by Paula Quinn
He laughed and then threw down his needle. “Ye think me a fool.”
The worst kind, she thought. “The opposite,” she said, wanting to climb out of her skin. “I think yer intelligent enough to know that if I refuse ye and ye touch me, ye will lose more pieces of yerself. I give ye my word as a MacGregor that the next piece I take will be one ye will sorely miss.”
“Ye dare threaten me?” he asked with a grin curling the tips of his mouth.
“Allow me to take care of her, and I’ll do what ye want.”
His eyes burned into her. “Ye’ll do what I want anyway.”
“Try me,” she said, unblinking while she folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll poison ye. Ye willna be able to eat or drink anything.”
“I’ll make the gel consume it first,” he countered, his dark grin growing. “I’ll keep her around just to test my food.”
She couldn’t let him think she cared too much about what happened to the child. He had to believe Mailie was a threat and would do as she promised. “Then I shall poison her too, if I must. I will do whatever I must to keep yer hands off me if ye refuse my request.”
“Ye willna poison her,” he laughed.
“I’ll simply tell him ye did it. Ye’ll be dead and willna be able to dispute it. Is givin’ in to my one request worth havin’ me fer a night? Ye went to so much trooble to get me in yer clutches…mayhap ye truly are nothin’ but a fool.”
She was sure he was going to take his pistol from his belt and shoot her where she stood. But no shot came.
“Margaret, get oot,” he commanded. “Leave the gel.”
Margaret seemed all too happy to go. When she was gone, Sinclair stood to his feet. “Wrap my wound and pen a letter fer me. Do it and she can stay with ye until tonight. I dinna need yer agreement aboot what happens later.” A snarl lifted one side of his mouth. “I prefer a fight.”
He’d get one, Mailie swore silently.
“Who am I pennin’ a letter to?”
“To yer dear Lachlan,” he drawled. “Ye’re going to tell him that his Annabel is alive in Shandwick, in the home of George and Margaret Sinclair. I have kept my end of the bargain and am taking my bride, as agreed.”
At least his intention was to return Annabel to Lachlan. But…“He’ll kill them,” Mailie said, understanding the magnitude of this man’s depraved mind. “He’ll kill them fer takin’ her.” She remembered Luke telling her how Sinclair had spoken about killing his cousin because he’d tarnished his name. “That’s what ye want, aye? Ye’ve been plannin’ this fer two years.”
Instead of answering, he held his finger to his lips as a warning for her to keep quiet about her discovery. His gaze turned next to Annabel, and his finger sliced across his throat.
Mailie had no doubt he’d do it. He didn’t say whether or not Annabel would be dead or alive when Lachlan found her. “I dinna care if they pay fer takin’ her,” she assured him. “They will get what they deserve.” As will ye.
He returned his steady gaze to her and studied her until she wanted to step away—or look away. Difficult as it was, she did neither. She had to prove to him that she was at least confident in herself, without offending him too much. Only God knew what he was capable of.
“Good,” he finally said. “Go fetch something to wrap me. Find Margaret for the parchment and quill.”
Mailie nodded and held out her hand for Annabel.
“She stays here,” Sinclair said, stopping her. “I’m not a fool to let ye oot of my sight with her. If ye refuse, our deal is off and she returns to dear old Margaret.”
Mailie didn’t want to leave Annabel alone with him. Her hesitation brought him storming past her to yank open the door. “Margaret!” he bellowed.
“All right!” Mailie held up her hands. “But if ye touch her, I’ll kill ye.”
She took off down the corridor, trying to find her way around. Thankfully, on the way to the stairs, she met Margaret answering Sinclair’s call.
She told the older woman what she needed and was told to wait where she was. Margaret would have the items brought to her.
“Have them brought to the room,” Mailie told her, and then didn’t waste time but hurried back toward the chamber door.
The lad who’d taken Sinclair’s horse stood in her path. His yellow hair dripped down his face from the rain outside. He wiped it away with his wet sleeve.
Startled by his sudden appearance, Mailie smiled and then took a step to go around him.
“Are ye here against yer will?” the lad asked, stopping her again.
“Aye, are ye?” she asked turning to him.
He looked slightly confused and didn’t answer the question. Instead, he whispered, “If ye promise to take Annabel with ye, I’ll help ye get away.”
She nodded and put her hand on his. “What are ye called?”
“I’m Niall, my lady.”
“Where are yer parents, Niall?” she asked after introducing herself.
He shrugged his already broad shoulders. “I dinna remember.”
Horrified, she asked, “How long have ye been here?”
“I was here long before he brought Annabel. She was verra sick.” He set his amber eyes on Sinclair’s chamber door, knowing where she was, mayhap remembering the day she arrived. “They made me tend to her, and she became my responsibility and my…way oot. Up here.” He pointed to his head.
“Niall!” Margaret returned, snapping at him. “Get back to yer duties!”
Mailie watched him run off and glared at Margaret. “Ye took him from his home.”
“He was not taken,” Margaret corrected woodenly. She handed Mailie the items she’d requested, then turned to leave. “His father lost him at a game of cards.”
Mailie’s stomach turned as she entered the room. What kind of father gave up his child to a game of cards? Poor Niall. Would he come with her…with Annabel, when they left? The lad had taken care of Lachlan’s daughter. She was sure her husband wouldn’t mind one more child at the castle.
Annabel wasn’t in her seat when Mailie stepped inside the room. Her blood rushed through her, making her light-headed. Sinclair was laid out on the bed, his eyes closed. Where was Annabel?
Mailie found her a moment later. She stood by the window looking out at the lightning-streaked sky. She looked so small and so alone standing there with one tiny hand on the window frame that Mailie wanted to run to her and gather her up in her arms. She’d never be alone again. She had a sister and a brother, dogs, and more kin than she’d be able to count for a while yet.
Hearing Mailie behind her, Annabel turned to look at her, then pointed outside. “I think my papa is here.”
Mailie’s smile froze. She nearly leaped over Annabel to look out. She saw nothing but rain and fog. How could he track her in this?
“What did ye see, child?” Sinclair’s voice rang out behind her.
Mailie spun around to find him there, holding his arm close to his wound.
“I saw a man on a horse, and a dog.”
Her father!
Sinclair turned to hurry toward the bed where he’d removed his belt and pistols. Mailie couldn’t let him reach them. Her father was outside and she wasn’t about to let Sinclair shoot him. She moved to the hearth in a blur of speed and ripped the poker from its place. Without a moment’s hesitation, thanks to her father and brothers making certain she practiced her fighting skills at least once a day, she moved up behind Sinclair and swung the poker with all her might, hitting him in the back of the head.
“Annabel, run!” she shouted as he went down on his knees. “Find Niall! Go!” She rushed to the bed to gather his pistols, and then hurried toward the door. Sinclair’s fingers through her hair stopped her.
Chapter Forty
Lachlan pushed back his rain-soaked hood and set his eyes on the manor house in the distance. He thanked God for the hundredth time for finding the MacGregors—and their hounds—in Invergordon.
Ettarre might n
ot fetch sticks, but when she set her nose to the ground after smelling Mailie’s shoe, she barely looked back. It had been a long trek, and he’d had to hold the shoe to her more than once, but with the help of Goliath’s and Lachlan’s tracking skills, they arrived here, on the outskirts of the cliff-side village of Shandwick.
“This is it,” Tristan MacGregor said, beside him on his mount. “Ettarre is never wrong. Mailie is inside.”
Lachlan turned to him and nodded. “Let’s go get her, then.”
Tristan held up his hand to stop him from thundering off. “Everyone load yer pistols!” he called out to the others, then turned back to Lachlan. “I know what ye want to do. I want to do the same, but ye must fight with yer head. Dinna get killed and break my daughter’s heart.”
“I willna,” Lachlan told him, and then wasted no more time. He rode toward the house with one thing in his thoughts, getting his wife back alive and killing the man who took her.
He reached the house unhindered—not that anything would have stopped him. He dismounted in a fluid leap before his horse came to a full stop, and hurried toward the door.
Behind him, he heard Colin swear at his headlong approach. “Might as well just bust doun the—”
Lachlan kicked the door. Wood splintered but the door held. He brought it down the second time around and plundered inside, his pistol ready. Two servants scurried away as the rest of the MacGregors filled the hall.
A lad, carrying a child, stood frozen at the edge of the corridor.
“Where’s Sinclair?” Tristan asked. The lad pointed up the stairs at another door.
Lachlan rushed forward, passing the boy and the child without another look. He took the stairs three at a time and ran for the door. He didn’t bother to open it when he reached it. The wood didn’t hold against his power.
He saw her, his Mailie, on the bed, alone and still. Was he too late? Was she dead? Where was Sinclair? His heart couldn’t beat. He held on to the wall to steady himself. “Mailie—” His voice broke on a strangled groan. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t live without her, not for long. Please. Please. Not again.
Everything went red, and then it went dark. Where was Sinclair?
Someone pushed him out of the doorway and hurried to the bed. Her father. The others piled inside. Some were ordered to keep searching for Sinclair. The rest gathered around her.
Lachlan closed his eyes and swallowed a dry breath. He didn’t want to move.
“She’s alive!” he heard her father shout with joy.
He breathed and his heart broke free of his terror-induced chains.
Tristan sat at the edge of the bed, cradling her and smiling. Her eyes were just coming open when he offered her to Lachlan. “Ye’ll be the first one she wants to see.”
In the tender transition of arms, Lachlan met her father’s gaze and understood Mailie’s love and admiration for him.
He took her and lifted her to his chest. “My love,” he barely ground out as her eyes cleared and settled on his. “I thought ye gone from me.”
She began to smile but then grimaced in pain and lifted her hand to her jaw. Lachlan let the beast rage within. He’d find Sinclair in a moment and show him what a beating felt like, and then he’d kill him.
“’Twill take more than Ranald Sinclair to keep me from ye—” She blinked as if coming aware of something. Her face drained of color, and Lachlan thought she was about to fall out again. Instead, she tried to leap from his arms, her eyes filled with terror. “Annabel!” She grasped his arms. “He will go after her! Lachlan, ye must find him!”
He wasn’t sure he heard her right, but something in his heart stirred. “Annabel? What…what are ye saying, Mailie?” Lachlan let her go. “Is Annabel…” He didn’t want to say it and let himself hope yet again.
She looked at the door, making Lachlan wait and take in the splendor of hope in her eyes. She turned to him and took an instant to grace him with a smile as radiant as a thousand suns. “Annabel is alive, my love. She’s here. She remembers yer stories.”
Stories? There was no doubt, then. This was real, not a dream. His babe was alive. Tears blurred his vision, and a sound left him such as he’d never heard come from his throat before. “She’s alive and ye have found her?” he asked again just to be certain as tears fell freely from both their eyes.
She smiled and he didn’t believe it was possible to love anyone more than Lachlan loved her. She said she’d find Annabel, and she did.
“Aye, and now ye must find her before Sinclair does.”
His heart beat so hard he feared it might burst in his chest. Annabel was here. Had he just seen his daughter and rushed by her? His feet couldn’t move fast enough. He didn’t remember running from the room, leaping down the stairs.
The halls were empty save for a terrified servant or two hiding in the corners. Where had the boy taken her? Had he taken her to safety or to Sinclair?
“Annabel!” he shouted, nearly bringing down the walls. He didn’t give a damn if Sinclair heard him. Let him come. Lachlan wanted him to come.
He heard Mailie and Tristan searching with him, the others racing down the stairs.
“We found a man and woman in one of the chambers,” Daniel informed them.
“The man is bedridden,” Darach added. “Claims he’s Sinclair’s cousin. No sign of Sinclair though.”
They heard a sound of someone walking over the broken-down front door, and they all turned to find Colin climbing inside. He smiled at Lachlan for the second time since meeting him and opened his mouth to speak, but Lachlan was already running. Colin could only step aside as he passed him.
Lachlan’s heart crashed wildly in his chest as he stepped outside. Annabel. Was he truly about to see his babe again, touch her, hear her voice? He looked through the waning rain and saw Adam and Luke guarding the lad from the castle and the wee gel still in his arms.
Annabel. Hell, was he going to faint in front of the MacGregors? He held fast to his senses and began running. He stopped when he was close enough to see her clearly. His feet felt rooted to the soggy earth. It was her. His babe, back from the dead. Was it real? Would she shatter like a dream if he moved? Her wet cap was stuck to her head, her eyes, the eyes he remembered, were wide and filled with apprehension. He’d let himself hope. He’d let himself kidnap a lass because of it, but he hadn’t truly believed he’d ever see his daughter again.
He was aware of Mailie running past him. He watched her take his daughter from the boy and whisper something in her ear, then set her down on her feet.
Adam moved aside to let her pass when she took a step toward her father.
Lachlan’s tears mixed with the rain as he fell to his knees. She was tiny and malnourished, but she was real. He had her back. He had everything back and more. “Annabel,” he choked out, trying to keep his heart in his chest. He thought he’d never speak her name to her again.
She moved closer to him, and he realized she was afraid of him. He couldn’t bring himself to imagine what she’d been through. Not yet. For now, he wanted her to know she was safe, and she would remain safe until his dying breath.
He didn’t want to frighten her further, but he lifted his fingers to her face. She was real. She was real. He let his gaze bask in her small, round face, her enormous blue eyes. “I’m yer papa.”
She nodded and then reached her hand out to his scarred face. “I have that too,” she said, her voice meek and unsure, and pulled up her sleeves.
He tried to swallow but there was too much trying to come up. Most of it was escaping through his eyes. And then his daughter offered him the slightest trace of a smile and he forgot everything else, save for the dimple in her left cheek. “I’m Annabel,” she told him, stepping into his arms.
She was Annabel. He’d never forgotten her face. He had her back. His world fell into perfect place as he held his lost babe in his arms. He was no longer afraid or unsure about being a father. He knew how to love again because of the remarkabl
e woman watching their reunion with tears—or rain—falling down her beautiful face.
Hannah would have liked her. She would have trusted Mailie to be a wonderful, loving mother to their child. He finally smiled as a cool, refreshing breeze swept over his heart. Farewell, my love, he bid her and turned his gaze toward life.
He wanted to take Mailie and Annabel home and begin their lives together with Will and Lily, Meadow and Fig.
But first, he had to take care of Ranald Sinclair and the people who had done this to his child.
He straightened to his full height and carried his daughter to his wife. He noted the purple bruise on Mailie’s chin and ground his teeth. But revenge could wait another moment or two. He took his wife in his free arm and pulled her in for a tender kiss. “Do ye feel well?”
“I feel wonderful.” She smiled up at him.
He had her back too. He never doubted he’d find her, but after discovering Sinclair hadn’t stopped in Invergordon, he began to fear the condition in which he’d find her. “If I would have lost ye—”
“Ye never will. Ye’re stuck with me fer at least another forty years if I have my way.”
“With all of us,” Tristan agreed behind him, and clapped him on the back.
“I’m counting on it,” Lachlan told him, then moved to hand over Annabel to Mailie. “Keep her while I see to things inside.”
“My lord.” The lad from the castle stopped him. “I would have ye know that ’twas Ranald Sinclair who brought Annabel to this house two years ago. If ye want him, ye’ll likely find him close by, fallen from his horse, since I cut the straps on his saddle.”
Lachlan smiled at him. “Who are ye?”
“Niall, my lord.”
“My friend,” Annabel told him softly, and stretched her arms out to the lad.
Mailie stepped forward when Lachlan pulled her back. “He nursed her back to health when Sinclair brought her here,” she told him, and her kin with him. “Ranald Sinclair is the one who arranged everything two years ago. He is responsible fer Hannah. Fer all of it. He found Annabel alive in the fire and brought her here with the intent to use her to make ye do his biddin’. He claims to have done it before, and likely would have done it to ye, Faither, usin’ me to control ye. I told ye he is mad. But he is also clever.” She turned back to Lachlan. “He wanted ye to kill his cousin fer him, and he knew that ye would if his cousin had Annabel.”
