Repeating these reassurances, he returned to the hall to
join his guests in a brandy. Alyson would appear in her own sweet time.
Instead, Myra entered as the first flakes of snow drifted
past the window. By this time Dougall and Montrose had joined them, and all
five men glanced up and frowned at her unexpected appearance.
Nervously, she looked to Rory. “I need to talk to Lady
Maclean. I thought perhaps she had joined you. I apologize for intruding.”
Rory’s anxieties immediately escalated. “I thought she was
with you. Has she not returned to her room to dress for dinner?”
Myra shook her head. “I was just there. I thought her
sleeping, but the bed has not been touched.”
Dougall paled and set aside his glass. “She went out earlier
with Mary to visit one of the tenants, something about flowers, I believe. I
thought she’d returned by now. She couldn’t have gone far.”
Rory was already striding across the massive hall. “Which
tenant?”
Dougall hurried after him. “I don’t know. One who knows
about flowers, they said.”
Rory cursed and grabbed his coat. “Who knows about flowers?”
he asked Myra, who shook her head blankly.
“I’ll ask in the kitchen.” She hurried away.
“What is the meaning of this, Maclean?” Alex asked, swinging
his glass in one hand. “Is Alyson kept prisoner here, and not allowed out
without special permission?”
Dougall caught Rory’s shoulder before his fist could fly.
With contempt, Rory swung away from Alyson’s cousin to pull on his boots.
Dougall was the one to explain. “There’s a storm moving in,
and it will be dark before the half-hour is out. Alyson does not know her way
around yet, and it is easy even for those familiar with the land to be lost
when dark falls. Mary knows better than to allow her to stay this late.”
Rory knew that Mary understood the dangers of these hills
even if Alyson did not. Dougall would not have sent her otherwise. If neither
woman had returned, there was a good possibility something beyond tardiness was
at hand.
The earl observed their troubled expressions and reached his
own conclusions. “Is there anything we can do, Maclean? I’ve found the road in
the dark before. I can do it again.”
Rory nodded. “Take that way, then. There are only two
cottages between here and the river. She could not have gone farther than that.
Come back here when you are done.” He looked up as Myra joined them, leading
one of the kitchen scrub maids.
“Peg says there is someone by the name of Crandall living up
one of the hollows, who grows flowers and herbs.” Myra held the nervous child
by the shoulder as Rory’s dark gaze fell on her.
“Crandall?” He turned to Montrose. “One of our Crandalls? I
thought you told me . . .”
The older man nodded. “’Tis the younger. The cottage was
empty and in poor repair, but Drummond knows nothing of it, since it is across
the boundary. She’s been hiding there since late last summer. Her sister went
on to Glasgow, it is said. I don’t know how she survives.”
“You know where it is, then?” Rory stood and reached for his
hat.
“Not far.” Montrose hesitated, took a deep breath and
continued, “You know where this boundary meets Drummond’s along the cliff’s
edge?”
Rory stiffened.
“There is a hollow,” Montrose reminded him, “barely more
than a crevasse there. Do ye not remember it? That ancient but-and-ben built
into the hill?”
Gaining a grip on his rioting emotions, Rory jerked on his
hat and swung for the door. “You and Dougall send men out to the nearest
cottages to make certain they did not stop elsewhere. Everyone report back here
when you’re done.”
“Wait a minute, Maclean, what about me?” Hampton set his
glass aside and grabbed a coat held out by one of the servants.
Rory gave him a look of disdain. “You can go visit Drummond
and make certain she’s not found her way there.”
That put the fear in every heart that had already found its
way into Rory’s. Without looking for his gloves, Hampton hurried out the door
after his host.
***
Mary muffled a scream as the dark horseman appeared out of
the cloud, his cape blowing in the icy wind off the mountains. They had waited
late to leave, and their progress had been slow because of Alyson’s weary pace.
There would have been light enough had the cloud not descended, obscuring the
path and all familiar landmarks. Even now, she could find her way in the dark
if she must, were it not for this obstacle rising up out of the mist. Mary knew
that silhouette too well—and had reason to fear it.
Stepping in front of Alyson, she whispered hurriedly, “Go
back, milady. Hide in the broom until he is gone. He won’t see you in this
mist.”
Already the snow was falling, tiny pellets that cut like
razors against unprotected flesh. Alyson hugged her cloak closer against the
whistling wind and gazed at the apparition forming out of the snow and cold.
She had learned better than to run when fate arrived. This time, she had not
strength left for running. The wordless terror she felt nearly exceeded the
ache shooting through her spine and legs.
“What have we here? Fair maidens lost in the storm?” The
voice was filled with good humor as the man led his horse closer.
“Not lost, nearly home,” Mary spat out between clenched
teeth, keeping herself between the laird’s lady and the devil.
“I think not,” the man mused, coming closer to observe the
two women huddled against the boulders. “This is a long way from any habitation
on a night like this. I think I better escort you. It is a good thing for you I
am late returning from my ride.”
Alyson scarcely heard his words. She had no need to. She
could feel them, and they felt like the terror of her vision. She backed closer
to the rocks, wishing she could disappear into their grayness.
“There’s someone coming for us. We don’t need you.” Mary let
her cloak blow like wings away from her, concealing Alyson.
His grin appeared in his reply. “I beg to differ with you.
If I remember rightly, I have a score to settle with you. I can think of a
pleasant way of making it even. Bring your friend along. We’ll be warm, and the
night outside promises to be an unpleasant one.”
As he reached for her, Mary grasped the hilt of the
sgian dubh
hidden in her waistband. “Go
now,
milady,” she whispered.
The man dodged as Mary threw herself at him, but his shout
of anger was sufficient to send Alyson fleeing down the hillside in search of
Rory. She had no weapon and no strength. Only her fleetness of foot could save
Mary.
She had known she never had a chance, but she could not have
done otherwise. Just as she knew the child was coming, and she could not stop
it, so did she have to run, even though she knew she could gain only a few
steps.
She heard Mary’s cry as the man slammed his fist into her.
She did not turn to see Mary crumple to the ground. She could hear his
footsteps, and then her toe hit upon a rock and she slid in the already
deepening snow. As she fell, a hard arm caught her, and the evil in his
laughter filled her senses as much as the pain washing over her. Blackness descended.
The cold woke Alyson sometime later. Her toes were numb with
cold, shooting icy prickles up her leg to meet the fiery pains shooting through
her midsection. She groaned and tried to lean back to ease the ache in her
middle, but a hard obstacle prevented movement. The obstacle shifted, and she
realized the binding beneath her breasts was an arm. Fear accompanied her
discomfort as she realized her wrists were bound in front of her.
She tried to move away from the shoulder behind her head, but
the arm tightened and an impatient voice spoke. “One move, and I’ll fling you
over the cliff. My side hurts like hell, and I’m in no humor to consider your
delicate condition.”
She didn’t know the voice, but she knew to whom it had to
belong. Few men out here owned horses as immense as the one they were seated
on. Even Rory favored a sturdy pony on these hills. And no other man would have
attacked Mary and then held the laird’s wife in this blizzard. They weren’t
moving, so he must be waiting for someone or something.
With amazing clarity, Alyson realized for whom he was
waiting for and why. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Take me home, and my father
will see that you are rewarded handsomely.”
That drew a muffled laugh. “Save that for your knight-errant
coming up the path. I’m no fool.” Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, he
pushed it against her lips. “Open up like a good girl. I don’t need any screams
distracting his attention.”
Alyson resisted, clamping her teeth shut and struggling. She
tried to scream through clenched teeth, tried to warn whoever was approaching,
but the sound emerged muffled. When he finally pried her lips open, she bit his
hand and hung on with a death grip, but the cloth went down her throat and she
gagged.
His curses silenced as the hoofbeats approached. He reached
for a rifle hung beside his saddle. Alyson screamed in earnest then, attempting
to bring her bound hands to her mouth to remove the cloth. Drummond’s arm held
hers in place, and she couldn’t lift them, couldn’t scream loud enough or long
enough to reach the ears of the rider below.
In terror she watched as a horseman rounded the curve, and
Drummond raised the rifle bore to take casual aim. Surely he couldn’t aim with
any accuracy like that, she told herself wildly, struggling to overset his
grip. But as she realized their position and the direction of the road, she
knew he didn’t have to aim closely. The rocky ledge beyond would take care of
whatever the rifle missed. Hysterically, she screamed again and again as the
rider appeared out of the snow, just as in her nightmare.
The shot echoed through the howling wind. The recoil
jerked Alyson back against Drummond, but her gaze followed the lone figure
riding down the path. Through the blinding snow she could see the horse rear in
eerie silence. The rider pitched sideways, and the pair disappeared over the
edge of the cliff. Her screams died in her throat.
Without another sound, she gave herself over to the pain and
numbness. As the man behind her triumphantly sent his mount into a canter, the
pain became her only knowledge that she still lived. Her soul had gone over the
cliff with Rory.
***
Alex reined in his horse in a rare moment of indecision.
He didn’t doubt that it was madman Drummond’s weapon that had fired the shot,
but he could not see the shooter from this angle.
What he could see was the laird flying over a cliff and
disappearing into the blizzard.
He halted his horse instead of chasing after retreating
hoofbeats. If there were any chance the Maclean could be saved, he must take
it. He always knew where to find Drummond.
Cautiously he approached the rocky edge where the horse had
gone over. The hillside swept down to the coast below, but unlike in his
Cornwall home, this cliff was covered in ragged bunches of stiff gorse sprouting
from between sloping layers of rock. Man or animal caught off-balance would
tumble and crash and be dead of injuries before reaching the bottom.
Daylight had not entirely faded. If his eyes were not
deceived, the horse was standing upright, if anything could be said to stand
upright in these damned hills. That did not mean the rider had survived the
fall.
Before he could crawl over the edge, a specter staggered down
the road in his direction. Not given to superstitious fears, he still had to look
twice before recognizing the ghostly black wings as the flaps of an old cloak.
Then, remembering that Alyson had been with the tall maid, his heart lodged in
his throat.
“Milord, he’s got her, he’s got the lady. Help her, please,
help her.”
The gaunt woman caught at his arm for support, and he could
see that she was injured. “Drummond?” he inquired, as if he needed to be told.
“Aye, milord. I tried to stop him. The dirk went in, but he’s
a devil and willna die. I’ve tried to tell them, but they willna listen. You
need stakes and fires for that one. Save her, milord. Angels know nothing of
such.”
Behind the spectral maid, the horse Alex had just seen go off
the cliff now climbed over the rocky edge, led by a man he had feared to be
dead. In this damned Highland landscape, anything seemed possible.
The Maclean’s response made as much sense as anything else
that had happened. “Devils can’t touch angels, Mary. We’ll have her back, you’ll
see. Now, come along. We’ll be back to the keep now.”
The soft burr of Rory’s voice calmed the hysterical woman,
and she silently accepted his assistance into the saddle. Hampton stared at his
host as if he were the one crazed.
“You’re going back? That bastard has just ridden off with
your wife, and you’re going back to the comforts of home? I never liked you,
Maclean, but I never thought you a coward.” Alex swung onto his horse and
turned it in the direction Drummond had taken.
“Suit yourself.” Rory shrugged. “Just don’t get in the way
when my men arrive. They’ll not know you from your friend.”
Spitting expletives at this threat, Alex reared his horse
and followed the damned laird back to his keep.
His men
, indeed! Alex had been told the Highlands clung to
primitive customs, but he felt as if he had just been flung back into feudal times,
when lords called their tenants to war. He wished he had a suit of armor.
The scene in the great hall a little later was as medieval
as anything Alex could imagine. Men poured in from the blinding blizzard,
summoned by a series of signals. As they arrived, the servants passed out
torches. Outlawed swords, halberds, and hatchets were removed from the walls.
Here and there a man could be seen wrapped in his tattered
tartan. Even Rory, once his injuries had been seen to, emerged sporting the
plaid of war instead of a frock coat. Alex shuddered at the ferocity firing his
dark face.