Again, Jamie’s own words flashed through his mind, just as he’d thought them in Baldreagan’s bailey.
Truth be told, he’d often suspected the man could listen through walls.
… such a feat might be how he always managed to get the better of his fellow Highland cattle lairds, e’er seeming to know what the men said behind his back or when they believed Munro out of earshot.
Jamie’s blood ran cold.
He jerked on the reins, pulling up at once. “Well, then!” he swore, wrenching around his garron and digging in his spurs to thunder down a sloping braeside choked with gorse and broom, making for an innocuous-looking outcrop not unlike the stones that sheltered St. Bride’s Well.
Only these boulders hid something far more treacherous.
Something he should’ve recalled long ago.
The latest when he’d mused about his da’s seeming ability to hear through walls.
By all the saints, there’d been a time when Munro Macpherson had listened through walls.
Baldreagan was riddled with hidden passageways, squints, and subterranean corridors. In the glory days of his cattle dealing, Jamie’s father had used them with glee, taking advantage of being able to leave the dais on some cock-and-bull errand while, in truth, sneaking into a secret passage cut through the walls, circling back, and spying on his guests. Listening raptly, then using his gleaned knowledge against them.
Until Jamie’s brother Hamish had one day wandered into the maze of passages and gotten lost.
For three days and nights the entire clan had searched for the lad, finally finding him cowering and half-frozen on the morning of the fourth day, huddled in one of the underground passages that led farthest from the keep.
The very one that exited into the outcrop looming up out of the whin and bracken at the bottom of this braeside.
Another, similar passage opened closer to the Garbh Uisge and he’d investigate that one, too.
If he could find the old opening.
Not an easy task, as his da had ordered every last passage filled and sealed after Hamish’s disappearance.
Even his favorite squint in the great hall, a craftily placed laird’s lug with a fine view onto the dais, had not been spared.
And, Jamie saw, pulling up in front of the outcrop and swinging down to take a better look, whate’er hidden entry to a subterranean passage may once have been concealed in the tumbled rocks, with surety, was no more.
His father’s men had been thorough.
All that remained here were boyhood memories of playing with his brothers near the outcrop, each brother daring the others to venture deeper inside the passage’s dank and inky darkness.
Jamie shuddered again and pulled a hand down over his chin.
Such a passage, if a passable one yet existed, might be the answer to his da’s bogle visits.
“By the Almighty God,” he swore, certain of it.
His mood darkening, he remounted, his gaze falling on the plump little sack of honey cakes hanging from the saddle bow and meant for Hughie Mac, should the old man need persuasion to discuss his odd behavior last night—and the newly whittled hazel walking stick. But the honey cakes and his questions for Hughie would have to wait.
Whether it would displease his bride and certain long-nosed, clack-tongued MacKenzie females, he needed to spend some time looking around at the Rough Waters. Even so, he couldn’t suppress the chill that swept through him. After years squiring at Eilean Creag, he knew better than most how accurate were Lady Linnet’s visitations.
Her warnings of doom—when she felt compelled to make one.
But if he ignored his suspicions and further grief came to those he loved, he’d be dooming himself. He had to put an end to the misery someone was so determined to inflict on his family.
No matter the cost to himself.
Thus decided, Jamie dug in his spurs yet again and raced onward, sending his garron plunging back up the steep braeside. But at the hill’s crest, he turned away from the tall Caledonian pines sheltering Hughie Mac’s cottage and headed elsewhere.
Straight for the Garbh Uisge.
The roar of the falls and crashing, racing water soon became deafening, the sound blotting all else as he neared the soaring birch-clad shoulders of the dread defile. The temperature plummeted, too, and the air grew colder, chilled by the icy, foaming cataracts and because the sun had scuttled behind the dark, lowlying clouds.
Jamie’s mount balked. Hill-bred and sure-footed, the shaggy-coated garron tossed its head and sidled when a great plume of frothy spray shot up over the edge of the ravine and the beast’s hooves slithered on the slick, slippery ground.
“Dinna fret, my friend,” Jamie soothed him, “you needn’t go any closer to yon gloomy precipice.”
Swinging down, he gave the beast an encouraging open-palmed thwack on his broad rump, then watched as he plunged away into the bracken and whins, seeking the safety of a nearby rocky knowe, his scrabbling, clambering hooves sending a glissade of pebbles over the lip of the gorge and into the swirling, splashing water.
Water Jamie meant to ignore, concentrating only on a nearby birch-clad slope and the mossy, broken-down wall of a long-disused cot house, its ancient stones disguising another entrance to one of Baldreagan’s subterranean tunnels.
The only other underground passage that stretched for such a goodly distance, all others ending not far from Baldreagan’s stout curtain walls.
His heart pounding, Jamie followed the narrow, twisting deer path that ran along the edge of the gorge, the thick, silver-shadowed birchwood pressing close on one side, the steep drop to the ravine and its cataracts on the other.
Twice, his feet slid on the loose stone and the slick carpet of wet, brown leaves. And once, when throwing out an arm to catch his balance, he plunged his hand right into a patch of stinging nettles growing on a pile of tumbled boulders.
“Damnation!” He scowled, rubbing his palm furiously against his plaid.
This was not promising.
His hand burned worse than if a thousand fire-eaters had spewed flames on him and the dismal, pallid light of the birch wood was seeming to dim the farther along the path he went. Equally disturbing, the back of his neck was beginning to tingle.
Someone was watching him.
He was sure of it.
Especially when a twig cracked somewhere behind him and, with a quick rustling of brittle leaves, another scatter of pebbles went sliding into the leaping, swirling waters of the abyss.
“Hold!” he cried, whirling around, his hand reaching for his sword. But nothing more sinister moved in the birch-clogged, rocky-sided gorge save a family of red foxes.
Jamie blew out a breath and shoved back his hair. The foxes, a fine-looking pair and three older pups sure to soon be on their own, ignored him and continued on their way through the bracken. No doubt heading for a cozy den hidden deep in one of the mist-filled corries gouged into the sides of the gorge.
Only the male fox looked back to stare at him. Oddly familiar though Jamie couldn’t say why, the creature’s queer golden eyes bored into him in such a disconcerting, penetrating manner that the prickles erupted again on his nape. This time they even spilled down his spine.
The little red fox had strange eyes.
But before Jamie could ponder what else about the creature disturbed him, the fox was gone.
And only then did he realize he’d reached his destination: the tumbledown dry stone wall and the ruined cot house, relics of a long-ago time. And, Jamie saw, little more than a pathetic heap of moss-grown stone. Almost entirely covered by thigh-high bracken, the one-time entrance to the Macphersons’ secret tunnel was as much a faded memory as the souls who once called this desolate little patch of earth home.
Jamie frowned.
He’d wasted time and effort. And the palm of his left hand still stung like Hades.
He’d been so sure.
But then, he’d also been certain he’d felt hostile ey
es watching him. He would’ve sworn the rustlings and pebble-scatterings behind him had been of malevolent origin.
Truth was, he could still feel a presence.
And not the ethereal, wispy passing of bogles he didn’t believe in.
Nor strangely gleaming golden fox eyes, odd as the wee creature had struck him.
Then something did strike him.
A great running shove from behind. Hard, breath-stealing, and full to the center of his back. So swift and unexpected he only caught a lightning-quick flash of Macpherson plaid as the tall, powerfully built bogle skidded to a lurching halt and Jamie, far from halting, went sailing over the cliff edge.
Horror whipped through him as he fell, the wild rush of the wind, icy flying spray, and the roar of the falls all he knew until the churning cauldron of white rushed ever closer and then, blessedly, went black.
There hadn’t even been time to cry out.
Not that he’d have been able to with the wind knocked out of him.
Nor could he scream now with frigid, surging water swirling all around him, rushing into his ears, mouth and nose, choking and blinding him, tossing and rolling his body, hurtling him against the rocks, drenching and drowning him.
Just like his brothers had drowned.
Only Jamie didn’t want to die.
Not now.
And not like this.
But he couldn’t breathe. Each spluttering, gasping attempt only sent more freezing water shooting into his mouth and nose, filling his lungs until he was sure they’d burst.
And if the water was freezing, his body was on fire. His throat burned and his eyes stung and if the searing pain in his chest meant anything, he’d surely cracked his ribs.
But at least he was alive to realize it!
Determined to stay that way, he thrashed about, trying to keep his head above the rapids and using his arms and legs as best he could to avoid crashing into the worst of the jagged, black-glistening rocks.
A battle he was losing, no matter how fiercely he wished otherwise. Desperately, he grabbed at every crack and fingerhold of each rock he shot past, but the rocks proved too slippery, his fingers too numbed by the cold, his split-second chance at each rock too fleeting.
His teeth were chattering now, too, and the weight of his clothes dragged him down, pulling him under the icy, churning water.
There was nothing he could do.
And what he could have done—namely heed Linnet MacKenzie’s warning—he’d ignored.
Then, just when he was certain his lungs truly were on fire and his end must be imminent, he saw the fox again.
That it was the same fox, he was sure. The creature had the same startling eyes.
Alone now, he kept pace with Jamie, running along the rock-strewn edge of the rapids, his golden gaze fixed on Jamie even as he seemed to be looking about for something.
Something he apparently spied, for he suddenly shot ahead, vanishing like a flash of red-gold lightning only to reappear where a fallen tree cluttered the riverbank.
A fallen tree that had split into several pieces, one of which was a fat, good-sized log.
Jamie coughed and spluttered, blinking hard.
He couldn’t see well at all.
Not tossing about in the rapids as he was. But he did see the little fox stop beside the log and the giddiest sense of hope swept him when the creature began nudging the log forward, rolling it ever closer to the water’s edge.
“By the saints,” Jamie gasped, not caring that the vow cost him another mouthful of choking, freezing water.
By the holy saints! He cried the words in silence the second time, his throat too tight to voice them when the fox gave the log one last push and it fell into the water.
Just there and then when Jamie hurtled past.
His spirits surging, he lunged for the log, his arms closing around its life-saving girth in the very moment he was sure the last of his strength left him.
Clinging tight, he tossed his head, trying to shake the water from his eyes. But the splashing rapids and cold, tossing spray made it impossible. Renewed hope did give him a resurgence of strength, though, and he thrashed his legs with greater fervor, summoning all his will and might to reach the water’s rock-torn edge.
Then suddenly the log slammed into solid, pebbly ground and Jamie felt the stony riverbank beneath his weakened, quivering knees.
“Saints o’ mercy,” he gasped, hot tears blinding him this time.
Too weary to do aught but drop his head onto the log and lay sprawled where he was, he dragged in great gasping gulps of air, too grateful to be alive to care that the icy water still swirled over his lower legs.
His heart thundering, he looked around for the strange-eyed little fox, but the creature was gone, the riverbank empty and quiet.
Silent save for the ever-present din of the Rough Waters and, saints preserve him, the rustling crash of someone hurrying toward him through the underbrush.
A large someone, tall and powerfully built judging by their pounding footsteps. They were running now, wild-eyed and shouting, their expression murderous.
And they were wearing a Macpherson plaid, its telltale folds flapping in the cold wind as the figure raced near, leaping and vaulting over broken stone and debris in their haste to reach him.
A figure Jamie knew, the shock of recognition stilling his heart. The man’s tall frame and awkward, somewhat clumsy gait gave him away.
As did the huge wicked-looking Viking ax clanking at his side.
It was Beardie.
Aveline knew something was wrong the instant she came awake.
Dread sluiced over her like icy water and she didn’t need to fling out an arm and feel the cold emptiness on Jamie’s side of the great four-poster bed to know he was gone.
Or that something dire was the reason for his absence.
Cuillin knew it, too.
The old dog paced in front of the closed bedchamber door, pausing now and again to paw, sniff, and scratch at the door’s heavy oaken planks. Or just sit and whimper.
It was his whimpering that had wakened her.
Dogs didn’t fret and whine at doors without good reason. Nor did they ignore large and well-fleshed meat bones.
Just such a bone lay temptingly near the hearth fire, Cuillin’s favorite sleeping spot, and that could only mean one thing.
Jamie had sought to keep the dog quiet so he could slip away unnoticed. And the wish to do so bode ill. It meant he was off on some nefarious scheme.
Something dangerous.
And without doubt foolhardy, though it was the danger part that had Aveline dashing about the room snatching up her clothes and dressing as quickly as possible.
There were only two places he would have gone.
To Hughie Mac’s; she’d seen last night that he hadn’t accepted her notion that the old man had been entertaining a lady love.
Or he’d gone to the Garbh Uisge.
Indeed, as soon as the dread name crossed her mind, she knew that was where he’d headed. The certainty of it made the floor dip and weave beneath her and she grabbed the bedpost, holding fast as a great, icy shudder ripped through her.
Her stomach churned and her mouth went dry. Every warning that had passed the MacKenzie women’s lips flew back at her, each word taking stabs at her, freezing her heart with such ice-cold fear she couldn’t breathe.
“I won’t let anything happen to him,” she vowed, clutching the bedpost, certain that if she let go the floor would split wide and swallow her, plunging her into a deep dark void so cold and unending she’d never see another glimmer of light for all the rest of her days.
A horror she had no intention of allowing.
She lifted her chin and set her jaw, determining to be strong. But even then, her fingers slid over the smooth cool wood of the bedpost and she remembered caressing Jamie’s face just the night before.
Anything but cool and unresponsive, he’d turned his cheek into her palm, pressing ag
ainst her hand until his warmth flowed sweetly through her fingertips, reaching clear to her heart.
A heart that now squeezed with dread.
Her chest tightening, Aveline jerked away from the bedpost, her pulse leaping. She looked at her hands, half certain the bed frame’s satiny, impersonal wood had grown viper heads and bit her. She wanted the warmth and solidness of Jamie.
She blinked hard, cursing the sleep that had claimed her so fully. The dark night and its stillness, the quiet cloak of morning he’d used to slip away.
Away on some knightly hero’s mission, she was sure.
Saints preserve her if aught should happen to him.
She wasn’t sure when or how it had happened, but she’d fallen crazily in love with him and couldn’t imagine her life without his sunny-natured smiles and grins. The way he treated her as if she were infinitely precious, worth everything to him. And not despite her smallness, but because he prized her just as she was.
She began to pace, trying to think what to do.
But most of all, she just wanted him safe, and in her arms.
Och, aye, she loved him.
Desperately.
And for many more reasons than his high looks and gallantry.
It was the warmth that welled inside her each time he looked at her or she even just thought his name. The sense of feeling whole only when he was near, and empty and bereft when he wasn’t.
She loved him to the roots of her soul. A truth borne home by the lancing pain inside her now, her surety that something horrible had happened to him.
She knew it.
And the knowledge gutted her.
Closing her eyes, she sank down onto the bed and bit her lip. She would not cry. If she did the pain already ripping her would tear her into jagged little pieces.
Clearly sharing her dread, Cuillin trotted over to her, first nosing under her elbow, then nudging her knee, his troubled gaze alternating between her and the door.
But when he leaned into her, dropping his head on her lap with a groan, her resolve almost broke.
“Nay, nay, nay, Cuillin,” she said, pushing the words past the tightness in her throat. “Mooning about will serve naught—I only needed to catch myself and now I have.”
She pushed to her feet, reaching down to stroke the old dog’s head. “Truth is, he may only have gone down to the hall to break his fast earlier than usual.”
Bride for a Knight Page 25