When the Laird Returns (20 page)

“Not enough cats,” Hamish said, without a hint of a smile on his face.

“Or too many,” Brendan said. “All that meowing and such.”

Daniel’s eyes narrowed. “You’d be better off keeping such comments to yourselves if you’ll be wanting answers to your questions.”

Once again they fell silent, but not for long.

“Why would you be buying this stuff?” Hamish asked, kicking at one of the barrels. If he overturned it, Daniel vowed, he would make Hamish sweep every last particle from the deck. With his tongue.

“And where is Alisdair?” Brendan asked.

“You mean the Earl of Sherbourne?” Daniel said, giving in to an imp of mischief as wicked as any MacRae’s.

For a moment Daniel simply savored the look of stunned surprise on the brothers’ faces before adding to it. “He’s married, you know.”

A rare day, indeed, Daniel gloated, to best the MacRae brothers.

The ground rose gradually from Gilmuir’s land bridge to a steep point far beyond the hill where Iseabal waited. To shorten the journey, Alisdair kept to the high ground, avoiding the forest. Even so, it took him nearly an hour to reach the place still marked by a plume of smoke.

Iseabal could be right, Alisdair thought. The fire could
have been started by a stroke of lightning, an accident, or any number of ways. Or it could have been caused by something less innocuous, a suspicion borne out by the sight before him.

Nestled against shale and rocks, on the opposite side of the hill from Gilmuir, was a clachan overlooking an inlet of Loch Euliss. The fields beyond looked to have once promised a plentiful harvest. A sturdy little village, with a series of small boats tied at the shoreline and nets draped among the square stone cottages.

Now, however, the homes were ablaze, the nets among them ladders of fire. The fields had been trampled, the animals slaughtered.

The air was foul with smoke and mixed with the stench of burning thatch and charred bricks. But none of the huddled villagers moved to extinguish the blaze.

Children stood beside their mothers, clutching the women’s petticoats for support, while older people clenched their hands together and stared with repugnance at the five mounted men who’d fired their homes. The able-bodied men were rounded up and held at gunpoint when they would have moved to save their homes or offer comfort to their wives.

What cottages hadn’t been put to the torch were being searched by two other men. Anything deemed worth saving was immediately pocketed or thrown over an invader’s shoulder. The rest was set afire.

Alisdair strode forward, enraged that a Scot should do this to his countrymen. The identity of the attackers wasn’t hard to ascertain, for each wore clothing he’d seen before at Fernleigh. Drummond’s men.

An old man was suddenly being whipped, pushed closer to the fire by one of the riders as if his cruelty were a game.
He fell heavily to his knees in the dirt, his white beard trailing in the ground as he begged for his life. His tormentor simply continued to whip him.

Alisdair began to run, reaching the two of them. Jerking the whip from his grasp, he threw it to the ground before hooking his hand in the man’s gun belt and pulling him from the horse. Drummond fell with a thud to the ground but immediately sprang to his hands and knees. Alisdair didn’t wait, but kicked out with his boot, his heel connecting with a pointed chin.

“Strike someone who can fight back, not a man twice your age.”

Unexpectedly, a woman emerged from the doorway of one small stone cottage, her apron aflame. He rushed to aid her, and with the help of the other villagers, pushed her down to the ground and rolled her in the dirt until the flames were extinguished.

“A good Samaritan,” a voice said.

Alisdair turned, looking up slowly. Another Drummond attacker easily controlled the reins of his horse with one hand while he leveled a pistol at Alisdair with the other.

He’d seen the man before, on his first visit to Fernleigh. A thin face like a starving Scot’s, narrowed eyes that seemed to mirror the flames behind him, and a grin that appeared almost evil in its incomparable glee. As if, he thought with a sudden premonition, the man anticipated the exact moment of Alisdair’s death.

Only an instant had passed and already it seemed a lifetime. Speech was echoing, as if they were enclosed together in a Chinese jar. A specimen of nature. Killer and victim.

Abruptly, Alisdair heard a muffled sound, then witnessed the contained flash of spark and powder. Powerless to move quickly enough, he viewed his own death, felt the instant when the bullet struck his head. The second of consciousness left to him was filled only with regret.

I
seabal remained seated atop the knoll, her arms wrapped around her knees. From time to time she would stand and look toward the place they’d seen the smoke, her sense of dread increasing with each passing hour. Telling herself that Alisdair MacRae was not a man easily bested did not seem to ease her mind.

The afternoon was advancing, the sun beginning its downward journey into night. But still there was no sign of Alisdair, only the fading tendrils of smoke curling into the air.

Perhaps the journey was farther than it had seemed. Or he was aiding in extinguishing the blaze. There was no reason, after all, to feel this fear, she told herself. She’d lived in caution so much of her life that it had become a habit.

Standing, Iseabal began to circle the knoll, her feet crushing the pine needles along the edge. The horizon was growing darker, not with smoke, but with night. The longer
she stared, her eyes smarting, the more concerned she became.

Even the silence seemed ominous. The birds were quiet, and no sound came from the underbrush, as if nature itself stilled in anticipation.

There, at Gilmuir, was the only sign of activity, as the horses from the
Molly Brown
were being led across the land bridge and into the courtyard.

He might well be there, thinking, because of the lateness of the hour, that she would have returned to Gilmuir. Or he’d sent word to her in some way and the news waited for her below.

Doubting that either had truly occurred, Iseabal nevertheless clung to both thoughts as she began the descent to Gilmuir.

Gossamer rays of fading sunlight filtered through the trees, momentarily dancing upon the leaf-strewn ground as if to illuminate the way. But night was coming to the forest, draping the trees in swags of shadow. Saplings were no longer signs of new life, but taloned wooden fingers reaching out to snare her petticoat. Branches cracked beneath her feet with each step, the scent of decaying leaves sour and pungent.

Finally she was free of the forest, into the open air. Twilight misted the air as Iseabal followed a weed-strewn path, thinking it led to the land bridge.

Instead, she found herself in the deserted village of Gilmuir. At least ten cottages still stood, their thatched roofs damaged in the intervening years, but the stonework of the walls mostly intact. As a child, she’d come here, wondering what had happened to the MacRaes. Now she knew, and this lonely spot in the glen was a testament to the courage and tenacity of those people.

Here the ghostly whispers of voices lingered in the air just as they had at Gilmuir. But not sad ones. A sighing breeze seemed to echo the lilting laughter of long-ago friends. A leaf skittering on the ground mimicked a whisper of delight from one child to the next. If spirits lived here, they were happy ones.

Alisdair.

She could almost feel him standing beside her, smiling, his eyes wearing that look of pride when speaking of his ship or his family. He stretched out his hand to her and she wanted to take it, pull his image to her, rendering it from filmy and transparent to real.

Had something happened to Alisdair? Did his spirit bid her farewell? Gently and sweetly, with a smile that came from his soul? Pushing that thought violently away, Iseabal left the village.

The land bridge was illuminated by two blazing torches on either side. Lanterns had been set on poles around various spots in the courtyard. Scanning the area, Iseabal noted that the cook had already begun a meal. The men of the
Fortitude
were erecting a few small tents, and strangers, whom she took to be the crew of the
Molly Brown
, were stacking crates on the eastern side of the promontory. Farther away, closer to the land bridge, was a rope corral where the horses had been tethered.

But there was no sign of Alisdair.

The jarring clank of metal against metal made her realize how quiet it had become. One by one, the crewmen turned to stare as she walked to Brian’s side.

“Have you seen Alisdair?” she asked, making no pretense of hiding her worry. “Is he here?” Holding her hands tightly together, she willed them not to shake.

“I haven’t seen the captain, mistress,” he said. His frown changed his face, made it oddly older. “Not since you and he left the
Fortitude
. Has something happened?”

She told him the story, willing her voice not to quaver. Brian listened without comment, then turned to study the horizon. If smoke still rose to the sky, darkness had masked all signs of it.

“We’ll find him, mistress,” he said grimly, signaling to another crewman.

Did he actually expect her to sit and wait? She left him, striding toward the horses.

“Let us go instead, mistress,” Brian said, following her.

She didn’t bother arguing with him, didn’t attempt to defend her position or obtain his agreement; she simply ducked beneath the rope, selecting the nearest horse.

The glen would be treacherous at night, with uneven earth cropped clean by the sheep, and holes in the ground that a horse couldn’t see. But Iseabal gave no thought to the animal that carried her, aware only that she must find Alisdair. Choosing a bridle and bit, she adjusted them, then led the horse out of the enclosure.

Using a fallen block of masonry as a stepping-stone, she mounted, feeling safer on the animal’s back than in an unfamiliar saddle. Turning the horse, she retrieved a lantern from its pole.

“Follow me,” she told Brian, holding the lantern at her side. That was the last thought she had for any of them. Her attention was focused ahead of her, to the place where she’d seen the smoke.

The unmistakable sound of hooves caused her to glance back. Three large and looming shadows followed her. Evidently, Brian and his companions had chosen to ride bare
back also. What they lacked in experience, she thought, Alisdair’s crew made up in determination.

Following the edge of the forest, the line of trees a guide, they turned southward, then west again. A longer journey than Alisdair might have made, since they couldn’t cut through the thick trees. The earth began to rise beneath them as they rode, the terrain becoming more hilly. All of a sudden the stench of burning was in the air, and Iseabal knew they were close.

Her stomach tightened, one hand gripping the reins tensely, the other holding the lantern with such fierce possessiveness that the iron handle felt embedded in her palm. Fear was an icy feeling, leaving her cold and trembling.

She had never traveled this far before, Gilmuir marking the boundaries of her secret rebellions. Her skirts were bunched up in front of her as she rode astride, her ankles exposed, and her hair flowing behind her as if she were a maiden and not a married and chaste woman. Modesty, however, didn’t concern her, the only thought in her mind to find Alisdair.

The horse’s hooves on the rocky ground sounded like his name.
Alisdair. Alisdair. Alisdair.
An entreaty echoing through the empty glen until it was swallowed up by the forests.

There, on the slope of a hill, protected by an outcropping of stone, was a small clachan. Like lumps of still smoldering coal, the cottages glowed from within, their stone walls blackened. In the center of the village stood a clump of people, only dark shadows themselves, the only clue to their humanity an occasional faint sob.

Riding to the edge of the trees, Iseabal hung the lantern on a branch before dismounting. Her knees sagged beneath her,
but she forced herself to pick up the lantern again and walk the distance to the crofters’ huts.

Behind her, the three men from the
Fortitude
also dismounted, following her wordlessly, their silence a gesture of support.

“I’m looking for Alisdair MacRae,” she said as the shadowy forms turned. She held up the lantern so that they could see her, and to better view them.

Soot marred their faces and hands, darkening the front of their clothing. They were all old, people for whom death waited with an outstretched hand. The elderly should be cherished for their wisdom, venerated for their age, not left without homes.

The question of what had happened here was second to her desperate need.

“Have you seen him?”

An old woman studied her for a moment. “There was a man here,” she said faintly. “A stranger come to our aid, for all the good it did him.”

“What became of him?” Iseabal asked, her palm flattening across her stomach. The lantern sputtered and popped as she waited. Instead of answering, however, the old woman looked confused.

“I don’t know,” she said uncertainly. “There were so many men around. I don’t know what happened to him.” Her eyes veered to one hut. Emerging from the doorway was a body, half consumed by the fire.

Slowly, each step measured by a ponderous beat of her heart, Iseabal neared the cottage, holding the lantern aloft. The only people she’d seen dead had been prepared for their lykewake, washed and readied for their burial in simple ritual.

The lantern jiggled in the wind until Iseabal realized it did
so because she was shaking so badly. Forcing herself to look down, she studied the form. Long legs, half buried beneath rubble. But they weren’t his boots, she noticed suddenly, feeling almost faint with relief. This poor man wore shoes so worn that the soles were nearly bare.

Turning away, she called out to the others. “Did anyone see what happened to the stranger?”

“They shot him,” a quavery voice replied.

Her stomach calmed in the instant Iseabal stared at the old man. The breeze ceased to blow and the world might well have turned entirely dark. She could not look away from the sight of him slowly stroking his white beard, nor could she speak. Words had blackened in her throat until Iseabal tasted soot when she swallowed.

“They carried him off,” another man said, stepping forward. “With the others. The able-bodied men and the women and children. They wouldn’t have bothered if he were dead. Dead slaves don’t fetch much coin.”

“Slaves?” Iseabal asked faintly. She was beginning to tremble all over, as if the breeze were chilled instead of being as warm and as soft as a lover’s breath. Inside, however, the cold mounted until Iseabal felt brittle with it.

“The glens have been emptying for months now,” the first man said. “The Highlands are being stripped of its people. Whole villages disappear and in their place are sheep.”

“We should be grateful to be old,” the second man interjected. “We’re supposed to die here.”

“They carried him off,” she repeated, the ringing sound in her ears making Iseabal feel if she were speaking beneath water. Perhaps she was drowning in grief. “Where would they take him?”

“We don’t know,” the old man said, shaking his head slowly. “There is no one left to tell the tale.” He looked around him, then turned back to her. “Except for the aged, and half of them so confused they cannot be certain.

“He was shot, that’s all I do know,” he said, glancing at another man, who reluctantly nodded in agreement.

“We should go back to Gilmuir, mistress,” Brian was saying. “We’ll send riders out to see where they might have taken the captain.”

Iseabal said nothing, moving her horse to a fallen trunk and mounting. She left the lantern behind, feeling part of the darkness, a shadow as dim as the one now veiling the moon.

She turned her horse, wishing the mount were one familiar to her. But Iseabal could find the way well enough back to Gilmuir and on to Fernleigh.

“Where are you going, mistress?” Brian asked, calling up to her.

Staring down at him, Iseabal willed the words to come. “To find my husband,” she said.

“We’ll come with you.” Raising his hand, he signaled the others.

“Go back to the ship,” she said curtly. “See these people to Gilmuir,” she ordered, glancing away from him and addressing the villagers. “We will see you fed and given shelter,” she promised.

“And who, exactly, would you be?” the old man asked, his wrinkled face twisting into a suspicious scowl.

Instead of answering him, Iseabal positioned her mount toward Fernleigh and her father.

“Pick him up,” Thomas Drummond said, pointing to two men with the barrel of his gun.

Glancing down at the fallen man between them, one of the prisoners spoke. “He’s a heavy brute.”

“Pick him up,” Thomas said again. “You’ve carried him this far, you can finish the job.”

The two men each hooked a hand beneath the MacRae’s arms, pulling him along, his head lolling, his feet dragging in the dirt behind him. Either the journey to the ship would kill the MacRae, Thomas thought, or he would survive long enough so that Drummond was paid for his worth as an indentured servant. Either way, the MacRae would be gone from Gilmuir permanently.

Thomas had long ago surmised that his fortune lay not in what he could do, but for whom he could do it. Times were hard in the Highlands, and even more difficult for a man who wished to make a name for himself. There were no wars to fight, nothing to raid in this poor stretch of country. He owned no property, and no wealthy widow had yet agreed to wed him. Therefore, he had settled for aligning himself with his cousin Magnus. In serving him, Thomas reasoned, at least he was seen as an important person.

Any man who could kill without thought of punishment was powerful.

He rode ahead, following the line of villagers. By dawn they’d make the port of Cormech and would be loaded aboard ship.

As was his custom, he’d left the old behind, huddled near their burned-out huts. He wouldn’t fetch a coin transporting them from Scotland. In fact, the ship’s captain might well charge him for their fare.

The infirm would die, and the aged would age further still.
But that was the way of nature itself, and he only mimicked God in his actions. If the old ones learned to live in the open, like animals, they would soon become accustomed to it. Become stronger, Thomas reasoned, thinking that they might even be thankful for their trial.

Smiling, he rode to the head of the line.