by Paula Quinn
Lachlan would beg her forgiveness for it later. Now, he could only pray that he caught up with them before they reached the firth and he had to track them all over again. He didn’t want to waste a single instant. He remembered Mailie’s resistance when he’d taken her from her family. What would Sinclair do if she struck him?
He drove Ruth’s horse harder, until dawn broke and he reached one of the larger fishing towns along the Cromartie Firth. He quickly found a fisherman with a boat big enough to accommodate his horse across to Invergordon and prayed on the way that the MacGregors had already found them.
Mailie opened her eyes and looked at the treetops bouncing by her. Her pounding head cleared almost instantly. The trees weren’t bouncing. She was. She was on a horse, her back pressed up against Ranald Sinclair. His plaid was around her, along with his arm.
She tried to push off him but he held her securely. His hand was spread open just below her breast.
He’d kidnapped her. He’d struck her in the head. Her heart pounded in unison with her head. Terror and disgust filled her and made her ill, made her skin crawl. What else had he done?
“Take yer hand off me.”
“Ye’re in no position to make demands.” His gravelly voice raked across her ear. “Ye’re fortunate I didna kill ye fer shooting me.”
Aye, she remembered the pistol. She’d hit him, then. How badly was he hurt? Had he lost much blood? Was he weak?
“A flesh wound,” he informed, as if sensing her thoughts. “I only need some stitching.”
She hoped he expected her to do it. She would jam the needle into his eye.
“Pity,” she told him, trying to push away again. “’Twould have been an easier death than what’s comin’.”
“Ye really ought to tame that tongue, before ye force me to do it.”
Her stomach knotted. He’d already proven he would strike her. She didn’t want to be asleep and at his mercy again.
Biting her tongue, she looked around. Where were they? How long had she been out?
“Did we cross the firth?”
“Aye, aboot a pair of hours ago.”
Hours ago? No! “We—we passed Invergordon, then?”
“Aye, we did,” he snarled behind her. “Were ye expecting to find someone there? Yer faither, mayhap?”
“Nae, I—”
He yanked her hair back and held a small dagger to her throat. His warm breath against her temple curdled her blood. “Dinna lie to me, Mailie. It willna go well fer ye.”
“Yer emissary betrayed ye before Lachlan killed him,” she told him through clenched teeth.
Och, how could they have passed her father? Her heart dropped but she wouldn’t give up hope that Lachlan would find her.
“Traitorous bastard,” Sinclair spat. “I’m glad he’s dead, then. It doesna matter if they know aboot Invergordon. I’m the Earl of Caithness. I have my pick of anywhere I wish to go. They will get tired of looking eventually.”
She turned in the saddle to set her hard gaze on him. “They will never get tired of lookin’ fer me. Never.”
She thought she saw a thread of sheer panic run through him, tainting his features. But then his wry smirk returned. “I willna be keeping ye that long.”
Mailie wanted to weep. They’d passed Invergordon! Where was he taking her? Lachlan would find her. He’d find her and take her back if he had to run here to do it. Hoping to aid him, she quickly kicked off her other shoe and let it fall to the ground racing by beneath her.
“Where are we?”
He was silent for a moment, and then his chuckle grated across her ear. “I dinna see any reason no’ to tell ye.”
Because, Mailie suspected, he had no intention on returning her—at least, not alive.
“We’re coming upon a small village by the cliffs. ’Tis not our permanent home. I have things to see to before we move on. But dinna fret.” He spread his smallest finger across the underside of her breast. “Ye and I can get reacquainted tonight.”
She jerked away, breaking his hold. He was a madman. She’d kill him or die trying before she let him touch her.
“Why are ye doin’ this?” she asked. “Why do ye want me fer a wife when I abhor ye?” She thought it best not to tell him about her marriage to Lachlan. She didn’t think he would take it well.
He laughed behind her. “I dinna want ye fer a wife. I want to use ye fer my pleasure. I want to break ye like I would a fine mare, and then mayhap I’ll send ye back to MacKenzie or even better, yer faither, fat with my bastard. Just thinkin’ of it makes me hard. There, do ye feel me?” He pushed up against her rump.
Mailie wanted to risk a broken neck and jump from the horse, but Will and Lily needed her. Lachlan would find her, or she’d find a way to kill Sinclair before tonight.
“A man can dream, I suppose,” she muttered through clenched teeth.
“Oh, ’tis more than a dream,” he countered smoothly. Too smoothly. “I have something that will compel ye to do as I wish. Whatever ’tis, as often as I wish.” He tossed back his head and laughed. “Saints help the rest of ye, I’m clever!”
What did he mean something to compel her? Had he also kidnapped one of her kin? MacGregors and Grants had been scattered all over the Highlands looking for her. Had he kidnapped one of them? If not a person, than what? One of Camlochlin’s hounds?
“There’s no truth in ye, Sinclair. I knew it the instant I met ye. I knew it when Lachlan told me what ye promised him. Ye have nothin’ to compel me to smile at ye, let alone obey ye.”
He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Not even his daughter?”
She spun around to look at him. “Ye dinna have his daughter,” she breathed…barely.
“Wee Annabel,” he sang. “I’m told she doesna say much, but she’s learned to be obedient. Just as ye will learn.”
Dear God, he sounded convincing. He couldn’t be telling the truth. “How can ye have her?”
“My dear,” he said without a trace of emotion marring his chillingly perfect features. “I’m the one who took her.”
“Nae!” She stared at him, hating the pleasure her stunned disbelief gave him. “Ye…ye burned his home—” He nodded. Her stomach turned. If he spoke the truth, she hoped Lachlan killed him. Had he caused so much pain and suffering to a family? Was he truly capable of such wretchedness? “Why? How could ye?”
“When he was sailing home from the Netherlands with Admiral Byng of the Royal Navy, yer Lachlan helped thwart a planned invasion by our true king James Stuart, almost setting our cause to ruin. He wasna satisfied with that though and went on to lead the capture of five Jacobite lairds who were tried fer high treason. He needed to be stopped.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Ranald Sinclair was responsible for Lachlan’s hell? And all for a political cause? She was going to poison him or stab him. He had to sleep at some point. She’d find a way. No, no, she’d let Lachlan do it. Even if her father found her first, they’d wait and let Lachlan do it.
“Why no’ kill him, then?” she asked, trying to steady her heart. “Why his wife and child?”
“Losing his family cost Colonel MacKenzie everything, including his life in the queen’s service. After his murderous rampage on the men for whose services I had paid, he all but disappeared. He was no longer a threat to the Jacobite cause. I didna have to kill him. I broke him.” A sneer flawed his pretty face. “’Tis sometimes more satisfying. This way, he and men like yer father live on with the knowledge that I bested them.”
She looked away from the empty fathoms of his eyes. She didn’t want to look at him ever again. “Ye are a true monster.”
“Only if ye cross me. Ye would do well to remember that, Mailie.”
He made her skin crawl. “Ye have not bested Lachlan. He doesna know ’twas ye.”
“But he will. That is where his daughter comes in.”
Now, she turned again in the saddle. She had to look at him. Was he telling her the truth? Was A
nnabel alive? What was he planning to do with her if she was? Where was she? How had she been treated? Mailie suspected she was going to find out soon enough. He’d threatened that he had something to compel her…dear God, did he?
“Ye expect me to believe ye’ve kept Annabel MacKenzie fer the last two years to use her fer a later purpose?”
“That’s exactly what ye’ll find to be true.”
“And ye dinna think he’ll kill ye when he finds oot?”
“By the time he does, I’ll be long gone and I will have killed two birds with one stone.”
He wouldn’t tell her anything else after that. She welcomed the absence of his voice in her ears. She kept her gaze set ahead and on her surroundings, trying to remember landmarks in case she found herself out here alone.
The next day they reached the village, which consisted of a couple of dozen cottages and small shops of repair. Wind whipped Mailie’s hair across her face while she set her gaze on the roiling waves beyond the cliffs. The sky was growing darker with the promise of a storm. Seagulls screamed above her as Sinclair led the horse to a large manor house set apart from the village, at the edge of the windy ridge.
Mailie prayed it didn’t rain. Escaping in a storm was foolish. She dismounted after him, her skirts snapping around her ankles as she landed and looked up at the house. It was only slightly smaller than the castle, and just as bleak, if not more so. A lad, four or five years older than Will, ran toward them beneath the darkening clouds.
“Where’s yer master?” Sinclair demanded when the lad reached them.
The boy pointed to the house and then looked at Sinclair from under the hood of his plaid. Something bold and dangerous flashed across his dark golden gaze. It didn’t remain when Sinclair returned his attention to him. He tugged on the horse’s reins and took off toward the stable.
Mailie looked after him for a moment. Who was he? Where were his parents? What was it she saw in his large eyes besides a thread of strength at the edge of hopelessness? Did he also have a reason to hate Ranald Sinclair?
They entered the manor house and were stopped by a tall older man dressed in a jacket and hose. He looked down his long nose at them both.
“Is my lord expecting you?”
“Oot of my way!” Sinclair pushed him aside and shouted through the hall. “George!”
“There’s no need to bellow.” A woman appeared at the top of a long stairway. She looked to be a few years older than Ruth. She was tall and thin, with silver hair wound into a tight bun in the back of her head. Her eyes were cool, blue glaciers, as stark as a winter glen. “Your cousin is abed with a swollen leg and will not be coming down. What do you want, Ranald? Why are you here?”
Sinclair blinked up at the woman, his gaze going dark and deadly. “Because ’tis my house, Margaret. Have ye forgotten that I allow ye and my cousin to live here so ye dinna have to live with the villagers and soil our good name?” One corner of his mouth tilted up, along with his brow. “Or would ye rather live among the others?”
Margaret lowered her gaze, and Mailie wanted to kick Sinclair in the knees for humiliating her.
“Prepare my chamber. I’ll be staying in it fer a day or two with this lovely—”
“I will no’ be sharing yer room,” Mailie said in a scathing voice.
He turned to look at her. For a moment she thought he was going to strike her. She held her ground, her heart racing.
He offered her a benign smile instead. “We shall see.” Without waiting, or caring about what else she had to say, he returned his attention to Margaret. “I need a sharp needle and thread. Send Annabel to my room with it and dinna tarry.”
He turned to Mailie after Margaret descended the stairs and disappeared down another dim corridor. “If ye want to know how much truth is in me, I suggest ye come with me.”
Mailie wanted to grab his pistol, shoot him, and run away. But she had to find out if he had Lachlan’s daughter.
Killing him would have to wait.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Thunder shook the manor house, and lightning flashed across painted portraits hung on the walls while Mailie followed her captor to his room. That was where the child he claimed to be Annabel was going to be. Mailie had to see her, speak to her, find out if she was truly Lachlan’s daughter. Whether she was or she wasn’t, it still made Sinclair a monster.
“What kind of life did ye suffer to become so wretched?” she asked when they entered his chamber. “Were ye unloved?”
She grimaced when he undressed to his waist and she saw the damage the pistol ball had done. It had blown away a piece of him a bit smaller than the size of her fist. There was no excessive bleeding. Nothing vital had been hit. He was correct about it being a flesh wound though. Stitches wouldn’t do any good. The wound needed to be burned. Cleaned with some whisky and then burned, or he’d likely get infected and die. She didn’t tell him.
“I didna suffer at all,” he told her, taking a wet cloth to the wound. “In fact.” He smiled at her. “I was treated like a king.”
“I see.” She turned away from his lithe physique, sickened by the sight of him. He thought himself a king. It explained much, but the growing reasons to hate him wouldn’t help her now. What did Margaret and George have to do with everything? “Is Margaret yer sister?”
“She’s my cousin George’s wife. George Sinclair.”
“Why is Annabel with them?”
“They needed another servant. I needed to pay a debt.”
Mailie’s heart battered against her ribs. She closed her eyes to try to remain calm. Lachlan’s daughter was a servant. She was six. “They know who she is?”
“Of course,” he told her, his voice laced with satisfaction. “I’ve requested that they not treat her poorly, but,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “I’m not here to oversee it.”
Mailie drew her hands to her chest and prayed for strength to continue listening to him without leaping for the closest weapon with which to kill or maim him. She’d already noted the large clay water bowl, and a poker beside the hearth. If she missed or didn’t kill him, she had no doubts he’d kill her.
A knock sounded at the door. Mailie waited, breath held while Margaret ushered the little girl inside.
She was small and thin, dressed in a tattered shift and snug jacket. Her skin was smudged with dirt. Her complexion was pallid with dark circles around her wide cornflower-blue eyes. She wore a linen cap over her flaxen, lackluster hair, the laces hanging past her slightly dimpled chin. Everything about her was petite, more delicate than Lily. Her nose was naught more than a button, her mouth, a wee heart pursed with uncertainty. She didn’t resemble Lachlan. If she was his daughter, Hannah MacKenzie must have been beautiful indeed.
She suddenly felt unworthy, but then remembered the way her husband looked when he set his eyes on her whenever she entered a room. He’d loved Hannah as a husband should, but now his heart belonged to Mailie.
Where was he?
“Ah, Annabel,” Sinclair greeted from his chair, his voice breaking through Mailie’s thoughts. “Ye’re growing into quite a beauty.”
Mailie turned to glare at him. He ignored her. “Take off ye jacket, child.”
“Sinclair—” Mailie warned through clenched teeth.
He held up his hand to silence her while the child obeyed. “I’m going to prove to ye who she is. Roll up yer sleeves, gel.”
She did that too, her eyes wide with worry.
When Mailie saw the child’s arms and hands, scarred much like Lachlan’s, she sank to her knees before her.
“Annabel,” Sinclair said, “this is Miss MacGregor. Tell her how ye got burned.”
“Fire,” the little girl said in a soft voice.
Sinclair frowned at her and then at Mailie. “She’s simple.”
This didn’t prove she was Annabel. Sinclair could have found a child who resembled Lachlan’s daughter. She wouldn’t think about how the child had been burned. The girl could have
been told to give Lachlan’s name if asked who her father was. So Mailie didn’t ask her. There was only one way to prove who she was.
“What happened in the fire?” Sinclair urged.
The child’s eyes took on a hollow, haunted sadness that broke Mailie’s heart. She took the gel’s small hands in hers and shook her head. “No need to remember such things, sweetheart. Let’s think on more pleasant things, aye? Do ye have a favorite story?”
If she was Annabel, would she remember “The Sleeping Beauty”? Would she remember her father?
The lass shook her head. Mailie smiled. Annabel or not, she would get this babe out of here. What was one more little girl? They had plenty of room at the castle. Lachlan wouldn’t refuse her. “Dinna fear, babe. Yer papa is on the way.”
Mailie looked up at Margaret. “Laird MacKenzie is comin’. Were I ye, I’d start runnin’ now.”
“Take the child away,” Sinclair ordered while he began examining his wound for a place to begin stitching.
Margaret turned to leave, but the lass hung back and turned to Mailie, her eyes huge and sparked with something fanciful. “Once upon a time.”
Mailie’s eyes filled with tears. It was how Perrault began many of his fairy tales, including “The Sleeping Beauty.” She wiped her tears quickly so the Sinclairs didn’t see. She wanted to rejoice! It was Annabel! She was alive! Lachlan was getting his babe back! But she didn’t want Sinclair to know how much power he had over her. “Och, Annabel,” she whispered as she pulled the child close, “yer papa has been so verra, verra sad withoot ye. But soon, he will see ye again.”
“Come, gel.” Margaret pushed Annabel forward and Mailie shot to her feet.
“Dinna touch her,” she said calmly but with enough menace in her voice to make Margaret release her. She couldn’t let Annabel out of her sight. “Ranald,” she said, shivering at the feel of his name rolling off her tongue. “I will agree to whatever ye want if ye relieve Margaret of her duties with Annabel and let me tend to the gel.”