Kidnapped by a Rogue, kindle

by Margaret Mallory

  “What is the matter with ye, Seamus?” he shouted. “’Tis me, Finn.”

  “’Tis not you I’m after, but him,” Seamus said, pointing his sword at Alex. “Step aside, Finn.”

  “I can’t do that,” Finn said. “Alex is my cousin.”

  Seamus was a big bear of a man and a seasoned warrior, but he was a scholar by nature. Finn wondered what had gotten him so riled up.

  “The Gordons owe me a blood debt,” Seamus said. “Ye ought to help me collect it instead of standing in my way.”

  “Tell me what’s happened,” Finn said, making sure he was between Seamus and Alex. “Whatever it is, Alex is an innocent.”

  “My father’s dead,” Seamus said. “Murdered!”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Your father was a good man,” Finn said, and he meant it. “But murdered? Are ye certain?”

  “A blade in the back is no accident,” Seamus said.

  “I would have to agree with ye there,” Finn said. “How did it happen?”

  “He was killed up in Thurso. Murdered by the Gunns.”

  Why would the Gunns commit such a crime? It made no sense. They were a small clan that would not benefit from Duffus’s death, at least not directly.

  “How do ye know it was the Gunns that did it?” Finn asked.

  “We caught one of them,” Seamus said. “He admitted they were bribed by the Bishop of Caithness, Andrew Stewart.”

  That was unfortunate. The culprit was a Stewart and a bishop, which meant obtaining justice would be no easy matter. But a bribe would explain why the Gunns did the killing.

  “If it was the bishop,” Finn asked, “why are ye here threatening my cousin Alex Òg?”

  “Ye know as well as I do that the bishop did it at the behest of his kinsman, that sly Gordon dog, the Earl of Sutherland,” Seamus said. “The Gordons are at the root of this conspiracy to murder my father.”

  When Seamus stumbled forward a step, Finn suspected he’d been drinking.

  “Ye don’t know the Gordons were involved,” Finn said. “And I can promise ye Alex had nothing to do with it. Did ye, Alex?”

  “Nay!” Alex called out behind him.

  “My father had a claim to the Earldom of Sutherland,” Seamus said, weaving on his feet as he waved his sword. “His father had mine murdered to make certain the Sutherland lands and title passed to him.”

  Unfortunately, that did sound like a plausible explanation.

  “Justice demands I deny that Gordon scum what he hoped to gain by this murder and kill his only son and heir,” Seamus said. “An eye for an eye!”

  “Come, Seamus, ye don’t have the stomach to kill an innocent lad who’s not even full grown,” Finn said.

  “I must avenge my father,” Seamus said, but Finn could tell he was weakening.

  “I’d hate to have to kill ye over this, but we both know I’m the better swordsman,” Finn said, and pulled out his flask. “Let’s have a drink and discuss how ye can obtain justice against the men ye know are guilty—the Gunns and the bishop.”

  When Seamus finally dropped his sword, Finn drew in a deep breath. It took an hour and all of his whisky to persuade Seamus to go to the King’s Council in Edinburgh to make his allegations against the bishop and demand justice. He’d be lucky if he persuaded the council to punish a couple of the priests who assisted the bishop, but Seamus was well suited for that kind of fight.

  And it would keep Seamus out of the reach of Finn’s uncle.

  ###

  Finn pushed aside the guards posted outside his uncle’s chamber and flung the door open.

  “I need a private word with my nephew,” his uncle said, dismissing the guards who had followed Finn inside with their swords drawn.

  “Did you and the bishop have Sutherland of Duffus murdered?” Finn demanded as soon as the guards closed the door.

  His uncle raised one eyebrow and asked in a pleasant tone, “Is he dead?”

  Finn shared what Seamus had told him of the murder.

  “I doubt the bishop was involved,” his uncle said. “But if he did undertake this vile act to protect my family’s interests, he did so without my knowledge.”

  Finn did not know whether to believe him. But one thing was certain—if his uncle was involved, no one could ever prove it.

  “While I had no part in Duffus’s murder,” his uncle said, raising his cup, “I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “Why?” Finn asked. “Duffus was an old man. In all these years, he never challenged your right to the title.”

  “He could have, so there was always a risk he would,” he said. “As I told ye before, many of these Sutherlands would prefer to have one of their own serve as their laird, and they resent how the title passed to a Gordon—though it was entirely legitimate.”

  “Entirely.” Finn did not bother to keep the sarcasm from his tone.

  “I’ll forgive that remark as well as your baseless insinuation that I was involved in this murder, because ye protected my son today,” his uncle said. “I was right to trust in your loyalty to him.”

  His uncle motioned Finn into the chair opposite and poured them both a cup of whisky. Finn drank it down. Charging in here and accusing his uncle was a mistake. Did he expect his wily uncle to confess? All he had accomplished was risking his uncle’s goodwill and his newly regained place in the clan.

  “I need to know,” his uncle said, examining him through narrowed eyes, “if this Seamus is still a threat to Alex.”

  Seamus would not live long if the earl believed he was.

  “Seamus gave me his oath that neither he nor the Sutherland men who follow him will attempt to harm Alex.”

  His uncle raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How did ye manage that?”

  “I persuaded Seamus to pursue the prosecution of the bishop instead,” Finn said. “He’s headed to Edinburgh now to petition the King’s Council.”

  “You silver-tongued devil!” His uncle threw his head back and laughed. “Seamus hasn’t a bloody chance in hell of succeeding. The bishop is a Stewart, for God’s sake.”

  “Seamus denied he made any attempt to harm Alex before today,” Finn said, after his uncle’s laughter subsided. “The broken shards in Alex’s cup at Huntly and the thorn in his horse’s hoof must have been accidents.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But if not for that, I wouldn’t have had ye here to protect Alex today.” His uncle raised his cup to him. “You’ll always have a place in my household. I’ll not forget what you’ve done and the debt I owe ye.”

  Finn should be happy. This was what he had hoped for, but his troubles with Margaret dragged his spirits down even now.

  “Helen is worried that there’s some trouble between you and your bride,” his uncle said, stopping Finn as he started to leave. “Maggie’s a good woman. Don’t let yourself lose her.”

  “I don’t deserve a good woman like her.”

  “None of us do,” his uncle said. “But ye must tell yourself you’re better than the man who’s likely to take your place.”

  With all his flaws, Finn was better than some Lowlander laird like her former husband. But Margaret had made her choice.

  She did not want him.

  CHAPTER 20

  At supper that night, his aunt embraced him and gushed over how he’d saved her son, and the men toasted him until Finn was drunk enough to decide to take his uncle’s advice to try to hold on to Margaret—and drunk enough to believe he had a good chance of succeeding.

  Alex told the story about Seamus two or three times, embellishing the tale more each time, as any good Highlander was expected to do. Then Alex told them again about the stag they were tracking when Seamus interrupted their hunt.

  “Ye should have seen the size of him!” Alex said. “Finn said we’d go back tomorrow and try to pick up his trail again.”

  “I’m sure Finn will get that stag,” Curstag said in her throaty voice. “A brave man can get what he wants.”

  Finn hoped so. Wh
en he caught Margaret darting glances at him, he smiled to himself. Now that he was the hero of the day, she just might be willing to overlook his shortcomings for another night together. One night could lead to two, and two could lead to more.

  True, things had ended badly last night—verra badly—but Margaret had a cautious nature. Perhaps she just needed time to become accustomed to the notion that they would be together.

  His thoughts came to an abrupt halt when Margaret rested her hand on his arm. As she leaned close, the light scent of wildflowers from her hair filled his nose. Lord above, he wanted to have her in his arms again, to hear her soft moans when he kissed her breast and—

  “Can ye come to our chamber after supper?” she whispered.

  “Aye, lass!” He could not help grinning like a fool. She wanted him. He could tell by the way she blushed.

  As he followed her up the stairs, he watched the graceful sway of her hips. He was sorely tempted to pull her sweet bottom against him and kiss her neck, but then he recalled how last night had ended and decided it would be wise to follow her lead. He was usually good at reading women, particularly in bed. But if Maggie had shown any sign of distress before bursting into tears last night, he’d missed it entirely—and unlike now, he’d been stone cold sober.

  When she closed the bedchamber door behind them, he leaned against the bed, folded his arms to keep from reaching for her, and waited to see what she’d do. Her delicate features were strained, suggesting she had not slept any better than he had last night. She held herself very still, revealing in tension.

  “Ye did a fine thing today,” she said. “I’m so happy neither you nor Alex was hurt.”

  Despite her complimentary words, he had an inkling this conversation might not be leading to the two of them rolling around on the bed. But that was all right. He could be patient. She was worth waiting for.

  “No need to be nervous,” he said, glancing at her clenched hands. “’Tis just me.”

  “I think it’s best I leave,” she blurted out.

  “Leave?” Finn could barely get the word out. “What in the hell do ye mean, leave?”

  “I want ye to take me to my sister Sybil’s,” Margaret said. “She’s married to the MacKenzie.”

  “Ye never told me ye had a sister with the MacKenzies,” he said, though her failure to mention that was the least of his concerns.

  “I didn’t tell ye about Sybil because she’s all the way at Eilean Donan Castle, and I knew ye couldn’t take me before.” Margaret paused and licked her lips. “But now that you’ve proved yourself and the earl is so grateful to ye for saving Alex, I thought—I hoped—ye could take me.”

  Her sister. The MacKenzie. His mind was making no sense of the words.

  “Are ye leaving me?” he asked.

  Finn told himself not to assume the worst, but when she would not meet his eyes, fear like he’d never known on the battlefield clutched at his stomach.

  “Ye can hardly call it leaving ye when we’re not truly married,” she said.

  “Ye can’t mean it,” he said, gripping her arms. “Look at me and say it.”

  When she raised her gaze to his, her brown eyes were damp, but her voice was firm. “I have to go.”

  He was suddenly sober—and wished to God he was not. How could she leave him now that he wanted her so much? He’d begun to think she actually cared for him.

  “Staying will only make us both miserable in the end,” she said.

  “Don’t speak for me,” he bit out. “But if you’re set on leaving, I’ll take ye.”

  If she thought he’d beg her to stay, she was mistaken. He’d salvage what little pride he had left. He should not be angry with her, but he was.

  He was angry that she did not think he was good enough. Angry that she was not willing to sacrifice a life of servants and fine things to be with him. Angry that she would not give him a chance to prove he could make her happy despite all he lacked.

  Her decision may be practical and wise. But it was still wrong.

  “I’d take ye right now—tonight, if I could,” he said. “But I need to speak with my uncle.”

  “Of course,” she murmured, dropping her gaze to her laced fingers.

  “I’m sure he’ll grant me leave to go,” Finn said. “I promised to hunt for that stag with Alex tomorrow. But first thing the next morning, I’ll take you—and Ella.”

  It tore at his heart to realize he was losing Ella as well, which made him all the angrier that Margaret would do this. He slammed the door as he left.

  ###

  Margaret brushed the tears from her cheeks and pulled the satchel out from underneath the bed. She hated to leave, but the longer she stayed, the harder it would be to go. Finn deserved a woman who could give him many children. He would make such a wonderful father.

  She wondered where he slept last night after storming out and slamming the door. If she stayed, she would spend countless restless nights and long, long afternoons wondering who he was with. She had no faith she could keep his interest or weather his disappointment when she failed to give him the sons that every man wanted. Leaving was the only thing she could do.

  When she heard the chamber door open, she looked over her shoulder to see Una standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips.

  “What are ye doing, lass?” Una asked in a tone that could only be called disgusted.

  “I’m packing,” Margaret said, and returned to the task.

  “What’s Finn done?” Una asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then ’tis just your own foolishness to blame?”

  “Aye.”

  “’Tis plain as day ye don’t wish to go,” Una said. “Tell me the reason you’re throwing away what ye want for what ye don’t.”

  Margaret shook her head and swallowed back her tears.

  “Put on your cloak. I’m taking ye to the spring,” Una said, and turned toward the door. “I’ll fetch Ella from her nap.”

  “Why the spring?” Margaret asked, calling Una back.

  “To see if I’m right about your future.”

  “I don’t understand.” Did the old woman think she was a seer? And what did a spring have to do with it?

  “There’s a pool fed by the spring that comes out of a faery hill,” Una said in a hushed voice, though no one could hear them.

  “A faery hill?” These Highlanders and their faeries.

  “Aye, the faeries come out of the hill to play in the water,” Una said. “If they favor ye, they’ll sprinkle their magic healing dust over ye.”

  “If we go, how will I make the faeries favor me?” After all, Margaret could not be sure there were no faeries.

  “Ach, do ye know nothing of faeries, lass?” Una shook her head.

  Margaret searched her memory for stories her old nursemaid had told her about faeries. “They like shiny things, like silver coins.”

  “Aye, though ye never really know with the faeries,” Una said, and then pointed her finger at Margaret. “Just be careful not to insult them, or instead of sprinkling their magic dust, they’ll cause ye to lose your footing in the pool and drown.”

  The old woman had been kind to her and her daughter, and this seemed important to her, so Margaret put on her cloak.

  As they started down the path along the river, Ella skipped ahead gathering flowers as usual. Seeing how happy her daughter was, Margaret felt guilty for taking her away. Ella was blossoming here, and she’d become attached to Una and Alex—and, of course, Finn.

  Ella adored Finn.

  Ella came running back, her smile gone, and lifted her arms to be carried. When Margaret looked up the path to see what had frightened her, she saw Isabel kneeling on the ground with a basket, gathering herbs. Margaret could not face the surly woman today.

  She and Una exchanged a look.

  “We’ll take the other path,” Una said under her breath, and without another word, they changed directions before Isabel saw them.

 
“Is the spring much farther?” Margaret asked when she noticed Una was leaning heavily on her cane.

  “’Tis a bit longer this way,” Una said. “This is the path to my grandson Lachlan’s cottage, but it will take us by the spring.”

  A short time later, Una ducked through the bushes beside the trail. Margaret followed, holding Ella’s hand, down a gentle slope shrouded in greenery

  “’Tis lovely!” Margaret gasped when they pushed through the last tall bushes to find the dark pool with white and pink water lilies floating on the surface.

  Margaret could imagine little winged faeries leaping from lily to lily. Whether it was truly magical or not, it was a beautiful, restful spot.

  Una placed a small silver coin on a flat rock among the reeds at the edge of the pool.

  “Do we have a gift for the faeries?” Ella looked up at Margaret expectantly.

  Una had been filling Ella’s head with stories of faeries since they met, and Margaret did not want to disappoint her. Besides, if faeries did exist, this was a place they would be—and Margaret could not afford to offend them.

  In her former life, she had more silver jewelry than she could ever wear—combs, brooches, necklaces, bracelet, rings. Even the box she kept them in was made of silver. She removed the bag of onyx from her belt, picked out two small shiny pieces, and gave one to Ella.

  “We have no silver or sparkling trinkets to give you,” Margaret called out, facing the pond. “Instead, we brought bits of magical stone imbued with a mother’s love.”

  Una gave a nod of approval as Margaret and Ella set their bits of onyx next to the coin. The old woman’s gaze darted and flicked across the pond, as if she was watching a bee fly from lily to lily or a stone a child skipped across the water.

  Ella laughed and clapped her hands, as if she saw whatever Una did.

  “The faeries are verra pleased with your gift,” Una whispered. “They grant ye permission to go into the water. ’Twould be a grave insult not to accept.”

  Margaret removed her shoes and stockings, lifted her skirts, and gingerly stepped into the edge of the pond, expecting it to be cold.

  “’Tis warm!” She’d heard of warm springs but never been in one before.