Eighteen
Andrew McNab wrapped his arms around the most delightful creature he had ever had the joy to hold. Alys was clearly inexperienced, but when she pressed her body and her lips to his, it was the best kiss he’d ever had. When she finally pulled back, he gave her a smile and then as real a kiss as he knew how to deliver. He was more experienced in these matters than she, but not as much as he would have liked. She seemed surprised at first, then grasped him tighter. She even trembled a bit. He may have too, truth be told.
When their lips finally parted she was wide-eyed, her lips red and swollen, her face flushed. What had his brother said about a roll in the hay? Good man. Best idea ever. But no, he had promised to let her go for a kiss. Bad luck that. Perhaps she would let him renegotiate the terms.
With amazing strength of character, for which Andrew considered he deserved some sort of award, he managed to let go of soft, sweet Alys. For once she said nothing, and they stood simply gazing at each other as the wind swirled around them in friendly gusts.
He did not know why he had demanded a kiss. Perhaps it was an attempt to restore his wounded pride. She had accused him of being a passive accomplice in his brother’s crimes. It might have been a careless attack on her part, but her arrow had hit home.
Too long had he let his brother make poor decisions while he did nothing to stop him. It was time to do more than complain; he needed to act. He needed to stand up to Archie, even though he doubted Archie would be affected by reason. The first thing Andrew needed to do was get Lady Cait and Alys back home before Campbell saw them all on the end of a pike. It was time for Andrew to be a man.
“I suppose my only honorable course of action is to let ye go.” Andrew’s tongue moved slowly over the words as if he had been hitting the whiskey a bit too hard. Alys remained silent. He hoped he had not shocked her into a permanent stupor. “I’ll lead ye to the border of our land, or maybe to Kimlet, there be kind folks there ye can stay wi’.”
Andrew frowned at the sun, low on the horizon. It was late and would be dark soon. Alys should not be on the road alone at night. “We need to hurry if we are to make it before nightfall.”
“Wait, I canna leave…” Alys seemed to choke back her words, and then started again. “I canna leave m’lady.”
Andrew took a deep breath of relief. He did not wish to let her go. Also, letting her go meant taking the risk that she would tell Campbell who had abducted them. If Campbell marched in war against them, there would be nothing but the destruction of the McNabs in his wake. Yet keeping the ladies posed an even greater risk. If they were caught with the ladies as captives…
Andrew shook his head. Nothing good would come of that. His brain spun as he tried to think of a plan that would get his clan out of this impossible coil and appease his own wants as well.
“I will make you a new deal.” Andrew edged his toe in the dirt, feeling guilty about the plan that sprung forth in his mind. It was similar to one of his brother’s ill-fated schemes. Must be the McNab curse. “I will release both ye and Lady Cait, but I need ye both to swear an oath no’ to reveal who had captured ye. I ask this on behalf o’ my clan who has suffered enough.”
“I can and will promise that.” Alys nodded.
“And then there is the question of payment,” Andrew added. He was a veritable knave, but was unwilling to relinquish the best part of his plan.
“Payment? Ye wish for a ransom too?” Alys frowned, contempt creeping back into her eyes.
“Nay, I dinna want your gold. I want ye. I’ll let ye go but ye must agree to… to…” Andrew stuttered over the words. Her innocent blue eyes grew wide and he lost his nerve.
“Ye wish for… more?” Alys whispered.
Andrew nodded vigorously. “Aye.”
“How much more?” Her words were breathless, her eyes shining. She did not seem terribly upset by his blackhearted offer.
Andrew paused, wondering how much she would be willing to give. “Ye give me as much as ye ken your freedom be worth.”
She blushed and glanced down at her shoes. He cringed. What was he thinking, trying to seduce an innocent? Then she looked up at him through her lashes.
“My freedom is worth quite a lot to me.”
Oh hell, was she flirting with him? He was a dead man, no doubt. His pulse raced in an unmanly sign of youthful excitement.
“I’d like ye to show me how much.” He feared he had a rather goofy grin on his face. It could not be helped. He had not had this much fun in, well, ever.
Alys smiled back at him, a real honest smile that told him he was not the only one enjoying the moment.
Andrew put his arm around her and led her back down to where the horses were tied. The sun was low on the horizon and the sky glowed orange and red. “Tomorrow then, ye’ll ride wi’ me again?”
“Aye,” she said with a grin.
Andrew rode back to McNab tower feeling very pleased with the turn of events. His conscience bothered him a bit for not simply releasing his beguiling captive at the earliest possibility, but the rest of his body thought it was a bonnie plan. It may delay their leaving by a day or two, but otherwise it should make no great difference. Andrew embraced his rationalizations tightly and clicked to urge his horse faster, following the pace set by his lovely lass.
***
Isabelle sat on a rock on the shore of her island prison. Despite her recent attempt to escape, the Campbells still allowed her to roam freely on the island, even allowing her to exit the postern gate to the shore of the island. The far bank and freedom were tantalizingly close and yet too far to reach. If only she could get to it! Its nearness mocked her.
After yesterday’s escapade she had questioned her senses. Why had she allowed Campbell to kiss her? To touch her? Even more perplexing, why had she kissed him back? It was a kiss she had long desired, and it had been delicious. But no, she must not think that way. Campbell was her captor and would give her back to her husband without qualm.
She must find a way to escape. She wished him well on his quest for Cait and hoped she would be found, but Isabelle needed to be long gone before Campbell stepped back on this island. Her best defense against these strange feelings was to never see him again.
She grabbed a rock and stood, hurling it into the water. At least that was what she meant to do, but not having much practice in rock throwing, she released the stone too late and it went sailing behind her instead. She heard a thud and an “ow.” Behind her, one of the younger Campbells rubbed his head.
“Oh merciful heavens, what have I done?” She rushed to the boy, who could not be more than ten years old, and grabbed his head, to see if the wound was bleeding. She was relieved to find nothing more than a lump, which would surely grow considerably before the day was out.
The boy gazed at her in bewilderment. “I seen a lot o’ folks throw rocks in the loch, m’lady. But I dinna ken how ye threw the rock ahead o’ ye and it hit me behind ye.”
“Oh, I am so terribly sorry. Does it pain you much? Here sit down and let me fetch one of your sisters to look after you.”
The boy’s eyes turned stormy and he removed her hands from his person with the injured pride of the male species. Isabelle caught a glimpse of the man he would someday be.
“I beg ye would no’ fetch my sisters,” he said most emphatically. “I am no’ some weakling that needs coddling. I am eleven years old.” He puffed out his chest and she could see the boy he still was.
Isabelle repressed a smile. Men and boys were alike in one thing. Their pride was their most sensitive part.
“I beg your pardon, Master Campbell. I did not see you clearly at first. Now I can tell you are quite grown.” Isabelle gave him a sweeping curtsy. If she could not repair his head, at least she could restore his pride.
He bowed in return and came up smiling, his wounded head and pride forgot. “What are ye doing here, m’lady? Did ye ken there are beetles under the rocks? And sometimes snakes.” His eyes sparkled with mi
schief.
Isabelle glanced suspiciously at the place she had been sitting. “How… interesting.”
“Want to see?” The lad did not wait for an answer, but began lifting up large rocks to see what might be lurking underneath. She wondered if she could escape back to the castle, but he swiftly turned to show her a handful of bugs: three beetles and a spider.
Isabelle put her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. With all the courage she could muster, she murmured that they were very nice indeed.
He grinned in appreciation and bent over to look under another rock, this time pulling out two worms and a snail for her inspection. This went on for longer than she wished, especially since she considered that things under rocks ought to stay under rocks. But every time she gently suggested that perhaps they might stroll back to the keep, he assured her that even better things were under this next rock and so she stayed, figuring this was penance for having hit him on the head.
The next rock was disappointing for the lad, only two more worms. He shrugged an apology. “There’s better stuff on the other side; see those bigger rocks there?” He pointed toward the not-so-distant shore.
Isabelle nodded, giving the far shore and her freedom a longing glance. “Do ye go over there often?” she asked absently.
“Aye. Want to go over there now?”
More than you could ever know.
“That would be very nice, um… I beg your pardon, Master Campbell, but what shall I call you?”
“My name’s Rabbie.”
“Well, Rabbie, they will never let me on the ferry to the far side, so I suppose I must content myself with the rocks on this island.”
“But we can take my boat,” Rabbie said proudly.
Isabelle’s head snapped around so fast she almost injured herself. “Did you say, I mean, do you have a boat?”
Rabbie smiled. “Aye. Made it myself. But ye must no’ tell my sisters or they’ll take it from me. They are always worrit about things like me falling in the loch.”
“No, I will not tell them, I promise.” Never had she spoken words so sincerely. “Where is this boat of yours?” Isabelle tried to remain calm, but was afraid her excitement was plain. Her heart beat faster. Could this young Campbell be her salvation?
“Come, I’ll show ye.”
Isabelle followed the lad down around some large boulders and up and over some others, making their way behind the main keep. It was not an exercise she would have taken under normal circumstances. Her guide, dressed in a smaller version of the plaid his brothers wore scrambled over the rocks with ease. Isabelle, wearing a nice linen gown, was not nearly as nimble. She feared her gown would look a sight when she was through, but none of that mattered if she could find a way to escape.
“Here!” Rabbie finally came to a stop at a small, sandy space between two larger boulders by the water’s edge, forming the world’s smallest beach. He pointed proudly at some flotsam lying on the sand. The remnants of several barrels had been lashed together with rope and covered with tar. Sticky black tar.
“Is this your boat?” She hoped he would laugh and produce some other craft that was a bit larger, less sticky, and more… boatlike.
“Aye, ye like it?”
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” She was at a loss. Could anyone float in that thing? “But how does it work?”
“Like this, I’ll show ye.” He proceeded to climb into one of the halved barrels and grabbed a piece of wood that had been carved into a crude oar. He pushed himself out into the water and Isabelle gasped, sure that he would capsize and she would have to rescue him, which would be difficult since she had already proven her inability to float. But he did not sink immediately to the bottom and instead paddled around a bit before coming back to shore.
In the distance came the call to supper.
“Time to eat,” said Rabbie enthusiastically and took off back over the rocks without so much as a glance behind.
She followed him as best she could, a plan forming in her mind. If he could do it, so could she. All she needed was a chance. It would have to be tonight, waiting any longer was dangerous. Her husband may be here to claim her at any time. No, it must be tonight.
It had to be better than a pickle barrel.
Nineteen
Tynsdale Castle, England
Simon glared at the girl cowering in the corner and curled his hands into tight fists. “When I tell you to lie on the bed and spread your legs, you’ll do it, wench!”
The girl glanced furtively at the door and gritted her teeth. “I tell you, I’m no wench. I’m the daughter of the ironmaster.”
“You are what I say you are,” growled Simon and lunged for her. She dove out of reach and scrambled up, putting a chair between her and her attacker.
“Have you no respect for the guilds? Even Lord Tynsdale, cruel as he was, honored the guilds.” The girl glanced again at the door.
Simon grabbed the wooden chair between them and smashed it to the ground, splinters flying everywhere. “I am the Lord Tynsdale now. You must learn to serve your new master.”
“You are naught but his bastard son, not fit to serve as lord,” cried the girl, running for the door.
Simon smiled a cruel snarl. “And for that, you will die.”
He caught her by the throat and slowly squeezed, enjoying her look of terror, her desperate clawing at his hands. He was in control. None would ever challenge his authority again.
“Simon!”
A page stood in the doorway, his eyes wide. Simon dropped the girl in favor of new prey. In two long strides he reached the door and punched the lad in the side of the head, sending him sprawling to the ground.
“I am the Earl of Tynsdale, when you speak you will address me as such.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the page meekly, struggling off the floor.
“How dare you interrupt me while I’m taking my pleasure.”
The page glanced at the girl, coughing and gasping on the floor. “R-riders approaching from the south. An army of men, they carry the banner of Sir William and… and the king’s own.”
“No! It cannot be.” Simon slapped the page down again and strode from the room. “Lock the door, I’ll finish with the whore later.”
The young page met the eyes of the girl. She struggled to stand, her hand protectively on her throat. “Run,” he mouthed and left the door ajar.
Simon, bastard son of the recently deceased Earl of Tynsdale, stood on the lookout tower, his hands clenched on the rough stones of the battlements. In the distance, a veritable army was on the move. The banners told the tale. It was Sir William, his cousin of sorts. He had been expecting him. Now that his father was dead, Sir William came to claim the title and the seat of the Castle Tynsdale. It was his right, since he was heir, but Simon cared not. He was prepared to fight William. But the other banner gave him pause. It was the king’s men. Could he raise his hand against the king?
Simon grabbed the first thing he saw, a quiver of arrows, and threw it over the edge of the battlements where it crashed to the courtyard below. It was a pointless gesture and he did not feel the better for it. Should he make ready for war against the king? And why would the king lend his aid to Sir William?
Simon shook his head. William was no favorite of the king. If King Edward sent his men to Tynsdale, then he wanted to claim it for himself and give the castle to a man more favored. The king must wish his forces present so he could expel William and give these lands to someone more favored. William was a fool. But there was nothing new in that.
Simon watched the approaching hordes, his mind calculating his odds. Having been born the son of a serving wench, he had learned to take when he had the advantage, and to run when the risk was too great. Honor was a flight of fancy for the privileged. It was not for those who had to fight to survive.
“What are your orders? Do we fight?” Simon’s battle captain was at his side. He was an excellent warrior and followed Simon’s commands without
scruple.
Simon ground his teeth, thinking of the repercussions. The king would not care a whit if he destroyed William, but would no doubt take offense if Simon took up arms against his own men. A lengthy battle defending the castle from a siege of the king’s own soldiers was not in his plan. He wanted to be acknowledged as Tynsdale’s son and heir, not hung from the nearest tree as a rebellious peasant.
“A message for Lord Tynsdale,” said a page who joined the men on the tower. “Actually two messages, they both arrived today.”
“Well read them, boy.”
Simon would have read it himself if he had ever bothered to learn to read. He had better things to do, most of them with a sword in his hand.
The first message was from the captain of the men he sent to collect Lady Tynsdale.
Much regret to inform you that Lady Tynsdale has either escaped or was carried off by a spooked horse and we have been unable to locate her. We have searched these past several days and will continue. Her men also search for her, but none have found her.
“Damn them to blazes! How hard can it be to bring me one wench?” Simon shook his head. Maybe she had gone and got herself killed and saved him the trouble. He could not be bothered by such trivial matters.
“Read the next,” he commanded.
The next missive began with some vague flatteries about the beauty of Lady Tynsdale. Simon drummed his fingers impatiently on the battlements waiting for the point of the missive.
In order to return the Lady Tynsdale to hearth and home, the captor demanded a ransom be paid. The missive ended with promises that no harm would come to her and it was signed Laird Campbell.
Simon snarled in response and the page prudently dropped his messages and ran back down the stone staircase.
Someone dared to demand ransom of him? That little whore! All she needed to do was get her sorry arse to him, but no, she somehow managed to get herself kidnapped in the process. She was doing this on purpose to irritate him. She would pay dearly for her impudence. The last time he saw her would be nothing compared to what he was going to do to her now. Simon grabbed the missives, crumpled them, and threw them over the battlements, smashing a large fist into the stone.
The Highlander’s Heart Page 14