by Amanda Scott
“Aye, ’tis true,” Andrew said with a heavy sigh. “Dougal may be as self-willed as our Muriella is. Mayhap they deserve each other.”
Rob glowered at him.
Andrew seemed not to notice.
Both men fell silent then, because Rob could not trust himself to speak respectfully and they had come to the woods. It was much darker under the canopy than in the open, but Rob had excellent night vision and assumed that his host did, too. It did take a moment, though, before he could see clearly ahead.
A short time later, Andrew glanced back at the men following them and then looked upward. “I dinna hear the rain on the leaves now,” he said. “Likely, it has stopped, but ye’ll sleep at the tower, lad. I want to hear all ye can tell me.”
“I’ll need dry clothes and food,” Rob said. “I have both at the cottage, so with your permission, I’ll head there now and meet you at the tower.”
“Ye’ll sleep at the tower,” Andrew insisted. “We must plan what to do, aye?”
“Aye, sir,” Rob said equably.
“Be ye sure ye can find your way to and fro in this darkness?”
“Without difficulty, sir. I have Scáthach, and her nose is keen.”
“Aye, well, watch out for boggarts,” Andrew said. “Ye ken fine that Tùr Meiloach boasts guardians of its own.”
Rob resisted the sudden, strong urge to roll his eyes.
Arrochar House
Dougal faced his father in the spacious but simply appointed great hall of Arrochar House. Pharlain had ordered everyone else out when his son told him what he had done. The silence since then had lengthened until Dougal ached to break it. He knew better than to say more, though, until he could judge Pharlain’s reaction.
So far, he had revealed none.
After clearing the hall, Pharlain had poured claret into his own mug from a jug on the high table but offered none to Dougal. Nor had he invited him to sit or to eat, although plenty of food remained on the table. The gillies had departed in haste before clearing it.
Pharlain was a large man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair that had once been as dark and thick as Andrew Dubh’s. He had similar dark-blue eyes, too. Dougal thought the two men resembled each other in many other ways, more so than most cousins. Pharlain’s build was heavier than Andrew’s and he was grayer, but he had defeated Andrew before and Dougal was sure he would do so again.
“Why did ye take her?” Pharlain asked at last, his low-pitched voice and even tone still concealing his emotions.
“She walked right into me during the storm,” Dougal said with a shrug. “We were but a short distance from the pass, so I carried her over it and put her on my horse. I’ve locked her in the old shed near the stables. I knew that I should tell you before I showed her to anyone else.”
“Surely, other people saw her.”
“Only two or three of our own who were in the yard. The rain kept everyone off the Lomondside path. And I put her in the shed without anyone seeing her face.”
“What d’ye mean tae do with her?”
“I can think of more than one possibility, sir.”
Pharlain gestured for him to continue.
“First, we might bargain with Andrew Dubh. Perhaps we might offer to exchange the lass for Tùr Meiloach.”
“He wouldna agree tae that,” Pharlain said. “Forbye, having brought her here under duress, as ye did, ye’ll ha’ destroyed her good name. Nae one else will marry her, and God kens that marrying off a third daughter be nae easy task tae begin. Now, wi’ things in an uproar as they be wi’ that devil’s spawn, Jamie Stewart, on the throne… ay-de-mi!”
“Perhaps I should marry her myself,” Dougal said. “We could make it look like a romance, an elopement, could we not?”
Pharlain frowned heavily enough to send a chill through his son. “Ha’ ye lost your wits, ye dafty?” he demanded. “D’ye think anyone hereabouts will forget the tale she told about ye and the two lassies ye captured last year? Sakes, she called ye Wicked Blackheart, and many others gleefully bruited her tale from hither tae yon!”
Dougal winced. He had hoped that his father had never heard about the wretched poem that Lady Muriella had made up about him.
“She fancies herself a seanachie,” he said. “But she never said my name.”
“Wicked Blackheart betrayed his rightful chief. When he arrives in Hades, may he linger there in grief!” Pharlain ended with a near growl.
His recitation of the tale’s last bit was too accurate for Dougal’s comfort.
Pharlain said, “Not only do people ken fine that she meant ye, me lad, and agree that two wee lassocks outwitted ye, but they also believe ye ought never tae ha’ kept your head after Andrew Dubh learned of it.” Pausing for breath, he added, “Forbye, many be talking now o’ the ‘rightful’ chief of our clan. That must stop.”
“The easiest way to stop it, sir, is to keep the lady Muriella here,” Dougal said. “I am willing to marry her, just as I would have married either of her sisters when you suggested that course. I still agree that such a marriage is the best way to unite the two factions of Clan Farlan with you as our chief and me as your heir.”
“Ye may be right about that,” Pharlain said, reaching for a second goblet and the jug. “Sakes, ye’ve taken her,” he added, pouring wine into the second goblet. “So we must hope her abduction keeps Andrew’s mind busy and out o’ me other business till after the Inverness Parliament. Now, sit, lad. Ye must be hungry.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dougal said with relief. “I must change out of these sodden clothes and see to one other small matter first. I’ll not be long, though.”
Pharlain nodded. “Aye, go then. Did ye no say ye had a horse with ye?” he added casually as Dougal turned away.
“I did, sir,” Dougal said, pausing. “One of the lads is looking after it.”
“I never thought otherwise. But when ye return, I’ll want tae hear a wee bit more about yon horse.”
Frightened, cold, wet, and furious, and hating the thick, cloying darkness of the small shed, Muriella was having all she could do to keep her wits about her and not shriek her fury and her fear for all to hear. She was too miserable to be brave.
Moreover, although she hoped she had persuaded Dougal that she did not fear him, the truth was that she did.
She feared his father even more.
Stories about Pharlain and how he had usurped her father’s chiefdom and all of its estates except Tùr Meiloach had filled her life. She had heard how ruthless Pharlain was, how he had murdered all three of her brothers, not one of whom had been old enough yet to wield a sword, and how her father and mother had fled to protect the newborn Andrena. Faith, the lengths to which Andrew had gone to save Dree was a tale that seanachies likely told all over the Highlands and beyond.
Mag had told other tales of Pharlain’s brutality, and Mag had experienced it firsthand. The thought that she, too, might experience it terrified her.
“Consequences,” she muttered angrily to herself. “He would say you deserve every bit of your terror, my lass.” She was not referring to Mag.
Tears sprang to her eyes again. What if MacAulay had died trying to rescue her? She had reassured herself all afternoon that he was too big, too strong, and too skillful a warrior to let Dougal’s men defeat him. The truth, though, was that she had not seen him again after Dougal admitted having set a trap for him.
However, she reminded herself, if Dougal had left men to guard the Loch Lomond side of the pass, to prevent anyone from following him, those men had not caught up with them or shown themselves, either.
How could they? her contrary inner voice demanded. They were afoot, whilst you and Dougal rode.
That was true. Also, Dougal had ridden their laden mount at a faster pace than safety should warrant in such a sluicing rain. His men—and MacAulay, too—would have had to run through that rain to catch up with them.
Thinking about the rain again made her realize that she couldn’t hear
it anymore. The thatched roof of the shed had muted it, to be sure. But it was silent now, so the rain had eased to silent drizzle or had stopped.
Shivering, she wondered if Dougal meant for her to die of the cold. Perhaps he wanted her to suffer from an ague brought on by sitting in the darkness, soaked from tip to toe. She began to curse him again but stopped when she heard the bar that held the door shut from the outside scrape upward. Someone was lifting it.
Rob and Scáthach managed to reach the cottage without meeting a boggart, which did not surprise him, since he didn’t believe in boggarts or any other mythical beast. He fed Scáthach by ladling some of the warm meat and broth from the cauldron over the coals into a large bowl from the kitchen.
Then, starving and determined to assuage the worst of his own hunger straightaway, he cut open one of the manchet loaves that someone had left in a basket for him and stuffed meat inside it to eat on the way back to the tower.
The cauldron was still half full, so although he debated the wisdom of leaving it, he decided to do so. Adding a ladle of fresh water to the stew from a pail he kept in the kitchen, he stirred the embers beneath it to life, carefully added dried peat from its basket, and left the fire burning while he changed his clothes.
Without tugging off his boots, since doing so would take more time than it was worth, he doffed everything else, dried himself by the fire, and changed into a fresh tunic and his plaid. Before sleeping that night, he would give his boots to Andrew’s man to dry and brush clean.
Then, banking the fire, Rob left enough open coals to keep the stew simmering. Scáthach had finished her meal, so he picked up his meat-filled roll, called her to heel, and set out for the tower.
Scáthach’s noticeable interest in Rob’s food made him wonder if Andrew, had he been present, might suggest that boggarts liked meat rolls.
The shed door opened, and a pathway of golden light spilled inside from torches burning in the yard. A woman stepped into the shed, carrying a lighted candle in one hand and a large bundle cradled in her other arm. As soon as the door shut solidly behind her, Murie heard the bar thud back into place.
Stiffly she got to her feet, saying, “I hope that bundle contains dry clothes.”
Nodding, the woman moved past her to a shelf that Murie had not known was there, dripped tallow onto the board, and held the candle upright until it stood by itself. Then, turning to Murie, she made a sweeping if indecipherable gesture.
“I don’t understand you,” Muriella said. “Talk to me.”
The woman shook her head fiercely and glanced toward the door. Putting a finger to her lips, she looked around in brief bewilderment and then set her bundle down on a rickety-looking stool near the shelf wall. Turning again to face Murie, she dramatically took off the shawl she wore and reached toward Murie’s cloak.
“You want my cloak? It is the only thing keeping me warm!”
The woman nodded as fiercely as before.
With a sigh but realizing that she would have to take her wet clothes all off there in the freezing shed, Murie said, “Aye, then.” Removing the cloak and unlacing her bodice, she said, “Have you got food in that bundle, too?”
Looking rueful, the woman shook her head. With her shawl in place again, she unwrapped her bundle, revealing a rough towel, a simple linen shift, and the ragged wool cloth that had contained them. Setting those items on the stool, she shook out the remaining one, a baggy-looking lavender kirtle similar to some that Lady Aubrey had kept from her girlhood.
Murie stripped the rest of her sodden clothing off as quickly as she could.
With a small, hopeful smile, the woman handed her the towel.
“Won’t you tell me your name?” Murie asked as she rubbed herself hard with the towel, hoping to ease some of the numbness she felt from sitting hunched on the dirt floor. Her feet prickled painfully, but she could barely feel her legs.
“Please,” she said. “Talk to me.”
The woman shook her head again but less fiercely. Glancing at the door again, she looked at Murie and silently mouthed, “I dare not.”
Murie nodded. She would not ask the one person at Arrochar who had been kind to do aught that might endanger her.
The towel helped restore her circulation, but as she dried herself, it occurred to her that her numbness was yet another consequence of her actions—or lack of any. She had not moved from where she first sat down, fearing that if she did, she might touch something ugsome or disturb some heavy implement stored in the shed and bring it down on top of her. Not to mention that she might touch a spider or something else that could bite her.
The silent woman handed her the shift, and as Murie hastily donned it, she tried to imagine defending her reasons for sitting still so long to MacAulay. Easily picturing a scornful response, she nearly smiled. He had not struck her as a man who would sympathize about repulsive sensations, clumsiness, or even spiders.
The oddest result, though, was that she could just as easily imagine talking about such topics with him. Despite his frank disapproval of her behavior, he had somehow made her feel as if she could safely discuss anything with him… If, the voice in her head added, you can tolerate hearing unsavory truths in return.
Her silent companion, holding out the lavender kirtle for her to step into, cocked her head inquisitively. Murie realized only as she helped pull the garment into place that imagining MacAulay’s reaction had put a smile on her face.
“ ’Tis naught,” she said to the woman, while pulling the kirtle’s bodice laces tight and tying them. “I was just trying to imagine how I’d explain what happened to me to someone who will think it was all my own fault.”
The woman shook her head but pressed her lips together, doubtless to keep herself from speaking. Then, putting a finger to her lips as if to silence Murie, too, she handed her the ragged-looking cloth that had contained the rest of the bundle. It proved to be a worn but nonetheless warm-looking gray wool cape.
Whispering her thanks, Murie added, “Did you think to bring a comb or a brush? My hair is still wet, despite being always under my hood.”
The woman began to reach through a fitchet in her skirt, mayhap to a pocket tied round her waist, but she snatched the hand out at the scraping of the bar going up again outside. Gathering up Muriella’s clothing with an apologetic look, the woman turned toward the door as it opened.
“I’ll hold them things for ye,” a masculine voice outside growled at her. “Ye’re tae tak’ the wench’s supper in tae her the noo. Master Duncan said ye can leave the candle but ye’re tae fetch it oot again as soon as she’s had her sup.”
The woman nodded, handed him the bundle, and returned with a small bowl on a wooden tray. Looking around the small space, she shook her head, clicked her tongue in annoyance, and set the tray on the rickety stool. Then, with a look at the still-open door, she nodded at Muriella and left.
The door shut again, and the bar thumped into place.
With a sigh, Murie examined her supper.
The steam rising from a bowl of some sort of soup or stew lacked the enticing aroma that MacAulay’s cauldron had emitted.
Irritated, she grumbled, “Stop thinking about that man! He cannot help you now, even if he wanted to. And he would much more likely say you are suffering no more than you deserve. You will just have to look after yourself, my lass.”
She would eat first. Then, before they took the candle away, she would see if the horrible shed contained anything she might use as a weapon.
Andrew greeted Rob in the hall and drew him to the high table, where the privacy screens were already in place.
“My lady has retired,” Andrew said. “The lads who sleep in the lower hall will be drifting in anon, but they’ll murmur amongst themselves and pay us nae heed. I’ve reflected on what ye’ve told me so far, lad, and I’m thinking now that Pharlain will no let anyone harm my lass.”
“I doubt he deserves such trust,” Rob said, taking the place that Andrew indicated at what
was normally the ladies’ end of the table, near the fireplace.
Andrew drew a stool around to the opposite side and sat facing him with his back to the lower hall. “We’ll keep warmer here and we can look at each other,” he said. “Ye’re right to distrust Pharlain—Dougal, too. I dinna trust either man as far as I can piss. Even so, neither be likely to hurt or kill our Muriella. Pharlain’s own followers would rebel against hurting a lassie. Even so…”
When he paused, Rob said firmly, “We must fetch her back as soon as we can. Even if they do her no physical harm, keeping her captive is unconscionable. The gossip that is bound to come of it will destroy her good name.”
“Aye, ’tis true,” Andrew said, nodding. “So what d’ye think I should do?”
Rob eyed him with concern, for it went against most of what he knew about the man to hear him ask anyone else for advice. Conversely, Ian and Mag had both told him that Andrew wanted good-sons to help him regain his chiefdom and also that he had once or twice deigned to hear their suggestions.
Perhaps their excellent advice had made him more amenable.
“In troth, sir, I hope you will let me help,” Rob said. “As I said earlier, I bear some responsibility for her ladyship’s predicament. I did turn her out of the cottage, after all, and she was certainly safer there than she is at Arrochar.”
“Ye can help, aye,” Andrew said. “Sithee, it occurred to me that your own wee problem—that is, your da’s fear that Pharlain and the Campbell may be after seizing Ardincaple—might give us a way to approach Pharlain. He’d be more likely to agree to meet a lad who seeks to discuss summat other than Muriella’s release.”
A gillie hurried in with a platter of succulent-looking roast beef, another with rolls and some chicken in a sauce. Rob began eagerly to pile food on his trencher.