Angus’s huge hand settled on one breast, pinching the nipple. She shoved it away amid his laughter. Whether his beard harbored a whole slew of vermin was the least of her worries.
Isobel’s captors rode hard, barely stopping long enough for the horses to rest. Desperation, bleak and daunting, plagued her as they plodded onward. Mile after mile she journeyed farther from Craiglocky, and she didn’t detect a single sign anyone followed them.
No horses whickering in the distance; no smoky tendrils spiraling heavenward; no unexplained sudden hushing of birdsong, or outraged red squirrels’ chatter.
Dunbar let slip his clan’s name less than twenty-four hours into their journey. Dense as wormy cabbage, the dolt boasted of MacHardy’s promise to give the Blackhalls a portion of Farnsworth’s lands for delivering Lydia safely to the baron.
Isobel continued to tear strips from her chemise to leave as markers, and whenever she had the opportunity, used sticks, rocks, even bones from their meals, to form crude arrows or words.
Would anybody see her clues? None had been in the open, lest Angus or Dunbar catch her.
After stopping to relieve themselves late last night, Isobel had dared to creep a few extra feet from Angus.
“Stop right there.” His face a mask of fury, he stomped to her. He circled her throat with his mammoth hand and tightened his fingers until tears smarted in her eyes. “Be warned, wench. If ye try to run, I’ll break yer legs.”
Struggling to breathe, she gasped and tore at his fingers.
Chuckling evilly, he released her. “The baron only cares about marryin’ and beddin’ ye. Ye dinnae need to be able to walk.”
Chapter 17
Saddle sore after two days of rigorous riding, Yancy drew Skye to a halt before a ramshackle crofter’s cottage. Bone weary, he dismounted and patted the gelding’s neck.
“Well done, old friend.”
The horse blew out a gusty breath, no doubt every bit as exhausted as his master. Probably as hungry, too.
Yancy’s heart demanded he press onward until he could no longer see, but wisdom and fear for Skye’s safety insisted he stop for the night.
He had found Isobel’s bag of supplies and added them to the picnic stash. He’d also found the Scot’s hideaway in the cave and helped himself to cooking utensils, the least-soiled blanket, what little food they had stored, and, saints be praised, two bottles of whisky.
Why the hell had they been holed up in a cavern for days, maybe weeks? Instinct told him someone at the castle, or perhaps with access to Craiglocky, was involved.
Yancy swallowed a frustrated growl and raked his hand through his hair. Not as equipped as he would like—no balm for is aching arse—at least he possessed some stores, and they would suffice for a few days.
The Scots were four, maybe five hours ahead of him. He’d lost their trail yesterday and had to circle back—twice—losing precious time.
Damn, he needed Sethwick here. Now.
Isobel’s outings had no more been a clandestine lovers’ tryst than him stumbling upon Matilda in the conservatory had been. He’d allowed jealousy to fuel his suspicions, something that chagrined and confused him.
The unfamiliar emotion warped his reasoning and distorted his focus.
“Sorry about the poor accommodations. I shall let you eat your fill of grass in the morning, and I promise a thorough grooming and extra oats when this business is over.” After unsaddling Skye, Yancy hobbled the gelding underneath a semblance of a lean-to.
He ran his hand over the gelding’s shoulder. “This is better than last night, don’t you think?”
Yancy had spent the first night under the trees and woke up to an irate squirrel pelting him with early acorns and scolding worse than a fishwife in her cups.
Skye nudged Yancy in the chest, and he obligingly rubbed the horse’s forehead. “Sorry, no treats just now.”
Stretching, the muscles in his buttocks and lower back protesting, he faced north and heaved a sigh.
Isobel.
How fared she? Had the sods harmed her? Where did they take her? For what purpose?
Not knowing ate at his normally stoic emotions.
So help him God, they would pay. Every inclination told him MacHardy had initiated the attack and abduction, albeit indirectly.
Why take Isobel? Convenience?
It didn’t make sense.
To Yancy’s knowledge MacHardy held no grievance against Craiglocky’s laird. Sethwick had a legendary temper, although not often roused. He would wreak vengeance on everyone involved, no matter their excuses.
Isobel’s reputation lay in complete tatters, even in the less pompous and pious Highlands. A young woman held captive by a band of renegade Scots for hours, let alone days, was compromised beyond redemption, no matter her social standing or familial connections.
His gut clenched as if a jagged blade twisted his innards.
God, what Isobel might be enduring.
Vengeance demanded he harshly punish those responsible for ruining her and wounding Gregor.
How did the giant Scot fare?
Recovering, Yancy prayed. Few men could boast the inherent decency the McTavish twins possessed.
Collecting the pilfered goods, he entered the hut and set about lighting one of Isobel’s tapers. He rummaged and found a tin plate to use for a candleholder atop a lopsided table surrounded by four uneven chairs.
Dust covered every surface, but the place wasn’t too shabby, better than the outdoors with half-crazed squirrels lurking about. Most likely, the remote building served as a hunting cottage.
The door seemed sturdy and so did the two square, shuttered windows in the main room. An intact soot-stained, stone fireplace commandeered most of one wall, and a side chamber boasted a bed, complete with a straw tick and bedding, the cleanliness of which he couldn’t determine in the dim light.
A quick inspection of the shelving revealed a mismatched set of dishes, a tin containing more candles, soap, a candlestick, cooking utensils, a worn towel, and a few raggedy cloths. A good-sized kettle hung from an iron hook above a dry sink, and no vermin or other pests called the hut home.
Outside, a sizable stack of firewood stood beside a washtub and bucket. He would indulge and build a fire to take the edge from the night’s chill and to dry his clothes.
An hour later, he sat before a roaring fire, having eaten a portion of his store of food. He’d taken an apple to Skye and received a nicker in appreciation.
Yancy had tugged off his thoroughly ruined Wellingtons, standing them upon the hearth to one side of the fire. His drying stockings and coat hung from the wobbly backs of the spare chairs.
He rasped a hand over his bristly jaw. A wash and a shave would be welcome. However, he hadn’t a razor.
If this humble abode boasted a well, he hadn’t seen it. Perhaps a stream or creek meandered nearby. He would have to find water for Skye tomorrow, in any event.
Legs stretched before him, he stared into the mesmerizing flames. He could almost see Isobel’s beautiful face, her mouth curved in welcome and a challenge in the depths of her blue-green eyes. Her sweet voice raised in laughter echoed in the recesses of his mind.
Yancy shut his eyes against the pain of remembrance. When had she come to mean so much to him? Despite his determination to avoid that deuced emotion, he loved her.
God knew he hadn’t wanted to love any woman, had strived to avoid such a problematic entanglement, but the sentiment penetrated his soul despite his best efforts to remain impervious. He could no more deny the truth of his affection for Isobel than he could wipe the sparkling stars from the sky or touch a rainbow’s colors.
He loved her.
Wholly and absolutely with such intensity, he wouldn’t have believed such emotion poss
ible had he not experienced the euphoria for himself.
He better understood the captivation Sethwick and the others had willingly succumbed to—why they sacrificed their oaths of bachelorhood.
The realization that he loved Isobel elicited no negative reaction, no jump in Yancy’s pulse or oaths of incredulity. No, rather the knowledge surrounded him in contentment and peace.
A sense of coming home, at last.
“I’ll find you, Isobel, I promise.”
And when he did, they would be wed by the first Scot handy.
Dounnich House
The Blackhall Stronghold
Isobel paced back and forth in the stark chamber she’d been thrust into yesterday. No simple manor, Dounnich House was a rustic, medieval castle, older than Craiglocky Keep.
From what she’d observed as a brute hustled her to this chamber, the keep was in sad repair, in need of a good clean, and rodents obviously had free run of the place.
Drafty and reeking of God knew what, she shouldn’t have been at all surprised if a goodly number of spirits, evil no doubt, roamed the corridors at night, moaning.
Pushing her hair behind her ears, she curved her mouth, forming more of a rueful grimace than a true smile. Being held prisoner wasn’t at all the sort of adventure she’d desperately yearned for. A damp whoosh of air billowed through the window, and she clasped the cloak more snugly around her neck.
Surely, Ewan had assembled a contingent of clansmen to pursue her. How long had it taken them to discover her absence and that of the others? Had anyone survived and made their way back to the keep?
Bitter tears stung behind her eyelids, and her throat convulsed against the dread that seemed permanently lodged there.
By day, her hope rested in the knowledge the motley Scots that attacked her in Craiglocky’s woodlands hadn’t made an appearance. She prayed, almost hourly, they’d been defeated and Yancy and her cousins had been spared.
Nights proved the worst, however.
Isobel’s imagination ran rampant, and she pictured Yancy impaled by a sword, his spectacular green eyes staring sightlessly heavenward. She cried herself to sleep every night, smothering her self-recriminating sobs within her cloak.
She tried to keep warm by walking about the dismal chamber wearing her filthy cape and hugging herself. The movement helped ease the hollow ache of an empty belly as well. She’d eaten scant little over the past days.
Last night, a frightened maid, scarcely more than a child, had crept into Isobel’s chamber. Eyes downcast and without uttering a single word, the girl shoved a bowl of flavorless broth and a piece of dark, dry bread, along with a tankard of ale into Isobel’s hands.
Two burly clansmen stood outside the entrance, relocking the heavy door the instant the maid departed.
Isobel had yet to break her fast today, although the time must be well past noon. Her stomach’s rumbling resonated to her backbone.
“Is starvation part of their blasted plan?” She pressed her hands to her protesting middle and perused the meager chamber.
Absent of all but basic necessities—a thin pallet, a rough blanket, and a chipped chamber pot—the stone room boasted the same hospitality as a dungeon cell.
She wasn’t permitted a fire, and the single candle she possessed would last but a few hours more.
An arched window opened onto a narrow ledge three stories above the ground. Once more, as she’d done at least a score of times already, Isobel fully opened the shutter and peered through the narrow slit.
Her room faced a lush meadow where several head of shaggy Highland cattle milled about. A narrow track led into the dense forest she’d passed through on their last leg to the keep.
No battlement surrounded the rear of the castle, the singular thing in her favor. Well, that and the apparent lack of patrols or lookouts at the keep’s rear. A lumpy band of crumbled stones, partially covered by earth and grass, revealed a wall had been present at one time.
Unless a person had the ability to climb like a spider or fly, this side of the keep appeared impenetrable. No windows graced the lower levels, and only a child or smallish woman could pass through the narrow, rectangular openings serving that purpose on this floor.
She slapped the casement in frustration then winced as stinging pain lanced to her shoulder. Not a tree or lattice to aid with escaping. The lone blanket tied to her cloak wasn’t long enough to hang from the window and use as a makeshift rope, and had it been, the chamber contained nothing to use as an anchor.
Other than climbing onto the ledge and creeping to the oriel’s tiny balcony, at least four windows away, fleeing proved impossible.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the cold wall. Heights terrified her. God’s bones, the very notion of slinking along the thin ribbon and climbing over the balustrade in long skirts made her lightheaded. If her stomach weren’t as empty as Hannah’s womb, she would cast up her accounts.
Besides, that chamber, and the others between her and her only hope of salvation, could be occupied and someone might sound the alarm as she skulked by.
One arm braced against the sash, she hung over the wide sill. Too bad she couldn’t change her hair into wings like the mythical Persinette and fly from this jail.
Think, Isobel.
She still possessed her dagger since no opportunity to escape had presented itself on the journey.
Angus had left the dratted rope secured to her middle the entire time. He’d tied her hands to the cord at night and slept with the other end circling his bullish arm.
A shadow fell across the ledge from the room beside hers.
Isobel dove back inside. Peering between the shutter and the rough wall, she held her breath as a raven-haired child climbed onto the windowsill.
Dear God, he could fall.
“Keck, no, György. You are too tikni to be near the window.” A beautiful young woman, her hair and waist tied with colorful scarves, appeared above him. “Remember I told you. You mustn’t climb on the sill. You might fall.”
Isobel mashed her face closer to the gap, staring in disbelief.
Highland travellers? Here?
“I want to go keré, Tasara.” Looking up at her, György’s lower lip trembled. “I miss Dya and Dat.”
She kissed the top of his head. “I know. I miss Mother and Father too.” Tasara stared into the distance, her expression troubled. She gave him a quick hug. “We’ll go home soon.”
Picking him up, she cast a woeful look to the trees and then withdrew from the window.
“You promised Dat and Keir and Jamie and . . . and the clan would come for us.” The boy’s voice quaked.
“They will, bad inderi. They will.” Doubt and despair shadowed her words.
The unmistakable sound of sobbing and murmured words of comfort carried through the open portal.
A commotion in the corridor had her hastily shutting the shutter. She flew on silent feet to the pallet and had no sooner sat than the key scraped in the lock. Folding her hands in her lap, she willed her heart to return to a steady cadence.
A parade of people, all laden with goods, marched into the chamber. One Scotsman bore a chair, another an armful of wood, and two others dragged in a copper hip bath followed by footmen toting pails of water. The servant with the wood immediately set about lighting a fire.
One maid held toiletries, another towels, and a third stockings, stays, and a chemise, and the fourth, an exquisite periwinkle gown and slippers.
“Come, lass.” A thin-faced maid darted a nervous peek at the men loitering in the room. “We needs to see ye bathed and yer hair washed. Yer weddin’ be this evenin’.”
Chapter 18
Isobel’s heart seized for a moment as the breath hissed from between her stiff lips.
Hell, Hades, and Purgatory.
She stood, and the room spun. She’d risen too quickly.
“I’m not taking a bath, and I most certainly am not getting married.” Drawing on every ounce of courage she possessed, she raised her chin. “I have been abducted and am held prisoner. When my family—”
Angus sauntered into the overfull chamber. His coffee-brown gaze slithered over her. “Either ye let the lasses help ye undress and bathe, or Dunbar and these laddies be havin’ the pleasure.”
The knaves undressing her with their eyes elbowed one another and whispered amongst themselves.
Tears of frustration welled. They would find her dagger, sure as spittle flew in the wind.
She twisted her hands in her cloak.
“I’m not accustomed to so many eyes upon me during my toilette, especially strangers.” She sucked in a trembling breath, aware he preferred cowering, defeated females. Making her voice quiver, she asked, “Might I be permitted to disrobe and bathe myself?”
Begging this despicable oaf galled. “Please?”
He tilted his head and stared at her a lengthy moment.
Surely, he would deny her request.
“Aye. Two lassies will stay and help ye wash yer hair and get ye dressed.” He dug at his beard then gave his chest a vigorous scratch. “Me men be outside should ye try anythin’.”
He ought to consider a good scrub and a shave himself.
Isobel released her breath and unfastened her cloak. She might yet be able to keep her dagger concealed. “That’s acceptable, thank you.”
It wasn’t acceptable, but what choice had she? No one except Maura had seen her naked since she wore diapers, and Isobel had known the nursemaid her entire life.
More tears threatened. Isobel blinked the weakness away and dropped her cloak onto the pallet. She swayed slightly as another wave of dizziness engulfed her. Her head still hurt from Angus’s blow, and that, combined with lack of food, caused her lightheadedness.
Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Page 13