Nearly tripping over the steps in her haste to be at Rob’s side, she lunged at him. She cupped his face in her hands. His cheeks were clammy, but his breath feathered over her cheek when she bent down to feel it. She clamped back a sob of relief. As long as Rob lived, there was still hope. If he died . . .
No.
She flung a glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, her uncle stood just beyond the carriage door, surveying the scene dispassionately.
“What have you done to him?”
Uncle Walter shrugged. “He’s suffered a bit of a bump to the head, that’s all.”
She sucked in a breath, unsure whether to believe him. She tried to adjust Rob into a more comfortable position, paying no attention as her uncle climbed into the carriage and sat beside the other man.
The carriage lurched into movement as she spoke softly to Rob, heedless of the men watching her. She didn’t care about anything but saving her husband. She wished desperately that he’d wake up. She prayed for it. Her hands slipped over the ropes that bound his wrists, but the barrel of a gun nudged her fingers away.
“No, milady. You mustn’t touch his bonds.”
She kept speaking to him, murmuring, whispering words of encouragement, and finally, she said, “I love you.”
“I’ve heard quite enough,” Uncle Walter snapped. “Not a word more from you, Lizzy.”
She looked up at him through blurring eyes. “Why not? What will you do to me if I speak? Kill someone? Kill me? Rob?”
“I will make you regret it,” was his ready answer, and she did not doubt him. She kept her words to herself, but they ran rampant in her thoughts. If Rob could hear them, he’d know he needed to wake, and soon. He’d know how much she loved him.
He didn’t wake. The carriage plodded slowly, resolutely, across the uneven terrain. Elizabeth was certain she could have walked faster. The road to the hunting cottage wasn’t a road—it was a rough path, and a narrow one at that, riddled with rocks and holes. It was amazing that her uncle had brought a carriage there at all. Then again, the carriage was a convenient prison in which to hold them captive.
They bounced along for hours. The air inside the small space grew thick and warm, and sweat crept in rivulets between Elizabeth’s breasts and down her hairline. Rob’s eyes fluttered and opened once, but then he dropped into what seemed like an even deeper sleep.
She was hungry, she was thirsty, but none of that mattered. She stared across at Uncle Walter, a potent mixture of hatred and fear tangling within her. Why had she been such a coward? There had to have been a way to stop him long ago. She’d been too stupid, too childish . . . and now, once again, if her uncle had any say in the matter, the only person she had loved since her parents and brothers would die too.
Rob was hurt. If Uncle Walter had his way, he would die.
This time, she had to stop him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rob remained dead asleep, and Elizabeth sat in stony silence, her mind churning with her options for escape while the two men across from her exchanged small talk. Such was Uncle Walter’s confidence in his scheme that he hadn’t tied her or bound her at all—surely that could work to her advantage. Yet if she moved, Uncle Walter had directed the henchman to kill Rob.
After they’d traveled for the better part of the afternoon, the carriage drew to a rumbling halt. “Move aside, I say,” the coachman shouted, his voice muffled by the wall of the carriage. “Allow us to pass.”
A small commotion sounded outside, but her uncle remained serene. “No doubt a herd of sheep has blocked the way.”
Finally, the coach jerked into slow movement again, and Elizabeth saw from the window on Rob’s side that a cart, its contents covered by plaids, had pulled onto the grass to allow them to pass. A blond-haired youth drove the cart. Another person, a woman whose head was covered by a tartan shawl, had alighted from the bench and faced the forest. She didn’t turn to look at them as they drove past.
Elizabeth sank into her seat. She’d thought of calling out for help, but what good would it do? Even if the strangers were inclined to help them, chances were that her uncle’s man would shoot Rob before they reached the carriage door.
They traveled on. The shadows lengthened, darkening the interior of the carriage. Rob occasionally stirred, sometimes groaned, but still he did not wake.
Elizabeth sat very still, continuously schooling herself to be calm. Else she’d lash out, try to kill Uncle Walter, and end up dead. Or, much more likely, Rob would end up dead.
She stared out the window, studying their surroundings. They’d ascended a steep slope and had ventured inland, high above the loch. The trees grew thick and tall here—pines, junipers, rowans, and other species she could not name, in thick patches on either side of the path, casting the way in shadow. This deep in the forest, the fading sunlight penetrated the thick leaves and dappled the ground in spots like a faun’s.
Rob’s eyes fluttered, and she stroked the line of his jaw, willing him awake.
Across from her, Uncle Walter plunged his hand into his coat and pulled something out. On the fringes of her vision, she saw him pinching a clay vial between two fingers. He turned it over in his hands, studying it with a musing expression on his face.
“Belladonna. The deadly nightshade.”
Shivers cascaded down Elizabeth’s spine.
“I acquired it when last I was in London, where I saw it put to work on a criminal. It is a most expedient poison, and best of all, if anyone finds the body afterward, there is no external wound to point to murder. No one need know that the person’s death was not a natural one.”
So that was why they were heading into the forest. Uncle Walter planned to poison Rob and dispose of him before returning to Camdonn Castle.
“No.”
He raised his gray brows.
“I won’t let you do this.”
He sighed. “Oh, Lizzy. I fear you cannot stop me.”
She must stop him, but how? She glanced surreptitiously at the man sitting beside her uncle. As the hours had passed, he had grown lax. He had assumed a relaxed position, the pistol held loosely on his lap. If she was quick enough, she could grab the pistol, thrust Rob out of the carriage, and leap out after him. She’d never shot at anyone, but she’d seen a gun being fired before. All she’d need to do was squeeze the trigger. She’d have one shot to battle off her uncle and the man beside him, the coachman, and the two on horseback. Even if Rob awakened, he could do nothing to help with his wrists and ankles tied.
One desperate woman against five men. The chances were so slim as to be negligible. Yet what choice did she have?
The carriage slowed to a crawl as it had done repetitively over the past hours, making a tight turn. Outside, mud and grass encroached onto the path, and the carriage wheels sank into the soft earth, slowing them even further.
It was now or never.
She bunched her muscles, and as the carriage began its turn, she launched herself forward, grabbing the gun from the man. Instantly coming alert, he lunged for her. They wrestled, and Elizabeth’s finger pressed the trigger. There was an explosion of glass as the bullet went through the window. Uncle Walter cried out.
It seemed like everyone was fumbling, crawling on top of her, grabbing at the weapon. But the gun had been shot, and she carried no ammunition, so it was useless to her now. She dropped it onto the carriage floor, climbed over Rob and opened the door latch, thrust the door open, and managed to push Rob until he toppled out with her on top of him.
The action of the fall woke him, and instinctively he curled his body into a ball, his shoulder absorbing his impact with the muddy ground. Elizabeth fell partially atop him, partially into a mud puddle. As soon as she fell, she yanked the dirk from his stocking, scrambled to her feet, and spun to the carriage. The true villain was inside—all these men merely followed his orders. If she could bend him to her will, the rest would follow.
From inside the carriage, her uncle shouted. Rob groan
ed lightly, but she kept her eyes on the vehicle as it ground to a halt not five feet from where they’d fallen.
First the man jumped out and then her uncle. A piece of glass had sliced his cheek, leaving a trail of blood to drip from his chin. A whinny sounded behind her as one of the riders stopped his horse, and she heard the sucking noise as boots sank into the spongy earth.
She kept her gaze, and the dirk, trained on her uncle.
“Go away,” she said steadily, her voice hard. “Leave us alone.”
“Elizabeth . . .” Rob’s voice was a rasping whisper of warning from the ground at her side. She didn’t dare look at him. She sensed movement as he struggled to rise.
Her uncle held up a conciliatory hand. “Come now, my dear . . .”
She tightened her grip on the handle of the dirk.
Uncle Walter’s eyes flicked to the side, betraying the stealthy movement of the man behind her. At the same time, his shadow fell over her. She spun around just as the man lunged at her, slamming them both to the ground. She landed hard on her side, knocking the wind from her lungs. As soon as she could move her arm, she swung it around, stabbing the man in the back, the force of the action jolting her all the way to her shoulders. Hot blood poured from his back, painting her tartan print arisaid in a thick spray of red before he rolled away.
Someone leaned over her. Dimly, Elizabeth realized it was Rob. She met his eyes for a fraction of a second, and the sadness reflected in his expression washed through her.
They were surrounded. They had no weapons. They’d lost.
The man from the carriage hauled Elizabeth to her feet while another held a pistol trained on Rob.
“Hold her still,” her uncle commanded harshly.
But she wrenched away and lunged for Rob. Just as soon as she reached him again, she was yanked back and dragged through the mud.
“Here!” someone shouted, and a loop of rope sailed through the air and landed at her feet. She managed to kick it away, but it was no use. A second man came to help the villain holding her, and together they tied her ankles and wrists.
Dragging her beyond the copse of trees and bushes at the path’s edge, they gagged her and secured her to the trunk of a pine, and, leaving her unable to move, they returned to Rob.
He put up a brave fight, but he was injured and bound, ineffective against the three brawny men who dragged him near where Elizabeth was tied. Her uncle followed with his fists on his hips, a look of righteous victory on his face.
“Belladonna, Lizzy,” he said, when the noise of struggle had ceased. Once again, he withdrew the vial. He glanced at the largest of his men. “Hold his mouth open.”
“No!” she sobbed through the gag. “No!” She struggled against her bonds until she was certain her arms would snap in two. It was no use. Even if she did break her arms, she wouldn’t free herself.
Two of the men held Rob still while the other forced his mouth to open. Uncle Walter uncorked the vial and glanced up at Elizabeth, his expression forlorn. “Yet again, Lizzy, you drive me to extreme lengths to protect you.”
“No!” she shouted, her voice muffled and indecipherable. “No, no, no!”
Uncle Walter tipped the vial, and a thick, black liquid oozed into Rob’s mouth. He coughed and sputtered, but firm hands clamped his mouth and nose shut, forcing him to swallow the poison.
Watching Rob’s throat work, Elizabeth went limp. The fight drained out of her.
Uncle Walter had just killed her husband.
She sagged against her bonds and dropped her head in defeat, willing her life to rewind to the day she’d brought misery and death upon every person she loved—the day she brought home the smallpox.
Ceana had asked Sorcha to help her find someone to transport the bulk of her medicines and possessions, and her friend had readily agreed, instantly engaging the services of one of the MacDonald men.
With hugs and kisses, and a special kiss bestowed upon little Jamie, Ceana had taken her leave of the MacDonalds. She’d walked home and, with a heavy heart, packed her belongings. Bowie MacDonald, Alan’s young cousin, had arrived with two horses and a cart just as she finished packing. They’d loaded the cart, and by the time they finished the task, it was just after noon.
Bowie was a garrulous companion, friendly and open. In a way, he reminded Ceana of his cousin Alan. It was in the open expression in his blue eyes, she supposed. Just one encounter with either man would be enough for anyone to grant them their trust.
Nevertheless, Ceana ached all over with grief. She’d lost something precious to her, and even though she should feel content that she’d left Cam healthy and whole, shaking off her misery wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped it would be.
Since the Duke of Irvington’s carriage had passed them at the beginning of the wood, however, Ceana had remained silent. Deep in her thoughts, she’d spurned all of Bowie’s attempts at friendly conversation, and eventually he too fell into a contemplative silence.
Where was the duke going? Who’d been with him? Was Cam inside the carriage? Were they looking for her? But Cam would be on horseback rather than in the enclosed compartment of a carriage, wouldn’t he?
Did this have something to do with Cam and Elizabeth’s marriage? Now that Ceana had left him, had Cam seen reason and decided to go through with his marriage to Elizabeth? If so, though, what was the duke’s carriage doing this far from Camdonn Castle? His niece was set to marry Cam in four days.
Shadows lengthened, and both Ceana and Bowie stiffened when they heard a hollow boom.
“Gunshot,” Ceana whispered.
“Aye,” Bowie said. “Sounded like it.”
They continued on, their senses on high alert. They had ridden halfway to Inverlochy, and soon it would be time to stop for the night. Ceana had planned to spend the night on the western bank of Loch Eil, at the home of her grandmother’s friend Anne Tynan, and it would probably be near to full dark by the time they arrived.
As the waning light trickled through the trees, Bowie directed the animals up a steep incline. Ahead, riders on chestnut and black horses appeared at the top of the hill. Seconds later, the familiar sleek black-lacquered carriage, now covered with dust and grime from a full day’s worth of muddy travel, crested the rise. The duke’s party was returning from wherever it had gone. Odd, since there were no houses or other visiting destinations within miles. Doubly odd, given the gunshot they’d heard earlier.
Surrounded by shadowy green, the carriage rumbled slowly, carefully, down the path leading toward Ceana and Bowie. Her heart began to thrum in her chest. Anything to do with Cam, even remotely, was apt to fire her blood. Add to that the mystery of the duke’s presence out here, along with the gunshot, and Ceana’s every nerve was on edge.
“Looks like they expect I ought to be the one to pull off again,” Bowie grumbled.
“I don’t doubt it.” Ceana sighed. Last time they’d moved to the side of the road to allow the duke’s party by, the cart’s wheels had sunk into the deep mud, and it had taken them a good half hour to push it out. She pointed at a small clearing at the edge of the wood. “Looks like a safe enough spot over that way. Might as well stop and wait for them to pass.”
Bowie agreed, and within a few moments they had halted the animals and waited patiently for the duke’s party to go by. Ceana pulled the plaid low over her brow. This time, Bowie frowned at her. “You don’t want them to know you?”
“No. It’s the Duke of Irvington, and I’ve no wish to exchange words with him.”
“Ah.” Bowie nodded in understanding. He spat over the side of the bench. “I dislike the earl myself. He is not one of us.”
“It isn’t the earl I dislike,” Ceana explained patiently. “The Earl of Camdonn is a good man. It is the English duke I’d rather avoid. And you shouldn’t be so stupid,” she added in an acerbic tone, “as to despise a man solely based on his political bent.”
“Aye, well. You weren’t here when the earl wronged Alan.”
“No, but I heard about it.”
Bowie scowled at her. “And you still maintain he is a good man?”
“I’d trust him with my life,” Ceana said softly. “And your laird would too.”
Bowie sighed. “Everyone loves Alan, ’tis true, but all agree he is too soft.”
“Perhaps you just haven’t tried to know the earl as Alan has.” And I have.
“Aye, and I’ve no intention to know him.”
“Well, you’d best remember one thing, Bowie MacDonald.”
“What might that be?”
“The man has paid for his sins. Alan’s honor has been redeemed. How honorable is it to hold on to a grudge? Without forgiveness, men would have driven humanity to extinction long ago.”
The rumble of the carriage wheels and the clomp of hoofbeats grew louder as the party rounded the bend up ahead. Ceana pulled the plaid tight around her, but she watched them from the corner of her eye.
A man on horseback went by first. As he passed, Ceana’s heart lurched. There was a dark, wet stain on the rider’s buckskin coat.
Ceana was a healer. She knew what freshly bloodstained fabric looked like.
The carriage rumbled by next, and Ceana strained her ears, for it almost sounded—aye, it did—like a woman sobbed inside.
She remained silent until they’d passed, and Bowie worked to start up the animals and get them back onto the road. When they were once again plodding forward, Ceana spoke in a low voice. “Mark the wheel ruts.”
She pointed at a small rise of mud ahead; the mark of the carriage wheels made clearly delineated grooves over it. The duke’s carriage was the first conveyance of that sort to pass since the last rain.
Bowie frowned at her. “Why?”
“I want to know where they stopped and turned back.”
They traveled on. Darkness began to overtake the dusk, and they were within a mile of Anne Tynan’s house when Ceana sucked in a breath. “Stop.”
He did as she asked, for he’d seen what she had. The carriage had come to a rapid stop here, and the grass on the side of the road was crushed, as if the conveyance had pulled to the side, then turned around to return home.
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