by Amanda Scott
Firmly, he said, “I’ll find out what’s going on at Dumbarton, Mag.”
“I know you will.”
Without watching the big man stride away, Ian turned back to the others.
He knew what he had to do.
Chapter 2
Dumbarton Castle, that night
Do you think we’ll be able to sleep on these pallets?” Lizzie asked.
“Eventually, aye,” Lina said.
“Well, I’ll sleep better if I’m warmer. I do wish that someone would build us a fire or bring us blankets and food. Sakes, I wish your Tibby were here to brush my hair. It’s all in tangles, but I expect Patrick will lend me a comb.”
Tibby was the maidservant Lina shared with her sister Muriella and also was Peter Wylie’s sister. “I’m surprised that no one has been next or nigh us since they put us here,” Lina said. “But I’m glad, for Peter’s sake, that Tibby is not here and glad, too, that our captors left us that pitcher of water… and that pail.”
She was also thankful that Lizzie still hoped her brother Patrick would protect them. Despite the younger girl’s bluntly expressed if ineffective outrage after their capture, she had behaved fearlessly since then. She still complained but seemed to view their predicament now as an adventure.
Lina’s initial fear, when the men’s leader had declared that they were going to be the rebels’ guests at Dumbarton, had faded to uneasy trepidation. She was confident that Peter had escaped but still feared that he might have decided to ride all the way home to Tùr Meiloach before seeking help.
A rap at the door interrupted her train of thought. She tensed, and the fine hairs on her forearms tingled, a sensation that seemed to spread through her body.
A key rattled in the lock, and two men entered. The first was a short, stocky man wearing what she assumed was the attire of a castle servant. The other was ill-kempt, his dark shaggy hair hanging in his face and his clothing in tatters.
While the first man stood silently in the open doorway, the shaggy one carried in a hodful of peat topped with straw, which he took to the hearth. As Lina watched, everything else in the room seemed to vanish. She saw only the peat man.
He knelt, set down his load, extracted a tinderbox from a pocket amid his tatters, and muttered, “We thought ye’d be glad of a fire, the pair o’ ye.”
“Thank you,” Lina murmured. She barely heard her own voice.
“ ’Tis nowt,” the man replied. Deftly arranging peat and straw, he dealt as deftly with lighting it. Then he stood and turned, evidently sure it would burn.
The air around him seemed to take on life of its own, to crackle as he moved.
“Some’un comes,” the man at the door muttered in the vast distance.
The shaggy one looked right at her then, his light-blue gaze holding her astonished one. “Dinna squeak, lass,” he said. “Just tell me, ha’ they harmed ye?”
“N-nay,” she said, fighting to suppress her shock. “But—”
A quick shake of his head silenced her, and he moved toward the door. His demeanor remained casual, but his strides were longer, resulting in deceptive haste.
As he neared the open doorway, a tall tawny-headed figure appeared behind the stocky manservant who stood there, and Lizzie shrieked, “Patrick!”
Terrified that she might also have recognized the shaggy peat man and might betray him to her brother, Lina was thankful to see the manservant leave and the shaggy one slip past Patrick Galbraith to follow.
Then, just beyond Patrick, Sir Ian Colquhoun ducked his head, looked right at Lina, and blew her a kiss before vanishing down the stairs.
Passing his companion on that dark first flight of the spiral stairway, as well as a second man coming up, Ian led the way swiftly but silently downward, his heightened senses alert for any movement or voices on the stairs below or above. Only someone who knew him well might have detected his amusement.
The lass was still fun to startle, even under less than ideal circumstances and when the only signs of her shock were her widened eyes and slightly parted lips. She had lost scarcely a jot of her serenity. Hence, the blown kiss. But that, he knew, had been reckless. She would tell him so, too, he’d wager—at the first opportunity.
Hearing only Gorry MacCowan’s heavier tread behind him, Ian nevertheless kept a hand on the dagger thrust into the belt beneath his rags and hurried on.
Both men kept silent until they neared the landing they sought. Then, stepping back to let Gorry pass him, Ian whispered, “Doucely now.”
“Aye, master.”
“Nay, nay, I be nobbut a scrofulous peat carrier,” Ian muttered. “That man above kens me well and may follow us. He must not see my face.”
Gorry nodded. Nearing the door into the yard, he nodded again at the guard there, saying, “I’ll see this chap outside yon gates the noo.”
The guard pulled open the iron yett and heavy door without a glance at Ian, whose confidence was such that his thoughts had returned to the chamber above and the two young ladies there. He had not seen Lizzie Galbraith for years, and she had not seen his face. The lady Lachina certainly had, but she would not betray him.
Recalling her astonishment and her quick control of it, he felt amusement stir again. He had never known her well. But he had met her numerous times since her childhood, and her steady composure had always impressed him. It also, nearly always, tempted him to disturb it to see how she would react.
As he followed Gorry through the open doorway into the torchlit yard, he heard a clatter of boot-shod feet on the stairway above them.
“Haste now,” he muttered, barely breathing the words into the air.
Gorry lengthened his stride.
But Ian knew that haste would not be enough.
The gate was too far, the footsteps too close.
“Patrick, you must get us out of this horrid place!” Lizzie cried while Lina was struggling to recover from her shock at seeing Ian Colquhoun in their chamber. “Those dreadful men captured us and paid no heed when I told them who I am.”
Watching Lizzie fling herself into her brother’s arms, Lina strained her ears to hear the retreating footsteps of the other two men but could not hear anything over Lizzie’s outrage. She prayed that the two would get safely away.
At the same time, she wondered at her odd reaction to Sir Ian and as swiftly wrenched her thoughts away from him. It was no time to let her mind wander.
Patrick Galbraith looked enough like his brother Mag to make her sure of his identity even if Lizzie hadn’t shrieked it. When he set Lizzie back on her heels and turned in the doorway, Lina saw that a second man-at-arms had reached the landing.
“Did you see who those two men were?” Patrick asked him.
“One were Gorry MacCowan,” the man replied. “I didna see t’other one’s gizz at all, sir, wi’ his hair all a-flappin’ round his face as it were. Likely, it were Jocko, the peat man, or one o’ his sort.”
“Go and make sure,” Patrick said, sending a chill up Lina’s spine.
“Good sakes,” Lizzie said, rolling her eyes. “Those men came only to light a fire for us, Patrick. You should be thanking them, for ’tis cold in here and no one else thought to provide us with food or even blankets, only that noisome pail in the corner. I wish I had thought to ask them to take it away with them. But now that you are here, you will see to everything. I want to go home!”
Lina, who had much appreciated the presence of the pail on their arrival, saw that Patrick looked taken aback by his sister’s naïve demand.
“I know it is not what you’re used to, Liz,” he said. “Sakes, I could scarcely believe my ears when I heard you were here. I came up only to see if it was true.”
“But you must help us,” she insisted. “You serve James Mòr, and he cannot know we are here. You must tell him that Father—”
“Father has no authority here, Lizzie. Sakes, even I have gey little.”
“But you have been with James Mòr for years! I’m y
our sister!”
“You had no business getting captured,” Patrick snapped. “Nay, do not try to explain. I’ll warrant you were where you had no business to be. Is that not so?”
When Lizzie glowered at him, he went on, “You have come by your just deserts, my lass. And if you imagine that I can do aught to aid you, you are wrong. I am just one of many who serve James Mòr. What’s more, I have no authority over the man who brought you here.”
“Why not?” Lizzie demanded. “Who is he that he outranks you? Sithee, I think that man likes me. So if you ask him civilly to let me… that is, us go—”
“What makes you think he’d heed aught that I say?”
“He flirted with me, that’s what.”
Lina, watching, expected Patrick to bristle at hearing of the leader’s insolence to his sister. When his frown revealed that he was angry with Lizzie, Lina felt a deep frisson of fear.
Patrick looked at her, and she fought to conceal her distaste for him.
“Who is your friend, Liz?” he asked softly.
A louder male voice, behind him, snapped, “What the devil are ye doing up here, Galbraith? Ye’ve nae business here.”
Patrick jumped as if someone had pinched him. Turning toward the voice, he said grimly, “I came to see my sister. Perhaps you will explain to me, Dougal MacPharlain, just why you abducted and brought her here.”
Hearing the name of her father’s sworn enemy, Lina stiffened. But she wondered, too, if Patrick might take his sister’s side after all.
She had never met Dougal MacPharlain. But knowing that he was the son and heir of her father’s usurping cousin, Parlan MacFarlan—who now called himself simply Pharlain after the ancient founder of their clan—was enough.
Pharlain had seized not only Andrew Dubh’s chiefdom twenty years ago but all of his estates except Tùr Meiloach, the sanctuary to which he, his lady wife, and their infant daughter had escaped and where the family still lived.
To her shock, the man who stepped past Patrick into the room was the leader of the rebel troop that had captured them. He wore no plaid, just the clothes he had worn earlier: leather breeks, boots, and a brigandine over a plain shirt and jack.
As he passed Patrick, Dougal MacPharlain said, “Ye’ve nae right to question my actions, Galbraith.”
The tension that Lina had sensed immediately between the two increased tenfold. Patrick’s fists clenched. His jaw tightened.
Before he could reply, Dougal went on. “I do have the right to question ye, Galbraith,” he said. “Had ye wanted to see my prisoners, ye should have got my permission. Yon door was locked when I left. How did ye get in?”
“One of the servants opened it to let a peat man in,” Patrick said. Gesturing, he added, “He built that fire yonder.”
Dougal did not look away from Patrick, and his anger revealed itself in the set of his jaw and narrowed eyes. “Ye found two men here and didna raise a cry?”
Grimacing, Patrick said in measured tones, “They were leaving when I got here. The reason they had come was plain to see.”
“Who, exactly, were they?”
“The older one was a chap called Gorry. I did not know the other.”
“Then go after them and find out who the devil he is,” Dougal snapped, gesturing sharply toward the doorway.
Without looking at his sister or Lina, Patrick left.
When the sound of his footsteps had faded down the stairway, Dougal shut the door and turned back toward Lina.
She tensed again. Her inner voice screamed at her to warn Dougal off, to ask him to leave them in peace or try to divert him. Had she possessed Andrena’s skill at reading others, she might have acted on that instinct. But knowing that she distrusted the man because his father had wronged her family and that she might be leaping to conclusions about Dougal’s intentions now, she hesitated to speak.
He looked intently at Lizzie.
Lina saw then that his charm, though undeniable, was that of a wildcat holding a bunny motionless with the power of its gaze… just long enough to pounce.
“Ye’re gey beautiful, Lady Elizabeth,” he said smoothly. “I saw that straightaway. Ye must have many suitors.”
Lizzie, apparently tongue-tied for once, blushed, then smiled uncertainly.
Dougal took a step toward her, one hand moving as if to touch her.
Without thought, Lina stepped between them.
Ian noted thankfully that the guard at the tower door had shut it behind them.
Then Gorry touched his sleeve and muttered, “This way, master.”
Ian followed, keeping his head down. He knew, though, that they headed toward the stables, not the gate.
Since most visitors to Dumbarton stabled their mounts below in the royal burgh or at an inn there, the stables inside the wall were only stalls facing the east wall with a long thatched roof over them. Torches cast golden light over the yard.
“What are you thinking, Gorry?” Ian asked, keeping his voice low.
“The straw, master, and quick! It will be nae great thing for anyone following us tae see me wi’ the ponies. Despite the size o’ this place, the leaders brought few servants tae look after them. James Mòr has his body servant, as does Master Dougal MacPharlain and some o’ the others. The rest brought nae servants, and none o’ them thought tae bring much food along.”
Ian’s attention had fixed on one name. “Dougal MacPharlain? That devil’s spawn is here?”
“Aye, but dinna dally!” Gorry urged, gesturing toward the straw.
Glad that he was wearing rags, Ian eased past the occupant of a stall midway along and plowed a tunnel in fresh straw at the wall end of it for himself. Squirming briefly to settle in, he moved just enough straw aside to get a view of the yard.
A man-at-arms stood on the steps by the door they had used in the southeast tower. Scanning the torchlit yard, the man descended and strode toward the gates.
Gorry was brushing one of the ponies as if he had been doing it for some time. The pony in the stall Ian had chosen noisily nibbled straw, making Ian hope that the beast would not mistake his tangled, dirty hair for something tastier.
After watching the man-at-arms approach the gate, talk to someone there, and turn back, Ian looked over the others in the yard. When he saw no women, his thoughts flitted back upstairs until he realized that the man he’d been watching was striding back toward the southeast tower doorway.
Someone stood on the steps there now, his features barely visible in the torchlight. He was as tall as Ian, perhaps, but not as tall as Mag. Something about the way he stood… Realizing that the man’s posture was similar to the way Mag often stood, with one hand on his dirk and the other hooked by its thumb to his belt, Ian recalled Lizzie’s shriek.
“That’s Patrick Galbraith,” he muttered, hoping Patrick’s appearance was due to something other than that he had belatedly recognized the peat man as Ian.
Gorry finished the first pony and moved to a second, two stalls away.
The man-at-arms went up the steps, shook his head in response to something Patrick said to him, then turned and scanned the yard again. His gaze moved past Gorry, halted, and went back again. When the man and Patrick descended the steps together, Ian stopped watching lest either man sense his gaze on him.
Relaxing to keep his mind blank as he did when hunting, he heard Patrick say loudly, just steps away, “You there, we want a word wi’ ye.”
“Aye, sure,” Gorry replied laconically. Then, as if realizing that Patrick was not just a second man-at-arms, Gorry said politely, “How may I serve ye, sir?”
“You were in yon tower room with a peat man,” Patrick said. “Where is he?”
“Why, Jocko’s gone home, sir,” Gorry said. “He delivered his peat, so he had nowt more tae keep him.”
Hoping that Gorry held both men’s attention, and unable to bear not looking, Ian peeked through the straw at the three men, easily visible now.
“The gatekeeper said he saw no p
eat man leaving the castle,” Patrick said, looking around. When his gaze swept right over Ian’s hiding place, it was all Ian could do not to flinch.
Gorry was protesting. “The gateman mun be mistaken, sir. I saw Jocko walk tae the gate, and he had nae call tae go anywhere else. Mayhap yon gateman doesna ken Jocko. Shall I ask him m’self?”
“We’ll all go,” Patrick said grimly.
Deeply relieved, Ian watched them stride away. He wondered if perhaps he should move.
Then Patrick looked back.
“Stand aside, wench,” Dougal said curtly to Lina.
She stood her ground, meeting his angry glare with effort at first. Then, abruptly, she realized that his glare matched the fiendish way her cat, Ansuz—named for a runic god that controlled men’s fate—looked at her when it took exception to having stubborn tangles or burrs combed from its long fur.
“I told ye to move,” Dougal said impatiently.
“Do you make war on women, sir?” Lina asked.
“Don’t be daft. I have nae interest in a doltish woman hired to look after this lass and inept enough to let her be captured.”
“The capture was your doing, not mine,” she said, studying him.
His hair was the reddish brown of ground cinnamon, his eyes the grayish brown of grated nutmeg. Since he had not replied, she added, “What will James Mòr think of your having imprisoned two innocent young noblewomen?”
“Sakes, he’s like to reward me for capturing a pawn to keep Galbraith in check. It may even persuade the laird to join us. Her brothers already have.”
“Not all of them,” Lina said.
He leaned forward. “D’ye dare to contradict me?”
“I merely point out a fact,” she said.
“By God, I’ll not permit insolence from such a naebody!” he snapped, raising a threatening hand.
Lizzie exclaimed, “Don’t you touch her, Dougal MacPharlain! I thought you would be nice. But you are not fit to touch Lina!”