“’Tis past time for my father to face the truth,” she told Boyd as they made their way to the sickroom. “We should have told him before.”
He nodded his agreement.
Fanny came to her feet as soon as they entered the chamber. “Any news?”
If Isabel paused in her mission, she would collapse into her cousin’s arms and weep. Instead she kept her gaze on her father, relieved he was awake and sitting up in bed. She prayed she would be able to hold on to her courage and not shake him until he saw the truth.
“News of what?” Rory asked.
His confusion indicated Fanny had said nothing, for which she was glad. This was her responsibility. “My husband is missing,” she said sternly.
He shrugged. “Men come and go as they please, lassie, husbands included.”
She fisted her hands, glad of the pain as fingernails dug into the flesh of her palm. “He has been abducted,” she asserted.
“In my castle? Nonsense. Who would do such a thing?”
She paused to make sure he was paying attention. “Ghalla.”
He snorted. “My wife? Ye’re mad. She’s missing as weel.”
“She left the castle when it became obvious her plans for ye were doomed to failure.”
He snarled. “Plans for me? She has been nothing but a kind and loving companion.”
“She insisted on being the only one to tend yer wound because she wanted ye dead.”
“I’ll nay listen to these accusations,” he shouted, swiveling his legs over the side of the bed with surprising speed, and holding out his hand to Boyd. “Help me,” he commanded.
“Nay,” his brother-by-marriage replied. “Isabel speaks the truth. Ye’re missing an arm thanks to the tainted salve she applied to yer arm.”
Rory glowered at those gathered around him, one after the other. “Why would she want me dead?”
“So Tremaine will become chief,” Fanny replied. “She drugged ye to the point ye even agreed to the twit succeeding ye.”
For the first time, Rory seemed to falter as a frown wrinkled his brow. “I did?”
Isabel sat beside her father, hoping he’d recovered enough of his wits to understand what she was about to tell him. “’Twas Ghalla caused the misunderstanding about the wedding. The documents she sent to Dun Scaith were not the same ones ye signed. Darroch MacKeegan was waiting for me in Sleat.”
Rory absently stroked the bandages of his amputated arm. “Drugged, ye said?”
“Opium,” Fanny replied. “Probably from the first day she arrived and fussed o’er ye.”
He stared at her. “I thought she cared.”
“She took advantage of our grief, Dadaidh,” Isabel said, wanting to ease the desolation in her father’s gaze.
“I actually agreed Tremaine would become chief?” he asked.
“Aye, but that right belongs to yer flesh and blood,” Isabel replied, barely able to hear her own voice over the thudding of her heart, and deeming it wiser not to mention Ian at this point. “’Tis why they’ve taken Darroch and Kyla.”
Rory raised his eyebrows. “They’ve kidnapped the bonnie lass who asked about the Faerie Flag?”
Isabel’s sobs refused to be held back any longer.
“So ye must ken where they might have taken them,” Fanny snarled.
Rory sank back against the bolster. “There’s a grotto.”
An urge to scream seized Isabel. “Our secret grotto? The one only ye and Mamaidh and me knew about?”
Tears welled in her father’s eyes as he reached for her hand. “Forgive me, Daughter,” he rasped. “I’m a foolish auld mon.”
*
DARROCH AWOKE IN a cave. Of that he was certain. Other things seemed less clear, possibly due to the headache boring into his temples, the vile taste in his mouth and the heavy weight on his chest.
He was obviously in some difficulty, yet wanted to laugh hysterically. The rocky walls spun around him, as if he’d drunk too much whisky. But opening his eyes didn’t solve the problem. “That ush…usu…usly does the trick,” he muttered, feeling like his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. And why was the person crawling on him patting his face?
“Dadaidh,” a voice whispered close to his ear.
Kyla? Nay, canna be. She doesna speak to me.
“Dadaidh.”
Louder, more insistent.
He opened one eye. Red curls. He laughed. Kyla had spoken his name. He reached to tussle her hair, but his hands seemed to be tied together and fastened to the wall.
What the fyke?
“Ye mustna swear, Dadaidh,” Kyla said.
He was in heaven. His daughter had spoken to him. “Sleep,” he mumbled, frustrated he couldn’t hug her with his wrists bound.
He feared his eyeballs might fall out when she grasped hold of his shirt and shook him. “Nay. Ye slept all night. Maine will come back soon with more of the poison that made ye sleep.”
Something about the name seemed familiar. It settled in his confused brain he’d been drugged. “Poison?”
She wrinkled her nose and made a choking sound. “Black.”
Fear stopped his heart. “Did he make ye drink any?”
“Nay.”
The uncontrollable urge to laugh suddenly turned to an overwhelming need to cry. He inhaled deeply, struggling to keep a grip on his befuddled wits. The dizziness worsened when he tried to rise but got only as far as steadying himself on all fours, staring at the rocky ground. “Do ye ken where we are?” he asked.
“After whacking ye, Maine lifted ye onto his horse like a sack o’ grain. He kept cursing that ye were too heavy and the horse wouldna obey. I kicked at his shins. Till he slapped me.”
In a flash of blinding clarity, Darroch now knew who Maine was. “Tremaine Nellis will die for striking my brave little lass,” he managed, holding onto the damp wall as he got to his feet. Another vague memory tickled. “He’s afraid of horses,” he rasped.
“Dogs too,” she replied. “Boo hates him.”
Being tied across the back of a horse would explain his sore ribs. “Then he brought us here?”
“Aye. A hill behind the castle. He cursed and swore so much about how steep the trail was, I think he forgot about me. ’Twas hard, but I followed.”
Pride swelled. Given the opportunity to flee, she’d stayed by his side through what must have been a long and terrifying night for her.
He had to clear his head, devise a means of escape before Tremaine returned, possibly with his evil mother.
The echo of boot heels and a whining voice scolding a horse told him he’d waited too long. Summoning the last of his strength, he opened his mouth to tell his daughter to stay behind him, but she was suddenly nowhere to be seen.
The Warrior
DARROCH BRACED HIS legs and leaned back against the rough wall of the cave. He tugged at the rope binding him but it seemed to be tied to a metal ring embedded in the wall. A twinge at his elbow put paid to pulling too hard.
He was woefully aware that he’d fall flat on his face if he attempted to defend himself against the beak-nosed miscreant who moved gingerly towards him.
He searched the shadows for any sign of Kyla but, thankfully, she had managed to conceal herself. He hoped the courageous lass wouldn’t be a witness to her father’s demise.
Tremaine’s eyes darted cautiously here and there, but he didn’t seem surprised Darroch was alone. Perhaps, he’d been unaware the bairn had trailed them to the cave.
He risked a taunt. “I’m surprised ye came without yer mother.”
Tremaine halted a few feet away and brandished a small vial made of dark glass. “I dinna need her help. Besides, she’s got more important things to tend to in the castle.”
Darroch’s gut tightened. Ghalla intended to finish off Rory MacRain. How she thought to accomplish that with so many people surrounding the chief was a mystery, but he’d already underestimated the woman.
Still feeling the aftereffects of the opioid, he resolved t
o do what he could to avoid taking another swig. “Ye had to knock me out last time. What makes ye think I’ll take yon drug willingly?”
Tremaine chewed his bottom lip, as if just now realizing the difficulty he faced. “’Tis important ye keep drinking the opium,” he said, as if talking to a bairn, “then ye’ll be useless to yer wife.”
“That’s yer mother’s plan, is it?” Darroch sneered, disgusted he’d allowed himself to be captured by such a brainless nincompoop.
“Aye,” Tremaine replied. “And if ye refuse…er…yer son will suffer. He’s my prisoner.”
At that precise moment, Darroch caught sight of his daughter near the opening of the cave. Tempted to laugh out loud in the moron’s face, he clenched his jaw lest he distract her aim with the loaded sling.
The missile caught Tremaine on the temple as he turned towards the whirring sound. He dropped like a stone at Darroch’s feet. Black liquid oozed out of the fractured vial still held firm in his grip.
“Ye’re a marvel, lass,” Darroch rasped as his daughter ran towards him. “Get his dagger and cut me free.”
Leaning back on the wall, he used his feet to help her roll Tremaine over, chuckling when she planted her foot on his chest like a true pirate and yanked the blade from its sheath.
“Remind me one night at bedtime to tell ye the ancient tale of David and Goliath,” he said hoarsely as she sawed through his bindings.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
Even in his lingering stupor, it occurred to him that taking a life might not sit well on a young girl’s conscience. He’d killed men in battle and knew the toll it took. “Nay, just wounded. And he’ll have a fearsome headache when he wakens.”
She smiled briefly then continued her task.
Once he was free, he took his daughter’s hand and staggered to the entrance, still feeling lightheaded.
He inhaled the fresh air deeply, taken completely off guard when a sobbing Tremaine bolted out of the cave and shoved them both hard.
Darroch lost what little balance he had and narrowly missed falling on his daughter. He struggled to his feet and scooped up his little lass, alarmed to see blood oozing from a gash on her forehead.
Tremaine ran to his horse, mounted after two unsuccessful attempts, rode off down the steep incline and disappeared into the trees.
*
ISABEL AND BOYD rode at the head of a small army of clansmen until it became evident they’d make better progress on foot. They dismounted, tethered the horses and continued the climb. The sun was fully up now, though they’d set off as soon as the first grey streaks of dawn painted the sky.
Scaling the challenging terrain seemed more difficult than when she was a child. Her hips ached and she was out of breath as she grasped branches as handholds; however, the trews she’d insisted Coira find for her made the task a little easier. She didn’t care that Uncle Boyd and her father had protested her appearance. Darroch’s life was in jeopardy. It was no time to be wearing a skirt. Fanny had supported her decision wholeheartedly.
She paused for breath, irritated every male soon outpaced her. Suddenly, shouts of warning filled the air as men leapt aside. A horse came barreling out of the trees down the narrow trail. Heart racing, she launched herself into the prickly gorse. Only a lunatic would ride at breakneck speed down such a slope. Seconds later, a chilling scream sent gooseflesh marching across her nape. A horse whinnied in distress. Uncle Boyd and some of his men hurried down the slope to see what had happened.
Frantic, she carried on up the hill, praying she would find her husband and child still alive.
“’Tis Tremaine,” her uncle shouted from below. “Horse threw him. Broke his neck.”
Feeling somewhat dizzy, she was tempted to reply that it seemed fitting the youth who was afraid of horses should die in such a manner. But her throat was too dry and she needed every drop of saliva to yell her husband’s name. “Darr—och.”
“Up here,” came the hoarse reply. “Hurry, Kyla’s hurt.”
*
DARROCH SWAYED UNSTEADILY as he lifted his daughter.
“Ye dinna need to carry me,” she protested. “’Tis only a scratch.”
Fearing he might cause them both to topple down the hill if he persisted, he set her upright and dabbed the blood off her forehead with his plaid.
“Do ye think ’twill leave a scar?” she asked, sounding too hopeful.
“Mayhap,” he allowed.
“I canna recall,” she said. “Did Cú Chulainn have scars? They say all warriors have scars.”
He chuckled. “Ye’re a warrior right enough, with or without scars.”
Just then, Isabel staggered out of the bushes. Her hair was a spiky mess of leaves and twigs. She gulped air, her red face scratched and smeared with dirt and tears. And she was wearing trews tucked into the boots he loved so much. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight in his life.
She rushed into his arms and buried her face against his chest. “I thought I’d lost ye both,” she sobbed.
Kyla wrapped her arms around his wife’s thigh and looked up at them. “I saved him for ye, Bel,” she said.
He swallowed the lump in his throat as Isabel stooped to pick up his bairn and hug her tightly. “’Tis true. She knocked Tremaine out with her sling.”
Boyd entered the clearing and shook Darroch’s hand. “I’m relieved to see ye,” he panted. “The fool broke his neck, but there’s no sign of his mother.”
Eyes wide with alarm, Kyla cupped Isabel’s face in her hands. “She’s gone after yer father.”
The fog lifted from Darroch’s brain. “She’s right. Ghalla knew ye’d all come to our rescue, leaving Rory unprotected. Tremaine bragged about it.”
The Fiery Depths
THE DESCENT WAS a nightmare. They were all acutely aware of the urgency, but it was evident from the way Darroch slowly picked his way down the path that he’d been drugged. It touched Isabel’s heart that Kyla insisted she help guide him.
When they reached the ledge where they’d left the horses, her husband suggested she take Storm’s reins. He mounted behind her. A man who acknowledged his weakness and deferred to his wife was a rare find; his trust bolstered her courage.
Kyla seemed content to sit on Uncle Boyd’s lap, regaling him with an account of what had happened in the cave.
They were forced by the thickly wooded terrain to take their time, even on horseback, but the warmth of Darroch’s arms around her waist calmed some of Isabel’s anxiety for her father.
He slid from the horse once they reached the bailey. “I’m feeling a tad better,” he said, reaching up to help her dismount.
She gripped his broad shoulders as he lifted her. “I felt better the moment I set eyes on ye outside the grotto.”
Coira rushed out to greet them. “Saints be praised ye’ve returned. The Nellis woman is here,” she shrieked.
Her words confirmed Isabel’s fears.
They hurried to the door of the keep, followed closely by Boyd and Kyla who ignored suggestions she remain with Coira, and there was no time to argue. The Great Hall was empty, save for a few servants tidying up who stopped to gawk. “No point asking,” Isabel said, keeping up the pace. “I ken where she’s headed.”
But they came to an abrupt halt when raised voices caught their attention as they exited the hall.
“Ye might kill me,” they heard Fanny hiss, “but ye’ll nay murder Rory.”
“He’s already a dead mon,” the witch replied.
Darroch put a finger to his lips and motioned them to stay out of sight of the winding stone staircase. He peered around the corner then quickly turned back. “Ghalla has a dagger. She’s forcing Fanny backwards to the top of the steps.”
Isabel gasped. “We must do something.”
*
“STAY HERE,” DARROCH rasped to his wife before stepping out from hiding to walk slowly to the bottom of the stone staircase. He had to make sure Ghalla saw him, but didn’t want to provoke
her into doing something rash since he still felt lightheaded.
He’d only ever seen Rory’s wife with her hair swept up in tight braids. Now, she put him in mind of the fabled Medusa, a nest of black snakes writhing atop her head. Her gown was disheveled, torn and soiled. She’d evidently been living rough, and it hadn’t improved her snarling disposition. But the sallow tinge to the skin of her fat face suggested an acquaintance with opium beyond just dispensing it.
Fanny gripped the balustrade, her back to Darroch, but he would guess she was refusing to give Ghalla the satisfaction of showing fear, especially since the canny islander was aware of what he had also seen. Rory appeared in the doorway of his chamber behind Ghalla and leaned heavily against the frame.
“Ye canna escape,” Darroch said softly, one foot on the bottom step, worried that he’d be hard pressed to help Fanny if she fell.
Ghalla waved the dagger in Fanny’s face but her attention was on Darroch. “Dinna come closer lest I cut off the meddling witch’s nose afore I dispatch her to Hell.”
“’Tis ye bound for the fiery depths,” Fanny shouted in reply. “Poisoning yer husband.”
Rory swayed and opened his mouth but, to Darroch’s relief, said nothing.
“Pah,” Ghalla retorted. “Do ye think he’s the only one? ’Twas easy to persuade poor Eileen to take a potion to ease her pain, and then a simple matter to convince the grieving fool he was too auld to sire a bairn and his dead wife had lain with another.”
Boot heels clicking on stone behind Darroch indicated Isabel had followed him. “Ye murdered my mother?” she shrieked.
The color drained from Rory’s face.
Darroch gently took hold of his wife’s waist as she tried to rush up the steps. “We’re dealing with a madwoman here,” he whispered. “Stay calm.”
Ghalla pointed her dagger at Isabel. “Eileen’s spawn will ne’er succeed to the chieftaincy o’ this clan.”
Fanny sidled away from the steps and closer to safety.
“Ian will be chief o’ the MacRains,” Isabel shouted.
“Nay,” Ghalla smirked. “Tremaine will be chief. I’ve planned it thus.”
Darroch took a chance that dire tidings would distract her. “Yer son is dead.”
Reckless Scotland: A Scottish Medieval Romance Bundle Page 65