Amanda Scott (11 page)

Michael nodded. “Only think what a coup it would have been for him to lie in wait for you to appear at that wedding, or beforehand, and wreak whatever vengeance he had planned for you before the entire wedding party.”

Another thought struck Hugo. “What if he sought more than that? Most folks would have expected you and Isobel to attend that wedding, would they not?”

“Aye, they would,” Michael agreed. “Few outside the family know of her condition. No enemy could know that despite her insistence on how hearty she is, I persuaded her to consider the health and well-being of my heir. She travels nowhere without me. She yearned to attend that wedding, as you know well, but Henry had promised Ranald that the house of Sinclair would support Donald, so we could not.”

“Aye, I do know that, to my own cost,” Hugo said.

“Did you want the lass so badly then? You should have told me.”

The blunt question made Hugo hesitate. “She would make any man a fine wife,” he said at last. “But I don’t have the feelings for her that you have for Isobel. Sakes, I’ve never felt that way about any woman, and I doubt I ever shall. I don’t have time, because I’m married to my duty to you and to protecting the—”

He glanced around, remembering Michael’s warning. “… to other obligations that must come before one’s family and other personal business. I’ll admit that her abduction has hit me harder than I’d have thought such a thing could, though.”

“So your feelings for her are stronger than you knew,” Michael said.

“Aye, perhaps,” Hugo admitted. “Her wretched sister has brought it home to me that I do bear some responsibility for what happened to her. Moreover, if the poor lass fell into Waldron’s clutches, she did so through no fault of her own and now faces more than unhappiness. Our cousin is capable of any evil, so if he does have her, I’m honor bound to do all I can to help her.”

“Agreed,” Michael said. “I’ve already told Macleod that we’ll do all we can to help, but we’ve also decided that we’ll do best to await news of their whereabouts from Lachlan Lubanach’s sources before going in search of them.”

“But we are constrained by matters of time, too,” Hugo pointed out. “The King of Scots and his court move to Edinburgh in a sennight, and you’ve pledged us all to accompany Donald when he swears fealty as Lord of the Isles. And, too,” he added quietly, “we have our own council at Roslin the following night.”

“Aye, but if what the lady Sorcha told her father proves true, the villains will be in or near Edinburgh by then,” Michael reminded him. “Indeed, if Waldron proves to be their leader, he may have the effrontery to take the lass to Edgelaw. For all we know, he has been living there these eight months past. It is his home, after all, and we do know he still has henchmen there. Without proof of his death, we did not order them off, and they have paid his rents. However, you have every authority to look around there when we return, and to ask if they’ve found his body yet.”

“Aye, sure, but with your leave, I want to track down Lady Adela’s abductors, whoever they are, and bring them to justice,” Hugo said. “If Waldron and his men are guilty, I’ll have served both you and her ladyship well.”

“Do you remember any more details of this dream you had?”

“As clearly as I’d remember anything else that happened less than an hour ago,” Hugo said. He recounted the dream as if he were reliving it.

“It struck you hard,” Michael said when he had finished. “I know some think dreams can foretell events, but I’m guessing that one just put a few facts together to suggest a possibility that we cannot ignore. The vision you had of the sunbeam and stairs seems no more than a plaguey reminder that Waldron claims to be the hand of God, rather than the villain we know him to be. What do you want to do?”

“I’m not sure,” Hugo admitted. “The lady Sorcha wanted Macleod to talk to Lady Gowrie to see if she knows more, but Macleod says she is a fool repeating information she had from a cousin. He says there’s nothing in it.”

“We cannot discount that opinion,” Michael said. “She is friendly with the widow he means to marry, so he must know enough to form such a judgment.”

“Aye, but he is also an exceedingly superstitious man who may just believe in letting well enough alone,” Hugo said.

“Superstitious, eh? I’ve heard that, too. If I recall correctly, Hector Reaganach has the man’s superstitious nature to thank for his own marriage to the lady Cristina. Do you think Macleod may be a fool?”

“Nay,” Hugo said. Then, watching his cousin closely, he added, “Although he did object when Ardelve wanted to marry Adela on Friday last. Macleod insists that a Friday falling on the thirteenth of a month must always be unlucky.”

Michael was silent for a long moment, frowning. Then his somber gaze met Hugo’s as he said, “So Macleod will bear watching, too.”

“Aye,” Hugo said. “I’ll leave that to you. I’m thinking now that even if Lady Gowrie might help, Lachlan Lubanach’s minions will learn more in less time than it would take me to track her down. If the lady Adela’s captors are making for Edinburgh or Edgelaw from the Highlands, I’d be wiser to take a score of our men and a boat to Oban, and take horses from there to intercept them.”

“Aye, then we’ll wait to hear from Lachlan,” Michael agreed.

H
aving spent the night on straw pallets in the cozy cottage belonging to Bess MacIver’s brother, Sorcha and Sidony were up with the dawn’s light. Wolfing a hasty repast of oatcakes, bramble jam, and mugs of warm milk provided by Bess’s cheerful sister-in-law, they set out on foot with Rory for Loch Sunart.

“ ’Tis but a mile,” he said. “Up yonder ridge and down again.”

The ridge proved steep and wearing. As they approached the shore of the flat, calm loch an hour later, Sidony said, “ ’Tis easier walking in these clothes, but do you still think they make us safer? In truth, I don’t think we can fool anyone for long.”

“I don’t mean to
try
to fool anyone up close,” Sorcha said, well aware that it would be foolhardy to do so. “Rory must ask our questions for us. We’ll keep our hoods up, our heads down, and our mouths shut, Siddy. If
anyone asks why we behave so, he can say we are shy or stupid.” Shooting a glance at the generally stoic gillie, she noted a twitching lip. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

“Nowt, m’lady,” Rory said, his eyes twinkling.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

“Well, I’ve no seen ye since we was bairns, mind ye, but I’m thinking that if I was daft enough t’ call ye stupid, ye’d hand me me head in me lap and never spare a thought t’ whether anyone did see ye do it.”

Sorcha chuckled. “Aye, sure, you may be right. I’ve a bit of a temper.”

“Ye’d a fierce one then, and ye still do. Or so I ha’ heard.”

“Faith, what else have you heard?”

“Nobbut that ye slapped a nobleman hard enough t’ leave the mark o’ your hand on his face most o’ yester-morn,” Rory replied. “Ye ken fine how quick gossip gets about, m’lady, and we did hear that ye had a sizeable audience then.”

“And doubtless everyone who saw what happened feels obliged to chatter about it,” Sorcha said. “But he deserved it.”

“Aye, sure,” Rory agreed amiably, adding, “There be me cousin’s cottage yonder, so we’d best think on what ye want me to say to him. I ken fine we’ll need horses, since we’ve nae wind and willna want to row me cousin’s fishing coble all the way to Strontian. But will ye keep silent, or shall I tell him who ye be?”

In the event, he had only to ask for ponies, and the elderly cousin assured him he had three stout ones they could take. More to the point, in Sorcha’s opinion, when Rory asked if he had heard of strangers in the glens, the
man scratched his grizzled head and said, “Aye, then, our cousin Ian were by yestereve. He did say he’d seen some Sunday near Kinlocheil. Said they was a mean-looking bunch, too, for all they dressed fine and carried fine weapons. The lass wi’ them were quiet enough, Ian said, but he’d nae trust the others.” He glanced at Sorcha and Sidony, but when both remained mute, he politely refrained from addressing them directly.

“Did Ian chance to hear the men say aught o’ their business?” Rory asked as they all headed to the byre to saddle the horses.

“Sakes, lad, they didna confide such stuff t’ the likes o’ Ian,” the old man said. “Just said they was making for somewhere south o’ Edinburgh—in Lothian, I think, but I canna say more than that. If ye’re seeking them, I’d advise ye t’ leave them be. Ian said they didna encourage conversation, but he says he can smell evil when he be in its presence. Said he thought the lass must be kin t’ the leader, since she rode pillion wi’ him. She didna open her mouth whilst they was there, he said.”

Sorcha ground her teeth together to keep from saying what she thought of this Ian person, who could not tell an innocent victim of abduction from a villain’s kinswoman. Surely, he must have seen that Adela was terrified out of her wits. What sort of man did nothing to help someone so obviously in need of help? But she could not ask such questions without revealing more about herself than she wanted to reveal, so she held her tongue, and they soon bade the old man good day.

Bess’s sister-in-law in Shielfoot had packed food for them, but it occurred to Sorcha that it might be wise to get more if they could. Accordingly, she asked Rory if they
might perhaps beg some from his kinsmen in Strontian when they got there.

“Aye, they’ll spare a bit for us, I warrant,” he said.

The cousin in Strontian proved generous but not without cost, as he had decided to take advantage of unseasonably dry weather to replace his roof. He and his wife had removed the old, soot-encrusted thatch, now piled beside the cottage, and they had new thatch nearly all in place. But they needed help carrying the old stuff to mix with the manure pile beside their byre to produce a nourishing mixture that they could spread on their fields.

“
If
the three o’ ye lads dinna mind helping,” he added with a minatory look.

Knowing no acceptable way to refuse, in view of the promised food and their own lack of means other than manual labor to repay his generosity any time soon, for the next hour and more, the three hauled thatch reeking of damp soot and mold and helped mix it with manure. Since the man and his wife worked beside them, Sorcha could not even express her feelings about the repellent task, but she was able to congratulate herself on her foresight later when the track they followed proved to be nearly barren of habitation. They rode until Sidony fell asleep on her horse.

It was midafternoon by then, so Sorcha called for a respite and sent Rory to fill a jug with water from a nearby burn. Sidony dismounted, still half asleep.

“My gloves are ruined, I reek of manure, my hands ache from carrying that horrid thatch, and we’ve not seen a soul since we left Strontian,” she grumbled.

“Your hands will recover, we’ve plenty of food, and we washed as much off ourselves and our clothes as we
could in the first burn we came to,” Sorcha pointed out. “This part of the Highlands is just as rugged as Glenelg, so there are few farms or clachans, and thus few people to meet. But at least we can be sure that the men we follow have not taken another track.”

“Nay, for there have been no other tracks,” Sidony said with a long-suffering sigh. “The fact is that I did not know we would have to act as common laborers. Nor did I consider how much riding we would have to do in this pursuit of yours.”

“Then you simply did not think,” Sorcha retorted. “I did not bargain for the labor either, but how ever did you think we could follow them to Edinburgh without long hours of riding? It is days from home, Siddy, and although we got a good start by beginning at Glenancross instead of Glenelg, Edinburgh is still a very long way.”

“I know,” Sidony said. “But I did not know how tired I’d be. And what would we do if we caught up with them? You could hardly ride back to Strontian for help.” She sighed. “I’m thinking that neither of us thought this through before we started.”

“We are doing what we must,” Sorcha said firmly. “When the time comes, we will know what we must do then, too. You’ll see.”

Sidony sighed again but made no further protest, and when Rory returned with the water, she ate the food Sorcha handed her, and afterward assured them both that she felt better. Even so, the day seemed to lengthen as they rode until even Sorcha began to wish something interesting would happen.

An hour later, not long after they entered the Great Glen, they met a man and his dog herding six shaggy
brown-and-white Highland cows across the track. Sorcha made Rory ask him if he had seen a group of horsemen with a woman, but the man shook his head, said, “Nay, lad, nary a soul since I left home this morning.”

That evening, finding no MacIver kinsmen in the area to which they had come, they sought shelter with a hospitable crofter and slept in clean straw in the byre that occupied one end of his croft. The family end was thick wattle and daub, flexible hazel rods woven together and daubed with a mixture of clay, heather, and straw. But the byre for the animals was no more than a woven hazel framework with no further insulation against the nighttime chill of early spring.