Hunting for a Highlander (Highland Brides)

by Lynsay Sands

  “Damn woman! Ye’re as useless dead as ye were alive. Killing ye was the smartest thing I ever did!” Brodie snarled with frustration.

  “Oh dear,” Father Machar breathed behind her and Dwyn supposed it was at the realization that the man had killed his wife.

  “Oh, leave off, woman!” Brodie barked suddenly. “I shall have to think on this. There must be someone in the area who kens about such things. I will find out.”

  He didn’t even look toward Dwyn and Father Machar then, but simply stormed out of the tent.

  “Lady Buchanan?” Father Machar murmured, his voice shaky.

  “Aye, Father?” Dwyn asked, returning to trying to undo his bindings.

  “I do believe ye may be correct. Laird Brodie is quite mad.”

  “Aye, Father,” Dwyn breathed, and then sighed with exasperation and started to scoot away from him.

  “What are ye doing, lass?” he asked, craning his neck around to try to see her.

  “I am going to try to get me hands in front o’ me,” she muttered, and then shifted up to her knees and slid her bound hands under her butt and then forward as she dropped back so that they rested in front of her bottom beneath her upper thighs. Dwyn then shifted her feet so that her bottom was on the floor and her knees were raised with her feet planted on the ground. Pressing her chest as tight to the raised tops of her legs as she could, she squeezed her feet back to press against her butt and slid her hands under her feet until she could push them in front of her feet. It was a bit tight thanks to her overlarge chest, but she managed it, and expelled a relieved breath when her wrists were now in front of her and she could relax.

  “My,” Father Machar breathed. “That was clever. Do ye think I could do it?”

  Dwyn glanced toward the aging prelate and smiled faintly. “Ye can try if ye like, Father, but hopefully I’ll be able to get free now and then will free you too.”

  She turned her attention to the ropes around her wrists, picking out which cord to start with and then raised her wrists to her mouth, bit into the cord and began to tug. Dwyn was aware that Father Machar had pushed himself to his knees and was trying to do what she had done, but didn’t look over to see how he was making out. Instead, she concentrated on her ropes. It occurred to her halfway through that she could have simply untied the priest and let him untie her, but she was so close to being done by that point that there seemed little sense in stopping to do it now.

  “There,” Dwyn said with relief as the rope dropped from her wrists. Shifting her attention to her ankles, she quickly undid those and then turned to Father Machar and blinked in surprise.

  “My,” she said, biting her tongue to keep from laughing. The priest had managed to get his hands under his behind, but then had toppled over. He was now rolling and flopping about on the ground like a landed fish, but in a fetal position. Shaking her head, she blew out her breath and crawled to him. “Let me help ye, Father.”

  “Is that—?”

  “The MacGregor,” Geordie said when Dwyn’s father hesitated. “Aye.”

  “Is this good, or bad?” Baron Innes asked with concern, his wide eyes moving over the large army behind the giant, fair-haired warrior who waited just across the small river that marked the border between the Buchanan and MacGregor properties.

  “Well, since they’re no’ attacking, I’d say good,” Geordie said dryly, and then turned to signal the men to stay, before turning back and urging his horse forward. He wasn’t surprised when Aulay kept pace with him. The fact that Dwyn’s father did as well though did surprise him. He knew the man was no’ a warrior, but it seemed he was willing to become one for his daughter. It raised his opinion of the man.

  “Buchanan,” the MacGregor greeted, his eyes on Aulay when their horses carried them out of the shallow river and onto dry land before the man.

  “MacGregor,” Aulay responded, his face as expressionless as the other man’s.

  Conn MacGregor turned his gaze to Geordie then. “I summoned me men to come help ye reclaim yer bride. Had I kenned Brodie was up to no good, I’d have refused him sanctuary on our lands.”

  Geordie relaxed in the saddle, relieved the MacGregors wouldn’t be a problem. “We appreciate it.”

  “Aye, we do,” Laird Innes said quietly. “Thank ye.”

  “This is me wife’s father, Baron James Innes.” Geordie introduced the two men.

  “Innes,” MacGregor greeted him with a nod, and then cracked a smile and said, “Ye’ve made a fine match fer yer daughter. She’s in good hands . . . Or will be once we get her back.”

  “Aye,” Dwyn’s father said. “I’m coming to see that.”

  The MacGregor nodded, and then turned back to Geordie and Aulay to say, “Brodie’s camp is in a small valley no’ far from here. The sides are lined with trees. I’m thinking with the men we have between us—” his gaze skated over the large army on the Buchanan side of the river “—we can surround the valley and just ride down in on the bastard and demand yer woman back, and then kill Brodie and his men or no’ as ye like.”

  When Laird Innes started to speak, and then hesitated, Geordie turned to him in question. “What is it, m’laird?”

  “I just worry that Brodie will kill Dwyn for spite if he realizes he is surrounded and has no way out. The man is . . . no’ quite right in the head.”

  “Dwyn said there was something wrong with him as well,” Geordie said with a frown. “What makes ye both think he’s no’ right in the head?”

  “He gets so excited when he’s angry that he actually foams at the mouth,” Innes said with a grimace, and then reluctantly, as if he feared they wouldn’t believe him, he added, “And he talks to his dead wife as if the woman is standing beside him.”

  “That does no’ mean he’d kill yer daughter,” the MacGregor pointed out.

  “Aye, but Laird Innes may be right. He might kill her for revenge,” Geordie muttered, frowning as he considered the matter.

  “Revenge for what? The bastard kidnapped her, no’ the other way around,” MacGregor said with disgust.

  “Aye, well, me wife’s dogs attacked him when he tried to force himself on her,” Geordie explained. “One o’ them bit off one o’ his ballocks and part of his cock. He’s been seeking revenge ever since. He most like will kill her if he kens he’s caught before we can get Dwyn away from him.”

  The MacGregor grunted at that, and then glanced over the armies on both sides of the river as he considered the matter for a moment. Turning back to Geordie, he said, “Then we should probably sneak in and get her while the men get into position around the camp. Once we have her and me priest out, I’ll give the signal and our men can ride in.”

  Geordie nodded at once. He was eager to go in and get Dwyn, and since MacGregor knew the area better, having his assistance would be most helpful.

  “Have yer men cross over and we’ll line them up with me men and yer men interspersed so me warriors can lead them where they need to go,” the MacGregor suggested. “And while they do that, we’ll look at the map me scouts made o’ the camp and decide our best approach.”

  “Ye had yer scouts map the camp?” Aulay asked with interest.

  “Aye, as soon as me man came to tell me what yer brother Alick had said, I sent out men to scout the area. I thought it might come in handy.”

  “Aye, I’m sure ’twill,” Geordie said as Aulay turned to signal their men.

  Chapter 18

  “Oh, dear, this is most embarrassing.”

  Dwyn bit her lip to hold back a laugh at that moan from Father Machar. The man was on his back, his scrawny legs in the air, and his black robe gathered around and between his thighs as Dwyn worked at untying his wrists, which were presently pressed tight to the backs of his legs where they met his arse. While the man had got his bound wrists under his bottom, he hadn’t been able to get them past his feet, even with her help. Worse still, he hadn’t been able to move them back behind his bottom again either when she’d suggested that. H
e’d complained that the rope was burning his wrists too much to manage it. Hence the awkward position he now found himself in. Fortunately, Brodie hadn’t bothered to bind up Father Machar’s ankles as he had her. Apparently, he hadn’t considered him likely to flee with his hands bound.

  “Almost there, Father,” Dwyn said soothingly. “Just think o’ the story ye’ll be able to tell once ye’re back at MacGregor.”

  “Oh, dear Lord, I shall never breathe a word o’ this to anyone,” Father Machar assured her. “Nay, indeed. Why, I could lose me position as the MacGregor clan priest if anyone learned I had a lady’s tongue in me mouth and her hands on me bottom.”

  “Well, it was no’ at the same time, Father,” she pointed out dryly. “And ’twas necessary. Besides, me hands are no’ on yer bottom.”

  “Well, something is rubbing me there,” he muttered, and lifted his head, straining to look around his raised legs at her.

  “Me knuckles,” Dwyn explained. “They brush against ye on occasion and I’m sorry for it. Now please lie back and relax yer muscles again. Ye’re pulling yer wrists tight and just making me work harder.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” he muttered, and let his head drop back on the ground with a sigh before saying, “Mayhap we should just give up and wait. I’m sure the good Lord will save us.”

  Dwyn’s eyebrows rose at that. “Or mayhap the good Lord only helps those who help themselves and He expects us to make our escape.”

  “My dear, our chances o’ escaping are quite thin. There are two o’ us against a hundred Brodie soldiers,” Father Machar pointed out dryly.

  “Aye, well, they’re no’ especially smart soldiers, Father,” she pointed out. “No one has checked on us even once since Brodie stormed off to think on how to poison me husband and his family.”

  “Hmm,” Father Machar muttered grimly. “The man is certainly insane, and dangerous as well. Did ye realize he’d murdered his wife?”

  “He did mention something of the sort when he attacked me,” Dwyn admitted distractedly.

  “Why did ye no’ write to the king then?” Father Machar asked with dismay. “He could have done something about the man had he known.”

  “Because ‘twould have been my word against his,” Dwyn pointed out quietly as she continued to work on the rope. “I had no proof to give the king.”

  “Oh. Aye,” Father Machar murmured on a sigh and fell silent.

  “There,” Dwyn said with relief a moment later as she pulled the last cord and the rope unraveled from around the priest’s wrists. His arms split apart at once now that they were no longer held together, and she nearly got clobbered over the head when Father Machar’s legs immediately began to drop as if his wrists had been holding his legs up. Gasping in surprise, she rolled to the side, just avoiding his legs, and then quickly popped to her feet.

  “Oh my, this is so much better. Thank ye, m’lady,” Father Machar murmured, tugging his robes down to cover his legs and then getting to his feet as well. “What do we do now? I suppose we canno’ just walk out, can we?”

  While Father Machar asked the question, it sounded to her like he was hoping she had some way that they could just walk out the tent flap and into the center of camp, but that wasn’t going to get them anywhere. Turning slowly, Dwyn examined the items in the tent with them. Much to her relief it wasn’t just where Brodie slept, but where he kept anything of value, she noted as her gaze slid over several weapons. Moving to the table where a dirk, sword, belt, shield and several other items lay, she picked up the dirk and then glanced at Father Machar.

  “Which do ye want? The dirk or the sword?” Dwyn asked as he moved to join her.

  “Oh, my dear, I canno’ carry a weapon. I’m a priest. How would it look?” he asked with dismay.

  “Like ye were interested in surviving?” she suggested dryly.

  When the priest merely pursed his lips, Dwyn sighed and turned back to the table to lift the sword experimentally. It was extremely large and heavy, of course. Not something she could carry with one hand or swing easily even with two, so she left it and merely took the dirk and moved to the back wall of the tent.

  “What are we doing now?” Father Machar asked in a whisper, practically treading on her heels.

  “Making a new way out,” Dwyn whispered in response, and knelt to slide the dirk into the bottom of the tent about six inches up from the ground, and started to pull it up. Once she had a gash that ran about five feet up the tent wall, she eased the sides apart and slowly stuck her head out to take a peek around.

  Much to Dwyn’s relief, the only thing behind the tent was woods. They started not far from the back of the tent, and she didn’t see anyone to the left or right, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be seen by someone to the side of the tent once they got close to the trees. They’d have to move quickly, Dwyn decided, and pulled her head back in to offer Father Machar a reassuring smile. “I do no’ see any soldiers back here. I think we can get to the cover o’ the woods if we are quick about it.”

  Much to her relief, Father Machar nodded assent.

  “I’m going to slide out and wait while you slip out and then we’ll make a run for the woods together. All right, Father?” she asked.

  When he nodded again, she turned and cautiously eased her head out again. Not seeing anyone, she then began to push her shoulders out through the slit. Her chest followed next.

  “He’s probably keeping them in the tent.”

  “Aye,” Geordie said in response to that whispered comment from the MacGregor. The men were no doubt already in position farther up the hill in the trees that surrounded the small but deep valley. It had taken he and Conn some time to make their way here to this spot halfway down the hill. Brodie hadn’t left the trees unguarded. There were men patrolling to ensure no one snuck up on them, and they’d already taken out five men on their way down the side of the valley. Posting the patrols was about the only smart thing Brodie had done. Choosing to camp in the valley had been incredibly stupid to Geordie’s mind. He would have chosen a high flat hill himself, so that he could see anyone approaching for a good distance. But he wasn’t going to complain about his enemy making things easier for him. Especially if it raised his odds of getting Dwyn back safe.

  “I say we make our way down to the tent, listen fer a minute to see if Brodie is inside and then slice a—”

  Geordie glanced to the man with curiosity when he fell silent mid-speech. Eyebrows rising at the startled expression on the MacGregor’s face, he then turned to peer back at the tent, his own eyes widening incredulously as he saw that a gash had appeared in the back wall of the tent and a head was pushing out to look around. Geordie knew at once by the pale gold hair that it was Dwyn, and the tightness that had felt like a hand crushing his heart since he’d woken to find her gone eased its grip a bit. She was alive. He couldn’t see her well enough from this distance to tell what shape she was in, but she was alive and on her feet . . . and the smart little minx was making her own escape.

  Grinning, Geordie watched as she glanced around. When her head disappeared back into the tent, he eased out of his crouched position and began to move silently forward through the trees even as the MacGregor did. They both paused again about twenty feet later when Dwyn’s head appeared again through the slit. Geordie immediately scoured the area to both sides of the tent in search of any soldiers who might be a problem for his wee wife. He then glanced back to the MacGregor when the man sucked in a hissing breath. He was expecting to see one of Brodie’s men approaching or something else, but there was no one about. Following the man’s gaze back to the tent, he saw that Dwyn’s shoulders had followed her head out, and now her bosom was framed by the tent as it pushed out as well. The sun had set not long ago, and night was falling. It was that twilight hour when it wasn’t quite dark, but not really light either. But what light there was seemed almost to be caught by her pale hair and skin where her gown didn’t cover it, and the sight of Dwyn’s beautiful breasts swelling o
ver the top of her gown was enough to make him sigh.

  “Ye’re a lucky man, Buchanan,” Conn MacGregor murmured.

  Geordie nodded as he watched her stomach and hips slide through the gap now.

  “Most lasses would sit about waiting to be ravished or rescued,” MacGregor added.

  “Me Dwyn’s no’ like most lasses,” Geordie assured him, and they began to move forward again as if by agreement.

  Dwyn suspected that maneuvering herself through the slit she’d made in the tent was much like being born, though less messy and probably with less resistance than a body would offer. But then the tent also didn’t have muscles contracting to push her out, but she made it through the slash she’d cut, and then stood to the side of it and glanced nervously around as she waited for Father Machar to push his way out as well.

  The priest was a slender man, but still bigger than her and seemed to have some difficulty forcing his way through the slit. Dwyn was beginning to think she should cut a cross slit in it to help him out when he suddenly stiffened, his eyes going round with alarm.

  “Get back in here, ye bloody bastard!”

  Sucking in a sharp breath of alarm at the sound of Brodie’s voice, Dwyn caught Father Machar by both hands and yanked with all her might. She threw her whole body into the action, but was still amazed when it worked and the priest suddenly shot from the hole. Dwyn gasped as Father Machar came crashing down on top of her, and then pushed him off and leapt to her feet.

  “Come,” she hissed, grabbing his arm to drag him to his feet. Brodie was bellowing away furiously, and trying to push his own way through the slit she’d made in the tent. Fortunately for them, he was twice as big as Father Machar and was stuck, at least briefly. Not wanting to stick around to see how long it would take him to break loose and tumble out after them, Dwyn caught the priest by the hand and dragged him after her as she rushed for the trees.