by Paula Quinn
“Which are ruled by the MacCarron laird. My father banished ye.”
He pointed the half-chewed limb at her. “The one who’s dead, ye mean?”
She clutched the blanket more tightly, unnerved by the eerie sniggers of the other men and the evil glint in his eyes. “His ruling stands, and was confirmed by the present laird.”
He tore off a chunk of meat with his teeth. “Ye’re referring to the one who’ll pass through death’s door any day now,” he said, his mouth full.
Hunger, fear and a feeling that there was more going on here than she understood combined to make her dizzy. Ailig Morley was well known for his vile temper. Arguing with him never led to a good outcome.
Someone thrust roasted meat into her bare hands. The greasy smell turned her stomach. Nevertheless, she forced herself to take a few bites.
As the hissing wood burned to embers, her eyes gradually became more accustomed to the half-light. Men drifted to shadowed recesses, but it seemed there were fewer than she’d at first thought. It was difficult to tell in the smoke-filled air. Six, maybe seven. Still too many to outrun, and the dainty weapon tucked into her hair would be useless against one man, let alone half a dozen.
She edged away as Mungo stretched out beside her, shaking her head when he patted the ground next to him.
“I’m nay likely to have my way with ye in a cave wi’ my men looking on,” he teased in his effeminate voice. “Lie down and I’ll keep ye warm. Must look after my wee wife. Important day on the morrow.”
She’d probably fall over if she tried to stay awake, so she obeyed, curling into a tight ball inside the blanket. She flinched when he laid a heavy arm across her hips.
“Just in case ye get a silly notion to run off,” he quipped.
The dying embers hissed. Men snored. Horses occasionally nickered in the clearing below. An owl hooted. Shona listened intently for any sound of rescue, afraid to pay any mind to the small voice that said it was unlikely Ewan Mackinloch would pursue a bride who’d spurned him.
*
Ewan climbed up onto the wooden trestle table and surveyed the crowd of fifty or so men who’d answered his summons to the hall. Strictly speaking, the summons had been sent via Lady Jeannie, who stood beside the table, but he saw only curious looks on their faces, not scowls of hatred.
As he raised his hand to call for silence, an amusing truth struck him. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with this clan, yet he felt a strange sense of being exactly where he was meant to be. These people didn’t realize it yet, but they needed him.
“Ye dinna ken me,” he began.
“He’s the Mackinloch come to wed our Shona,” Jeannie interrupted.
A few cursed—quietly mind you—others muttered, frowning in confusion. He supposed they wondered what had become of the man with one hand.
“Aye,” he confirmed. “But yer lady has been abducted.”
Now voices were raised in genuine anger. He shouted over them. “Mungo Morley has taken her. It’s my belief he thinks to force her into marriage so he can be laird.”
Shouts of Never! Nay! filled the air.
Then one voice was heard above the rest and the crowd parted as a tall clansman stepped forward. “I’m Walter Gilbertson. Kendric MacCarron is our laird. We dinna need a Mackinloch.”
Silence ensued.
Ewan narrowed his eyes at the man who’d spoken. He recalled seeing him in the hall sitting among those opposed to Morley. “And it’s my belief Mungo plans to kill Kendric.”
“He canna be in two places at once,” Walter countered.
Laughter.
“Nay. I suspect his brother will try to carry out the deed,” Ewan replied.
Several muttered Ailig’s name. All eyes turned to Jeannie. “Aye,” she confirmed. “He has returned, and I trust what this young Mackinloch is telling ye. The Morleys plan to take advantage of Kendric’s accident.”
Ewan seized the moment. “I need two men to go with Lady Jeannie to guard the laird’s chamber, and as many as possible to ride with me to find Shona.”
Four or five stepped forward immediately and the laird’s sister chose two.
Raised voices echoed off the rafters.
Has he taken her to Glen Nevis?
Where have they gone?
We wondered where the Morley gang had disappeared to.
Ewan raised his hand again, his heart troubled that, in truth, he had no idea where to look. “I need yer guidance. I was hoping to learn from ye where best to search for my bride.”
The reaction wasn’t what he expected. Folk stared, mouths agape, until Gilbertson broke the silence. “Are ye sure ye’re a Mackinloch?”
Jeannie stood on tiptoe and beckoned him. Perplexed, he hunkered down to listen.
“Ye’ve the makings of a good laird,” she whispered. “They’re nay used to being asked for their opinions.”
Perhaps the years of his father’s influence had rubbed off, despite his best efforts to rebel. His pride was short-lived when a disturbance drew everyone’s attention to the door. He leapt from the table to aid Moira. She struggled to support David. Both had rope bindings dangling from their wrists. The lad staggered like he’d been kicked by a horse, his ruddy complexion now ashen.
Pandemonium erupted as people swarmed around the injured pair.
“Mungo kidnapped my lady,” Moira wailed, accepting a tankard of ale from another maidservant. “He and his men bound us but we finally got free. I feared David was dead.”
David sat on a bench and accepted the ale from Moira. “Nay. But I’ve a fearsome headache.”
Ewan eyed him, but there was no time to wonder about the stammer. Moira’s declaration confirmed the plot and the crowd was clamoring for action. “Did they say where they were aiming to take her?” he asked.
“Conger’s Rock,” Moira replied. “But I’ve never heard of it.”
“I ken where it is,” Walter Gilbertson declared.
Wild Deer Chase
Surrounded by men and horses hurriedly preparing for departure, Ewan signaled when he spotted Fynn coming out of the keep with Ruadh lumbering along behind. They made their way towards him through the hubbub.
“If it’s all the same to ye, I’ll bide here,” Fynn said as Ewan was about to mount Liath. “David canna travel in his condition and I’d best keep an eye on him.”
Ewan hoisted himself into the saddle. He believed Fynn was genuinely concerned about the stammering lad, but suspected the decision had more to do with protecting Jeannie. “Aye,” he replied. “No worries. These men want to fight their own clan’s battle.”
“True enough,” Fynn agreed with a wink, “but they seem happy to have a Mackinloch lead them.” He thrust a kerchief at Ewan. “Jeannie gave me this. It belongs to Shona. Teck yon hound. He’ll know her scent.”
Ewan held the delicate piece of material to his nose, inhaling the faint aroma of lavender. He should have known from the beginning that she was the one.
He tucked the kerchief inside the padded gambeson he’d donned under his plaid and bellowed his clan’s war cry. “Loch Roigh!”
His shout was met with shocked silence, broken only by the neighing of excited horses and the wailing of over-wrought bairns.
Out of the settling dust clouds came Walter’s voice. “Aonaibh Ri Chéile.”
Ewan’s apprehension fled. Let Us Unite was indeed a more appropriate call to action and boded well for the future.
“Aonaibh Ri Chéile,” he shouted, fist thrust in the air.
He and Walter rode at the head of the MacCarrons as they embarked on their journey across the moorland.
“South,” Walter pointed. “We follow the River Lochy.”
Ruadh kept pace as the miles sped by, though he wandered off occasionally to investigate something or other. Ewan fretted over losing time when they slowed down to make sure the hound caught up. “Will we reach Conger’s Rock before nightfall?” he asked Walter, not wanting to think about Shona being force
d to spend a night with Mungo Morley. If the oaf harmed a hair on her head, he’d tear him limb from limb.
“So long as we keep this pace,” Walter replied, “and naught untoward happens.”
Ewan was relieved this stalwart warrior had decided to support his quest, but he was curious. “What changed yer mind, Walter?”
His companion eyed him, then smiled. “My son likes ye.”
“Yer son?”
“Robbie.”
So, the mystery of the boy’s father was solved. But what of the mother who insisted on good manners? He was about to ask when Ruadh suddenly galloped off across the moorland at a speed Ewan wouldn’t have thought him capable of. “He’s caught the scent,” someone shouted.
Ewan halted and turned his horse.
Walter reached for his reins. “But he’s going in the wrong direction for Conger’s Rock.”
Ewan was conflicted as he watched Ruadh disappear into the distance, still running like a hound out of hell. “Mayhap they revised their plans and met up somewhere else.”
Walter scratched his head. “Weel, if we hope to catch him we’d best start now.”
They changed direction and pursued the dog, but the going was difficult. Potholes and bogs could cause even a sure-footed animal like Liath to stumble and fall. They lost sight of Ruadh several times before picking up his trail again.
Ewan began to worry. They were traversing miles and miles of empty moorland, up hill and down dale, chasing after a dog known to enjoy a lazy life. In his experience, there was only one thing sure to get deerhounds moving the way Ruadh was, and that was…well…the scent of deer.
He cursed aloud when they finally caught sight of the hound bearing down on a big stag that was clearly laboring as it tried to make its escape uphill. Ewan suspected the dog had been hard on its heels for a good while.
“Fyke,” Walter yelled as Ruadh launched his long body onto the deer’s haunches. “Bluidy hound.”
The stag faltered and crashed to the ground, but the terrain caused deer and dog to roll downhill. Once on its feet, the enraged animal would fight for its life and likely kill or maim Ruadh with its enormous rack.
“Typical deerhound,” Ewan replied. “Naught for it now but to help him finish the deed.”
They rode as close as they dared to the tangle of hoofs and paws before dismounting. A bowman ran forward and loosed an arrow that found its mark in the stag’s throat. It grunted once then lay still. Steam rose from the carcass. Panting hard, Ruadh sat beside the dead deer—and yawned.
“He looks pleased with himself,” Ewan admitted.
“As well he should be,” Walter agreed. “That’s a magnificent animal he’s brought to ground. Ten point antlers. However, there’s nay much hope now o’ reaching Conger’s Rock afore dark.”
The Hairpin
The long ride and a night spent on cold rock took a toll on Shona. She felt stiff and sore as she supped oatmeal from a wooden bowl handed to her by one of Mungo’s men. He’d provided no spoon so she did her best to lap the stuff up. It wasn’t the best porridge she’d tasted, but its warmth brought comfort. It appeared Morley wasn’t planning on starving her to death.
Despite her abductor’s assurances, she’d lain awake all night worrying he might succumb to the male urges Jeannie had warned her about. She’d plotted a hundred ways to escape—all impossible. Now her head ached with the futility of it and her stomach was in knots. She put down the bowl and tried to stand, but the rock walls seem to close in on her. Mungo appeared and helped her up. “Eat hearty, lass,” he advised with a grin. “’Tis yer wedding day.”
The porridge rose in her throat. “I’m going to be sick,” she warned.
He hurried her out of the cave. The cool morning air brought relief as she filled her lungs, but a grey mist hung over the rock, rendering it difficult to see anything beyond. She’d heard the rain during the night; droplets still clung to bushes and the rocks were slick.
Voices from below indicated some of the men had already gone down to ready the horses. “I wish to go home, Mungo Morley,” she declared. “Yer plan will bring the wrath of the Mackinlochs down on all our heads.”
“I’m nay worried about a greybeard wi’ one hand,” he replied.
She kept the truth to herself. The less he knew, the better. Despite her disdain for the idiot, she edged closer to him when Ailig appeared out of the mist. Mungo might be daft, but his brother was evil. She had few doubts this mad scheme was his idea and began to wonder about her uncle’s accident. Last night’s cruel words about her father’s death played on her mind. Was it possible this perfidy went back further than anyone imagined?
“Take her and let’s away,” Ailig growled.
She squealed a useless protest when Mungo hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain and slid down the path. He set her on her feet near the giant rock. “Go on. Two minutes before he comes.”
Fuming and sick at heart, she edged behind the boulder and saw to her needs. The mist cleared as she emerged. Mungo led her to his horse. Just before he lifted her into the saddle, she felt for the hairpin. An involuntary sob broke forth when she realized it was gone.
As she had rightly surmised, six men rode with the Morley brothers. It confirmed her opinion the fools had no more sense than a lump of peat. Obviously, Ailig was ruled by a desire for vengeance and not by any reasonable plan to hold the lairdship of Clan MacCarron. However, if they succeeded in usurping the chieftaincy even briefly, people she loved might be killed in the confusion, and that didn’t bear thinking about. Instead she fretted about the lost hairpin, one of the few precious things of her mother’s she owned. It was preferable to dwelling on what might have been with Ewan Mackinloch.
As the morning wore on, Mungo’s boasting about his suitability to be laird turned her blood cold. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine she was gathering heather on the sunny moorland. She might even have dozed, but was startled awake when the party reined to a halt outside a small ruined church.
Mungo lifted her down from the horse. “Here we are,” he crowed.
She looked at the crumbling stone walls of the ancient church then back at him. “Are ye serious?”
But something else was wrong. It took her a moment to realize Ailig had disappeared. “Where’s yer brother?”
“An errand,” he replied. “None o’ yer concern.”
*
Ewan and his men dismounted in a clearing below Conger’s Rock. They’d ridden hard since dawn, their dispositions not improved by having spent the night out in the open in the pouring rain.
They’d left five men to butcher the deer carcass, and Ruadh seemed content to leave them to it. Ewan had woken from a fitful doze in the middle of the night to discover the hound asleep against his back.
He hated the smell of wet dog, and damp wool bothered him even more, but it would be a good while before the early morning sun dried his plaid. He supposed he should be grateful the rain had stopped.
Walter went down on one knee in the grass. “They left their horses here.”
The men fanned out to search for signs as to where their quarry had gone.
Ewan walked over to a large boulder, clenching his fists when he caught sight of a small piece of fabric caught on a thorn bush growing behind it. He reached in and pulled it free, fingering the tenuous link to Shona. “She was here,” he shouted.
Walter nodded to a narrow path. “There’s a cave up yonder. Probably where they spent the night.”
Ewan felt better knowing Shona hadn’t slept out in the rain, but… “Let’s take a look.”
They sprinted up the trail. The small opening Walter pointed out was easy to miss. They bent to crawl through and entered a large cavern. The smell of smoke and sweaty men lingered in the air, unsettling his empty belly.
Walter kicked over pieces of charred wood. “Campfire.”
Ewan gritted his teeth as he surveyed the cave, anger boiling in his blood. He didn’t want to think about
what Shona might have endured here, far from home and alone.
A wet nose nuzzled his hand. Ruadh whimpered and pawed the ground. Ewan hunkered down to see what had caught the dog’s attention. At first he saw nothing in the dim light, but then his fingers touched metal.
He traced a fingertip over the delicately enameled butterfly, then clutched the hairpin in his fist, filled with an urge to bellow out his rage against the man who’d removed the precious object from his bride’s hair.
He took the kerchief from his gambeson and held it to the dog’s nose. “This time we need ye to do it right, Ruadh. Where is she?”
He straightened and hurried after the hound when the animal bolted, praying they weren’t off on another wild deer chase.
Simpleton
Some ruins that dotted the landscape were picturesque, but the overgrown exterior of the tumbledown church had nothing to recommend it. Shona suspected it had never been a substantial building and doubted anyone had worshipped there for decades. And why would they? It was in the middle of nowhere.
It had at one time likely been the cell of an abbey. But the monks were long gone. At least she thought so until Mungo ushered her inside and a robed figure shuffled out of the shadows.
“Meet Brother Horwich,” her abductor announced.
Shona frowned, then quickly covered her nose to ward off the obnoxious stench emanating from the filthy wretch. Even Mungo stepped back. One look into the man’s vacant eyes convinced her she was dealing with a simpleton. His hair imitated a monk’s tonsure; his pate was bald, but the circular fringe of straggly grey wisps brushed his shoulders and hung like a frayed curtain over his gaunt face. His ragged robe may once have been brown, but time had faded it beyond description. A bony elbow and shoulder protruded where the fabric had rotted. A strong wind might whip it off his skeletal body entirely.
She looked around the dilapidated ruin, trying to ignore the scurrying and squeaking of what were probably rodents. There were signs of habitation—a meager blanket tossed in a corner, a stool tucked under a small, lopsided three-legged table, the fourth corner propped up on a stone from the crumbled wall. “Do ye live here, Brother Horwich?” she asked.