Ransom

by Julie Garwood

“Isn’t it?” she asked. “What other reason could there be?”

  Lust and jealousy, Ramsey thought, but he wasn’t about to tell her the shameful truth, that her stepfather lusted after her and her own mother was jealous of her daughter’s beauty.

  “I’ve explained my reason. You will help with Michael, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “You’re a kind man, Laird,” she said. “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  Her smile was fleeting. “You really don’t lie all that well.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Nothing was ever easy. After a long and tedious conversation with Brisbane and Otis, Gillian’s head was pounding from all of their evasive answers. They were sweet, gentle men, but terribly stubborn. Though neither one of them would admit it to her, it soon became apparent that, while they knew where Christen was, they weren’t going to tell until they had spoken to her and gained her permission. Gillian tried to be patient and was finally rewarded when Otis accidentally let it slip that Christen did live on MacPherson land. Gillian’s heart leapt with joy, and she began to prod them relentlessly, but to no avail.

  So certain was Gillian that Christen would come running as soon as she heard her sister was there, she agreed to wait until the men had talked to her. She begged them to speak to Christen as soon as possible, explaining that time was running out and that she must return to England soon. She didn’t tell them why.

  Feeling edgy and frustrated after the elders took their leave, Gillian wanted to be alone for a few minutes, and so she took a walk along the stone path that meandered among the buildings of Ramsey’s holding. Reaching the top of a hill, she found a shady spot under a tree and sat down. She spread her skirts over the soft tufts of grass and then closed her eyes and cleared her mind, letting the mild, sweet breeze brush against her face. When she opened her eyes again, she took a long look around her. Ramsey’s estate was beautiful . . . and peaceful. Beneath her, the people of his clan carried on the daily routine of their lives. Soldiers sharpened their weapons, while other men bent over their tools, tilling the land for their next crop. Women sat in doorways visiting as they ground the grain for their next loaves of bread, and their children skipped nearby, playing a rambunctious game with a large smooth stone and a stick.

  For a brief moment, she was at peace too, taking in the tranquillity of the scene. But then her mind wouldn’t let her rest. It raced with all the questions she wanted to ask Christen when she saw her again. She prayed that her sister would remember her, and that her memories would be fond ones. Liese had kept Christen’s memory alive with amusing stories about the two of them. She told them over and over again so that Gillian wouldn’t forget her sister. Christen didn’t have anyone to help her remember, but Gillian hoped that, because she was older, she wouldn’t have forgotten.

  A woman’s shout pulled her from her thoughts, and Gillian turned around just as a young, fair-haired lady came running up the path. Her brow was wrinkled by distress, and Gillian soon understood the reason why, for hot on her trail was a big brute of a man with a look of determination gleaming in his eyes. On closer inspection, she realized the brute was more boy than man.

  “I’ve told you to leave me alone, Stewart, and I mean what I say. If you don’t stop pestering me, I’ll . . .”

  She stopped suddenly when she spotted Gillian. Almost immediately, she smiled and hurried forward, oblivious now to her unwanted suitor. Stewart stopped and backed away to listen.

  “Good day, milady.”

  “Good day to you,” Gillian replied.

  “My name’s Bridgid,” she said as she curtsied haphazardly. “Don’t get up,” she added. “You’re the lady from England, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “My name’s Gillian.”

  “I’ve been searching everywhere for you,” she said. “I was hoping that if you weren’t too busy, you would take a few minutes to answer my questions about England. I’m very curious about the people who live there.”

  Gillian was surprised and pleased. “I’d be happy to answer your questions, though I must confess you are the very first person I’ve met who has shown any interest at all in my country. Do you like England then?”

  “I don’t know if I do or not,” she answered with a laugh. “I’ve heard terrible stories about the English, but I’m determined to find out if they’re true or not. The men here tend to exaggerate.”

  “I can assure you without even hearing those stories that they are false. The people of England are good men and women, and I’m proud to be one of them.”

  “It’s noble of you to defend your countrymen.”

  “I’m only being honest, not noble. Tell me some of these stories and I will convince you they’re false.”

  “If the stories are exaggerations, then I’ll probably change my mind and want to see England one day, though I cannot imagine my laird would allow it. Is your country as beautiful as mine?”

  “Oh, yes,” Gillian replied. “It’s . . . different, but just as beautiful.”

  Another soldier had joined Stewart and stood beside him gawking at Bridgid and Gillian. He, too, was little more than a boy. He was tall and gangly with splotches on his face. She thought they were being terribly rude to listen in on their conversation, and she would have shooed them away but Bridgid was ignoring them, and so she decided to do the same.

  “My mother told me that husbands living in England must beat their wives every Saturday night so that their women will have done their penance before Sunday mass,” Bridgid said.

  The lie so amused Gillian she burst into laughter. “That isn’t true. Husbands in England are kind and thoughtful and wouldn’t ever harm their wives. At least most wouldn’t,” she qualified. “They’re no different than the men who live here. They hold the same values and want the same things for their families.”

  “I suspected that story was made up,” Bridgid admitted. “And now I’ll wager the story I was told about the pope was also false.”

  “What were you told?”

  “That our holy father placed an interdict on England.”

  Gillian’s shoulders slumped. “Actually, that’s true. The pope is having a disagreement with King John. It will be resolved soon.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” Bridgid replied.

  “What have you heard?”

  “That John will be excommunicated first.”

  Gillian made the sign of the cross, so atrocious was Bridgid’s prediction. “I sincerely hope not,” she whispered. “My king has enough troubles on his hands now, what with the barons rebelling.”

  “Your king makes his own troubles.”

  “But he is my king,” she gently reminded Bridgid. “And it’s my duty to be loyal to him.”

  Bridgid thought about that for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, I, too, would be loyal to my leader unless or until he did something to betray that loyalty. May I sit with you? I’ve just finished dragging my things to the castle, and I’m exhausted. Besides, I have a hundred more questions to ask you, and I promise none of them concerns your king, for I can see that topic makes you uncomfortable.”

  “Yes, please do sit with me,” Gillian said. Then she spotted Stewart running toward Bridgid. The other young man followed in his wake. “Oh, dear, the scoundrels are coming.”

  As Gillian stood up, Stewart lunged and grabbed Bridgid around her waist. She let out a yelp and tried to pry his arm away. “Let go of me, Stewart.”

  “You heard her,” Gillian ordered, determined to help. “Get away from her.”

  Stewart grinned at Gillian. “This here is between Bridgid and me. I’m wanting a kiss, that’s all, and then I’ll let her go. Maybe I’ll steal a kiss from you too. You’re as pretty on my eyes as Bridgid is.”

  “Will you get away from me? You smell like a wet dog,” Bridgid muttered.

  The young man who had joined Stewart now raced forward. “You already caught a woman. I’ll catch the other,” he boasted. “And
I’ll steal a kiss from her.”

  Stewart howled in pain as he let go of Bridgid and jumped back. Staring down at his arm, he shouted, “You bit me. You little . . .”

  Her hands on her hips, Bridgid whirled around to confront her offender. “You little what?”

  “Bitch,” he mumbled.

  Shocked by the insult, Gillian’s hand flew to her throat and she gasped, but Bridgid didn’t seem to be the least bit offended. Shaking her head, she said, “If you were not such a stupid little boy, I would immediately report you to our laird, Stewart. Now go away and leave me alone. You’re a nuisance.”

  “You’re fair game,” he told her.

  “I’m no such thing,” she scoffed.

  “Yes, you are. I saw you carrying your clothes up the hill. Your mother tossed you out on your ear, didn’t she? And you ain’t married, so that makes you fair game. I’m not a boy,” he added, scowling now. “And I mean to prove it to you. I’m getting my kiss, with or without your permission.”

  “Then I’m getting my kiss too,” the other soldier boasted, though Gillian noticed he kept swallowing loudly and glancing over his shoulder, obviously to make sure he wasn’t being overheard.

  “That boy’s name is Donal,” Bridgid said. “He’s as young and ignorant as Stewart.” She leaned into Gillian’s side and whispered, “Are you afraid? If you are, I’ll call for help.”

  “I’m not afraid. I am vexed, though. These boys need to learn some manners.”

  Bridgid grinned. “What say you we toss them down the hill?”

  The plan sounded outrageous and fun, and Gillian was sport enough to give it a try. She followed Bridgid’s lead and slowly backed up until the two of them were close to the slope.

  Donal and Stewart, grinning like lunatics, moved forward. With the crook of her finger, Bridgid bid them to keep coming.

  “Do what I do,” she whispered to Gillian, and then she ordered Stewart to turn around and close his eyes, promising him that she would give him a reward.

  As eager as puppies waiting for a meaty bone, the two boys turned.

  “Quit peeking,” she ordered. “Close your eyes tight.”

  “Are you ready?” Gillian asked Donal.

  He was vigorously nodding when she gave him a hard shove backward. Bridgid pushed Stewart at the same time. Donal went flying, but Stewart proved to be far more agile. With a shout of victory, he put his foot back to keep from falling, then whirled around to watch his friend rolling down the hill. Bridgid and Gillian seized on his inattention. Lifting their skirts, they kicked him soundly in his backside and sent him on his way.

  Unfortunately, Bridgid lost her balance in the process. She’d rolled halfway down the hill before she could stop. Her shrieks of laughter echoed through the treetops. Gillian, thinking to help, chased her, tripped on her own skirt, and ended up crashing into Bridgid.

  They were both covered in grass, dirt and leaves, but neither one of them cared. They were so overcome with laughter and making such a racket the soldiers in the fields below paused in their training exercises to look up at them. The women tried to gain control, but when they sat up and spotted Donal and Stewart running away, the sight so amused them, they became hysterical again.

  Bridgid wiped the tears away from her face. “I told you they were stupid.”

  “Yes, you did,” Gillian agreed as she staggered to her feet. She heard her blouse rip, looked down, watched her left sleeve fall to her waist, and began to laugh again.

  “Do I look as horrible as you do?” Bridgid asked.

  “You’ve got more leaves than hair on your head.”

  “Stop,” Bridgid pleaded. “I cannot laugh anymore. I’ve got a stitch in my side.”

  Gillian put her hand down for Bridgid to clasp and pulled her to her feet. Her friend was several inches taller than she was, and she had to look up at her as they walked side by side up the hill.

  “You’re limping,” Bridgid noted. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  Gillian began to laugh again. “I’ve lost my shoe.”

  Bridgid found it and handed it to her. Just as Gillian was bending down to put the slipper on, Bridgid grabbed her arm and whispered, “Dear Lord, don’t look.”

  “Don’t look where?” she asked, squinting against the sunlight at the soldiers below.

  “One of the Buchanan soldiers is watching us. Oh, heavens, I think it’s their commander. He’s standing at the top of the hill. Don’t look,” she whispered when Gillian tried to turn around. “Do you think he saw what we did?”

  Gillian pulled away from Bridgid and turned around to look. “It’s Dylan,” she said. “Come, I’ll introduce you. He’s really quite nice.”

  Bridgid took a step back. “I don’t want to meet him. He’s a Buchanan.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Well then, he can’t possibly be nice. None of them are,” she added with a nod. “But you’re from England, and so you wouldn’t know . . .”

  “Know what?”

  “That they’re . . . ruthless.”

  Gillian smiled. “Is that so?”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” Bridgid insisted. “Everyone knows they’re all brutal. How could they not be? They follow their leader’s example, and Laird Brodick Buchanan is the most frightening man alive. I know what I’m talking about,” she insisted. “I could tell you stories that would turn your hair gray. Why, I’ve known women who have burst into tears just because Laird Buchanan glanced in their direction.”

  Gillian laughed. “That’s absurd.”

  “It’s true,” Bridgid continued. “I was in the hall speaking to my laird, and he was there.”

  “And did he make you cry?”

  “No, of course not. I’m not a weakling like some of the women here. But I’ll tell you this. I couldn’t look him in the eye.”

  “I promise you, he isn’t so fierce.”

  Bridgid patted Gillian’s arm and gave her a look that suggested she thought she was terribly naïve. Then she glanced at the top of the hill again. “Oh, dear, he isn’t leaving. I think he’s waiting for us.”

  Gillian latched onto Bridgid’s arm and pulled her along, forgetting for the moment that she still held her shoe in her other hand. “I promise you that you’ll like Dylan.”

  Bridgid snorted. “I doubt that. Gillian, do listen to me. Since you’re going to be my friend, I must advise you to stay clear of all the Buchanans, especially their laird. He won’t hurt you, but he’ll scare you half to death.”

  “I don’t scare easily.”

  “I don’t either,” she said. “You just don’t understand. Take my advice and stay away from him.”

  “That’s going to be difficult.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m betrothed to the man.”

  Bridgid stumbled and would have fallen down if Gillian hadn’t held tight to her arm. Bridgid gasped, then burst into laughter. “For a minute there, I thought you were serious. Do all the people in England have your wicked sense of humor?”

  “It’s the truth,” Gillian insisted. “And I’ll prove it to you.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll put the question to Dylan, Brodick’s commander. He’ll tell you.”

  “You’re daft.”

  “You want to know something else positively shocking?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I love Brodick.”

  Bridgid’s eyes widened. “You love Laird Buchanan. Are you sure you don’t have him mixed up with someone else? All the women love Ramsey. They don’t love Brodick,” she explained authoritatively.

  “I don’t love Ramsey. I like him,” she replied. “But Brodick—”

  Bridgid interrupted her. “You cannot possibly know what you’re—”

  “Getting into?” Gillian supplied when Bridgid didn’t finish her thought. “Odd, but those were Father Laggan’s very words to me. I do know what I’m doing, though. If I’m able to accomplish a . . . task . . . in England and come back h
ere, I will marry Brodick.”

  Bridgid kept laughing. She absolutely refused to believe Gillian was serious, so outrageous was the notion that any sane woman would willingly pledge herself to such a man.

  They argued all the way up the hill. Bridgid wanted to take a wide path around Dylan, but Gillian wouldn’t let her. She made her face the commander.

  Dylan did look a little fearsome, she supposed, with his legs braced apart and his arms folded across his chest. He towered over the two of them and appeared to be angry, but Gillian knew it was all bluster.

  “Good day, Dylan,” she said. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Bridgid. Bridgid, this impressive soldier is Dylan, and he’s commander over all the Buchanan soldiers.”

  Bridgid paled. Bowing her head, she said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  Dylan didn’t say a word, but he did incline his head ever so slightly. Gillian found his arrogance delightful.

  “Lady Gillian, what happened to you?”

  “You didn’t see the men—”

  Bridgid shoved an elbow into her side. Dylan’s frown intensified. “What men?” he demanded.

  She turned to Bridgid. Her friend promptly stepped forward to answer. “The men in the fields. We saw them.”

  “Didn’t you?” Gillian asked.

  “Didn’t I what, milady?”

  “See the men . . . the men in the fields,” she stammered, trying desperately to maintain a straight face.

  “Of course I saw them,” he replied, clearly exasperated. “I see them now. I’m asking you—”

  “But that’s what we were doing,” Bridgid volunteered.

  “Yes,” Gillian agreed, nodding vigorously. A dried leaf floated down from her hair in front of her face, and she giggled. “We were watching the soldiers.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me what happened, are you?” he asked.

  A dimple appeared in her cheek, and Dylan tried not to notice how attractive it was. She was his laird’s woman, and he shouldn’t be thinking about anything but protecting her. Still, it was a point of pride that Brodick had managed to capture such a beautiful woman.

  “No, I’m not going to tell you.”