They knew they were on McKenna land, had obviously intended to capture Malcolm. And hold him for ransom? It seemed unlikely. Only a very powerful clan would dare to threaten the McKennas.
“We cannae leave her,” the one holding her argued. “She’ll return to the castle and have the McKenna guard chasing us down in a thrice.”
“Well, we cannae take her with us. ’Tis a long journey and we’ve barely enough supplies to sustain us,” the other man insisted.
“Bind her to one of the trees,” the man who held her suggested.
“And gag her, so she cannae scream fer help,” another added. “The longer it takes fer her to be found, the better fer us.”
“I’ve a better, quicker solution.” The sharp sound of a sword being drawn turned Joan’s blood cold. Overcome with horror, she closed her eyes and swayed.
“Nay.” The fourth man held out a staying hand, keeping the sword away from Joan. “We’ll not slay an innocent woman who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The other man slowly lowered the weapon and Joan breathed a sigh of relief. The discussion continued as to what to do with her. Joan’s initial impression that this man was the leader did not hold, for each man appeared to have an equal say in their actions. The argument became heated and two of the brigands cast her angry looks.
A low rattle of thunder abruptly ended the debate. The men looked to the sky and then to their horses. Was that it? Were they going to leave her behind? But what would happen to Malcolm? His chances of survival and escape would greatly increase if she were with him, tending to his wounds.
Seizing her one chance, Joan turned a pleading eye to the men.
“Please, I beg ye to take me with ye.”
“What?”
Joan swallowed, frantically searching her mind for the right thing to say. Think! Her lie must be plausible, delivered with the cool aloofness of a lady, yet she must also appear vulnerable and helpless.
“Which way do ye travel?” she asked.
“North,” one answered.
The others groaned; one of the brigands punched the arm of the man who had revealed that important bit of information. Joan’s mind spun. She needed more time to plan this deception—but there was no time.
“I am Mistress Innes. My aunt is the prioress of Kilmarnock Abbey, which lies due north of here. She will reward ye handsomely if ye give me safe escort there,” Joan said, speaking quickly before she lost her nerve.
“Ye want to be a nun?” one of them snorted in disbelief.
Joan skewered the man with a withering look, knowing none of them would have believed her if she told such a bold-faced lie. “I wish to leave McKenna land, but cannae do so on my own,” she stated in her most desperate tone.
“Why not?”
Joan was at a loss for words. She could feel her heartbeat quicken and her palms grow damp. The men all stared at her, distrust evident in their faces. She had to say something—now!
“I need to escape the unwanted attentions of Sir Malcolm. He pursues me relentlessly, yet offers no honorable vows of marriage. Will ye help me? Please?”
Another rumble of thunder and a sudden crack of lightning decided her fate. It struck a nearby tree, splintering several branches. Tufts of smoke billowed into the air, and the scent of fresh cut lumber floated on the breeze.
“We can tarry no longer,” the tallest man said. “Bind her hands and throw her on her mount. We’ll sort this out later.”
Chapter Sixteen
Malcolm slowly drifted to consciousness, a nauseating pain filling his gut as he felt his body bouncing up and down. He opened his eyes, astonished to find himself looking at the slowly moving ground. ’Twas then that he discovered both his hands and feet were tied, his mouth gagged, and he was thrust, belly first, over his saddle. His horse was being led, though he could not clearly see by whom.
Joan! Where is Joan!
Malcolm turned his head and a searing pain shot through his temple. But his heart slowed when he recognized the rump of Joan’s mare and the ramrod stiffness of her back. She was riding upright, though as they turned, he could see that her hands were bound and her mare’s bridle was tied to the pommel of one of their captors.
Malcolm rubbed his wrists together, testing his bonds, disheartened to realize he was trussed up as tightly as a freshly killed buck. Why? Malcolm searched his mind, trying to remember all that occurred before they had been surprised and overtaken in the woods.
He was in the middle of trying to seduce his lovely wife when he heard a tree branch crack, alerting him to something moving through the bushes. There had been the distinct feeling of unease, the squawking flight of a flock of birds high in the treetops, and finally the blinding pain of darkness. He assumed he had been struck from behind. He had not gotten a good look at the men who attacked them, had not seen the color of their plaids nor even been able to count their numbers.
What did they want? If they were thieves they would have stolen the horses, mayhap even snatched his weapons. If they were reivers, they would have gone into the village, not the forest, and taken livestock or food stores.
There were no open hostilities with any of the neighboring clans. Yet whoever had surprised them preferred abduction over murder, and that gave Malcolm some advantage. For now.
His mount stumbled and Malcolm had to choke back a heave. The throbbing in his head intensified and he tried taking shallow breaths to manage the pain.
“He’s awake.”
The gruff male voice announcing that observation was unknown to him. Malcolm tried lifting his head, but his awkward position and bruised ribs made it impossible.
“That’s good news fer ye, Robbie,” a second voice proclaimed. “Ye struck him mighty hard with the hilt of yer sword.”
“I needed to make certain he’d fall,” the man called Robbie replied. “I’ve always heard the McKennas had hard heads.”
“Och, ye have no idea,” Joan interjected, and they all laughed.
Malcolm heard three, nay four, distinct male voices. Did Joan know these men? She seemed to have a congenial rapport with them. Malcolm shook his head in puzzlement. But her hands were also bound, an indication that they didn’t fully trust her.
Desperate for answers, Malcolm tried pushing the gag aside with his tongue, but it wouldn’t budge. His fingers curled into fists of frustration at his helpless predicament.
“Tell us, Mistress Innes, did ye have to suffer Sir Malcolm’s unwanted attentions fer long?” one of the men asked.
“All winter,” she answered promptly. “’Tis often the fate of a retainer’s widow to be besieged by the laird or his sons.”
“Especially when one is as bonnie as ye,” the man replied.
Joan tossed her head, preening under the compliment. “Ye are too kind and noble, good sir. I dinnae know what I would have done if ye had not happened upon us when ye did. I refused the cur’s advances and he threw me in the loch! Did ye see it?”
“Nay, but we heard yer screams.”
“I nearly drowned, yet he cared not a wit.” Joan turned and stared at Malcolm with fiery eyes of disgust, making certain that the other men saw her. “How fortunate that ye were near.” She turned back to the man who rode beside her and fluttered her lashes. “Had ye been lurking long in the McKenna woods?”
“Only two nights. We had yet to decide upon a plan.”
“Then it was a stroke of good luck fer all of us that ye came when ye did,” Joan declared.
Mistress Innes? The puzzling exchange between his wife and these captors brought a searing pain to Malcolm’s temple. Clearly, Joan had spun some sort of tale to save herself, deliberately hiding her true identity. Why?
“As a woman, I freely admit to knowing little about the important business of men,” she said in a soft tone. “However, I would venture to guess that the ransom Laird McKenna would pay fer Sir Malcolm’s return would be as high, if not higher, than what Laird MacPhearson would
give ye.”
Damn! Malcolm closed his eyes and slowly let out a breath. The reason for his capture suddenly fell into place. These ruffians were unaware that the feud between the McKennas and the MacPhearsons had been settled.
They still believed they would be paid a handsome price if he were delivered to Laird MacPhearson. Malcolm shifted again, struggling against his bonds, knowing it was imperative that he and Joan escape well before these brigands discovered the reward no longer existed.
“We are too few to negotiate with the McKenna and live to tell the tale,” Robbie replied. “Better to deliver our prize to Laird MacPhearson, where we shall be guaranteed payment.”
“Aye, the McKenna would sooner run us through with his sword than part with his gold coin,” another man added. “Even fer his son.”
“Perhaps ye are right.” Joan sighed, then sighed again. “Might I beg a kindness, and ask for a brief respite to see to my needs?”
If Malcolm had not been looking directly at her when she spoke, he would have been hard pressed to believe it was Joan who had spoken in such a meek and imploring voice. Beneath the filthy gag, his mouth curved into a slight grin. Never more had he appreciated her courage and audacity.
Though they grumbled over it, miraculously, the men agreed. Malcolm was once again in awe of his wife’s clever mind. She seemed to know exactly how to manipulate their captors. His initial fear over her capture lessened.
Together, the odds of making an escape grew tenfold.
They stopped in a secluded glade. Joan prettily thanked the man who helped her dismount, then lowered her head and blushed when he sliced through the ropes around her wrists.
“What about McKenna?” the man called Robbie asked.
“Take him down,” another answered. “We’ll be able to ride faster if he’s sitting on his mount.”
Robbie removed Malcolm’s gag, cut the bonds from his legs, and pulled him off his horse. Though his ribs ached, it felt wonderful to pull in a full breath of air. The lack of blood flowing through Malcolm’s legs caused him to stagger unsteadily, but he pressed himself against his stallion’s flanks and remained on his feet.
In the distance he could see the red of Joan’s gown through the sparse bushes. At some point she had changed out of his tunic and donned her gown. He hoped it hadn’t been too wet; wearing damp wool was hardly comfortable.
She brushed near him as she returned, her cheeks flushed, her expression aloof. She made a deliberate point of turning her back on him, yet stayed within range to conduct a whispered conversation.
“Are ye badly injured?” she hissed.
“Nay. Though I’m deliberately moving clumsily so they believe I pose no threat,” Malcolm replied beneath his breath. “What of ye? Did they hurt ye?”
Joan shook her head. “They were far more interested in ye.”
His heart raced at the sheer relief of knowing she truly was unharmed. More than anything he longed to close the distance between them and gather her in his arms. Malcolm stared at her, resisting the urge to stroke her cheek, knowing if any of the men witnessed their tender gesture, the ruse would be discovered.
“Ye told them yer name was Mistress Innes and that I was trying to seduce ye?” he asked, wondering if he had correctly pieced together her tale.
“Aye, against my will. I begged fer their aid in escaping from yer evil clutches. ’Twas all I could think of to garner their sympathy and ensure our safety.”
“’Twas a risky gamble,” Malcolm sputtered, his voice unnaturally harsh. “They could have easily raped ye or slit yer throat.”
“I know.” Her fingers flexed nervously. “It took several casually asked questions to learn their plan. News travels slowly in these parts—they have kidnapped ye to collect the price on yer head from Laird MacPhearson.”
Malcolm grimaced. “Och, they shall be gravely disappointed when they learn he is no longer asking fer it.”
“Aye. Yer value to them ends the moment they find out MacPhearson willnae pay them.”
“We shall be long gone before that happens,” Malcolm declared.
“How?”
“I’ll find a way fer us to escape,” he vowed.
“I’ll be ready.” She turned her head. “I have complete faith in ye, Malcolm.”
“What are the two of ye whispering about?” Robbie asked suspiciously.
“I was asking about the whiskey I assumed he’d have in his saddlebag,” Joan replied airily. “He rarely goes anywhere without it.”
She removed his flask and held it up in triumph. Malcolm regretted it was but a small container; four men deep in their cups would have given the couple an advantage in their attempt to escape.
Joan swished past him, looking aggrieved, as though he were nothing but a constant disappointment. Malcolm bit back his grin. A drunk and a seducer. His clever wife was doing her best to paint a debauched picture of his character to these fools.
He felt a surge of pride at her courage. Joan was a worthy partner, ready to fight with any means at her disposal.
The men shared the remainder of his whiskey, then returned to their horses. This time Malcolm was allowed to sit in his saddle. His feet were bound together beneath his stallion’s belly and his hands tied behind his back.
Malcolm struggled to concentrate while riding in this unnatural state, pressing his knees and thighs tightly against his horse’s flanks. ’Twas exhausting, especially when they started to climb the foothills. Several times he nearly slid off, but he gritted his teeth and bore it.
Several hours passed. Malcolm’s head throbbed and his ribs ached. The noisy thunder and lightning had produced a brief shower and moved on. Now, the sun beat down on them. With nary a breeze, ’twas warm for a spring day.
The weather could, however, work in their favor. Water was scarce the higher they climbed. As the men and their horses became more heated and exhausted, they would need to stop again and search for fresh water.
When that happened, he would make his move.
* * *
The sun had emerged from behind the clouds and shards of late afternoon sunlight shone through the canopy of tree branches. Joan kept her expression blank, her gaze fixed forward as they climbed higher into the foothills. With each mile they traveled the tension inside her increased. It would be hours before anyone at the castle thought to search for them. By then the trail would be cold.
Somehow, she needed to slow their progress without being obvious. Earlier she had noticed Malcolm swaying in his saddle and the sight unsettled her greatly. The wound on his head had dried to a black scab, yet it still oozed fresh blood. He claimed that he was not badly injured, but she knew that he was hardly at full strength.
“May we please stop fer a brief moment? I must tend to my needs,” Joan implored, hoping to inflect the correct mix of embarrassment and humility in her voice.
“Bloody hell, woman, how many times does a person need to piss in a day? Ye went not more than four hours ago,” the tallest one grumbled.
Joan schooled her face into a pitiful, pleading expression. “My female constitution is weak and unused to such rigorous physical activity. Forgive me.”
No one answered. The men exchanged glances, yet refused to stop. Helpless and frustrated, Joan stole a glance at the man who rode beside her, the one who had saved her from being assaulted, but there was no reading his expression. She ducked to avoid hitting a low branch and wiggled her wrists, but the ropes that bound them held tight.
She waited another half hour before making her request again, this time with greater urgency.
“Christ’s bones, if ye pester us one more time, we’ll tie ye to the nearest tree and ride on without ye,” Robbie threatened.
“And forgo yer reward fer bringing me to the abbey?” Joan asked innocently. “I am my aunt’s favorite niece. She will be more than generous in giving her thanks to ye, especially when I tell her of yer kindness and consideration.”
Her reminder of a reward seem
ed to give them pause. The man in the lead held up his hand when they reached a small clearing. He dismounted, yet the others remained on their horses. Joan struggled not to cringe when he lifted her off her horse.
Silently she held out her hands and he cut the ropes on her wrists. “Be quick,” he commanded.
She nodded. Her hands shook and she hid them in the folds of her gown, not wanting to betray her unease. Joan walked away as far as she dared, then hunkered down next to a large oak to stall for time.
A few minutes would hardly make much difference, but she felt compelled to do something. She had every faith in Malcolm, but if their escape was to be successful, they must work together.
There was a noise, the sound of something scuttling through the bushes. Fearing one of the men had followed her, Joan curled her fingers around a small branch. ’Twas hardly an effective weapon, but hopefully it could inflict some damage.
She lifted the branch, but instead of a man, a large mass of dirty gray and white fur came crashing through the bushes. It launched itself at her. Unprepared for it, Joan fell onto her back.
“Prince!” Joan gasped in astonishment, hardly believing her eyes.
The beast stood happily over her, his pink tongue lolling as he panted with excitement. His long fur was tangled and full of snarls and brambles and he smelled atrocious. Ignoring the dirt and muck that clung to his long fur, Joan threw her arms around him.
“Ye found us! What a clever lad ye are, sweet Prince.”
The dog fanned his tail rapidly, his entire hind quarters moving with delight. She continued petting him, then cocked her head and strained to listen, longing to hear the sound of approaching horses.
Joan’s spirits sank at the ensuing silence and she struggled to compose herself. The slim hope that a band of McKenna warriors were following close behind Prince as he tracked them was nothing more than a fantasy. Joan surmised the animal must have been on one of his many jaunts through the McKenna forest and somehow picked up their scent.
Biting back a sob, Joan sat up and placed her head in her hands. Most likely, no one at the castle had yet realized they were missing. Attuned to her distress, Prince lay at Joan’s feet. Whining, he nudged her hand, seeking to ease her fear and offer comfort. Grateful, Joan leaned over and hugged him again.
No Other Highlander Page 22