Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (10 page)

“M’lord, can I help ye?” The bandy-legged stable master approached, rubbing his hands on a soiled cloth.

Yancy perused the stalls, searching for a nameless horse, or rather its taffy-haired owner. Impatient to be off, he swung his attention to the groom. “It’s Jocky, isn’t it?”

“
Aye
, sir. Ye be needin’ somethin’?” Jocky stuffed the tattered rag into his waistband.

Shifting in his saddle, Yancy wedged his hat firmer onto his head. “Did Miss Isobel leave already?”

She had better hope the crusty old groom said no.

Jocky released a grave chuckle, his eyes crinkling into a dozen weathered folds at the corners. “
Aye
. The young miss be eager to find more arrowheads and dead rock things.”

“Fossils?”

“
Aye
. She be headed to the caves today, she said.”

“Alone?”

The servant gave a cautious nod, his gap-toothed smile fading. Apprehension replaced the merry twinkle in his faded eyes. “Be there a problem, m’lord? Miss Isobel said ye’d be followin’ in a wee bit.”

His throat worked nervously as he peered up at Yancy.

This wasn’t the groom’s fault. Yancy ought to have asked Sethwick to speak to the staff sooner.

“Jocky, until further notice, no one is to leave the keep unescorted, most especially not the women.”

“Yes, sir.” Jocky’s gaze sank to the straw-littered floor. “I be sorry, yer lordship. I
dinna
ken
.”

Yancy offered a conciliatory smile. “It’s not your fault. I should have sent word yesterday.”

He clenched Skye’s reins so tightly, his leather gloves pinched his fingers. Isobel had no idea the danger she’d put herself in.

Sensing his master’s agitation, the roan sidestepped and snorted.

“Shh, we’ll be away soon, my friend.” Yancy bent and rubbed the gelding’s neck. With a final pat, he straightened. “How long ago did she leave?”

His wrinkled face creased with worry, Jocky lifted a scrawny shoulder. “An hour. Maybe less.”

Reining Skye around, Yancy clamped his jaw until his back teeth ached. Isobel had lied to him, and there would be consequences. He cantered to the others, and as he drew near, they looked up expectantly.

Other than raising an eyebrow questioningly, Harcourt, for once, had the good sense to remain silent.

“
Nae
lass?” Gregor peered behind Yancy then twisted in his saddle to inspect the castle entry. His gaze swung to his twin, and he rubbed his chin, a pensive gleam in his eyes. “
Och
, I guess she’s flown.”

“
Aye
.” Alasdair’s gaze focused on the dense crop of trees standing at attention well beyond the drawbridge. “I kent she might. She be prickly as thistle of late.”

“You might have warned me, McTavish. Where are these fossils of hers?” Clicking his tongue, Yancy kneed Skye’s sides and called over his shoulder. “We need to find her before she encounters the trespassers Sethwick said are lurking about.”

Chapter 12

Isobel picked her way across a mound of slate-colored rocks littering a portion of the cave’s entrance. Huge lichen and liverwort-covered boulders blocked the other, which made seeing inside and accessing the cavern difficult.

Mountain aven, their smooth white blossom and jonquil yellow centers long since spent, huddled between the stones and atop the yawning opening. Their verdant leaves contrasted with the dull gray world surrounding the intrepid evergreen, and proved slippery as ice when stepped upon.

The cave, partially hidden below a craggy overhang, appeared deceptively easy to access until she neared the entrance. Uncertainty nudged her. She hadn’t attempted to enter this cavern before. What if some wild animal had made the hollow its den?

She perused the entrance and listened for movement within. Other than Scottish wild cats and red foxes, nothing of substantial size roamed these hills and moors.

Her bum pressed against a rock twice her size, Isobel gingerly edged onward. She bent and peered into the cave’s dark recesses several feet way.

Complete darkness stared back at her.

“It’s black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat in there.”

Shading her eyes, she sent a glance skyward and frowned. The clear azure sky she’d rode out under a jot more than an hour ago, now hung heavy with gun-metal gray clouds. This morning’s comfortable breeze had stiffened into a biting wind.

Unwanted company would soon be upon her, for she had no doubt Lord Ramsbury thundered to the cliffs like a rutting buck after a doe, determined to disturb her treasure seeking.

Her lips twitched into a gratified smile. Oh, to have been there and seen his arrogant face when he realized she’d disregarded his directive, the deceiving snake.

Who did he think he was, manipulating her like that?

She was not such a slowtop as to put herself in danger. Surely, if a real need for concern was present, Ewan or her parents would have explained the circumstances. These mysterious secrets and Drury Lane theatrics were entirely unnecessary, and this whole clan feuding business appeared nothing more than a few covetous, power-hungry men stirring up discontent.

Lydia had resided at Craiglocky for months because some troublesome baron was determined to marry her in an attempt to acquire her father’s lands. Now, other clans had become embroiled in the chaos.

Greed and power—two of the devil’s most destructive weapons.

Emira’s low nicker carried to Isobel on the soft, heather-scented breeze. She’d left the mare ground-tied in a copse of Scots pine a few hundred yards away. The horse had been trained to remain where Isobel left her, and Emira wouldn’t leave unless Isobel whistled.

Scooting her bottom along the rock, Isobel advanced further until a rough edge snagged her skirt. She gave a firm yank, and tore a three-inch rip in the material.

A short chuckle escaped her.

Lord Ramsbury wouldn’t approve.

He’d loathed the Kersey gown she’d worn yesterday. His displeasure had been etched all over his noble face. Admittedly, she did resemble a humble, village lass when wearing the drab garment. She fingered the wool of her current dress. He would be hard-pressed to find fault with this gown, even though it had seen three winters.

Her humor evaporated the next instant.
Hmph
. His approval meant nothing.

Creeping another couple of inches across the rock, she released a defeated sigh. Why did men dictate everything women could do and what they should think? If God hadn’t wanted women to use their own minds, then why had He given them a brain?

Years of suppressing knowledge and opinions behind decorous behavior had reached a pinnacle, and Isobel wasn’t certain she would ever be able to return to that docile and demure young lady. Truth be told, she didn’t want to. She could no more pretend to be an empty-headed ninny than The Prince Regent could turn somersaults.

Even now, she must rush to explore caves a man had dictated she couldn’t.

She squinted into the horizon. Yes, there in the distance, riders approached, moving fast from the looks of them.

God’s toenails
.
I haven’t made the cave yet.

Emira whinnied. The other horses’ scents likely carried to the mare on the wind.

This would be Isobel’s last solo outing. Of that she had no doubt. His lordship would see she didn’t sneeze without his permission. In the future, her shadow would be allowed more freedom than she would.

How her fickle heart could yearn for such a man boggled her mind. Yet there remained an unexplainable, wholly illogical attraction—no, more of an uncontrollable draw—to him.

Och
, such absurdity made no sense.

Placing one hand on a boulder for balance, she deliberately kicked some loose stones. That should alert anything residing in the cave and encourage the creature to make a hasty exit.

Trepidation quickening her pulse, Isobel gathered a few pebbles. She tossed them at the cavern’s mouth, and several rolled inside. Ducking behind a boulder, she waited, her lips compressed and her breath suspended.

Nothing.

Only the screeching cry of a golden eagle overhead disturbed the quiet.

Stop being such a dunderhead.

As she maneuvered around an odd-shaped rock, she slipped and scraped her elbow.

“Ouch.”

Clutching her arm, she waited for the sharp sting to pass.

She pushed her cloak from her shoulder and inspected the injury. Droplets of blood dotted her shredded sleeve. Wincing, she straightened her arm and grabbed a final handhold. With a gusty sigh, she jumped to the ground and left the last of the cumbersome rocks behind her.

Tiptoeing the remaining few feet to the cave’s opening, she cautiously stepped inside and peered around. She sprang backward and tripped in her haste, landing hard on her bottom. Paralyzing fear seized her for a heart-stopping moment.

Hell, Hades, and Purgatory too
.

She’d experienced the bloody fright of her life.

Isobel had heard tales of people fainting or wetting themselves from fear but dismissed the stories as nonsensical balderdash. She’d be rethinking that notion since she about did both.

Alarm and pain urged her to rise.

She’d counted five bedrolls inside. Someone had been using the cave as a shelter. In addition to the bedding, cookware, discarded bones, and an extinguished fire further testified to that fact.

Emira neighed again, followed by the undeniable sound of men’s voices and horses’ hoofbeats. Not Lord Ramsbury and the others. Even riding neck or nothing, they couldn’t have reached the bluffs that swiftly.

Dread rendered Isobel immobile. Dear God, what if the intruders were armed?

Of course they are, featherbrain.

Their reasons for being here couldn’t be legitimate, or else why use the cave?

Danger threatened those riding her way, and she blamed her damnable pigheadedness. Why had she been so self-centered and impetuous? Lord Ramsbury and the others would be armed, but unless she warned them, they might be ambushed.

Closing her eyes, she drew a calming breath and forced her panic aside.

The men’s voices drew nearer.

Isobel opened her eyes and sought a hiding place or a means of escape. There, on the far side of the cave, almost hidden by heather, was that a path?

What a pity she’d scaled the outcrop when a trail led to the cave. How long had these men been using the cavern anyway? The weightier question was why?

She worried her lip. God’s teeth, Lord Ramsbury had been right. Unless she hid amongst the boulders, she’d be found. She swiftly examined the outcrop. Above her, rocks projected creating a shadowy shelf. Her cloak should blend with the stones.

Shoving the straps of her bag up her arm, Isobel charged to the boulders. Her hem crammed in her belt, she scrambled over stones. She tried to listen while moving silently and succeeded in doing both poorly. Gloves protected her hands, but her worn half-boots slipped and slid, causing her knees to bang painfully against the rocks several times.

Teeth clamped, she cursed beneath her breath like a Highland whore. Mother would have apoplexy if she suspected Isobel possessed such an extensive vocabulary of profanity.

Her injured elbow protested, and rocks bit into her forearms and calves. Sweating and panting, she scooted below a crevice offering protection from above and most of the way around her.

After yanking her hood over her head, she wiped the beads of moisture from her upper lip and forehead. Her gaze fixed on the exposed side, she removed her dagger. She set the bag beside her before crouching into a ball.

The wind whistled amongst the rocks, and she shivered.

“He
canna
be far away. He left his beasty untethered.” The voice came from a few feet away.

Isobel flinched, her heart nearly leaping from her chest. Pray God, they hadn’t heard her clambering across the rocks. Ever-so-slowly, she inched her head to the right. A crack between the boulders afforded her a partial view.

Four hulking men wearing unfamiliar plaids stood clustered a mere twenty feet away.

She’d never seen such shaggy, unkempt Scots before, not even amongst the rattiest Highlanders.

Wild, tangled hair hung to their shoulders, and each sported a bushy chest-length beard and hair-matted torsos. Except for one, none wore shirts, but rather a leather vest, belted at the waist. More wooly hair covered their cudgel-like forearms and massive legs exposed by their soiled kilts.

Isobel swallowed her revulsion and concentrated on the men.

The Scot wearing a shirt scratched his chest, his keen gaze roving the area. “Must be a laddie. The saddle be too small for a man.”

Heavily armed, the men resembled the barbaric Highlanders of Grandma Ferguson’s legends of old. One held Emira’s reins.

No, devil it.

Fighting tears, Isobel leaned her forehead against a stone and prayed.

What was she to do?

The shirted man seemed to be their leader. He motioned at Emira. “Baines, ye and Kilgore take the beastie and tie it yonder, by the cave, then git yerselves into hidin’ with the others. Take yer horses. Riders approach, and Dunbar said the Farnsworth lass be with them.”

Isobel tightened her grip on the dagger.

“
Aye
, Angus.”

“
Och
, be about it then. We needs be hidden to grab the
hoor
. Dunbar and the others already be in the pines.”

Her pulse stuttering in alarm, an icy chill wracked her. She dipped to her knees, daring to peek above one of the sheltering stones. Those from the castle must be warned. She turned to scurry to the ground, but froze as the man called Angus spoke, his words drifting to her on the increasingly brisk wind.

“Kill the men. Hide their bodies in a cave. The Farnsworth wench comes to no harm, ye ken?”