Abducted, Book 8

by Marti Talbott

  Even in her sleep, she heard every creak and groan of the aging castle, and hours later when she heard the bar being slowly lifted out of the lock on her door, she sat straight up. Terrified, she hurried out of bed and raced to the far end of the room.

  First, someone slowly eased the door open and then a candle appeared, but the face behind the candle was not Laird MacAlister’s; it was Rona’s. Paisley put her hand over her heart and took a forgotten breath.

  Rona set the candle down on the table and untied a dagger sheath from around her own waist. She reached around Paisley, brought the strings to the front and tied them. “You must make good your escape,” she whispered.

  “He will kill you.”

  “Nay, he will not. I plied the guards with strong drink and they are asleep.”

  “Where do I go?”

  “At the bottom of the stairs, turn to your left and go across the great hall. There is a small door in the back. Open it quietly, but first blow out the candle. ‘Tis light enough still for you to see outside. Follow the path and it will take you into the forest.”

  Paisley kissed her new friend on the cheek. “I shall not forget you. If he dare lay a hand on you, my father will kill him. He may anyway when he hears who took me.”

  Rona smiled, “I am counting on that.” She watched Paisley pick up the candle, slip out the door and disappear.

  SOUND ASLEEP, CHISHOLM’S eyes suddenly opened. He glanced around the room but no one was there and nothing seemed amiss. Still, he hesitated to close his eyes again. He felt oddly frightened, and then he remembered Paisley was missing, she needed him and he was not there. It was an overwhelming feeling of regret that refused to go away.

  PAISLEY FOUND IT TERRIFYING and tedious stepping over the legs of the sleeping guard on the stairs while praying the next wooden slat on the stairs would not creak as loudly as the last. On the second set of stairs, she could only avoid stepping on a man by putting her feet between his legs, but the board she put her weight on seemed to cry out in torture. Paisley held her breath, quickly stepped over his other leg and continued on. Behind her, the man changed positions, but he did not wake up.

  At last, she managed to descend the final staircase without getting caught and turned into the great hall. The dying embers of a fire in this room afforded her enough light, so she blew out the candle and set it on the floor. Then she saw him.

  ON THE FOURTH FLOOR of the castle, Rona narrowed her eyes. All afternoon she questioned MacAlister’s warriors until one finally told her the truth—her sister was brutally murdered and her nieces were not sent to a monastery, they were dead. A fierce anger boiled inside her and she began to consider a plot against him but first she wanted to make certain Paisley got away. With the aid of a little sleeping potion in the wine she served, Rona was certain the guards would not awake. She also let the old man in on her plan so he would not cry out and so far, everything was going just as she hoped.

  Extremely cautious not to make a sound, Rona walked out the bedchamber door and then across the hall to the window in the opposite bedchamber. Directly beneath this room was MacAlister’s bedchamber and he never slept soundly enough for her comfort. By the time she served him the wine laced with sleeping aid, he said he’d had enough for one night and did not drink it. Therefore, if anyone prevented the escape, it would be MacAlister himself and she dreaded what would become of them all if that happened.

  IN THE SCANT LIGHT, a man started toward Paisley from the other end of the long room and as he walked, he oddly felt for and touched pieces of furniture. He is blind, Paisley realized. She was mindful not to breathe heavily as she eased away from the stairs toward a far wall, then she paused to see if the old man noticed.

  If he knew she was there, he made no indication and it emboldened her. She took three steps toward the back door and was about to increase her speed when the old man abruptly stopped.

  Paisley stopped too. She watched as the old man sniffed the air. He turned and seemed to be counting the steps to the hearth where the embers still glowed. It was unusual for anyone to light a fire on a hot day for warmth, but perhaps the old man got cold in the evenings like she did.

  After he counted five paces, he knelt down and began to feel the floor for hot spots. “He‘ll burn us all alive someday,” the old man muttered.

  She seized the opportunity and as quietly as she could, headed for the back door. Step after step brought her closer to freedom and she was tempted to run, but the old man could still cry out and give her away. When she reached the door, she remembered to open it slowly just as Rona said and when it was wide enough, she slid through and stepped out onto the path. Just as slowly, she closed the door behind her.

  Cautiously she began to walk up the path, trying to look calm should anyone see her, but no one tended the smoldering campfires along the way, none stood in cottage doorways and there were no guards to catch her.

  At last, Paisley walked into the forest and disappeared.

  CHAPTER V

  IT SEEMED LIKE HOURS before Rona finally spotted Paisley walking past the embers of a small outside fire. Rona turned from the window and grinned. Soon the sun would come up and her day would begin. This day would be Rona’s day and her revenge would be sweet indeed.

  IN THE DIM NIGHT LIGHT, the edge of the forest was not so difficult to navigate. She moved the tall leaves of the ferns aside, skirted around shrubs too high to step over and kept going straight ahead. Yet when she entered the deeper parts of the forest, where huge Douglas Fir and Scots Pine grew, the night became steadily darker.

  She was glad her new shoes fit well, tried not to walk into a tree and feared she was getting lost. Not knowing how long she slept, she had no concept of time and could only hope the sun would soon be rising. No amount of wishing helped as she walked around trees and stepped between or over bush after bush. Only when she looked straight up could she see the scant light of the sky.

  Becoming anxious, Paisley began to suspect something or someone was watching her. Were they the eyes of a gray wolf, an elk, a wild boar or worse—Laird MacAlister? Just in case, she drew her dagger and prepared herself to lash out no matter the attacker. She moved on, looking from side to side often, calculating the best place to stab a man or an animal and hoping her foreboding was only in her mind.

  She walked until she could walk no more.

  Her feet hurt, her plaid kept catching on the bushes and she had no idea where she was. The forest was nearly pitch black causing her to stumble and nearly fall twice. At last, she found a small clearing, sat down, put her back against a tree trunk and rested. Yet she was afraid to fall asleep and kept her dagger clutched in her hand. She looked for eyes watching her but saw nothing. Nevertheless, she could not shake the foreboding and kept alert to any and all movement.

  At least nothing could grab her from behind with her back to the tree. She trembled at the memory of the man grabbing her and wondered if she would ever get over it. It was the most frightening thing that had ever happened to her.

  For a time she wondered if Chisholm was looking for her as she knew her father must be. Still, how would he know where to look...how would any of them know where to look? It was comforting to think Chisholm might be searching for her. Perhaps he would be around the next tree or... No, her mind was running away with her and she needed to concentrate on the problem at hand—the eyes in the forest.

  Paisley couldn’t seem to keep from trembling and knew not if she was cold or just frightened out of her wits. She was also tired and yawned twice, but she charged herself not to sleep, not yet and certainly not there.

  BY THE TIME THE ROOSTER crowed, Justin was already up and getting dressed. As soon as he finished, he walked to his window, drew back the covering and looked out. Thirty of his men were gathered in the glen loading pack horses with supplies. So also were four women with husbands and two more men preparing to go to the nearest clans. He was pleased.

  Justin hurried down the first flight of stairs, opened
the door to the bedchamber his oldest sons shared and found it empty. Equally pleased, he rushed down the last flight of stairs, found all four of his sons and a morning meal waiting for him. All of his sisters were there too, but it was to his daughter, Leslie, he went first. He hugged her and tried to calm the fear in her eyes. “We will find her, I promise.”

  Leslie nodded and watched him hug each of his sisters as he always did before going on a journey. Next, he examined Sawney’s neck. The wound was healing well and it was one less thing to worry about. He mussed the hair of his other sons and sat down. Abruptly, he stood back up. “Blanka, do sit and eat.”

  She did as he said and noticed he waited for the other women to sit before he retook his chair. It was an odd custom, one she had never seen before, but she said nothing.

  CHISHOLM’S MORNING meal was over and with nothing better to do but wait for news, he decided to go for a walk to ease his tense and stiff muscles. Sleep had not been kind to him and when he could finally go back to sleep, he spent most of the night tossing and turning. Long ago, he rejected the idea that he needed a guard to constantly protect him in a place where people wanted him to keep providing clans with wares. He was a fair and reasonable man, word had it, and as long as he remained so, he was in little danger of being attacked or called out.

  He headed toward the meadow to take his walk and hadn’t gone far before he abruptly stopped. Before him lay the two MacDuff brothers with their beloved deerhound stretched out on his back, sound asleep between them. With his right paw, the dog swished the air ridding himself of a pesky fly and Chisholm couldn’t help but smile. Ross lay on his side in a fetal position and had an arm over his eyes to shield himself from the light while his brother, Adair, lay flat on his back loudly snoring. Each had scruffy beards, long blond hair that had not been washed and frayed shirts and kilts. Neither bothered to take off his weapons before he slept, which was always a good idea. Chisholm admired Adair’s sword the most. It was clearly bent outward about a quarter of the way from the tip. No matter, these two were more likely to run than fight.

  The followers of Laird MacDuff were not known for working the land or making things. In fact, they were not known for anything save a swift surrender when threatened. The laird who chose to capture that clan would soon regret it, for the MacDuffs were an unpredictable lot.

  Chisholm knew these two brothers well and it was not unusual to find them sleeping somewhere nearby. They seldom bartered for goods, but they liked to hear the gossip and watch the women. Apparently, he guessed, they had nothing better to do and no one in the MacDuff clan cared where they were.

  The overly friendly dog awoke, spotted Chisholm, wiggled until it could get to its feet and walked over Ross to excitedly greet Chisholm. Ross woke up with a start, reached over and shook his brother.

  “What?” At the sight of Laird Graham, Adair’s eyes widened and he quickly scooted away.

  Both brothers looked uncommonly alarmed and Chisholm found it very odd. “Have I frightened you?”

  “Nay,” Adair answered a little too quickly.

  “We are late,” Ross said. He hurried to get up and leaned down to pick up the spare MacDuff plaid he used for a blanket.

  “Late for what?” asked Chisholm. The overly friendly and very large dog demanded his attention and tried to jump up on him. Chisholm loved dogs and this one was a particular beauty. As did most deerhounds, the dog had a long reddish-brown coat and mane, a white chest, a straggly white beard and a long, upward curved tail with hair that nearly touched the ground. His dark eyes betrayed his eagerness to please and when, after a good rubbing Chisholm told him to sit, the dog obeyed.

  The brothers exchanged worried glances. “You did not frighten us,” said Adair.

  “I believe we got beyond that question. For what are you late?” The brothers hesitated, exchanged glances again and Chisholm became even more suspicious. “You are up to something, I see.”

  Confused, Ross wrinkled his brow. “See what?”

  “That you have stolen something you do not want me to discover. What is it?”

  Both widened their eyes. “We are not thieves,” said Ross. He let his chest swell just a little. “MacDuffs do not steal.”

  “Then it is something else. Perhaps you have heard something about Paisley MacGreagor. Do you know who has taken her?”

  Adair bent down to scratch his lower leg. “Well, we...“ All of a sudden, he felt Ross kick his backside and soon, he was flat on his face in the meadow. “Why did you do that?” he shouted, turning over and then quickly getting back up.

  “You promised not to tell,” Ross yelled.

  “I was not going to tell, witless.”

  “Who is witless, me or him?”

  Adair rolled his eyes. “You...witless.”

  The sun rising in the southeast made the jewels in Chisholm’s necklace sparkle and Ross would have liked touching them once more, but instead he pulled his brother backward. As soon as he decided they were far enough away, he yelled, “Run!”

  Both brothers spun around and ran for their horses with the deerhound close behind.

  They knew something, Chisholm was sure of it. Fortunately, the people were already setting up the tables and adding an array of food. Shouting for his horse to be brought around with all due haste, he ran to a table, grabbed a cloth sack, filled it with bread, apples and cheese and quickly drew the strings. He tied the sack around his waist and ran toward the stables. The brothers were already out of sight, but with any luck at all he would soon catch up to them.

  FINALLY, THE SKY HAD begun to brighten and she could better see where she was going. Feeling a little better after resting a minute or two, she lifted her skirt to examine the scratches on her ankles and lower legs. She had no choice other than to raise her skirt as she walked and her scratches were the price she paid. No wild animals got to her in the night and neither did Laird MacAlister. For that, she was very thankful. Now it was thirst that plagued her.

  Paisley closed her eyes and tried to listen for the sound of water, but if a creek was nearby, she could not hear it. The forest was never completely quiet. There were always rustling leaves, small animals moving the bushes and chirping birds in the trees, but at least she did not hear someone following her.

  She was worried about Rona and tried not to imagine Laird MacAlister hurting her. What story could Rona tell a man like MacAlister to keep him from suspecting? She should not have escaped, she should have stayed for Rona‘s sake, but she did not think about that at the time. All she thought about was being free. Now, she was free, thirsty, cold and completely lost.

  Her uncle’s training taught her to know where the sun was and go back the way she came if she got lost. It was little help to her now. Although she was sure the sun was rising in the east, she was knocked out and had no idea which way her abductor took her. Did he go east to the edge of the forest, west, south or perhaps north? Paisley did not even know where the edge of the forest was in any direction from the MacGreagor glen. She knew there were oceans both east and west, but that knowledge was equally useless.

  She tried to remember what else Ginnion taught her. All clans had a water source of some kind, therefore, all she needed to do was find a creek and follow it downhill. However, he neglected to teach her exactly how to find a creek. Her horse could find one—if she had a horse.

  THE ONE RONA PLANNED for her brother-in-law, laird over all the MacAlisters, would not be an easy death. Every morning MacAlister complained of an upset stomach, no doubt from drinking his bitter wine, and Rona religiously mixed a potion with still more wine to ease his discomfort.

  There was much MacAlister did not know about Rona.

  Assured she believed his lies, he trusted her more than anyone else to care for him and when he found his morning drink already prepared, he was not surprised. It was a pity, he often thought, she was not as becoming as her sister, for she seemed to love him. She never interfered, always wished to please him and in return,
he favored her with an occasional smile. He designated most of his ordinary and otherwise mundane chores to his second in command so he could concentrate on planning his entire life in abundant detail. Therefore, when he sat down at the table in the great hall that morning, no one was there save the old, blind man.

  The great hall in the castle was plain and ordinary compared to the room Paisley was kept in and for a very good reason—in his rage, MacAlister destroyed some of the finer furnishings. A wine stain from a thrown goblet could not be removed from a painting without the paint being disturbed and therefore it was burned and the wall left bare. A Viking ax yanked off the wall had been used to completely destroy a matching set of small oak tables brought from London, window coverings were yanked down, chairs were smashed against the stonewalls and his fury did not end for nearly an hour.

  When he calmed, he made Rona clean up the mess and simply sent a man off to secure more fine furnishings from London. Unfortunately, the new items did not arrive before his bride, but they would before the wedding and he greatly anticipated the arrival. He did not suspect the man he sent made off with the gold and silver coins, never to be seen again.

  One important thing he did not know about Rona was her interest in poisons. She often spent her free time with the soothsayers, growing plants and learning which leaf or berry did what. It was to help her laird in case of invasion, she convinced herself, then and only then would she use it.

  Today she would make an exception. In the kitchen of MacAlister’s castle, she made his usual porridge, added a touch of liquid from the Nightshade stem and a smidgeon of finely crushed Foxglove flowers. A generous helping of honey, she hoped, would sufficiently cover any bitter taste.