachlan had met him briefly at the last gathering over a year ago. He didn’t know much about him, but his name felt familiar. Ranald Sinclair. He’d heard it before, but when?
His daughter was alive. As if it were possible. But what if it was? His heart raced. Shouldn’t he do whatever was necessary to find out? He hadn’t given up finding the men he believed had killed her. If there was any chance that Sinclair was being truthful and there was a girl who could be his daughter, he had to find out.
Memories of Annabel’s face plagued him, her soft voice drenched in laughter, calling to him. Papa, come play! He missed her voice. He used to lie awake at night thinking about her future and whether any man would ever be worthy of her hand. Those thoughts died with her and Hannah, replaced by tormented ones of their cries…cries he could never answer.
What if he could?
But kidnapping a lass from her family…her MacGregor family was not something he looked upon lightly. Besides that, they’d kill him if he were caught.
He simply wouldn’t let himself get caught.
He had no choice.
Chapter Two
Ye’re bein’ admired.”
From beneath her hood, Mailie MacGregor looked up from one of the small painted boxes she was examining and followed her cousin Nichola’s eyes to a pale-haired young man on the other side of the market. He smiled when he caught her eye. She returned her attention to the box.
“He’s pleasin’ to the eye,” she admitted with a hint of a smile curling her lips. “A fool though.”
“Ye can tell that just by lookin’ at him?” Nichola laughed.
“Take a look aroond,” Mailie prompted. Her gaze slipped back to her admirer stepping forward. “We stand amidst five men who are twice his size, and two verra big, dangerous-lookin’ dogs, and yet he continues on his reckless path toward me.”
She set her palm on Ettarre’s furry blond head and gave her a gentle pat. Her father’s beloved hound wouldn’t hurt a fly. Goliath, her cousin Adam’s dog, presently at his master’s side while Adam graced a small group of lasses with his company, was another matter entirely.
Mailie looked around for her brother Luke and found him and some of her cousins haggling with a vendor just a tent away. They never ventured too far. The only reason her and Nicky’s fathers had agreed to let them come was because there were five men to guard them. That, and a month’s worth of begging. Besides, Luke was with them. There was no one her father trusted more.
“Might I suggest the green box?” Her admirer’s voice reaching her was rather nice, soft, with a Lowland inflection. “It matches your eyes.”
“Or the purple,” Darach Grant said, his voice far more dangerous as he stepped around her to face the poor young man. “’Twill soon match yer eyes.”
Of all her Highland escorts, Darach was the most deadly. He also wrote some of the loveliest ballads ever to fill the braes of Camlochlin. He’d often claimed he was inspired while beating someone senseless.
“Mayhap he’s lost,” said another, offering the stranger a way out.
Mailie turned to see her brother and the rest gathering around them. She sighed and cast a regretful glance at Nichola. How was a lass supposed to find a husband with so many fearsome men constantly “protecting” her?
“Are ye lost?” Adam—future laird of Camlochlin—inquired, casting him a doubtful look before rubbing an apple over his plaid and biting into it.
“Choose yer reply wisely,” Edmund MacGregor warned with his hand gripping the hilt of his sheathed claymore.
“Aye, I am lost,” her admirer blurted, shaking in his boots.
Who wouldn’t be afraid, surrounded by these men? One didn’t need to know they were MacGregors to know they’d seen their share of victorious fights, and engaging with them would take a truly courageous though foolish heart.
Still, Mailie couldn’t help but feel just a wee bit disappointed when her admirer took off running.
She tilted her head and met her brother’s loving gaze. Luke was the eldest and so much like their father. They’d spoken many times about what kind of man she should wed. Neither he nor her father would allow a coward to court her, and she was thankful for it. She was thankful for all of them and their protection. Who better to recognize the kind of man she wanted to marry than the men whose characters had shaped him in her mind? She relied on her own judgment, but she trusted theirs.
Still, she wondered what kind of man wouldn’t cower under the powerful scrutiny of the men in her clan.
“The best way to know a man’s true character is…”
“…his reaction to fear,” Mailie said with him. “I know, Luke, but up against the MacGregors, it doesna seem a fair conclusion.”
“’Twas it no’ fair fer Daniel here?” her brother continued, his tender topaz gaze as warm as the sun. “He had to fight four MacGregors before our kin let him escort Abigail to England.”
“I chose to fight the bunch of them, Luke,” her cousin by marriage corrected, then turned a more somber gaze on her, “to prove my worth as her protector.”
Aye, she knew. Every man in Camlochlin had proven worthy to be there. She expected no less from the man she would someday call husband.
But how in blazes was she to find him, if not here? Most of the men of marriageable age on Skye had too many faults to win her heart. With the idea of finding a perfect man dwindling, she’d come to Inverness in the hopes of meeting someone of interest.
But no man had a chance against the mountain of men around her.
She smiled at them, loving them all, and then returned her attention to the boxes. There was no point in arguing when their intentions were good.
Soon, the men wandered off, back to continue their trading. Nichola moved closer.
“Pity,” her cousin bemoaned softly. “He was handsome. A baron’s son, no doubt, judging by his fine attire.”
Forgetting the boxes, Mailie looped her arm through Nicky’s and strolled away with her. “Ranald Sinclair is handsome and his coffers are full, but I am gratef
ul that my faither refused his offers fer me. Those things mean little when weighed against a man’s character.”
Nicky covered their entwined arms with her free hand and rested the side of her head against Mailie’s. “We will be the spinsters of Camlochlin.”
Mailie laughed. Being a twenty-two-year-old lass and still unwed wasn’t anything new at Camlochlin. Mailie and her cousins weren’t forced to wed at a certain age. That didn’t mean they didn’t feel each moment as it passed them by. Mailie felt the pangs deep in her belly, in the ache for a child, a life of her own.
“We canna settle fer just any man, Nic. My heart simply willna let me.”
“But who could possibly live up to the standards that are set by our faithers and brothers?”
“They are standards by which I will measure every suitor,” Mailie promised her. “The man who wins my heart must be a man of integrity and honor.”
“Do such men exist ootside of Camlochlin?” her cousin lamented.
Mailie prayed they did. She prayed one would find her.
A man with nothing to lose and everything to gain. That’s what Lachlan had become. He hated himself for what he meant to do, but he had to do it.
Graham had told him the MacGregor lass was Sinclair’s beloved. Mayhap she would thank him for getting her away from her overbearing father. If she loved Sinclair, then he was helping her.
But Miss MacGregor didn’t really matter. He had to see the child who could be his Annabel. He’d set his mind to it and would see it through without alteration.
He hadn’t traveled in a long time. Despite his arse being sore in the saddle, he was comforted by the sun and grateful that his days moving about in the dragoons had taught him every inch of the land, and how to make it work to his advantage.
He’d traveled to North Kessock, where he’d secured old Roddy Ross’s horse to a tree, procured a small rowboat, and crossed the Beauly Firth into Inverness. After purchasing another horse, he decided he needed a weapon. He wouldn’t use it unless he had no choice, but he’d have to keep Miss MacGregor still and quiet on the return trip in the rowboat.
He traveled throughout the busy port and town, picking up information on the fairest markets for trading. He was certain the MacGregors wouldn’t stand for being robbed. They’d likely traded here before and already knew the least underhanded tradesmen. After an hour, he heard of one such tradesman in a small marketplace on the northern slope of Creag nan Sidhean, the Crag of the Fairies.
Fairies, Lachlan thought with a scowl. They weren’t a good sign in any tale he remembered reading to Annabel.
Nevertheless, he continued on.
Soon though, the sights around him brought some light back to his thoughts. He’d always liked Inverness and its rich history of battles and it being one of the chief strongholds of the Picts.
Battles were part of his history too. He’d served in the colonies and fought in four battles of the Spanish Succession before returning to the newly formed Great Britain and the Jacobites. After that, Lachlan’s war had been personal.
When he reached the western side of the crag, he planned his escape route and then secured his horse to a large rock. He made his way on foot to the top of the glen. At the crest, he pulled his loose hood over his head and let his gaze roam over the small marketplace spilling over the other side.
A band of MacGregors wouldn’t be too difficult to recognize to the trained eye. Sinclair’s emissary had mentioned that Miss MacGregor would be traveling with a small group. In Highland numbers that meant about ten men. To guarantee the safety of one of their lasses, maybe twelve.
Then again, the MacGregors of Skye were one of the most arrogant clans throughout the Highlands—and with good reason. For centuries they’d fought the kingdom and defied the laws against them. And they survived.
They likely traveled with less.
Inviting a war with them was a fool’s business—or a father’s.
He didn’t want to think about taking another man’s daughter, or how the man would feel when he found out she was gone. If Annabel lived, he had to find her. He had to remain focused on his task and see it through.
He started down, his eyes and ears alert amid the bustle of trades and invitations to bargain. Hundreds of stalls had been erected beneath tents of every color. It played tricks on the eyes and made it difficult to pinpoint any one thing. It had the same effect when looking up the slope. It would serve him well.
Lifting his hand to block the swaying colors, he focused his gaze on the least unobtrusive men in the crowd. Who stood out? He made it almost to the halfway point of the wide slope when he believed he’d found them.
Making his way closer, he watched them as they gathered from different directions to form a shield around two lasses.
Two.
It was their sheer arrogance in traveling with only five men which convinced Lachlan that despite there being two women, these had to be the MacGregors. For they looked more savage and deadly than a horde of Picts.
Though the law forbade it, long claymores dangled from their hips, along with daggers and even a pistol or two tucked into their belts and boots. Taller than most, they wore their hair tied back at the temples, their plaids swinging about their bare knees.
One man among them stood out to Lachlan. At first, he thought his eyes had deceived him. He knew him. Every man who served the queen knew who he was. General Daniel Marlow, highest commander of the queen’s Royal Army. What the hell was he doing with them?
There was no time to dwell on it now. He had to devise a distraction.
He kept his eyes in the direction of the two lasses, trying to get a better look as he drew closer, feigning interest in the surrounding wares.
Both women were hooded. Which one was Mailie? Lachlan cursed the emissary for failing to mention a second lass.
One of them tilted her face to a man beside her. Lachlan caught a flash of fire against a complexion of pure alabaster. An ivory goddess cloaked in a mantle of flames.
His vision filled with her delicate beauty. Was she Mailie?
The man beside her called on Daniel Marlow, breaking the spell the lass had woven over Lachlan. He turned in time to catch the general guarantee the MacGregor’s identity when he claimed to have fought them.
One of the lasses was Mailie MacGregor. Lachlan’s distraction couldn’t wait. Everything here was perfect. It was the best place to abduct her.
Damn it to hell.
He followed two of her kinsmen as they moved toward a tent with a painting of an anvil swinging in the breeze. The two men were lost in conversation and didn’t notice him drifting forward to examine the daggers and swords neatly presented by the smith and vendor.
“Our faithers canna keep the jackals away ferever,” he heard one of them say. “They should be wed.”
“I know that, Edmund,” said the other. “But my faither will no’ give Mailie to Ranald Sinclair.”
It was the same Highlander she had tilted her face to smile upon. The beauty was Mailie. And this was her brother.
Lachlan didn’t look at him as he moved away, a shadow, unnoticed. He swept through the crowd, searching.
He didn’t have much time.
He found the two hooded lasses wandering off, their arms coiled and their heads bent. Cousins, judging from the conversation he’d just heard.
When they stopped to admire skeins of fabric shoved into baskets, he caught up and moved closer. He had to get close enough to see her face beneath her hood.
He listened for any sound of disturbance in the distance and settled his eyes on her. She laughed at something her cousin said. Her dainty nose crinkled and almost made him lose track of his thoughts. This could go wrong in an instant. There was no time to admire her. And no point.
A shout erupted from a few tents away. The sound of men arguing rang through the market and drew the lasses’ attention.
“That’s Darach!” Mailie’s cousin exclaimed, and hurried off with the rest of t
he crowd toward the sounds.
Mailie took a step to follow her, but Lachlan closed his large hand around her wrist, stopping her. “Mailie?”
She looked confused and then nodded.
When he pulled her into his arms, her head seemed to clear and she opened her mouth to scream. From his pocket he produced the dagger he’d lifted from the vendor—the same vendor who’d just accused the MacGregors of thievery—and held the blade to her throat.
“Not a sound,” he said against her ear as he dragged her away. “Or I’ll be forced to kill yer kin when they arrive.”
“Ye willna survive ten breaths against them,” she seethed, but made no cry for help.
“’Tis best not to find oot which one of us is correct.” Without wasting any more time, he bent forward, tossed her over his shoulder, and took off running.
Chapter Three
Mailie thought she was going to be ill. At least, she hoped she would be ill—all over him. His shoulder had to be made of solid rock, and every time her belly bounced against it, it made her feel sicker.
All her kin’s warnings came crashing around her ears. She was being kidnapped! And right under her brother’s nose. Her captor was a mad fool. A soon-to-be-dead mad fool.
Where in blazes was he taking her flung over his shoulder like a sack of grain? She couldn’t see anything but the blurry ground beneath her and the backs of his boots. How close were her brother and the others? Och, she hoped they beat him senseless when they caught him!
“Who are ye?” she demanded shakily. “What do ye want with me?”
He didn’t bother answering her but continued running down the slope on the other side of the crag.
He’d planned this. The shouting. He’d done something to keep her kin occupied while he ran off with her. How far did he think he was going to get? Thoughtless savage! Who was he? What did he want with her? Whatever it was, he’d never get it!
