Panting, she reached the scene. “There’s nay need to be belligerent,” she said, perplexed by the thunderous look on Rory’s face, though she noted the bruise around his eye was a little less black.
The dragoon captain directed a false smile at her. “Be off. We’ve no time for village folk,” he declared. “We’re here to ensure Mistress Caitlin Blair’s safety.”
Fiona glared at the soldier but, to his credit, it was Rory who explained. “This woman is nay a villager, she’s the daughter of the laird.” But then he clenched his jaw further and said, “She’ll ken where Caitlin is.”
Hands fisted on her hips, Fiona fumed. “First of all, I am the laird’s sister, nay his daughter. Secondly, Caitlin Blair is at Ardblair with ye.” That didn’t make sense. “Except ye’re here.”
Rory dismounted and stood inches away. “Ye mean to tell me Shaw Drummond is now laird, and he’s hidden my sister away?”
It wasn’t the first time Fiona had argued with a man. Over the years, she’d learned the secret to winning. Men expected women to lose their temper. Never get flustered. Keep calm and state the obvious.
However, Rory Blair was standing too close. It was difficult to gather her thoughts with the smell of leather in her nostrils and the smoldering anger in his amethyst eyes boring into her.
“We’ll discuss this inside,” she replied lamely, gesturing to the guards. “Open the gates.”
No Sign
“We’ve found no sign of her in Ardblair,” Merryweather informed Shaw.
Having aided in the search of chamber after chamber, Shaw knew the soldier spoke the truth. What’s more, he got the feeling people he questioned genuinely thought Caitlin had left the castle. “’Tis the reason Rory set off in such a huff,” Ethan told him. “He believed she’d run off with ye.”
Shaw’s fear for his bride’s safety lay like a lead weight in his gut. She’d left Ardblair, but hadn’t arrived at Drummond.
“What’s more,” Ethan insisted, “her beloved Laurel is still in the stables munching oats.”
Shaw shook his head. “Where could she go on foot?”
Ethan offered only a blank look in reply, resurrecting Shaw’s belief she was still in the castle.
“Ask her sister,” he suggested to Merryweather. “I’ll warrant she kens Caitlin’s whereabouts.”
“Ye canna interrogate the bairn,” Ethan protested. “Our laird will be furious.”
All the more reason to do it, Shaw muttered under his breath, but the major apparently saw the wisdom of the suggestion and sent for Nairn Blair.
Shaw paced while they waited. Nairn had befriended Gordon and Logan in Stirling. She seemed like a person he could trust, unless her brother had told her to lie.
The bairn arrived. In Stirling, she’d struck him as a happy, outgoing lass, but now she looked fearful and pale. He cautioned himself to temper his anger, but it surged in his throat when the maidservant holding her hand spoke first.
“I willna tolerate yer bullying my mistress,” she declared to Merryweather.
Shaw folded his arms. This was his fight, not the dragoon’s. “Ye’ll address yer comments to me, The Drummond, and ye’ll speak to me in a respectful manner.”
The maid lowered her defiant gaze. “’Tis just…”
“Moira’s worried for Caitlin and me,” Nairn said, looking him in the eye.
Shaw admired the bairn’s gumption. He hunkered down in front of her. “Aye, weel, so am I, Nairn. Ye ken Caitlin is very important to me.”
“She loves ye too,” the lass replied. “’Tis why we searched for the tunnel.”
Fearing his heart might burst, Shaw swiveled his gaze to Ethan then back to Nairn. “And did ye find it?”
She shook her head. “Nay, ’twas too scary in the cellars.”
Shaw took a deep breath. “Do ye think she went back down there?”
Nairn shrugged. “I thought she went out of doors, but maybe she came back to search the cellars again. She kent I was afraid when we went before, so she didna want me to go with her.”
Shaw straightened, his heart racing. Caitlin might lay injured in the bowels of Ardblair. “Show me the way,” he told Ethan. “I fear she’s met with an accident.”
*
Close to tears, Caitlin leaned back against the wall of the tunnel, not sure when the dirt had changed to rock. It was doubtful she could walk much further. Her feet weren’t the problem. Nor was hunger, though she’d foregone eating any more of the loaf since starting out at least two hours before. Thirst raged, made worse by the tantalizingly close sound of running water. She worried she was losing her wits. Perhaps there was no water. She was following an underground crevice, not a tunnel between the two castles. It could go on for miles and miles.
The temptation to slump to the ground and simply surrender to the dizziness was powerful. She was fated to die anyway.
“Shaw,” she cried hoarsely, closing her eyes, “I thought ye were my destiny.”
Destiny…destiny…destiny.
The word echoed down the tunnel, prompting her to open her eyes. Perhaps it was her imagination, but the water suddenly seemed closer.
She gritted her teeth. “Ye must keep the faith. Shaw and Rory are searching for ye. They’ll find ye. ’Tisna the destiny of Caitlin Blair to die in a hole.”
She bit off a chunk of the hard bread and let it sit in her mouth until it turned to mush and slid down her throat. The brief relief gave her the strength to go on.
And then, after a few more yards, there it was, a stream of water trickling down the rock wall into a huge black pool, so wide it blocked her way.
A tremor seized her. It had to be a hallucination. If she dropped to her knees to drink, the mirage would disappear, and she’d be unable to stand again, incapable of making her way back to…
Exhausted and disheartened, struggling to recall why she was in a dark cave, she sat beside the water and reached down to touch the surface. Hysterical laughter burst forth as she sucked wet fingertips into her mouth. “’Tis real,” she finally managed to rasp.
She formed a scoop with her hands, and slurped. “Cold,” she whispered between gulps.
Once she’d quenched her thirst with several handfuls, she washed her face, thankful to feel cleaner.
Wiping her hands on her skirt, she fought to steady her breathing. “Thank ye,” she whispered, suddenly awed by the grotto in which she sat. It took a while to realize she could actually see her surroundings because a faint green light glowed from somewhere out of sight. Her heart raced. Was it the same light she’d seen before or was there daylight at the end of the tunnel?
There was only one way to find out. She took off her boots, hiked up her kirtle and dipped a toe in the cold water.
In only a few steps, the water was up to her knees and her feet were numb with cold. If it got much deeper, the kirtle and plaid would weigh her down.
Discouraged, she turned around and sat beside the pool, resigned to making the trek back to the shaft. It would soon be dark, though the green light still glowed. Indeed, it seemed to be getting brighter.
She scrambled to her feet, heart beating wildly when the blurry form of a woman in a flowing green gown appeared on the far side of the pool. At least, she thought it was a woman, though the vision faded, then reappeared. And she was holding something…an animal…it looked like…
Sobbing, Caitlin picked up her boots and fled, terrified she’d completely lost her wits. The apparition was stroking the cat she and Nairn had seen in the cellars.
Fiona’s Lair
Rory was reluctant to enter Fiona Drummond’s solar, but Gaskell had agreed to follow her, leaving him with no choice. The woman bristled like a hedgehog and was twice as prickly, therefore he expected the place to be spartan.
The warm paneling on the walls came as a pleasant surprise, as did the floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting the Battle of Bannockburn. A life-sized oil portrait of a woman hung over the most massive stone fireplace
he’d ever seen. Two high-backed upholstered chairs sat in front of the peat fire. They matched the sofa shoved against the wall. Rory didn’t know much about furniture but recognized French marquetry in the armoire and chests. A twinge of jealousy niggled. The Drummonds were obviously not short of coin. It reminded him of the necessity to get his hands on Clan Blair’s ledgers. Compared to his own sparsely decorated solar, Fiona’s lair was a comfortable, nay opulent place where a mon could relax, put his feet up, and enjoy a tumbler of whisky with his wife after a hard day.
Whoa!
“What an elegant room, Lady Drummond,” Gaskell enthused, sauntering around, hands clasped behind his back. “The portrait is of your mother, I assume. I see the likeness.”
“Aye,” she replied, eyeing Rory. “I confess to being more than a wee bit proud of my solar.”
He stiffened his resolve not to say anything positive about the place, though he had to admit every piece—from the imposing cabinet inlaid with ebony to the delicate Mazarin pedestal desk—was perfect for a room where a woman relaxed. He wondered briefly why a female would require a desk, and doubted Fiona was the creative genius behind its creation.
“I designed the solar myself,” she declared, smiling too coyly at the Englishmon for Rory’s liking. She gestured to the chairs by the hearth. “Sit, if ye like.”
“After you, dear lady,” Gaskell replied.
“I’ll remain standing,” she stated.
The soldier sat, but Rory cleared his throat and declined to sit in the other chair. He found it warm enough without getting too close to the fire, and he likely didn’t smell too sweet after galloping from Ardblair. “I’d prefer to speak with the laird, nay his sister.”
Fiona rolled her eyes. “Did I nay tell ye he’s gone to yer castle?”
“Yes, you did,” Gaskell replied before Rory had a chance to tell her he didn’t believe a word she said.
“My sister must be here,” he insisted. “She isna at home.”
“Why would my brother ride to Ardblair if Caitlin was here?” she asked.
“That’s where ye claim he’s gone,” he retorted testily.
She turned to the captain. “Are ye acquainted with Major Merryweather?”
“Marcus? Yes,” Gaskell replied. “Marvelous chap.”
“He came here with a troop of soldiers. He stayed overnight and was satisfied Caitlin Blair wasna here, so he went with Shaw to Ardblair.”
“Hmm,” Gaskell said, tweaking his mustache for the umpteenth time. “I’ll wager Marcus was impressed with this solar. He’s an expert on French furniture.”
Fiona’s blush only added to Rory’s irritation. What sort of mon studied foreign furniture? “We’re supposed to be discussing my sister, not bloody furniture. And what was an English soldier doing in yer solar, pray tell, Mistress Drummond?”
Gaskell’s mouth fell open. Rory had no respect for the idiot, but he’d just insulted the captain. Plus, what did he care who Fiona Drummond entertained in her solar?
“As a matter of fact,” she replied with an irritating grin, “Marcus didna come into my solar. He and I shared a trencher in the Great Hall.” She turned to Gaskell. “Ye must join us for this evening’s meal, Captain. I assume ye and yer men will be staying at Drummond until my brother returns with Major Marcus. I’ll arrange a chamber.”
Rory seethed. Could the Sassenach not see she was playing with him, batting her eyelashes like a common whore? Marcus, indeed! No respectable Highland lass referred to an English soldier by his given name, and evidently her hospitality didn’t extend to a chieftain from a neighboring clan.
She stared at Rory. “Will ye need a chamber or do ye prefer to camp in the meadow?”
Rory inhaled deeply, tempted to give rein to his anger. She’d blatantly insulted him. As if a Highland laird would sleep with English dragoons. “I have nay intention of setting foot outside yer gates, Madam, until we’ve found my sister.”
He resolved to come up with a better response next time she baited him. It was hard to think when the annoying woman remained so calm and collected.
“Search all ye want,” she replied.
Gaskell stood. “So, we have your permission?”
Fiona nodded.
Heading for the door, Rory rolled his eyes. The mon was a wimp. “Let’s get on with it.”
*
When the men left her solar, Fiona gripped the back of her favorite chair, fearing she was in the throes of an apoplectic seizure. Her heart was racing too fast and a deafening pulse throbbed in her ears. If she let go of the chair, the lightheadedness might prove too much for her trembling knees.
It had taken an enormous amount of willpower to insult Rory Blair. He was every inch the proud Highland chieftain, standing tall and straight in his tartan trews and a woolen jacket molded to his well-muscled frame. He wasn’t the least bit disheveled despite the long ride from Ardblair.
The memory of his defiant stance caused a peculiar tingling in some very private places.
The English soldier was a nithing in comparison. She’d been tempted to yank off the ridiculous mustache he played with constantly.
Few people ever visited her sanctuary. For some reason beyond her comprehension, she’d wanted Rory to be impressed with the fine furniture and tasteful decor.
It was foolish. He was a mon. What did they care about such things? He probably hadn’t even noticed the one-of-a-kind tapestry commissioned from the Gobelins factory in Paris. However, it was of some satisfaction the mention of the handsome and well-educated Marcus Merryweather had turned Rory a little green.
Aye. She could have fun toying with Rory Blair.
Blast it! There was that tingling again.
Powerless
Torches held aloft, Shaw, Ethan and two of his men scoured the foul-smelling cellars beneath Ardblair.
The stench of stale, damp air combined with smoke from the torches made Shaw’s eyes water. He almost hoped they wouldn’t find Caitlin in this dark, dank place.
“Canna say I’ve ever been down here,” Ethan said with a hint of nervousness.
“Nor I,” the other men chimed in.
“So, ’tisna in use at all?” Shaw asked.
“We’ll come across a few glory-holes the clan used as cells centuries ago, but there havena been prisoners at Ardblair since…” He looked askance at Shaw. “Weel, since the time of the feud’s origins.”
Prickles marched up Shaw’s spine. Drummond ancestors had been incarcerated in this dreadful place. However, he’d seen the ghastly conditions in Drummond Castle where men had languished in chains. The futile cruelty of the feud struck him like a blow to the belly. No one could even recall with any proven accuracy how the feud had begun, yet it had tainted his father’s life as well as his own. “I will find ye, Caitlin,” he swore, “and together we’ll put an end to this madness.”
They came at length to a dead end—not the first they’d encountered, but this one ended in a brick wall, not stone. Shaw raised his torch. “This is approximately where the castle ends, but why is part of the wall bricked?”
Ethan shook his head, grasping Shaw’s arm when they heard a scratching sound inside a small hole at the bottom of the wall. “Rats,” he warned.
They’d seen rodent droppings throughout the cellars. Shaw sensed movement and was sure they were dealing with a creature bigger than a rat.
Pressing a finger to his lips, he motioned the others to step back. They waited in silence for long minutes, until a fat cat finally eased its body out of the hole, shook off brick dust and began to lick its fur.
“’Tis a fyking moggie,” Ethan exclaimed.
Back arched, the cat hissed before scurrying off into the darkness, its claws scraping the stone floor.
“We must break down this wall,” Shaw declared.
“Why?” Ethan asked. “The cat was just stalking rats.”
Shaw clenched his jaw. “She wouldna risk being trapped in a rat’s nest. She’d wait patiently fo
r her prey to emerge. There’s a way through, maybe to the tunnel that everyone says doesna exist.”
Ethan rubbed his whiskered chin. “If what ye say is true, Caitlin couldna get through such a tiny hole, and she isna in the cellars.”
Shaw raked back his hair, frustration humming through his body. “Weel, she has to be somewhere.”
He’d never felt so powerless.
*
Fighting for breath, Caitlin flung her boots to the ground and dropped down on all fours. Her lungs were on fire, the stitch in her side sharply painful, her bare feet lacerated. However, she’d made it back to the shaft where she’d fallen in. Somehow, that was symbolic, though she’d forgotten the reason and couldn’t stop shaking.
It was simply one more sign she was going mad. Imagining a green ghost had been the first indication, the mangy cat of the cellar the second.
Even if Shaw found her, he wouldn’t want a madwoman as his wife. She’d lost whatever allure she’d had in his eyes.
There was no point going to sleep hungry. She’d be dead by morning. She ate the last two bites of the loaf, though it was like chewing rocks.
Running had resurrected her thirst, but the pool was too far away to contemplate returning. She’d had nothing to carry water in even if she hadn’t fled in such a panic.
She slumped against the wall, drew her plaid over her trembling body and closed her eyes, too exhausted to force them open completely when a green light flickered in the shaft.
*
Apart from an ugly scene involving Brodie Drummond who threatened Rory with a fate worse than death if he set foot in his solar, the search of Drummond Castle was uneventful.
Rory got the feeling his guide truly believed Caitlin wasn’t hidden away, but Jamie Drummond was Brodie’s brother, and the mon’s constant chatter about his favorite pastime seemed designed to throw Rory off the scent.
“Nay, I canna say I ken what a fishing fly is made of,” he said absently as they emerged from the cellars, his mind still on the rusted manacles hanging from the damp walls of cells.
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