by Tarah Scott
“Within two months?” Marcus gave a low whistle. “My guess is Campbells.”
“Aye,” Declan agreed. “But I havena' been able to catch the bastards in the act.”
“We've had Campbells on our land of late.”
“The bastards,” Declan said with feeling. He picked up a piece of bread from one of the platters sitting before him and stuffed a piece into his mouth. “They get around, eh?” His eyes gleamed. “If it's a fight they're wanting, I'll oblige.”
“That would be nothing to scoff at,” Marcus said.
Declan's own men, plus extended relatives, rallied a force of six hundred men. Add the MacGregor forces, which numbered nearly twelve hundred, and they commanded a small army.
“I can't blame you for wanting to put an end to the foolishness,” Marcus said, “but a little rustling isn't worth a war.” Declan started to reply, but Marcus cut him off. “War it would be, Declan. There isn't a clan in the district who would pass up the chance to even the score against the Campbells.”
“And the Campbells hold their own grudges,” Declan put in. “They haven't forgiven you for your assault on Assipattle two years ago.”
Marcus's jaw tightened. They had better not forget. He hadn't forgotten Katie MacGregor. “The next time they attack a MacGregor woman, I will raze every Campbell keep from the border to Assipattle.”
Chapter Five
A branch snapped with a loud crack. Elise jerked her gaze onto her companion Allister, then twisted in the saddle and peered over her shoulder. A blur of green and blue plaide shot from the trees at the top of the hill. She gasped.
Campbells.
Elise faced Allister. The young man stared back at the Campbells, eyes narrow with fury. Dear God, she hadn't believed them to be a genuine threat, but in an effort to buy time when she didn't return to Brahan Seer, she had asked Allister to accompany her to Michael's. If anything happened to him—
He yanked the dirk from the leather scabbard strapped to his horse and snapped his eyes onto her. “Ride.”
She kicked violently into the mare's belly. The mare lunged forward alongside Allister's gelding. The sound of pursuing hoof beats bore down upon them. She hugged the horse's neck, urging the mare into a harder gallop down the mountainside.
The heaving horses closed in from behind. Elise's heart thudded in unison with the pounding of her mount's hooves. Tears stung her eyes as she clung to the horse, the jerky rise and fall of the animal's neck jolting her body with each swift stride. Allister's horse nosed ahead and Elise knew the young man was restraining him in order to keep pace with her.
From the corner of her right eye, she glimpsed the nose of a horse gaining—then a flash of metal and a man's cry as Allister's dirk found its mark. The other men shouted and her heart leapt into her throat. She cracked the reins over the rump of the horse, then suddenly pitched forward. She tumbled over the horse's head as the mare hit the ground nose first. Allister shouted her name.
The mare somersaulted over herself, and Elise saw the hooves bearing down on her as she and the mare plummeted downhill. The wind gushed from her lungs, then a splitting pain shot through her head when she thudded to the ground, grinding her cheek into the hard, rocky soil. The blurry figure of the horse landed a few feet away, rolled, then jumped up, and disappeared.
A shot sounded.
“Bloody animal got away,” a man muttered as horses drew up alongside her.
Booted feet appeared at her side.
“She's broken her neck,” another said.
“What of the boy?” another asked.
Fingers gingerly probed her forehead, then temples.
“Dead.”
“She's hit the front of her head,” said a deeper voice—not Marcus's voice, but who—Sudden pain registered through the fog as she was rolled to her side. She groaned.
“She's not dead,” the deep voice said.
Fingers ran along her spine.
“She hasna' broken her back. She'll live.”
Arms slid beneath her, then lifted her from the ground and pressed her against a warm body. She opened her eyes, but her blurry vision made out only the wall of flesh her face was shoved against.
“Leave her,” said the other. “If we bring her back damaged, it'll be our heads.”
“Toss the saddle over the mountain.” The speaker shifted her in his arms. Pain splintered through her back “Round up the gelding,” the man said, “and throw Greig's body over his back. Damn the MacGregor dog who killed him. If he wasn't already dead, I would kill him myself.”
Shock reverberated through Elise. Young Allister was dead?
* * *
As Marcus approached the village stables, he glimpsed movement through the open door. He yanked aside his steward Harris as a rider burst from the stables. The youth riding the horse seemed not to notice he had forced them from his path and galloped toward the village.
“Youth,” Marcus muttered, and entered the stables. “I want Gaelan's, Logan's, Sloan's, and Neal's places finished by summer's end.” He strode along the line of stalls.
Harris made notations in his notebook. “We can have them patched by month's end.”
“Patch Sloan's,” Marcus said. “The others, replace.”
“That'll take 'til Fall, and we will need materials.”
“Order what you need from Edinburgh. In the meantime, get started on the minor repairs for the other cottages. I want you back in Ashlund by month's end. I don't plan on returning for”—he thought of Elise in his bed, her hands on him—”for some time.” Marcus halted at the stall that housed the horse he wanted to examine. “Gerald,” he murmured to the gelding, who stood, head hanging over the stall door. Marcus rubbed Gerald's nose while he unlatched the door and stepped inside. “Getting along in years, are you, lad? Harris,” Marcus called.
Harris entered the stall.
“What do you think?” Marcus ran a hand down the horse's leg. “He stumbled last week.”
Harris squatted and looked closely at Gerald's knee. “A might knobby.” Harris stood and walked around the horse, feeling belly and rump as he went. “His coat is dull and”—the steward came around to the horse's head again—”his head is hanging low.”
“Aye,” Marcus agreed. “We'll need two more plow horses then. Alen could last another season, but we will use him for delivery. Don't order from MacFie. I have another seller in mind. Belgian draft horses.”
“Aye,” Harris replied.
Marcus went around the rump of the horse. “Go yourself. There's a Russian Trotter I want you to look at. You can order the supplies while in Edinburgh.”
“What are ye saying?” A shout from outside the stall intruded upon their conversation.
Marcus recognized the stable master's voice.
“Where did they go?” Brady demanded.
“Mary didna' g-go with Elise,” Craig, the stable boy, stammered.
Marcus stilled.
“Bloody fool,” Brady shot back. “You didn't wonder why she wanted the mare?”
Marcus cursed and started for the door.
“W-why should I wonder?” the boy stuttered. “You let Mary use your horse before. How could I know you changed your mind?”
“Christ,” Brady's voice was hoarse. “MacGregor will whip us both.”
Marcus lunged from the stall and Craig went pale. Brady glanced over his shoulder and his eyes widened.
Marcus strode toward them. “Hold,” he commanded when it looked as if they would bolt.
“I had no notion—” Brady began, but Marcus raised a hand.
He grabbed Craig by the collar, nearly lifting him from the ground. “What happened?”
“Th-they came a-a-and g-go—”
“Pull yourself together,” Marcus snapped.
Craig swallowed. “M-Mary and Elise came and s-saddled Brady's mare. I didn't know they were not supposed t-to take her.”
“Nae?” He gave the boy a hard shake. “How long ago did she lea
ve?”
Craig hesitated, and Marcus said, “It is nearly three now. How long?”
“This morning. Mayhap eight.”
“You helped them saddle the mare?” Marcus snapped.
“No! I heard them saddle the horse.” He hesitated.
Marcus's lips tightened. “Sleeping?”
Craig dropped his gaze.
“What did they say?” Marcus demanded.
“Elise was g-going to Michael's.”
Marcus shoved Craig from him. “Saddle Alexis.”
“That devil?” Harris blurted.
“Alexis,” Marcus repeated. “I will take even the devil's help.”
Ten minutes later, Marcus galloped out of the stables. He left the path as soon as he found a reasonable place to drive the stallion down the steep hills, cutting off more than half the time Elise would have taken to reach Michael's. The resolve he had made to whip her to within an inch of her life died when he reached the cottage to discover she hadn't been there.
“I'll come with ye to find her,” Michael said. He turned and started toward the corner containing his bed.
Marcus glanced at Michael's leg. The splint was gone. “There's no time to saddle your horse.”
“There is,” the older man said, his voice firm. “It will take but three minutes.”
Marcus started to argue, but Michael strode the last two paces to his bed, saying, “We can waste time arguing if you like, but I'm going.” He snatched up the coat lying on the chest at the foot of the bed and turned to Marcus. “Go on ahead. I can follow. Dalton will give Alexis a run for his money.” He gave Marcus a hard look. “If there is trouble, you'll be needing all the help you can get.” He strode past Marcus and out the door.
Cursing, Marcus followed. Three minutes later, they rode.
Marcus yanked Alexis up short and leapt to the ground when he at last sighted Elise's tracks. “They went down here.” He squatted, examining where the mare had lost her footing on the mountainside.
“Aye.” Michael dismounted.
“The mare threw Elise.” Marcus motioned at the wide swath of crushed ground dented from the mare's landing.
He rose, moving slowly forward, ignoring the tracks he knew had to be Campbells as his gaze scanned the ground. He squatted again and carefully ran a finger over a smattering of dried blood on a rock. Marcus looked onto the turf churned up where riders had pulled up hard and fast alongside the place Elise had fallen. He traced the tracks with his fingers, noting the change in weight when they had dismounted.
“If she were dead, they would have left her,” Michael said.
“Or they could have kept the body as a bargaining tool. Where is the saddle? It fell off.” Marcus scanned the surroundings but found no sign of the saddle.
“They probably threw it down the mountainside or took it,” Michael said.
Marcus stood. Had he not taken the shortcut, he would have noticed the tracks forty minutes ago. “Fetch Johnson from Brahan Seer. He's our finest tracker. I'll follow the tracks.”
Marcus grasped his horse's pommel, then froze at the sound of a low moan. “Did you hear,” he began, but Michael was already starting down the hill at a near run.
“Michael,” Marcus shouted. The fool would break his leg again, or worse.
Marcus raced after the old man and reached him just as a body came into sight beyond the nearest fir tree. Marcus's heart thudded in the instant before his mind registered that it wasn't Elise but a man. Allister, he realized. The young man's father had recently died and Allister had taken over the land his father had tilled.
Marcus dropped to one knee beside him. Allister stared up, eyes dark with pain.
“What happened, lad?” Marcus asked.
He licked his lips, then rasped, “Campbells.”
Fear knifed through Marcus. “Elise?” he asked.
“Fell from her horse,” Allister managed.
“There was no body, MacGregor,” Michael reminded him. “Allister is alive, so is she.”
Marcus nodded and forced calm as he made a quick assessment of Allister's injuries. His arm had been gashed and a bruise had begun to form on his forehead, but no blood gushed from any part of his body.
“Can you move?” Marcus asked.
“My leg… broken,” he said.
Marcus nodded. “Hurts like the devil, I wager.”
Allister winced with what looked like laughter at the obvious understatement.
“Can you manage until help arrives?” he asked.
A steely glint lit the young man's eyes. “Leave me a pistol and any Campbell that comes near will die.”
“That's the spirit,” Marcus said.
“I got one.”
“What?”
“My dirk,” the boy said.
“You did well.” Marcus rose. “Michael will leave you his weapon. If I overtake the bastards, I plan to use my pistol.”
Marcus hurried back up the hill with Michael close behind.
Marcus mounted his horse. “You'll reach Brahan Seer in ten minutes. I doubt any Campbells stayed behind, but leave the boy your knife as well.” Michael nodded. Marcus gave the stallion a kick, and the beast lunged forward.
“MacGregor!” Michael shouted.
Marcus brought Alexis around in a sharp turn.
“Dinna' do anything foolish. We'll be no more than an hour behind. If—when—you find the lass, wait for us.”
“Make it forty minutes,” Marcus said, and dug his heels into the belly of his horse.
* * *
Elise blinked. The darkness around her gave way to formless shadows that shifted before her eyes. She jostled and groaned at the pain that spiked in all directions through her body.
“Awake, eh?” The male voice crashed through her head like a wave against a cliff.
She lay in the arms of the speaker, her back against a muscular chest. A distant memory hovered. “Mar—” her voice cracked. Then in a half whisper, “Marcus?”
He grunted. She went rigid. This wasn't Marcus.
Elise closed her eyes, forced back the queasy upheaval of her stomach, then opened her eyes again. All before her looked as if she were looking through a fog. She squinted at the blurring shadows. Slowly, images formed, and she realized she was staring down at the moving ground. They were riding—her mind registered the horse's rhythm beneath them. The horse's rhythm. She had been riding—hard. The crystal-clear memory of the mare bearing down on her when she'd been thrown caused her to shudder.
Then she remembered Allister.
Tears sprang to her eyes. The young man had died because of her. His mother—Elise choked back a sob and a wave of dizziness wrenched her stomach. She forced her breathing to slow. At last, the nausea subsided and she shifted. Pain lanced through her head, but she squinted at the blur that had come into view on her right until the figure of a man riding came into focus. He stared unabashedly.
Elise ignored the tremor his stare elicited and looked past him, skyward, where dim points of light showed through thin, grey clouds. She shifted again and found herself staring up at the jut of a square jaw. Above that, the bluish hue of moonbeams filtered through clouds. The pain relaxed to a dull throb and her stomach settled. The clouds parted and the moon blazed in her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut, but registered its position and estimated the time as just past midnight.
“There's been no sign of MacGregor,” her captor said.
Marcus would have expected her to be at supper tonight. He might not notice her absence, but Allister's mother would notice his.
“The horses need rest,” the other man said. “They're spent.”
“We stop up ahead,” the man who held her said. “Leave them saddled and tether them.”
A few minutes later, they halted. Elise's captor handed her down to the man who had stared at her. He pressed her close to his chest. The hand wrapped around her legs slipped beneath her skirt. She thrashed. Hot spikes of pain fingered out through her body. His hand
rubbed her outer thigh. She gave a weak scream. He laughed, lowering his head toward her mouth.
“Rory!” her original keeper shouted, and took her into his arms.
Elise fought tears as he turned and her heart lurched when she caught sight of several more riders dismounting. She kicked and slammed a fist down onto her captor's chest.
“Cease,” he growled. “Fighting will do ye no good.”
She yielded, too spent to do anything else. He strode to a cluster of medium-sized rocks, then set her down against the rocks and returned to his horse. Rory approached, horse's reins in hand. Elise tensed. Their gazes remained locked until he disappeared from view behind her. Another man followed, then the next and the next, and she realized the horses were being tethered near where she lay.
Her keeper approached carrying a tartan and a small pouch. He stopped beside her, shook out the tartan, and squatted, settling the blanket over her. He regarded her. “We left MacGregor land long ago. You are in Campbell territory and wouldn't have a chance in hell in these hills. You cannot see, but 'tis barren country. Nothing for miles.”
“Why—” she stopped, seeing the implacable set of his jaw.
He reached into the pouch and produced a biscuit. He handed it to her. Elise took the food and watched him stride to where his comrades sat huddled on smaller rocks. She looked at the biscuit, then sniffed it. To her surprise, she detected no mold. A small nibble and her stomach rumbled. She pulled her knees up and reached for her foot. She unlaced one boot, took it off, then did the same with the other. She arranged the boots beside her and took another bite of the biscuit, while edging herself into a more prone position. She took another, larger bite.
“We should bind her hands.” Rory's voice abruptly broke the silence.
“Touch her and I'll kill you,” her captor said through a mouthful of food.
A pause followed, and Elise shivered as much from the threat as the cold. She pulled the tartan up over her shoulders, closing her eyes.
“You wouldn't be wanting her for yourself, would you, William?” Rory demanded.
“She isn't yours, Rory.”
“What if she escapes?”
“She was knocked half senseless,” William replied. “She couldn't manage it.”