Warrior of the Highlands

Page 22

A coarse ripping of cloth filled the room like static. The sheets?
Hands clawed at her feet. She kicked, struck what she thought was a chin, then there was only air as the ground whooshed away from her. She jerked her body, trying to free herself from the men who held her, ignoring the now constant agony shrieking through her body.
Her writhing couldn't stop a strip of linen from being wadded into her mouth, wrapped around her face, cutting into her skin, and silencing her more effectively than any hand could.
It was easy work then, for the two men, to whisk her down the stairs and out the door. She watched Scrymgeour's castle recede in the shadows, the image wavering through the flood of her tears.
Stop. She needed to calm down, or suffocate on those tears.
She needed to focus. To fight. Think.
This couldn't be random violence. Seventeenth-century Scotland was rife with feuding and retributions.
Who? Yet even as the question popped into her head, she knew.
Campbell.
Men invading Scrymgeours lands in the night. Revenge aimed at a MacDonald ally, or at MacColla himself. It could only be one man.
He'd kidnapped Jean once. And now it was her being taken in the night.
They reached a copse of trees and the men dropped her feet hard to the ground. The impact jarred her, bringing with it a fresh wave of nausea. She doubled over, gulping convulsively, choking her own bile back down her throat. She tamped down the pain and tried to moderate her breathing, thinking she really would choke if she sicked up now.
The cloth in her mouth was slick, drenched with her own spit. Haley bit at it. Wrenching her chin down, her tongue pushed at the gag, trying to force it from her mouth, but it wouldn't budge.
As she caught her breath, she became aware of a stilted silence around them. The air tense with waiting.
Haley looked up and saw him. A man stood there, his eyes glued to her, fascinated.
A chill crept along her flesh. Campbell.
For a split second, she hoped that perhaps he'd been given short shrift by the history books. Perhaps Campbell had been a kind man. Maybe it was merely history's desire for a narrative, for good guys and bad guys, that had named him the villain.
Clouds drifted thick overhead, glowing gray in the night sky. But in that moment they parted, and a bright moonbeam cut through the trees, illuminating them in an eerie wash of light.
And she saw him clearly then, recognized Campbell from all those portraits. The jowly features paler in the moonlight than any drawing had ever portrayed.
Cruelty animated those features now. It was written at the corners of his eyes. Bracketed his thin, drawn lips.
She saw him and she knew.
He was every bit as evil as they'd said.
* * *
Jean shook her hand out, then banged on the door once again. It was a solid thing and even knocking as hard as she could didn' t make much of a sound. She considered kicking at it - she imagined that Haley lass would kick at it - but decided just to open it instead.
As the door swung open, she suppressed a bout of nerves. The strange woman had pinned Jean with more than one wilting glare, and despite the peace they'd seemed to reach, she wouldn't put it past Haley to come at her, claws beared and angling for a fight.
But the room was quiet. Her trepidation turned to annoyance. Was the woman still abed? She'd drank like a man, then spent the entirety of the next day in her room. Was she planning on lazing away yet another one? The attitude spoke to a certain entitlement that was new to her. Death and death alone would keep Jean in her bed for the day.
Shaking her head, she strode in, wondering what the woman's background was, that she considered the daily running of her own life - not to mention such a simple consideration as appearing for a meal - as something beneath her.
But the bed was empty.
She was gone. It was hard to imagine that she'd risen earlier than Jean that day. And even if she had, surely someone would have noted her appearance.
Confused, she wandered back into the hallway.
“What has your lovely features in such a muddle, and on such a fine morning?”
She turned to see Scrymgeour walking toward her. The man had such a pleasant countenance, always with a gentle smile and an easy manner. Even his large size felt welcoming. Rather than implying sloth, the fullness at his waist spoke to a jovial nature and a love of life that was reassuring to Jean. The sight of him brought an instant swell of relief.
“I… yes. Lord Scrymgeour, perhaps you can be of assistance.”
“Och, please Jean.” Taking her elbow, he patted her arm. “I've told you time and again. You must please call me John.”
She felt her cheeks redden, and cursed her pale skin.
Casting her eyes down, she replied, “Yes, of course, John.”
“Now you must tell me, how may I be of service?”
“She… Haley, she's gone.” She nodded to the open doorway. “I came to fetch her for the morning meal, and she's not here.”
“Well, surely you just missed each other?”
“No, I'd have seen her. She doesn't seem the sort to rise with the dawn.” Jean hadn't intended her comment to have such sass, and Scrymgeour's answering grin embarrassed her.
“Well, then.” He steered them down the hall, and the steady feel of his arm in hers warmed her. She tried not to wonder at the strangely calming effect he seemed to have on her. “Surely your brother will have some notion.”
They reached MacColla's door too quickly. Scrymgeour lifted his hand to knock, and her arm felt cool where his hand had been.
“Come,” MacColla called brusquely.
Scrymgeour opened the door, and Jean instinctively froze. The sight of her older brother never ceased to startle her . He'd yet to don his tartan, and he stood at his washbasin in just his linen shirt. Though it reached almost to his knees, it revealed the thick muscle of his legs and chest in a way that his plaid, wrapped about his waist and tossed over his shoulder, did not.
Jean braced. Though she had never once suffered his temper, she'd watched warily through their childhood as others had. Alasdair's great good humor blackened into fury, as sudden and mercurial as a Highland storm.
“You've not come to choke me again, is it?” He dashed the water from his face and gave a low laugh. The smile in his eyes was directed at his sister. “You forget, it's our brother Gillespie who likes your vile potions, not me.”
She briefly returned her brother's smile. Like a great bear he was, and God help those who'd tempt his wrath.
“Your sister bears news of our… guest,” Scrymgeour told MacColla.
Jean looked up at Scrymgeour, gathering strength. Though he'd let go her elbow, he still stood close by her side. She missed being in the care of a man. It felt good to remember how it was to have one speak for her at the most trying of times.
She looked back at MacColla. A strange look pinched his eyes, and Jean wondered if she wasn't seeing something protective flicker in her brother's gaze.
“Aye.” she said. “Her bed is cold. I'd swear she's been gone since before dawn.”
“What?” MacColla's face grew dark.
She felt Scrymgeour put his hand at the small of her back. Jean appreciated the gallant gesture, but she knew Alasdair would rather injure his own self than bring harm to his sister.
“Och,” he growled, stalking to his bedside to retrieve his plaid. He remembered their time together in the kitchen. Haley's peculiar warnings of Ireland had unsettled him. “I knew something was amiss. Did she run away?”
Jean only shrugged mutely.
He shook his head impatiently. His sister would have no idea what had become of the woman. “Aye, of course you'd not know.” He hastily wound his tartan about his waist. “What game does she play at?” he wondered aloud.
MacColla looked up at Scrymgeour. “Come, let's see her room then.”
“Aye, perhaps there's some clue.”
He stormed into the hallway, Scrymgeour's words at his back.
It was dim. There was light enough that the torches weren't lit, yet the sun had not yet reached high enough in the sky to burn off the night's cold shadows. The gray stone was cool under MacColla's bare feet. Scowling, he noted the stairway at the end of the corridor. Her room was just far enough away, just close enough to the stairs, that she could've escaped silently.
Who is she? MacColla tried to tamp down the anger he felt surging through his veins. Where could she have gone?
He'd been taken in by those pretty gray eyes. Had he missed some ulterior motive? She'd asked so many questions about James, had such unnerving insights about the king, about Ireland. What could her purpose be? Why trick him so, only to skulk away in the night?
He strode into her room and paced a quick circle around it.
“Is anything missing, then?”
“I… ” Jean hesitated.
“Not that I can see,” Scrymgeour interjected. “There's naught much for the taking.”
MacColla walked to the bedside and tore back the sheets as if he might reveal her hiding there. He tossed aside one pillow and another, and then grew utterly still. A chill ran up his back, dread filling his gut like ice.
He leaned down slowly and placed his hand on her pillow. Right beside a bloody handprint. A man-sized bloody handprint.
“God help her,” he whispered.
“What?” Jean found her voice. “Alasdair, what is it?”
“The lass didn't run.” He looked up at his sister, then to Scrymgeour. “She was taken.”
Jean's mouth opened and shut wordlessly. She knew better than any of them what that meant.
“Campbell?” Scrymgeour asked.
“Who but?” MacColla's hand we nt to the back of his neck.
An automatic gesture, reaching for the claymore that was usually strapped between his shoulders. His hand met only air, and he was instantly on his guard.
He'd not let Haley be taken by Campbell's dogs. The urge to find, to kill, to destroy the Campbell erupted anew, enraging him. Invigorating him.