by Cathy MacRae
They slipped past the overwrought women and approached Riona’s door. Fisting a hand, Ranald knocked on the wooden portal.
There was no answer.
Fear sluiced through him in a cold, bowel-clenching wave. He grabbed the latch with a sweating hand and jerked the door open. Entering the room with him, Finlay strode to the window and flung the shutters wide. Sunlight flooded instantly and the men searched the room.
A gown, ripped and wadded in a heap, lay on the floor. Ranald lifted it by a torn sleeve, gritting his teeth to remember the way the cloth had hung off Riona’s shoulder, baring bruises purpling in contrast to her pale skin.
He flung the gown to the floor and saw Finlay staring at the crumpled bed. Ranald’s nostrils flared, trying to reject the image of Riona writhing on that bed, the sheets rumpled beneath her as she fought the man who’d traded her life for Gilda’s. And his. He struggled to suppress the tightness in his chest, the empty feeling of trust lost.
The mattress was bare, the velvet coverlet pushed to one side.
“Laird?”
Another vision rose to his mind, that of a woman bound in a makeshift shroud as she was carried below . . . Why would they have used the sheet from Riona’s bed?
He turned on Finlay. “Who was the man carrying the woman in the shroud?” Ranald demanded.
“I dinnae know. He faced away, his back to us.”
The awful truth dawned with suddenness. “It was MacEwen.” Ranald tasted the acrid fear in his mouth. “He has Riona.”
Chapter 30
Riona’s stomach lurched with each pounding step her captor took as he descended the stairs. She pushed the gag against her teeth and managed to spit it out, gulping air laden with the tang of whisky and ale.
Why were they in the buttery?
He dropped her to the floor. Still bound tight by the confining sheet and her hands tied behind her back, her feet crumpled beneath her and she landed with a whoof of surprise on the flagstone floor.
“Damn! Where is the door?”
What door? Hadn’t they entered through the storeroom’s door? There were no other doors. Thumping sounds echoed around her. The man must be addled to think there was anything hidden in the walls. She’d been in and out of these rooms all her life and the stores were limited to what was stacked on tables and in a few closed cabinets. Barrels of ale and whisky lined the walls, and it took stout men to move them when full.
“Ha!”
The explosive word was so sharp, Riona wasn’t sure if it was annoyance or satisfaction. Footsteps pounded in her direction, hands jerked her to her feet. She reared backward in objection, earning a hard slap across her cheek.
“Be still! I’ll no’ have ye wreck my plans now.”
He pulled at the sheet covering her. Anxious to free herself of the confining fabric, Riona stood still as it unwound from her body. It slipped from her head and she blinked her eyes.
Her stomach plummeted.
Dark eyes glinted in the dim light. A sinister smile broke through the full beard and a shiver of panic skittered up Riona’s spine.
“Thought ye’d killed me, did ye?” He grinned, his voice mean. His eyes narrowed and Riona stared into the charred remains of his soul, reflected in those cold orbs. “Ye’ll wish ye had ‘afore ye’re finished, I promise ye.”
Morgan MacEwen grabbed her by an elbow and hauled her forward. “I cannae carry ye down the stairs. Ye’ll have to walk.”
“Stairs? We just came down the stairs. What are ye talking about?”
MacEwen halted, turning to her in surprise. “Why, the secret passage out of this cursed castle.”
“What secret passage?”
“The passage to the beach below. ‘Tis called the ‘Pirate’s Stair.’”
It was true, then. There was a secret passageway. With mounting panic Riona fought to free her hands, but the bonds held firm.
“Move yer arse, woman.” He raised a threatening hand. When she didn’t move, he grunted in exasperation and shoved her through the door, her arm trapped within his punishing grip. He pushed the door closed behind them, and Riona’s world plunged from dim to dark, the panel thudding against the latch in finality.
Finlay strode from the kitchen, meeting Ranald’s silent question with a short shake of his head. Ranald turned to the laird’s dais.
“Have ye seen a man carrying a woman in a shroud?” he asked as he approached Kinnon.
“A corpse?” Kinnon’s voice echoed his lack of understanding. “Nae. The ghille would no’ bring one through here.”
“It isn’t a corpse and the man is nae ghille.”
“Who is it?”
“MacEwen and yer sister.”
Kinnon stumbled forward, his face blanched white, eyes wide. Ranald leapt to his aid, keeping him from falling as he grabbed wildly for support. Heads swiveled in their direction, voices rising in a sea of sound.
“Yer sister thought to trade herself for Gilda’s life.” He looked at the lass curled tight in Brian’s lap. “She also bargained with MacEwen to give her to me, hoping to save me as well,” he added, hating the memory of Riona accepting the pirate’s word over his.
“She gave herself to that blackguard?” Kinnon’s voice choked with disbelief.
“Aye. When he went to her, she apparently cracked his heid, for the guard found blood on the floor in her room, but no’ the MacEwen.” Ranald raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “He must have hidden there, perhaps beneath her bed, and when I sent her upstairs to change . . .”
He met Kinnon’s bleak look. “Where could he have taken her? Is there a hidden passage or unused room I dinnae know about?”
A gasp interrupted the men, and they whirled about in unison at the sound. Tavia, her lined face stark with alarm, approached.
“Laird, there is a secret passageway leading from the store rooms.”
Kinnon nodded. “She’s right, I’d forgotten it. Father forbade its use and I believed it was boarded up many years ago.”
“Nae. It is there. A cabinet blocks the entrance, but ‘twas never boarded over.”
Ranald pinned the old woman with an even stare. “Can ye show me?”
“Aye. In the buttery where the ale and whisky are kept.” Her eyes widened with dismay. “It leads to the beach below. ‘Tis called the ‘Pirate’s Stair.’”
The walls oozed cold dampness, the stone steps slick with water. The MacEwen prodded Riona repeatedly, hurrying her forward in the dark, and she cried out as she slipped and fell.
“Hurry,” he growled. “We’ve a rendezvous to keep.”
“Where . . . are ye . . . taking me?” Her breath came in short gasps.
“To my ship, of course. Once I have ye secured, ‘twill be easy for Manus to retake the castle.”
“Manus . . . is dead.”
MacEwen jerked to a stop, yanking Riona against him. “What?” he roared. The echo of his fury crashed around her.
If only she could see. The enveloping darkness was oppressive and even a glimmer of light had to be better than this uncertainty. Drawing strength from the knowledge of Manus’s end, she stood tall as she faced the MacEwen laird.
“Aye. He is dead. I shot him with an arrow and watched him fall.”
“Ye bitch!” MacEwen’s hand struck from out of nowhere, its unexpected ferocity felling her. With a cry of pain and surprise, Riona collapsed to the stones. Lights formed of pain burst in her head.
MacEwen grabbed her arm again and dragged her down the seemingly endless stairs, and she no longer possessed the strength to fight him. Dazed, she tried to focus on each step. How much further until they reached the end?
Suddenly she realized the blackness around her had lightened to dark grey, the walls becoming more visible as
faint light reflected on its uneven surfaces.
At the next bend a door appeared, outlined in a burst of sunshine. The sight lifted her spirits even as she agonized over what lay beyond.
With a grunt, MacEwen pinned her against the wall next to the door as he fumbled for the latch. He jerked the iron bar, but it held fast. Swearing under his breath, he patted the wall around the door, reached above the lintel, at last encountering a key. He shoved it into the latch and gave a turn. A grinding noise reached Riona’s ears. Another firm tug and the latch released with groaning protest. Hinges, victims of the sea air and disuse, creaked loudly before giving way to Morgan MacEwen’s determined assault.
Bright sunlight scalded Riona’s eyes and she squinted, blinking to ease the sting. MacEwen pushed her through the door, out onto the beach. Around a shallow bend, a small boat lay beached, partially hidden by a large piece of driftwood. MacEwen dragged her toward it, then tossed her into the boat and pushed out to deeper water.
Another perfect opportunity to bash him on his head was lost as Riona fought to loosen her bonds. The man who’d tied them was a pirate. The knots held.
Torchlight flickered on the walls, making their shadows dance on the stone. Tavia pointed to the cabinet in the far corner of the room. “There, Laird. The panel on the left side is the door.”
Leaning against the wall inside the room, exhausted by the dash down the stairs, Kinnon wiped sweat from his forehead. “I was skelped as a wean for disobeying Da’s direct order to stay out of the passageway. ‘Tis a long, winding stair leading to the beach.” He grimaced as he carefully shifted his stance. “Ye’ll have to go without me.”
Ranald clapped Kinnon on his shoulder in acknowledgement and hurried to the corner cabinet. Finlay crowded close, watching over Ranald’s shoulder as he ran his hand over the wooden panel.
He growled with impatience. “I can open it.” He pushed Ranald aside and shoved his shoulder hard against the cabinet’s side. The door swung outward with a crash and Finlay gave a grunt of satisfaction.
Ranald motioned at Tavia. “Give me the torch.” He turned to Finlay, a frown of regret on his face. “Stay here. There must be a man to hold the castle. I don’t know if Kinnon is strong enough.” He shook his head to forestall Finlay’s protest. “I must do this. And so must ye.”
Finlay’s unspoken protest was plain to see on his face and he appeared to teeter on the verge of disobeying a direct order. For a moment, Ranald was not sure if he would or not. But with Hamish dead and the laird’s son too weak to physically control the clan, there was no other immediate choice. Someone must keep the castle secure.
With his next words, Ranald sealed his captain’s obedience. “Protect Gilda.”
Finlay stepped back, nodding curtly.
Tavia grasped Ranald’s sleeve. “Find my lass.” The edge to her voice warned him to return empty-handed would not be tolerated. “And skewer the bastard MacEwen.”
Ranald paused only long enough to rasp, “Aye.” And he plunged down the winding stairs.
Damp walls glittered like dark jewels in the torchlight. Ranald ducked to avoid points of roughly hewn rock jutting from the low ceiling. He raced along, the slick floors giving poor purchase beneath his feet. Slipping once, the bark of his curse echoed eerily in the tunnel.
At last, daylight beamed from below, lighting his way. The final twist of the stairs opened into a little room, the portal at the end of the ‘Pirate’s Stair’ standing ajar. Ranald tossed his flickering torch to the side and raced through.
He skidded to a halt, staring hard at the ground for an indication of where MacEwen and Riona had gone, displaced rocks and pebbles marking the way. He turned to his right, following the path, and rounded the point before he spotted the boat with the single red sail slipping away from the beach. Riona’s dark auburn hair flared in the wind, and MacEwen gave the skiff a final shove before leaping aboard.
Ranald’s stomach clenched. He needed a boat.
Morgan MacEwen looked up, stark fury on his face. Startled by his expression, Riona swiveled on her seat, peering over her shoulder. Hope rose in her, warming her despite the brisk wind cutting through the damp fabric of her gown.
Ranald.
He stood on the shore, so close, and yet so far. Already MacEwen’s boat caught the waves rushing out into the firth. Her stomach lurched. To save her, Ranald must have a boat.
MacEwen tightened the sail against the mast and boom, setting it to catch the wind. He grabbed Riona and pushed her off the bench and into the bottom of the boat. Settling himself on the wooden seat, he grasped the tiller, nosing the small craft into the waves, taking them out to sea.
Riona struggled to sit up, desperate to see Ranald again.
MacEwen shoved her back with a booted foot. “Dinnae fash, milady. Everyone kens yer husband is no’ a sailor.”
“Ye amadan, he’ll come after me. Just wait.”
MacEwen grunted. “There’ll be no trade this time. He’ll keep his distance or I’ll drop ye overboard.” He brought his face close to hers. “Try swimming with yer hands bound. Ye’ll go straight to the bottom.”
Riona fell silent, determined not to panic. She was sure if Morgan felt threatened, he’d trade her life for his without pause. Thinking quickly, she rolled from beneath his boot and came up in a crouch beyond his reach. To get to her, he would have to leave his position at the tiller and risk slowing the boat’s progress as it cut across the waves. Peeking over the edge of the hull, Riona stared at the beach. It was empty.
Frantic, she pushed herself up, trying for a better view. Overhead a gull wheeled, piercing the air with his cries. Sea spray misted over the sides of the boat, plastering strands of hair to her face. She tasted the salty tang, felt it sting her eyes. Ranald was nowhere to be seen.
Disbelief tore at her heart. Was he giving up so easily? Had her impetuous actions cost her dearly?
A sudden, vicious oath burst from MacEwen’s lips, and Riona dashed the sea mist from her eyes as she strained to view the shore. Several lengths from where she’d last seen Ranald, she spied him racing across the shore, dragging an oared dinghy.
Waves rushed over his boots as Ranald tugged the little boat into the water, bracing both hands on the edge of the hull to keep it from slipping away as it bounded to life atop the waves.
His stomach pitched as the boat crested and rocked back and forth. He swallowed hard and climbed in, grabbing the oars and seating himself on one of the wooden benches. He set his back to the job, feet braced against the boards, adding power to his strokes. The wind worked with his efforts and the dinghy skimmed the surface like an arrow shot from a tight-strung bow.
Seawater sluiced about his feet. Ranald ignored it, watching the skiff as it leapt across the firth, his wife’s face barely visible above the side.
Ahead, the wind gust that had filled the skiff’s sail suddenly died. The MacEwen sculled the tiller back and forth in an attempt to keep the skiff headed up the coast. But the little boat made no headway against the current and MacEwen released the tiller, searching for something beneath the seat.
Knowing he’d soon attain that same dead pocket of air, Ranald redoubled his efforts and the distance to the skiff closed rapidly. Both boats were now far up the coastline and entering a secluded cove. His attention on MacEwen, it took Ranald a moment to register the red-sailed birlinn rocking gently at harbor.
His face blanched white as he viewed the large boat, bristling with weapons. And pirates.
MacEwen swung about with a curse, a single oar in one hand. He waved it about, shouting in anger, apparently unable to find its mate. Ranald would have chuckled were the stakes not so grim. Even as poor a sailor as he was, he knew one paddle was almost useless. With a final pull on his own oars, the hull of the dinghy scraped alongside the skiff. Ranald braced himself as the
two boats collided.
MacEwen did not acknowledge the impact with anything more than a turn of his head. Balanced with his feet spread wide, he bent his knees slightly to counter the action of the waves.
An evil grin cleaved his beard and he stooped to grab Riona’s arm, hauling her to her feet. “Is this what ye came for, Scott?” He cocked his head toward her bedraggled state. “No’ worth much just now, is she?”
Riona snarled something unintelligible and twisted away from his grip. MacEwen laughed and kicked her feet from under her, sending her sprawling in the bottom of the boat, her head bouncing off the edge of the hull as she fell.
With a roar of outrage, Ranald launched himself into the skiff. The dinghy gave a treacherous heave beneath his boots and he misjudged the height of the skiff’s hull. He clipped his knee painfully on the wooden edge and slid across the floor planks.
Coming up on the opposite side of the mast, Ranald leapt to his feet, grasping at the wooden spar for balance.
MacEwen pulled a dirk from his boot, weaving it back and forth in a taunting motion. He lurched toward Ranald, his eyes glinting. “So, ye came after her. I suppose ye dinnae mind another man’s leavings.” He grinned at Ranald’s glare. “Ye can keep the wean she’s already borne. But how will ye know if the next one is yers or mine?”
Ranald forced MacEwen’s taunts from his mind, needing all his wits to counter the nausea boiling through him, though from the boat’s movements or the images invoked by MacEwen’s words, he wasn’t sure. He gritted his teeth, bent and slipped a knife from his boot. His sword would be useless in such close confines. The blade felt good in his hand, and his fingers closed about the hilt, locking into their accustomed position, as if the knife was part of him.
MacEwen lunged forward, his blade flashing in the sun. Ranald ducked behind the mast, out of its lethal arc. The boat pitched as its load shifted, and Ranald stumbled. MacEwen closed the gap between them and launched another attack, but Ranald parried each thrust with his own blade.