Seduced by the Laird (Conquered Brides Series Book 2) (19 page)

If he was The Saint as Gregor suspected, then there was every possibility that assumption was correct.

John continued, “He has been acting odd since we arrived here, skulking around, moody, missing Mass and Lauds and Vespers. And now—he is gone.”

“And so is Sister Kirstin,” Gregor added.

“What?” Both men asked in unison, surprise registering on their faces.

“Do ye know any reason why he would take her?” Gregor asked.

John pressed his lips together, a knowing expression flashing over his face. “Aye.”

“What is it?”

“Greater than any king’s ransom is the treasure of Nèamh Abbey.”

What in bloody hell? “Treasure of Nèamh Abbey?”

John scowled, shaking his head in disappointment. “’Tis foretold within the church that the abbey protects a treasure large enough to fund an entire country, a thousand wars, for hundreds of years. That if ever it came to needing that coin, the abbey is to be summoned.”

“How could they have amassed such an amount?” Gregor asked.

John shrugged. “’Tis most likely an exaggeration, but it is not the abbey’s coin, rather the church’s. ’Tis safer on the Isle of Skye than on the mainland.”

“And ye think Sir Owen has gotten wind of it?”

“Aye. I’m certain he knows the reason we were sent to protect the Sisters.”

“Kirstin carried the treasure?”

“Nay. I’m not certain what she carried, but I believe it was instructions for Mother Frances on how to obtain it. Melrose is in danger from the English. Mother Frances summoned help and coin to pay for the Warriors of God to come and protect this sacred place.”

“If ye knew this, if Mother Frances knew this, why wasn’t Kirstin better guarded? Your man simply picked her up and left with her. No one the wiser,” Gregor asked accusingly.

“Including ye.”

A bolt of potent fury went through Gregor’s veins, so visible to all within the room, that the Bruce put a staying hand on Gregor’s fighting arm. For he spoke the truth. The blasted traitor had been with Kirstin in her chamber the whole time and he’d never noticed.

“There is no use in arguing who is at fault,” the Bruce said.

Gregor agreed, though he didn’t voice it. Mostly, he was angry at himself for not having picked up on all the clues that Kirstin laid out before him. If he had, she wouldn’t be in trouble now.

“I believe,” Gregor confessed, “Sir Owen is The Saint.”

The Bruce and John both blanched.

“The assassin?” the Bruce asked. “Right here within our walls?”

“Aye.” Thank God the bastard had not acted on any desire to kill the Bruce.

Sir John dropped to his knees. “Forgive me, my liege. I brought the greatest assassin Scotland has seen of late right into your safe-hold. He could have killed ye.”

“But he didna.” The Bruce remained stoic, though his color had paled.

“Nay, he found a treasure of greater value,” Gregor said.

“We need to find Sister Kirstin and Sir Owen afore the man hurts her and takes the church’s treasure,” the Bruce said. “Stand up. We’ve no more time for your beseeching.”

John did as he was bade. “They would be headed for the Isle of Skye.”

“Then we must organize a search party and go there. Now.” Gregor was ready to rip Owen limb from limb.

“Aye. My men will help,” John was saying.

Gregor shook his head. “How can I be sure to trust them?”

“They have been with me for years. I trust them implicitly with my life, and our greatest treasure,” John rushed.

Gregor retreated from the room, growling, “I will gather my men.”

Outside Melrose’s walls, his men looked antsy, their eyes shifting toward him as he stormed out.

“What’s happened?” Fingall asked. “Donna would not say, but I could tell something was wrong.”

There was no use withholding information from his men. Succinctly, he gave them the details. “We had a traitor among us. He has abducted Sister Kirstin and is headed for the Isle of Skye. He is considered to be very dangerous. We think he is The Saint.”

The men packed up their camp, armed themselves and mounted their horses, the Warriors of God with them. Several nuns brought out provisions, which they tucked into their saddlebags. The men rode, with Gregor in the lead, around the back of the abbey, following the disturbances in the grass by the postern gate, across the heath and into the woods. Thank the heavens Gregor had learned how to track at an early age. Those skills were going to be put to the test now. In the many Scots/English battles, and clan skirmishes he’d been in, knowing how to track had saved his and his men’s lives a hundred times over. And now Kirstin’s life hung in the balance. He couldn’t fail her.

They followed the path of hoof divots and branches cut by a blade for several miles before they came to a trickling burn. They charged through the woods at a pace that scared the deer, squirrels, rabbits and even the birds. The divots ended there, none to the left or to the right, but led straight into the water.

“He crossed here,” Gregor said.

They allowed their horses a moment to sip the water, and then they too waded into the churning depths. The tide was coming in, making the burn deeper, the water more unpredictable. About a dozen yards wide, they’d not far to wade before coming out on the other side. All of them made it across without issue. Gregor studied the ground, and determined that the tracks continued on to the west. The man was headed in the direction of Skye for certain, but taking a hidden, back trail in order to remain unseen. So far, he’d not tried to hide at all where he was headed, and that made Gregor nervous. Either Owen didn’t think they’d find him—or he didn’t care. They could all be riding straight into a trap.

Ignoring the water that dripped from them, and the setting sun which meant nightfall would soon be upon them, they urged their horses into a gallop, and headed west, the entire time, Gregor praying that Kirstin was all right, and planning the many ways in which he was going to kill Owen once he got his hands on him.

Chapter Twenty

“Wake up.” Kirstin’s blankets she’d huddled in throughout the night were jerked away and taking with it all the warmth she’d had.

There were no streaks of light around the edges of the door. ’Twas still night, or just before dawn, perhaps. She was still so exhausted it was hard to tell whether she’d slept for an hour or more. And she very well could have slept for twelve.

Kirstin scrambled to stand on wavering legs before Owen saw fit to drag her up. “Where are we going? ’Tis dark still.”

Owen made a sound of disgust, his large form vaguely obscured by the lack of light moving away from her. “Do ye think I dinna know that? The dark happens to be the reason we are leaving.”

She tried to stretch out the soreness in her muscles, but it did no good, and seeming to not move quickly enough for his liking, Owen yanked on her arm. “Gather those blankets, wench.”

Kirstin knelt, having to yank on her arm to get out of his grip in order to gather the blankets. She fumbled with them in the dark, managing to roll them neatly despite his tapping foot and the lack of light.

“Come on,” he grumbled.

She followed him through the door to where his horse was tied, already saddled. He took the blankets and tied them to the back of the saddle. The temperature had dropped considerably over the night, and even though it wasn’t freezing, the chill still prickled her skin without a blanket for protection.

Just as she’d promised herself the day before, she was going to insist on not riding like a sack of grain. Her ribs still ached from being tossed over the saddle.

Trying for meek and humble, which she hoped would please her captor, or at the very least make him see things her way, she said, “Please, can I ride sitting up, in front or behind ye? I promise to cooperate.”

Owen grunted. “Why should I care for your comfort?”

Kirstin straightened. Meek didn’t seem to be his style. Well, she was ready to go to battle on this one. She didn’t care if it ended up getting her beat by the man for it, she wasn’t going to back down. “Because I’m certain ye want me to help ye once we arrive on Skye, and if I’m to ride for two weeks like a sack of goods across your saddle, I’ll be of no help to ye.”

Owen glowered at her, the moonlight flashing on his gnashing teeth. She braced herself for his fist, but it didn’t come. “I’ve no time to argue with ye about it. If ye’re to ride astride, then ye’ll be bound.”

“Fine.” She had to give in somewhere, she knew. At least being bound wasn’t as bad as getting her ribs pummeled for hours until she passed out of consciousness. She stuck out her arms. “Here. Do it.”

Owen grumbled some more under his breath. “I’ll be the one giving orders.”

He did tie her however, then helped her up onto the saddle—touching her rear most inappropriately. Kirstin gritted her teeth, but didn’t say anything, afraid that if she did he would only change his mind about letting her sit that way.

But he didn’t immediately get on the horse behind her. Instead, he walked back into the croft, and she saw a flash of light, and then flames. He was lighting a fire. Why would he be doing that? Had he decided to make them a meal before they left? Kirstin frowned, her belly rumbling at the thought of a hot meal. With her hands bound the way they were, if the horse decided to buck or run, she’d have no way of protecting herself. Just when she was about to call out, to offer assistance with the meal, he emerged from the croft.

A small fire burned within the small house, and another in his hand. A torch. He tossed it up onto the room of the croft, flames igniting. All at once she realized he wasn’t making a meal, but something far worse.

The grin on his face as he strolled back to the horse was by far the scariest she’d seen yet.

“Why?” she asked, hope fleeting of anyone finding the half-eaten oatcake she’d left burning up in flames.

“So no one knows we were here.”

“But they will know
someone
was here.”

“Not us.” He untied his horse from the post. “Could have been the family who lives here now, run away from a blaze.”

“But the croft was abandoned.”

He ignored her, seeming to like the sound of his own voice. “Not that anyone who’s looking for us will know that the family does not exist, or at least not the last six months.”

Kirstin’s hopes fell. How would Gregor find her if there were no clues? No evidence of her being there?

Owen climbed up behind her, his thighs surrounding hers and his groin pressed to her backside.

She should have insisted on sitting behind.

“No need for ye to worry about the little breadcrumbs ye’ve been leaving, wench. By the time your lover catches up, ye’ll be of no use to me anymore, and he’ll never find ye.”

And then he was kicking his horse hard, riding at a dangerous speed for both the dark and the woods, leaving her mind still reeling.

He planned to kill her.

To bury her where no one would ever find her bones.

When her entire body started to tremble, she worked hard to keep him from noticing but he laughed menacingly, and then she was whipped in the face. All thought gone but for the sting on her forehead.

Sitting upright in front of him, she was the first to catch any low-hanging branches. They lashed against her, even as she held her bound hands up to ward off the blows. Holding her hands up, her sleeves fell to her elbows, and the branches cut into the flesh on her forearms, caught in her hood, and tugged her hair free, ripping some of it out. Fresh tears tracked heatedly over her cheeks. It would appear that no matter what place he positioned her in, she was to be tormented.

They rode at that pace until the sun started to rise, and then Owen veered through the trees to the right, stopping short where a well-trodden road cut through the heath. They’d be out in the open if he took it. Behind her, he grunted, appeared to be assessing the situation.

Lord, she prayed he would take the open road, if only to give her torn up arms a reprieve.

Her skin was bloodied, bruised, and pain ripped up and down her arms. Her forehead, too, was crusted with blood from the very first slap of a branch.

Owen grunted and kicked his horse forward onto the open road, an even faster pace than in the woods. The risk of riding the road was great, but also a blessing if he were trying to hide their tracks. So many hoof divots and wagon wheel tracks marked the road, no one would realize just what direction they’d taken—if they’d taken the road at all.

“Tell me why ye’re doing this?” she asked, grabbing hold of the pommel in front of her pelvis to keep from flying over the horse’s withers as they flew forward.

“Because, ye’re going to take me to Scorrybreac.”

She had to get more out of him than that. If she were going to die for his cause, shouldn’t she at least know why? “Aye, but what is at Scorrybreac that tempts ye?”

A low laugh, and then she felt his hips press forward, the hardness of his erection against her backside. Whatever it was at Scorrybreac that he wanted, it made him lustful. Did he want Brenna? Brenna’s daughter? Kirstin shuddered at the thought. She’d not lead him there if those were his reasons.

“I am not tempted, wench. I am driven.”

At least he was talking, even if not giving away too much yet. Didn’t an outlaw always like to share their plans with someone? Well, she was going to be that someone. “What drives ye?” she asked, growing stronger in her conviction to keep her family safe.

“Treasure.”

“Treasure?” She frowned at the road.

“Aye, the treasure of Scorrybreac. Worth a thousand time’s a king’s ransom.”

Kirstin frowned, her face draining. There was no treasure. She’d grown up there, her sister had lived there with her husband and children for the past year at least. If there was a treasure, certainly they would have shared that with her wouldn’t they? But, she didn’t want to say all that to Owen. He couldn’t know that she had any connection to the castle.

“I’ve never heard of a treasure.” She tried for reflective, but was afraid it fell very short and came out more like quarrelsome.

“That’s because your mother superior is a selfish bitch who wants to keep it all for herself. Claims it’s to help the church fund their protection. They all want to keep it up under lock and key. Well, I’m not going to let them. I’m going to take it.”

Goodness! He’d just confessed to a whole lot more than she’d ever expected, and still she wanted to know more. Had to figure out what his motivation was, his plans, else she feared she’d not be able to escape him. “What will ye do with it?”

“None of your damned business.” He pinched her thigh hard, perhaps a punishment for even asking.

Placating him, she said, “I know it isn’t, I was simply curious.” She licked her lips, threaded her fingers tightly together around the pommel. “Its just that, ye’re obviously a verra cunning fellow, else ye’d not have been able to so perfectly plan our escape.”

He grunted.

“And I was hoping ye had already made more plans.”

“Hoping, were ye?”

“Well… I’d be lying if I didna say I wished to be set free or saved, but isn’t that the truth of every captive?”

Another grunt.

“I just wanted to know if ye had the rest of your plans as well laid out.”

“I do.”

He obviously didn’t want to share them, which was fine—for the moment. At least she had gotten started somewhere. She knew he was looking for a treasure. A vast one if he truly thought it was worth a thousand king’s ransoms.

But where could it be?

Kirstin mentally went from room to room in the castle. It had been fifteen years since she’d been there, but she could not think of anything worth that much money. Even her grandfather’s claymore which had hung above the hearth, its hilt crusted in jewels, could not be worth that much, and it had probably been taken from the castle by MacLeod during their siege anyway.

Thinking out loud, she asked, “Why would the church want to keep their greatest treasure at Scorrybreac? Why not hold it themselves?”

“Ye dinna understand.” He spoke as though she were a complete imbecile, which in this instance, she certainly felt like one. “Keeping it away from the church ensures its safety.”

“They must have great faith in the lairds of Scorrybreac.”

“Or they are paid well.”

This time
she
grunted.

“Tell me of Scorrybreac.”

Instantly she was on alert. “I dinna know much about it.”

“Tell me what little ye know.”

“There is not much to tell. I know ’tis a smaller clan, once ruled by the MacLeods.”

“Once?”

“Aye.”

“And who rules there now?”

“I believe it has fallen back into the lines of the MacNeacail clan.”

“What do ye know of their laird? Is he a religious man? Do they visit your abbey?”

“I know not. They’ve not come to our abbey,” she lied. How could she tell him that Laird MacNeacail was a fifteen year old lad, and his guardian the Laird of MacKinnon? That would be her knowing too much, and letting too much be known by him.

“Interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?” she pressed, her heart racing.

His hand splayed over her chest, fingers pressing against her breasts. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from making any noise.

“I can feel your heart beating fast. Ye are either lying to me, or ye aren’t telling me something. Which is it?”

Kirstin drew in a shallow breath, trying to calm herself, her body, but her fear, her nerves, they seemed to have a mind of their own, and were not communicating with the rest of her. “I swear, I’m telling ye all I know.”

Owen chuckled menacingly, and yanked his horse off the road and around a giant bolder. He leapt down and grabbed her off the horse, dragging her on the ground, then lifting her up to pin her back against the bolder, and his body pressed along the length of hers.

“Ye think I’m stupid?” he growled.

Now that it was light she could see the way his dark eyes held a measure of the devil. Staring into them made her afraid for her soul.