Amanda Scott (3 page)

Already an increasing crowd of Islesmen with their families congregated on the hilltop, and lines of people hurried up from the harbor to join them, like an army of ants swarming an anthill. Colorful banners flew from a great tent near the chapel.

Beside her, Sidony said, “Everyone looks so splendid, Sorcha. ’Tis sure to be a grand day, but I thought events as important as this one all had to take place on the Isle of Isla, at Finlaggan.”

“Were you not paying heed when our father explained that?” Sorcha demanded, giving her a stern look. “How
do you expect to understand what goes on around you if you do not listen?”

“I do listen,” Sidony said. “But I am not as interested in political matters as you and Isobel are.” She nibbled her lower lip, making Sorcha sorry for scolding her.

“I know you do not care about such things,” she said with a sigh. “But I do not know how you can manage to sit at the table whilst we discuss them and not come to understand at least matters as important as this is.”

“I don’t like bickering,” Sidony said, clearly having given the matter some thought. “Such topics nearly always lead to discord, do they not? Why, when Isobel was home last summer, before she met Sir Michael—or do I call him something else now that his brother is a prince?”

“He is your brother now,” Sorcha said. “You may call him Michael.”

“Father would not agree, especially since his brother is Prince of Orkney and I do not know either of them,” Sidony protested. “Indeed, I have never even met them yet. Neither have you, come to that.”

“That will change today,” Sorcha said. “I am sure Michael will be here, and I intend to call him Michael. I call Hector the Ferocious plain Hector, after all, and he, too, is only a brother by marriage. If he lets us treat him as we would our own brothers if we had any, who is Michael Sinclair to forbid it?”

“You did not answer my question,” Sidony said quietly.

“Your question? Oh, yes, as to why we are not at Finlaggan. Well, you have only yourself to blame if I have not. You diverted me by speaking of Michael.”

“I still want to know.”

“ ’Tis because the Kingdom of the Isles has grown so
much larger,” Sorcha said. “And because most of the newer bits of it lie to the north.”

“The Kingdom of the Isles has always seemed vast to me.”

“Aye, well, the Lordship now extends more than two hundred miles, from the Butt of Lewis in the north to the Mull of Kintyre in the south. So, although Finlaggan was at the center of things to begin with, it no longer is. And by ancient Celtic law and custom, every subject of the Kingdom of the Isles must have an equal chance of personally witnessing the inauguration of any new sovereign, just as each one must be able to attend any Council of the Isles. Isla lies too far south of the kingdom’s center now to allow such equality of opportunity to be practicable. Father said many folks complained of the difficulty when last year’s Council met at Finlaggan, so Lord Ranald selected the Isle of Eigg for today’s ceremony. Not only is it now at the center of the Lordship, but Eigg belongs to Ranald, so he can more easily control what happens here.”

“I wish you would always explain such things so clearly,” Sidony said. “Oh, good, we are moving again!”

Their boat followed their father’s, and both young women fell silent as they approached the long pier, looking for familiar faces.

When the nearside oars flashed up and their boat eased gently into place behind Macleod’s, men on the pier caught the ropes flung to them and made them fast, then hurried to help passengers from both boats alight onto the pier.

Sorcha and Sidony began meeting friends and kinsmen at once. As they made their way up the hill to
Kildonan, greeting, hugging, and chatting, Sorcha kept watch for her older sisters and their husbands, particularly for Isobel and her Michael. She had deduced one pertinent fact from Isobel’s frequent messages, as well as from two single-page letters that she had written them, thanks to a gift from her husband of some fine writing paper from Italy. That fact was that wherever one found Sir Michael Sinclair of Roslin, one nearly always found his cousin, close friend, and boon companion, Sir Hugo Robison. And where one found Sir Hugo—today, at least—one was bound to find Adela.

Sorcha had much to say to both of them about courtesy and family duty. Disappearing into the woods two days before, depriving the village of any wedding, and afterward not letting everyone know that Adela was safe was outrageous behavior. She had every intention of telling them exactly what she thought of that behavior just as soon as she clapped eyes on them.

“There’s Isobel!” Sidony exclaimed, adding on a note of astonishment, “Faith, I knew she was increasing, but she’s enormous!”

“Aye, well, it happens,” Sorcha said. “Her babe is due next month, I believe.”

“I hope we are still with her when it comes,” Sidony said.

Sorcha, too, was looking forward to welcoming a new child into the family, but she did not say so because she had seen two tall men walk up behind Isobel, and one of them rested both hands possessively on her shoulders.

“That must be Michael or he would not dare take such a liberty,” she said. “I warrant the fellow with him must be Sir Hugo, but where is Adela?”

“I don’t see her,” Sidony said. “Where can she be?”

Aware of a sudden chill, Sorcha hurried forward, keeping her eyes on Sir Hugo—if the tall, handsome man by Michael Sinclair was in fact he.

He was even taller than Michael. His light-brown hair danced with red-gold highlights, and as she drew near, she saw that his eyes were the cerulean blue of a clear Scottish sky. Adela had said he was good-looking, but she had not mentioned his size, the breadth of his shoulders, or that he walked as if he ruled the world.

Isobel had seen her and was waving. Nearby Sorcha saw her eldest sister Cristina and Mairi of the Isles, Cristina’s sister by marriage. The new Lord of the Isles was Mairi’s younger brother, Donald of Isla.

With her shiny black hair and deep blue eyes, Mairi stood out in any gathering. Even approaching her thirtieth year, she retained her beauty. But the Macleod sisters could hold their own, and Sorcha thought the contrast between Mairi’s raven tresses and Cristina’s golden ones made a pleasing picture.

Rushing forward to hug all three women, she looked expectantly at Sir Michael and said, “You must be my new brother, sir. I am Sorcha Macleod.”

“I had deduced as much, my lady,” he said with a twinkle as he bent to kiss her cheek. “This must be the lady Sidony with you.”

Sidony blushed but allowed him to kiss her cheek as well.

Impatiently, Sorcha looked at the other gentleman. Everyone else still chattered, and she heard Cristina ask a question but paid no heed. Still, as much as she wanted to know if the second man was Sir Hugo Robison, she knew
better than to demand the name of any gentleman not yet properly presented to her.

He smiled at her then most impudently, and feeling fire surge to her cheeks, she glanced at Isobel.

Sir Michael, turning from his conversation with Sidony, said then with a gesture toward the man at his side, “But I must present to you both my cousin and closest friend, Sir Hugo Robison.”

Still with that impudent grin, Sir Hugo made his bow. As he straightened, he said with amusement, “Don’t stand too much on ceremony, Michael. Lady Sorcha has made it clear that she does not insist upon the finer points of courtesy.”

Sorcha said instantly, “If you refer to
my
having sent you that message instead of my father, you will at least agree that the situation was urgent, sir. Faith, I should think you would be thanking me. But where is Adela? I want to see her.”

He frowned, saying without a trace of humor, “Lady Adela married Baron Ardelve on Saturday, did she not? Where should she be, except with her husband?”

A
t first, Adela had struggled fiercely, angrily, but she had quickly realized that at the speed they were moving, she would be wiser not to fight him, lest she fall and injure herself. At such a pace, a fall could cause serious injury, even death.

He held her clamped to his side, his arm like an iron bar around her, so tight that it dug into her ribs and brought tears to her eyes. She could scarcely breathe, let alone scream her fury. But did he care? Not he. He and his men rode like the wind, although no one had stirred a step to follow them.

They pounded away from the stunned gathering back to the woods, paying little heed to the terrain even when they neared a swiftly flowing burn. Their horses barely checked before plunging into the icy water and out the other side.

When they did slow at last, she tried to pry his arm
away enough to let her breathe freely, but he only gripped her tighter.

“You’re hurting me!” She tried to scream the words at him, but the result was no more than a ragged croak.

He did not bother to respond or ease his hold. He did shift her so that she sat half on his thigh, half on his saddlebow, which was an improvement but scarcely a comfortable one. Nonetheless, she tried to force herself to relax, realizing that further exertion would only add more bruises to her sore ribs.

Despite her new position, their pace was still dangerous, even foolhardy. She doubted that anyone would follow them unless Ardelve wanted to reclaim his bride. He was a kind man, a gentle man, for all Sorcha thought him a pompous one. But he was of an age with Macleod, and lacked both Macleod’s temperament and bluster.

She had thought all those qualities admirable when she had agreed to marry him. But she found it impossible to imagine Ardelve leaping into a saddle to pursue her abductors. Moreover, if he knew of Sorcha’s attempts to inform Sir Hugo of her wedding, as so many others clearly did, and guessed that Hugo had taken her, perhaps Ardelve believed that she had wanted him to. If that were the case, then he, like Macleod, would be furious and do nothing.

She was angry herself, but if she had to be honest, she was also pleased that Sir Hugo had cared enough to come for her. Not that she would marry him, even so. Had he truly wanted her, he ought to have approached her father in the proper way, and then courted and wooed her. He had done none of that.

Indeed, Sir Hugo Robison had not struck her as a man
who would lift a finger to pursue any woman. He seemed more the sort who expected women to pursue him, and to swoon at his feet if he so much as glanced in their direction.

Adela would not swoon for any man, ever. Nor did she admire men who thought more of themselves than of others. Sir Hugo was in for a surprise if he thought this outrageous abduction would impress her.

The four men continued to ride without speaking, their pace picking up when they reached the top of a ridge she recognized as the south boundary of Glenelg. To the southwest lay the Sound of Sleat and the sea. To the southeast lay Loch Hourn.

They were well away from Chalamine and from Glen Shiel, through which ran the main track for travelers heading inland. So where on earth was he taking her? How much longer did he think he could carry her in such a way before she succumbed in his arms from lack of air?

They wended their way down through dense woodland almost aimlessly, and she had no idea how long they rode. Nor did she recognize the clearing where at long last they stopped. Feeling only relief that the wild ride was over, she looked forward to letting Sir Hugo Robison know what she thought of his impudence.

He dismounted without releasing her, apparently little the worse for carrying her so far in such rough-and-ready fashion. When he put her down, she stumbled and nearly fell, but he did nothing to steady her. Despite her weariness, her temper stirred again as he put a hand to his mask and pulled it off.

Having fully expected to see Sir Hugo’s impudent grin, she beheld instead the grim face of a barely remembered stranger—if, indeed, it were even he. What little she had
thought she knew of that man had no meaning, however, as evidenced by his very presence among mortals. She opened her mouth to demand to know what demon had possessed him to abduct her, but the look he gave her chilled her to her soul and froze the words in her throat.

“Well?” he said, planting his hands on his hips and glowering at her, his head at least a foot above her own. His hair, she saw, was darker than Hugo’s, his eyes a grayer blue. He probably weighed twice the eight stone she weighed, and his powerful shoulders were easily twice as wide as hers. She trembled when she recalled the small heed he had paid to her struggles despite using only one arm to hold her.

Still glowering, he said, “You clearly have something to say to me. I am not always so generous, but I will allow you to speak your mind to me now.”

“I… I thought you were dead.”

“Nay, not yet,” he replied. “God kept me alive to finish the task He’s set for me. But I’m pleased to hear that you remember me. Our acquaintance was so brief, I doubted you’d recall it at all.”

“In truth, sir, I do not remember your name.”

“You’ve no need to remember it. You will call me ‘master’ or ‘my lord.’ ”

She would call no man master, but he did not look as if he would respond well to a declaration of that fact, so she made none. Having endured a brief encounter with him at Orkney, she remembered only that he was somehow kin to the Sinclairs. He had been menacing even then, but surely, he was not implying that God had restored him to life after he had died. Only a madman could believe that.