Amanda Scott (35 page)

“Aye, but wi’ respect, laird, how can that be?”

“I mean to wed the lady Mairi, and thus his grace has named me leader of his army and his navy. My position,” he added grimly, “stands above even Lord Ranald and Lord Godfrey, so do not try my patience, because the lady Mairi is missing, and we suspect that you aided in her disappearance.”

“Nay then, I wouldna do any such thing! I ha’ served Clan Donald and his grace all me life, sir. I’d never touch her ladyship, nor let anyone else neither!”

“Then tell me what you do know.”

“’Tis no so much,” Sym said. “Nobbut that a cousin o’ the high steward were saying Mackinnon might be Lord o’ the Isles someday, did all go well, just as Robert the Steward will be King o’ Scots. And when the cousin said Lady Mairi would marry the Steward’s son,
our
steward said that union would never come t’ pass, that if they had to wait much longer, Alasdair wouldna want her and his grace would marry her then t’ the man he trusts above all others. Then the cousin laughed and said ’twould be gey fine t’ ha’ the Isles and the lass as well.”

“But Niall Mackinnon is dead now,” Lachlan reminded him grimly. “Can you think of any other man who schemes so against the Lord of the Isles?”

“Nay, laird.” Sym shook his head.

“Can you think of any place that Mackinnon’s men might take a hostage?”

Sym shrugged.

“What about the Green Abbot?”

Hesitating, furrowing his brow as if he were thinking deeply, Sym said at last, “Were the abbot party to an abduction, likely he’d take the lass to Holy Isle.”

Lachlan looked at Hector.

Nodding, Hector said, “It is possible, I suppose. He would know every cave and closet, and none would say him nay.”

Lachlan was still turning that thought over in his mind when Lady Elizabeth hurried into the chamber, clearly big with news. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, casting a flirtatious eye at Hector as she spoke to Lachlan, “but a man has come to me, saying that he must speak with you urgently.”

“Thank you, your ladyship. I’ll see him at once,” Lachlan said.

“I’ll fetch him,” she said, hurrying away. A moment later a man came in, pulling his forelock and bobbing so obsequiously that Lachlan thought anyone would forgive him for suspecting the fellow of being an Englishman.

“What is it?” he said more curtly than he had intended.

“Beg pardon, me lord, but ’tis for your ears alone.”

“My brother stays,” Lachlan said. “You may go, Sym, but don’t go far,” he warned. “You don’t want to put Hector Reaganach to the trouble of looking for you.”

Paling, Sym fled.

“Now what would you tell me?” Lachlan asked the newcomer.

“Please, sir, ’tis me cousin who would tell ye. I ken nowt, and I be feared for me life just a-coming t’ ye.”

“Where is your damned cousin then?”

“Across the Sound, sir, at Craignure. He says he kens fine where the Mackinnons ha’ taken the lady, but he fears t’ come here lest one of their men here recognize him and send him t’ his Maker afore his time.”

“Take me to him then.”

“Wait,” Hector said. “We should plan a little, I think.”

“Nay, sir,” the man protested. “He’ll wait only the hour, he said, and then he’s for England and safety. He’ll watch from the bluff at Craignure, and he’ll meet only wi’ ye, Lachlan Lubanach. He said did ye bring anyone else up the hill, he’d no show himself, but do ye come t’ him alone, he’ll tell ye all ye need t’ know.”

“A trap,” Hector said flatly.

“Nay!” the man exclaimed.

“Trap or not,” Lachlan said, “it is the only news we have of her so far, and if it comes from across the Sound, he knows more than he ought to know. I’m going.”

Chapter 19

M
airi could breathe again and see, but she knew no more than she had hours earlier, because she had seen nothing and her captors had said little during her journey. Although she was on solid ground again, she knew she might be on any isle, or even on the mainland of Argyll.

The vaulted cellar in which she found herself seemed familiar, but only insofar as it looked like any such cellar in any holding belonging to her father or any other laird. Great storage kists that doubtless contained items for the castle above lined one rough-cut stone wall, and looked well cared for. The area itself was clean and dry, which spoke well for the castle’s management, but she could recall no vaulted cellar containing an iron cage such as the one she now inhabited.

Her captors had thrown thick furs on the beaten dirt floor to provide her with a place to rest, and she had her cloak to cover her. However, after the discomfort of her journey, her muscles ached and finding a comfortable position was impossible. They had also provided a jug of water, a manchet loaf, and the promise of hot food at suppertime. With little breakfast and no dinner, she was hungry, but she decided her anger and the bread would sustain her until someone brought more food.

She had seen but two faces, those of the man who had removed her gag and the one carrying a torch so that they could see. The first had murmured an apology for “distressing” her and said they meant her no harm, that indeed, great honor awaited her. The other had said nothing.

When she had informed them both tartly—and in a voice that, thanks to their gag, was much hoarser than she had expected—that everyone involved in her abduction would pay heavily for their impertinence, the one who had apologized tugged his lower lip and walked away. Clearly, he knew who she was, and just as clearly, he was sorry about participating in her abduction. But he was not sorry enough that she could persuade him to disobey his master, whoever that might be.

Left to herself in the dark, she managed to make herself comfortable enough to think by folding the blanket in which they had bundled her between her back and the bars of the cage, and prayed the cellar contained no rats. But thinking did not help. That the Green Abbot had speedily heard about Niall’s death and meant to avenge it was likely. That he had heard about it so fast was easy to accept, given that the Holy Isle all but adjoined the Isle of Mull. But how, exactly, she could figure in any scheme of the abbot’s, Mairi could not imagine.

Unless . . . The thought struck with icy certainty that the one thing Fingon Mackinnon might know as well as she did was that Lachlan would search until he found her. What if that, in itself, was the Green Abbot’s plan? How better to entice the man who had killed his brother into a fatal trap than to bait it with the one thing he knew his prey would find irresistible?

Lachlan stood on the wharf at Craignure Bay and gazed speculatively at the bluff above. Anyone standing up there could see him and would see, too, if a single one of his oarsmen left his post. Moreover, any watcher atop the abandoned tower would see a second boat approaching, or even one landing anywhere near enough to get to the bluff soon enough to help him. The informant might be there as promised, alone, with the information he needed to rescue Mairi. Or the man might be luring him into ambush. The cliff-top site was perfect for either purpose.

For that matter, the man might not be there at all, might not exist.

Hector had employed every argument, and Lachlan knew that all he had said was true. He was a fool to have come. He was armed only with his sword, the dirk he carried in his boot top, and his wits. Neither of the steel weapons would avail him much against an army led by the Green Abbot, and as for his wits . . . Well, they might aid him but only if the other side allowed time for thinking. Indeed, as he acknowledged to himself if to no one else, if Fingon had sent only his four oldest sons to deal with him, they would be more than a match for him.

He was not accustomed to dealing alone with such problems. Hector had been beside him at every important point in their lives, always dependable, always reliable, always ready with Lady Axe to handle any situation. But this time Lachlan was on his own, and the thought that Mairi’s life hung in the balance terrified him.

He studied the landscape again, noted that the sun was diving toward the western horizon with sufficient speed that dusk would cast its cloak over the landscape within two hours at most. It had turned into a fine, clear day, but now the black cloud of fear for Mairi darkened his world, making it hard to think.

“Master Hector were right, sir,” his helmsman muttered.

“Aye,” Lachlan agreed, adding, “I don’t know what I’ll find, and I’ve no way to get a message to you unless I can fling my dirk or sword off that bluff.”

“They’ll be for killing you, sir. An I see any weapons flying, I’ve me horn by me, a bit o’ flint and tinder from Master Hector, and arrows t’ set afire and let fly. Our lads do ha’ boats yonder across the Sound and men watching.”

“If Fingon’s men are lying in wait up there and they see one man moving toward them,” Lachlan said, still studying the heights, “my life will be sped.”

“Dinna forget, ye left men there, too, t’ keep watch for stray Mackinnons.”

Lachlan nodded, knowing he meant to be helpful, but Mackinnons littered the Isle of Mull, too many for the few sons of Gillean scattered about to keep track of all. His loyal clansmen would do their best, but if Fingon had set a trap, he was about to spring it. Trap or not, it was the only hope he had of finding out quickly where they were keeping his lass.

Hector would do what he could afterward, for him or for Mairi, but Lachlan wanted to stay alive long enough to increase the odds in their favor. In any event, he knew that standing where he was would win him nothing but distrust.

Drawing a deep breath, he strode off the wharf and up the hill path.

At the top, he slanted a look in passing at the tower but saw no sign of occupation and left it at that, having nothing to gain by letting them see that he suspected more than they had promised.

At least the door at the bottom was shut, so he should have warning if they had to open it before ambushing him.

Ahead stretched the grassy clearing through which the track passed that led from Duart to the clearing where they had met for the hunt. Beyond lay forestland covering much of the isle. No one meeting him would expect him to enter the forest alone, because only a fool would do so in such a situation, particularly after they had abducted Mairi in just such a way.

Walking to the center of the clearing, he scanned the trees but saw no one. The forest was silent until a lone bird chirped and, a moment later, a squirrel’s raucous chatter filled the air. Such complete silence had not fallen on his account, so someone waited, perhaps more than one, and at least one had moved a short time ago. The knowledge heightened his tension.

Surely whoever kept watch for his arrival must have known that he would check the tower, and would have feared, too, that he might somehow receive warning of anyone entering it. His ambushers, if they existed, would not have wanted to give him any reason not to come.

The watcher had likely been circumspect, perhaps crawling to the bluff’s edge, then running back to the shelter of the trees at his approach—which told him no more than before. The watcher could still be informant or ambusher, or both.

It occurred to him then that he might never know the truth because a single arrow shot from the concealment of the forest might end his speculation forever.

His skin prickled at the thought, and he swore that when he did get his hands on the lass, he would soon teach her to take an army with her whenever she rode out, particularly with enemies so clearly at hand.

He nearly smiled as he imagined the likely result of issuing such an order to her. Even before his ducking, he had learned enough about her to know that although he still meant to call the tune after they married, it would behoove him to use as much tact as he used when he had key negotiations in hand.

If
they ever married.

He could not let himself dwell on such misgivings, he knew, because a man who doubted himself defeated himself at the outset.

Another squirrel chattered long and loud to his left, and as his gaze shifted abruptly toward the sound, his hand flew to his sword hilt.

A shaggy-haired, barefoot man in a long saffron shirt and skins stepped from behind the thick, heavily gnarled trunk of an ancient oak. He stood and stared at Lachlan, saying nothing. He did not appear to be armed.

Lachlan motioned him nearer, but the man did not move.

The rutted track lay between them, because it curved along the bluff for another hundred yards before bending inland toward the river ford.

The squirrel had ceased its chattering, but Lachlan heard more birdsong now.

Deciding the man’s wooden demeanor stemmed from wariness of him rather than anyone in the forest, Lachlan stepped nearer. No matter what lay hidden in the trees, the two of them could not converse sensibly or safely by shouting.

Crossing the track, his gaze scanning the forest, now on three sides of him, he moved within yards of the barefoot man, who still had not moved.

Knowing the man could easily hear him now, and leery of moving closer, Lachlan said, “Who are you?”

“That doesna concern ye, sir. I ha’ the information ye seek.”

“Speak then,” Lachlan said, keeping half an eye on him while his gaze darted through the forest on both sides of him. Beams of golden, mote-strewn sunlight pierced the canopy, lighting bits of the forest floor. He saw no one, but he knew he could miss an army in the undergrowth, or in the leafy treetops, for that matter.

The man peered across the clearing behind Lachlan as if expecting someone, but whether Lachlan’s reinforcements or his own, only God and the man knew.

“Damn it, have you something to say to me or not?” Lachlan demanded.

The man’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth, but that was the last thing Lachlan saw before pain exploded in his head and darkness enveloped him.

The cellar gave no hint of daylight, but Mairi’s loaf was long gone and her stomach growled frequently and with increasing fervor before she heard footsteps approach. A key rattled in the lock, and the door creaked open. Expecting to see one of her captors bringing supper at long last, she saw instead what seemed to be three men clutched together, plus a fourth bearing the torch.