“Don’t fash at Brody, husband,” the woman said with a laugh. “Ye ken he did his best. But I wanted to know what was happening and why the lass screamed.”
Annabel listened to this exchange, her heart sinking as her fear was proved true. When everyone then turned back to her in question, she instinctively raised a hand to push the hair back from her face, only to pause as she spotted the blood covering it and glistening on the sleeve of her gown.
Frowning, Annabel peered down at herself then and could have shrieked with frustration when she saw that her gown was torn and covered with blood and grass stains. Really, it was enough to weep over. This was not how she’d planned to meet her husband’s sister.
Chapter 8
“This isna’ good.”
Ross’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t respond to Gilly’s comment as he watched Marach run his hands over his wife’s saddleless mare in search of wounds, and then checked her hooves to see where she’d been.
Annabel had disappeared into the woods by the time he’d led Marach and Gilly out of the bailey. They’d crossed the narrow barren land that surrounded the castle and then had begun to search the area just across from the drawbridge, thinking the woman didn’t know the area so wouldn’t have strayed far. But when that had turned up nothing, they’d begun to discuss splitting up and searching further afield, only to pause when her mare came charging through the woods toward them. The horse had been in a panic. On spotting them, she’d turned sharply and tried to avoid them, but the men had given chase and caught her.
“Anything?” Ross asked as Marach finished his examination and straightened.
“No injuries, but something spooked her,” he said, running a soothing hand down her back. “She has black dirt ground deep into her hooves.”
“Hmm,” Ross muttered, considering the different areas nearby with black dirt. There were a lot of them. Stomach clenching with frustration and worry, he ordered, “Marach, take the mare back to MacKay, and round up some men to help search. Gilly and I will split up and head the way the horse came. If we find Annabel—” He paused and jerked around in his saddle as a tinkle of laughter reached his ears.
“It sounds like more than one woman,” Marach said as a second burst of female laughter joined the first.
“Seonag?” Gilly suggested uncertainly.
Ross considered that, but said, “The stable master did no’ mention anyone accompanying me wife.”
“Nay, he didn’t,” Marach agreed, and then as the riding party came into view through the trees, he added, “And that’s definitely no’ just a couple o’ women.”
“Nay,” Ross growled, squinting to get a better look at the group. Another moment hadn’t passed, though, before he recognized them as MacDonalds.
“Ah, Giorsal’s come for a visit,” Gilly said, apparently recognizing the group as well. “And it appears she and yer wife are getting along like a hut on fire.”
“Then why isn’t she riding with her?” Ross asked testily as he noted his wife’s wee figure seated before his brother-in-law on his mount. She threw her head back on another laugh then, her dark hair flying back and splashing over Bean’s cream shirt and dark green plaid, and Ross growled deep in his throat, his fingers tightening on his reins.
“On the bright side, she looks unharmed and well from here,” Gilly pointed out, sounding amused for some reason.
Ross merely grunted and urged his horse forward to meet the party.
Bean spotted him first, and the MacDonald laird gave him a solemn nod over Annabel’s head. Giorsal, who had been grinning as she listened to something Annabel was saying, saw her husband’s action and turned to look Ross’s way. A wide smile immediately claimed her lips and she cried, “Brother!” and urged her mount eagerly forward. The silly chit damned near knocked him off his horse when she threw herself off her mare and at him. Fortunately, Ross knew his sister well and had braced himself the moment she urged her mount forward. He was prepared for the impact and quick enough to catch her to his chest so she didn’t tumble to the ground.
“I like your new bride,” Giorsal laughed, hugging him so tightly she near choked him. Then she sat back in his lap and said seriously, “But ye’d best find out who it is that keeps attacking her. Next time she may no’ be so lucky.”
Stiffening, Ross shifted Giorsal to the side so that he could get a better look at his wife. Bean had continued forward at a sedate pace, a long-suffering expression on his face as he watched his hooligan of a wife greet her brother. Even so, he had nearly reached them and Ross could now see that his wife wasn’t as well as he’d first thought. Her hair was a little wild around her head, a dark bruise was coloring her left temple, looking almost a match to the one in the center of her forehead from the day before, and her gown was torn, the neckline hanging askew and almost indecent.
“The blood’s not hers,” Giorsal said reassuringly and Ross suddenly noted that her red gown was a little darker red in places; her right sleeve, neckline and bodice. Drying blood. Her gown hid it well.
“Her attacker?” he asked, eyes narrowing and rage rising up within him at the thought of his wee bride alone and fighting for her life against some faceless bastard like the big behemoth he’d seen chasing her in the clearing the day before.
“Aye. She stabbed him in the arm, and then Jasper scared him off,” Giorsal announced and he now noticed Jasper trotting along beside Bean’s horse. The dog kept tipping his head up to Annabel, and then to the path ahead, and then back to Annabel again. It was how he used to follow his father, Ross recalled, and suspected his wife had been adopted by the beast in his father’s place.
He was distracted from this thought when Giorsal added, “We heard her scream and came to investigate, but he was gone ere we got there. The men were going to search for him, but she said no’ to bother, that you and the men have searched each time he has appeared and the man seems to disappear into the wind.”
Ross frowned. Annabel had claimed not to see the man who had chased her in the clearing the day before, and the only other event had been the man who had walked up on her while she was trying to relieve herself on the journey here. Both times the man had seemed to disappear into thin air, but surely she wasn’t suggesting all three incidents involved the same man? It had been an Englishman in England, and a Scot yesterday. Or, at least, the man had been wearing English clothes in England by Annabel’s account; he had not seen him. He had, however, seen the man the day before and had noted he wore a plaid.
“May I have my wife back?”
Ross blinked his thoughts away to peer at his brother-in-law at that question. A frown claimed his face when he saw that Annabel was no longer seated before the man. Ross looked around, his expression turning grimmer when he saw her presently pulling herself up onto her mare’s bare back with a leg up from Marach. A bulging bag that no doubt contained flowers hung from her one hand. Ross immediately scooped up his sister and tossed her the couple of feet to her husband. He barely waited to ensure Bean caught her before turning his horse to urge it up next to his wife’s. Ross plucked her up just as she settled on the animal’s bare back with a little satisfied huff at the successful effort.
“Husband,” she protested. “I can ride. I am not hurt.”
“Yer gown is torn and bloodied and ye’ve added yet another bruise to yer pretty face. Do no’ tell me yer no’ hurt,” he said grimly, shifting her about before him until she was pressed snugly up against his groin. Satisfied with her position, he then gestured for the others to follow, and turned his horse toward the castle. He rode fast at first and let a moment pass to get ahead of the others, before saying, “Ye told me ye had no’ seen the man in the clearing yesterday.”
“I did not,” Annabel assured him, swiveling to look at him with a bit of excitement as she was recalled to the day’s events. “But I saw his plaid and the man today was wearing the same color plaid. He was big too. And, he was the same man as the one who startled me in England on our jour
ney here, so I am beginning to think it was the same man all three times.”
“Ye’re sure it was the same man as in England?” he asked, not happy at the thought.
“Aye. I only caught a glimpse that first time, but he is hard to mistake,” she assured him. “He is very large and has a pretty face.”
That brought a scowl to Ross’s lips. He didn’t at all like her finding someone else attractive, which was silly, he supposed. It wasn’t like she was going to run off with her attacker. According to Giorsal, she’d stabbed him. Besides, he himself wouldn’t have been flattered to be called pretty.
“Ye mean handsome, do ye no’?” he suggested.
“Nay. You are handsome, husband. He is pretty,” she said in a tone of voice that suggested that should clear the matter up. It didn’t.
“Is there a difference?” Ross asked cautiously.
“Aye,” Annabel said as if that should be obvious. “Handsome is rugged and manly and … well … handsome,” she finished helplessly, and then added, “Pretty is big eyes, sculpted jaw and hair that flops across the eyes.” She paused briefly before continuing with some consideration, “He would make a lovely girl were he not so muscular across the shoulders and chest.”
“Ah,” Ross said, unable to repress a grin. Whether she realized it or not, his wife was saying she thought he was a sexy beast, while the pretty boy was … pretty, but not in a way she found especially attractive. He liked that.
His smile didn’t last long though. Now that he’d got past the bit about her attacker being pretty, he was considering that her description fit the man he’d seen chasing her through the clearing yesterday. It would seem that he was the fellow from all three incidents, after all. “Did he speak?”
“Aye,” she answered and then recalled, “He had a Scottish accent.”
Ross let his breath out on a disappointed sigh. He’d rather been hoping it was an Englishman trying not to draw attention up here, rather than a Scot who had taken on English garb that first time, no doubt in an effort to try to fool them into thinking he was English. If it was a Scot, though, it meant these events likely had more to do with him than with his bride. Someone was trying to get to him through her.
“He said it would go easier did I not fight,” Annabel added suddenly. “That he did not wish to harm me, but would. So I guess it was my fault he punched me in the head.”
“I am going to hurt him when I find him,” Ross said grimly.
“I already did,” Annabel admitted on a sigh. “I fear I stabbed him in the arm.”
Ross tightened his hold on her. She sounded almost apologetic when she admitted it, but he was proud of her. She was a fighter, his wife.
“I did not mean to,” she admitted. “I had forgotten I had the knife in my hand … and I was aiming for his head.” She grimaced, and then added, “I am glad he raised his arm. Knifing him in the head would have been disgusting.”
“Aye,” Ross agreed. He’d done it in battle on more than one occasion, but on purpose. A good jab in the ear, in the eye, or up under the jaw was always a battle stopper. Removing the knife afterward was the disgusting bit. The suctioning sound that accompanied the chore was rather gruesome, and sometimes the eye might come out with the blade if you stabbed them there, and then you had to remove that … also gruesome.
“Could it be the old trouble?” Gilly asked.
Ross glanced to the side and back at that question to see that he hadn’t left everyone behind after all. Gilly and Marach had kept apace, and had apparently heard all. Ross turned forward again, a grim expression on his face at Gilly’s words. He was suggesting that the battle for clan chief was not yet over and someone was trying to use Annabel to force him to give up the title. But, if that were the case, the attacker would be his uncle or Fingal, and he’d seen the man in the clearing and—“I did no’ recognize him. He’s no’ a clan member.”
“He could ha’e been hired to do the chore for another,” Gilly pointed out quietly.
That was a very real possibility and one Ross wished he didn’t have to consider, but he did. He’d hoped killing Derek had put an end to it all, and certainly the other three men who had been vying for the title of clan chief at the time had seemed to back down and fall in line. His cousin, Derek, had been the son of his father’s deceased twin brother. He had used age as the excuse for why he would be a better clan chief, but the man had only been four years older. The moment Derek had brought up age as the reason, Ross’s two remaining uncles, Ainsley and Eoghann, had each stepped up, pointing out that they had more age and wisdom than either of the two younger men and therefore should be the choice. The final man to try to claim entitlement to the chiefdom was Fingal, the blacksmith in the village, and the bastard son of Ross’s grandfather. As such, he too felt he had every right to go after the seat.
All three of the older men had backed down after Ross had killed his cousin, Derek, in battle. Derek had lain in wait and ambushed Ross, Gilly and Marach while they were out hunting. The element of surprise had not helped him. Nor had his having a dozen men with him. Ross had ended the battle quickly and decisively, riding furiously through the other men to his cousin, who was staying at the back of the group, allowing his men to fight the battle for him. Ross would never see such a coward rule their people. He’d given Derek a mortal chest wound as the man had tried to turn his horse to flee.
Whether it was shame at their leader’s cowardly behavior or simple self-preservation, the moment Derek was dead, the other men had lain down their weapons and sworn fealty.
Fingal and his uncles had done the same on learning the news. All three claimed they had simply been trying to show Derek that his being four years older did not give him a claim to the title, and that leadership skills and courage were what mattered, not age.
Ross’s uncle Ainsley had since passed away when his heart seized up the past winter, but Eoghann and Fingal still lived. Eoghann had a little farm outside the village, and Fingal still worked as a blacksmith in the village. The question now became, was one of them still interested in the title clan chief, and if one of them was, how was he planning to use Annabel to gain it?
“THANK YOU,” ANNABEL murmured when Ross helped her down from his horse. Reaching down to give Jasper an absent pat when he rushed up, she glanced the way they’d come and saw that the others were just crossing the drawbridge. She only had moments before they would reach the keep. Fingers tightening on the bag in her hand, she whirled and rushed up the stairs to the keep doors, aware that Ross and Jasper were following.
The smell in the great hall was not nearly as bad as it had been, but still hung in the air like a ghost, faint but noticeable and very unpleasant. Grimacing, Annabel glanced over the dozen or so women re-scrubbing the various spots where Jasper had left his gifts earlier. She was looking for Seonag, and spotted her just as the maid glanced up and saw them. The woman glared briefly at Jasper when she saw that he was with them, but then her gaze found the bag Annabel carried and relief replaced the scowl. That relief turned to a pained grimace, however, as she struggled to her feet. Annabel frowned with concern and rushed forward as the woman started to shuffle toward them with a limping gait.
Seonag was too old to be kneeling on the cold stone floor for any length of time. She should have simply directed the women, rather than helping, but before Annabel could say so, Seonag said, “Oh, thank goodness. Ye found the flowers. They’ll—” She paused abruptly as she got near enough to see the state Annabel was in and gasped, “What in the bloody blazes happened to ye?”
“She was attacked,” Ross answered and didn’t sound very happy about it.
“Again?” Seonag asked with dismay.
Impatient at this delay when the MacDonalds were nearly on their doorstep, she waved the question away. “Never mind that now. We must get these bluebells spread about. Ross’s sister and her husband are right behind us and shall be coming through the door any moment and it still smells in here.”
“Aye. We have scrubbed and scrubbed but the stench remains,” Seonag said. Her tone was distracted, however, her attention seeming locked on Annabel’s forehead, and she couldn’t resist asking, “Did ye run into another tree?”
Annabel gaped at the question and then sighed. She would never live that one down and really wished her husband hadn’t felt the need to explain her injury and tell everyone about it. Though to be fair, he’d probably only told Seonag so that she knew what she was dealing with. Annabel didn’t doubt that everyone now knew about it, though. It was impossible to keep secrets in castles.
“Me wife was attacked and punched in the head,” Ross explained. “And doubtless she has other bruises and wounds from the attack too. Take her above stairs and be sure there is nothing serious. Then see her changed. I’ll—”
“There is no time for that now,” Annabel protested at once. “We must get these bluebells strewn about. Your sister and her husband—”
“I’ll tend the flowers,” Ross interrupted. He took the sack from her and then urged her toward the stairs. “Let Seonag examine ye and help ye change … else I’ll do it.”
When he paused on the last word and suddenly turned to look down at her, his eyes going smoky, Annabel felt her own eyes widen. She recognized that look and instinctively knew that his examining would be a lot more involved and take much longer than Seonag’s. She suspected it would include his getting naked too, and for a moment she was tempted, but then Seonag tsked with exasperation and took her arm to pull her away from Ross.
“There’s time enough fer yer kind o’ examining later, after yer guests have left,” the maid said to Ross as she urged Annabel up the stairs. Glancing over her shoulder she added, “Now get on with ye and give those flowers to the maids to strew about. Ye don’t want yer wife embarrassed by yer home when yer sister enters.”
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