This was the Ian Beth needed, the one with the unstoppable determination of his Highland ancestors.
“Find him,” Beth said. She heard Curry’s voice rise down the hall, from the direction of the main stairs, followed by Hart’s and Lloyd’s, then Eleanor’s. Beth ignored them, her attention all for her husband. “Find my lad, Ian. Please.”
When Ian spoke, his voice was low, steady. “Keep them away.”
They shared a look. Beth understood. Ian feared, as did she, that if Hart and Fellows rounded up a large, noisy search party, their son’s captor might be startled into cutting his losses. This was for Jamie’s life.
“Yes,” Beth promised in a whisper. “Go.”
Ian’s hands closed on hers in a brief, hard grip, then he slipped from the room and into the hall, melting into the darkness. Beth, following him, saw him pause at the hidden door in the paneling that led to the back stairs, then he was gone.
Alec still hadn’t woken. Beth heard Megan and Belle calling for her, frightened. She wanted to run to them, but there was something wrong with Alec. Beth hurried to his bedside and shook him, her fear increasing.
Alec was sleeping, but unnaturally so. Someone had sent the lad into a drugged sleep, Beth realized, to ensure he wouldn’t cry out while Jamie, her beloved son, was kidnapped.
* * *
Ian could move around Kilmorgan Castle quickly and in deep silence. He knew the house better than anyone, even servants who’d spent their entire lives there.
He used the back stairs and corridors to emerge into Cameron’s wing of the house, empty and waiting for him and his family to fill it up. In Cameron’s dressing room, Ian found a shirt and greatcoat, socks, and boots. He was closest to Cameron in size and had no trouble sliding into his clothes.
He ran down the back stairs again, ducking out of sight as several Mackenzie retainers rushed up the staircase. Hart and Fellows would be questioning Beth by now, then they’d organize a search. It would take them some time to round up enough men to begin, and by then, with God’s help, Ian would have already found Jamie and dispatched the men who’d dared take him.
Then he would fill his Webley with shining bullets and travel to Lord Halsey’s house and shoot him dead. Hart and Fellows would try to prevent him, of course, but Ian wouldn’t let them.
Ian made himself halt in the middle of the stairs and think, to go over the scenario logically, reaching past his gut-wrenching fears.
Jamie’s bed hadn’t been cold—the heat of his body had dissipated but not altogether. Ian judged twenty minutes at most had elapsed since Jamie had been dragged out. He’d heard the noise of the lads’ bedroom door. The time it had taken Ian to come fully awake after hearing that, realize something was wrong, and investigate had given the abductors their head start.
Ian continued to the ground floor in the servants’ passages, found a side door, and stepped outside. He was clothed against the cold and now pulled on gloves he’d snatched up from Cam’s dressing room. They were riding gloves, tough in the palms, tight but warm.
He emerged onto a side path, which was hidden from the rest of the garden by a high hedge. Ian had not gone twenty feet down the path when he was nearly run down by a barrel of a man who hastened toward the house.
Ian seized the man and dragged him back into the shadows. His captive drew a breath to shout, but Ian slammed his hand across his mouth and shook him to silence.
John Ackerley stared wide-eyed over Ian’s gloved fingers. Ian noted that the man was fully dressed and bundled against up against the night in greatcoat with scarf.
“What th’ devil are ye doing?” Ian demanded.
“I was about to ask the same of you,” Ackerley answered when Ian lowered his hand from the man’s mouth. “I had opened my window to let in a breeze, and I heard voices below. I thought the thieves had returned. I hoped to follow them and find them for you, but alas, I lost them in the dark.”
Ackerley spoke glibly, and Ian stared at him in suspicion. How likely was it that Ackerley had decided to investigate, alone, in the middle of the night?
“Why didn’t ye wake me?” he asked. “Did ye think ye could take robbers by yourself?”
“Of course not. I meant to discover where they’d gone and then fetch you and Mr. Fellows. Why are you looking at me like that? Good gracious, man, you don’t believe I’m in league with the villains, do you?”
Ian at the moment didn’t know what he believed. He didn’t care. He needed to find Jamie—nothing else in the world mattered. That need pulled at his soul, blotted out every other consideration.
“If ye are in league with them, you’ll lead me to them now,” Ian said. “If you’re not, you’ll help me find them. They have my son.”
Ackerley’s gasp conveyed genuine surprise. “What? Young Jamie?”
“Aye.” Ian peered into the darkness, assessing which way to go. “Young Jamie.” It hurt even to say his name.
Ackerley’s affability became outrage. “Have they, by gum? Well, now they’ve gone too far, blast them. Of course I’ll help you search. We’ll put the fear of God into them when we find them, won’t we?”
“Aye.” Ian’s heart warmed a trifle at Ackerley’s resolution.
Without another word, Ian started off into the woods.
“Wait.” Brush and twigs crackled as Ackerley struggled to catch up. “Shouldn’t we alert the others? Or at least go back for lights?”
“There’s light.” Ian glanced at the sliver of moon and the stars on this clear night. “The others will be coming. We must get there first.”
“Ah, covertly, you mean. I understand. I’m your man.”
“Good.” Ian pinned him with a Mackenzie glare. “Now, be quiet.”
Ian turned away from Ackerley, scanning the wide swath of darkness. Where to begin? The villains would have traveled here in a conveyance, but they would have left it some way off, so the noise of it wouldn’t alert the household.
Though Ian could see fine by starlight, it also helped that he knew every inch of lands around Kilmorgan. The thugs wouldn’t. They’d blunder about in the darkness, leaving a trail. Or, they’d hide until daylight and they could find their way back to their vehicle. Because they’d left the house in near-silence, and had made certain Alec didn’t wake, they likely believed they’d have time to escape before the family woke and discovered Jamie missing.
If they’d gone to ground to wait for daylight, where would they have done so? The tunnels under Kilmorgan where they’d left the paintings were a strong possibility. The thieves already knew the place. Then again, Ian had discovered the tunnels, and Fellows and his men had been all over them for the last several days. Fellows, being the thorough policeman he was, likely had posted a few guards, in case the thieves returned, looking for their treasure.
Not the tunnels then. The river and its thick screen of trees? Too risky for those who didn’t know the terrain. A fall into the river, especially at night, would be a disaster. The water was icy and could carry a man far downstream, to his death over rocky falls.
The vast gardens of Kilmorgan held many hiding places, but all were too close to the house, and were in view of the upper windows.
Ian considered the folly—the false ruins Ian’s grandfather had constructed on an outcropping overlooking a steep valley—then immediately dismissed it. The folly was at the end of a long, steep, overgrown path, dangerous enough during the day. Anyone who didn’t know it risked a fall to his death, plus there was only one way up. The thieves wouldn’t chance being trapped there.
The distillery . . .
The distillery was locked at night. The caretaker lived in a cottage about half a mile from it. In the old days, the caretaker had lived inside the distillery itself in the rooms upstairs—at one time the entire Mackenzie family had resided there, after the old castle had been burned and before the new house had gone up.
The distillery was dark at night and empty, the whisky sleeping on its own.
&nbs
p; Without a word, Ian abruptly turned and went the shortest way down the hill and along the path that led to the distillery. He expected Ackerley to make much noise as he followed, but the man’s footfalls were as quiet as Ian’s, and he easily kept pace.
The distillery’s walls glittered in the moonlight, the black stone ancient and strong. The house had been built as a secondary residence for the family in the late seventeenth century, then became the distillery when the Mackenzies went into the whisky business.
The windows were dark, no lights anywhere. Ian’s keys to the place were back home in his desk drawer, but he knew where the caretaker hid the spare.
No need for keys, though, he saw. The front door was not only unlocked but ajar.
Ian slipped carefully inside, his breath hanging in the chill air. Darkness stretched around him, shapes of things familiar by day distorted by shadows and moonlight.
Ian stood in the middle of the large foyer, looking up at the grand hall that rose two floors above him. The silence was immense.
The abductors were no longer there. The air that flowed over Ian’s face was cold but fresh, as though a window had been opened and left that way. In the quietness, Ian felt no presence, no watchers, sensed nothing.
Even so, he decided to make a quick search. Ian groped for lanterns stored in a cupboard near the front door, lit two with matches also kept there, and handed a lantern to Ackerley. Ackerley broke away to search rooms on his own, his lantern held high, saying both of them searching would cut the time. Ian’s regard for the man rose.
Ian found an open window in the ground-floor office. The window had been forced, the catch broken. The thugs must have come in this way and left by the front door, which had not been forced, not bothering to close either window or door behind them. They’d also grabbed lanterns from the shelf in the office, along with a spare coat Ian kept here and a bottle of whisky.
Ian left the room to see Ackerley hurrying through the front hall toward him, excitedly waving something. “I found this on the floor, near the still itself.” Ackerley thrust a strip of cloth at Ian. “The sort of thing nightshirts are made of.”
Ian took the cloth, rubbing his thumb over the softness of the fabric. “It’s Jamie’s.” He remembered kissing his lad good night only hours ago, smoothing his shoulder, which had been covered with this very material.
“Lucky it tore off,” Ackerley said. “It shows we’re on the right trail.”
“Mm.” Ian folded the fabric into a careful rectangle and tucked it into his pocket. He knew damn well the cloth hadn’t come to be there by luck.
Nothing more to be found here. Ian strode out of the distillery, flashing his lantern across the path outside the gate.
The kidnappers wouldn’t have gone south—that way lay the caretaker’s house, and beyond it the lane to the village. Too many farms and people down that road. To the north, the way was rougher, the sea close. However, they might risk heading for a boat, especially now that they’d grabbed lanterns from the distillery.
Ian started off on the north-leading path, Ackerley laboring to follow. Ian strode faster and faster, then he broke into a run, fear pushing him on. If he did not reach the men before they took ship, they might never be found. Ian would certainly go to Lord Halsey and beat on the man until he told Ian where to find his son, but by that time, Jamie could be hurt, or dead.
Ian refused to think what would happen to him, and to Beth, if Jamie died.
Ian moved rapidly along the path, his lantern swinging, his feet skimming over rocks and bramble without pause. He scarcely noticed his breath as the way turned to a steep climb—he noticed nothing, everything within him fixed on finding Jamie.
Nothing else mattered. If Ian remained a madman for the rest of his life, unable to follow conversations, uncomfortable in crowds, uncertain how to respond when everyone else seemed to know effortlessly what to do, it didn’t matter. He’d take the taunts, thinly veiled contempt, and ignorant questions of the rest of the world—as long as Jamie was all right.
“Wait!” Ackerley panted far behind him. “Wait—Ian! I found another.”
Ian leapt back down the rocks to Ackerley, who was wheezing but holding up another strip of cloth. “On the bush. Back there.”
Ian seized it, a soft piece of his son’s nightshirt. Relief made his limbs watery. “Jamie is alive and well.” Thank you, God.
Ackerley looked hesitant. “It might have simply caught on a bush as they carried him, I hate to say. You must be prepared, I’m afraid, for the worst.”
“No.” Ian wrapped the strip around his fingers, using it to vicariously hug his son to him. “Jamie tore this off himself and left it. He knows I’ll be following.”
Ackerley’s face was ghostly pale in the lantern light. “How would he know you’d choose to come this way? There are so many possibilities out here.”
“He knows,” Ian said. He turned to lope up the path again. “Hurry.”
Hope gave Ian strength. He ran on, leaping from rock to rock, wind whipping his kilt around him. Ackerley manfully kept up, uncomplaining.
Then, minutes later, Ian emerged on a cliff top that gave him a wide, sweeping view of the sea. Moonlight danced on the water, illuminating a ghostly path to nowhere. Mists were forming on the shore below.
Ian’s hopes plummeted. He saw no sign of any ship on the water, no lights, no wake—no indication that anyone had passed this way tonight.
Chapter Eighteen
Ackerley reached the top of the path behind Ian. “Have they gone already?” he asked in breathless worry. “Have we missed them?”
Ian sank down on his heels and wrapped his arms around his kilted knees. Too late, too late, he’s gone, gone, gone, gone, gone . . .
Ackerley’s hand landed on Ian’s shoulder. “Steady, lad.”
Ian realized the words were coming out of his mouth, surrounding him in sound, filling his ears. “Gone, gone, gonegonegone . . . !”
Ian squeezed his eyes shut. Beth, my Beth, help me.
But Beth wasn’t there. She was at the house, doing what was necessary, keeping Hart and Fellows busy organizing a wider search, stopping them from panicking the thugs too soon. This was what being parents meant, Ian had come to understand—he and Beth doing what they must for their children, together and separately, each contributing their unique strengths to the task.
Beth’s strength was her goodness, and her ability to think clearly and lend others courage and hope.
Ian’s strength was solving puzzles, reaching conclusions no one else could, reducing life to mathematical equations. All he had to do was clear his mind, and then sort everything he saw, heard, and touched into neat categories.
This isn’t mathematics; this is m’ son! his entire being wailed. My child, my dearest wee lad. M’ Jamie . . .
And I can only help him if I think.
“Zero, one, two . . .” Ian’s voice wavered at first, then gained strength. “Five, twelve, twenty-nine . . .”
“Pardon?” Ackerley leaned closer. “What are you saying?”
Fibonacci’s sequence was not the only type of number series the mathematician Mr. Lucas studied. The Pell numbers fell into a neat, unending progression that could be spun out to infinity. All Ian had to do was double a number in the series and add it to its previous number—Pn=2Pn-1 + Pn-2.
“Seventy, one hundred sixty-nine . . .”
The mists in Ian’s mind began to clear. His heartbeat slowed, the mantra of the numbers restoring his equanimity.
Ian opened his eyes. Ackerley held a lantern high, bathing them in a circle of light.
“Four hundred eight, nine-hundred eighty-five . . . If they’d taken ship, we’d see it,” Ian said, his words in the same even tone as the numbers. “They could not have gone so far so fast, even with an engine. We’d hear a steam engine—sound carries in the night and across the water. They are down on a shore or in a smuggler’s cave, waiting for daylight.”
“Then we must go back
,” Ackerley said. “Inform Mr. Fellows. Have him round up constables—the duke can send word to alert the navy. We’ll bottle them up and have at them.” He waved the lantern, excitement making his eyes shine.
“You must go back,” Ian said firmly. “Tell them. I must fetch my son.”
Ackerley gaped. “Good heavens, man, you can’t go after them on your own. Even if you do find them and corner them, what will you do? You don’t know how many men there are—they might be armed.”
“Five men.” Ian looked down into the cove. “Five distinct tracks on the paths, and Jamie’s. They are very likely armed.”
“Then you shouldn’t go alone.”
Ian studied Ackerley, looking directly into the man’s eyes. “You can’t help me with this. You need t’ show Hart and Fellows where I’ve gone. And tell Beth . . .” Ian trailed off, thinking of Beth’s blue eyes, her red lips parting whenever she rose on tiptoe to kiss him. “Tell her I will bring our son home. As I promised.”
Ackerley appeared ready to argue, then he gave Ian a nod. “Very well. I understand.” He stuck out his hand. “God go with you.”
Ian gazed at Ackerley’s outstretched palm in its worn leather glove for some time, then he slowly put out his own hand and clasped it.
Ackerley grabbed Ian’s wrist, gave him a hard handshake, and released him. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Ian stared down at his fingers as Ackerley started to pick his way back along the path. Ian still had to instruct himself to accept an offered clasp, that this was natural, a way people reassured each other. Even now, he did not truly understand when a handshake was necessary, but it no longer worried him unduly. Those who loved him understood.
By the time Ian pulled his gaze from his hand, he was alone in the night.
He extinguished the lantern and set it down, leaving it behind as he made his way to the path that began at the very top of the bluff and then down the cliff face to the sea below.
* * *
Ian found them in a cave about half a mile from where the path ended on the rocky shore. He moved like a ghost, using the rising mist to conceal him. He saw the kidnappers’ lights darting through darkness, and at the boulders at the bottom of the path, he came across yet another strip of Jamie’s nightshirt.
A Mackenzie Clan Christmas Page 24