He reached behind his shoulder, slowly pulled his giant blade from its scabbard, and cradled it in his arms. The weight was nothing for a man of his strength and size, and he no more felt the strain of it than a woman lifting a brush to her hair.
An image filled his head at the slightest prompt…silky strands sliding through the bristles, soft, blue-gray eyes watching him, full breasts pressing against a linen shift.
He stilled at the direction his thoughts had taken, at the scene he’d envisioned as clearly as the loch on a bright summer’s day. The same scene he’d dreamed about last night, causing him to wake up hard and wanting.
He’d been thinking of Deirdre MacIntyre. Again.
“God’s blood,” he cursed, loud and hard. The tanner blanched and pulled a tough cowhide from beneath the table. But it was too late. Gavin was no longer interested. He re-sheathed his sword and turned away with a scowl—something he’d been doing constantly, ever since he’d noticed Lady MacIntyre crossing the market yesterday morning. He’d stopped to watch her, not so much because of her beauty, although that was considerable—fair skin, dark hair, lush, red lips—but because she looked so…vulnerable. And when she’d glanced up and he’d seen those soulful eyes… Her expression had hinted at an uncertainty that made his heart squeeze. He’d wanted to tuck her into the crook of his arm and fight off all her enemies, especially those who’d made her doubt herself.
And more basic than that, he’d wanted to lose himself in her body—bring those rounded breasts to his mouth and suckle them as he tupped her.
Which really was utter shite. That woman was hiding something, and Gavin was a right bastard who didn’t want anything from a lass—not even a hot mouth or a busy hand—not anymore, at least. And she didn’t have to be beautiful. His wife, Cristel, had been beautiful, and she’d ruined his life. Ewan’s too.
She’d taken his almost two-year-old son to the fall festival two years ago—against Gavin’s express orders—and she’d lost him. If she hadn’t died from the plague, Gavin would have thrown her into his dungeon.
He’d spoken to her maid, the only surviving member of her attendants, who said Cristel had wanted to show Ewan off to some other high-born lasses and wouldn’t let the boy’s nursemaid accompany them. He’d been missing for hours before she’d told anyone.
They’d looked for him, but by then, people—including Cristel—had started falling ill. Gavin had searched the burned remains of the dead bodies afterward, ankle-deep in ash. Thankfully, he hadn’t seen any signs of a child.
So he’d offered a substantial reward and run down leads for over a year before those had dried up. He’d sent men to every corner of Scotland, looking for a boy with his blond hair and blue-green eyes. He’d even had an artist paint Ewan’s likeness and distributed the pictures across the land.
Reports had come in about sightings from as far away as the Orkney Islands.
Gavin was here now because of one such report. He was to meet the woman at the festival this afternoon. For a moment yesterday, when Deirdre MacIntyre had stared at him for so long and so hard, he’d thought perhaps she was the informant he was supposed to meet—the one to give him back his son.
He’d felt a flare of hope as she’d studied his face, but at her denials, that crushing blackness had swamped him once again. He’d been short with her. And crude. He shouldn’t have said the things he’d said, but he didn’t have the self-control and decorum he once had. Anger and worry, along with years of barely sleeping, had eroded his courtesy and goodwill.
He was trapped in a nightmare, and he couldn’t get out.
Ewan had to be alive. Gavin refused to believe otherwise.
“And to think, the lasses used to swarm to see your smiling face.”
Gavin turned his head in the direction of the speaker, whose tone had been so deep and blunt. He realized he was still scowling—seemingly his permanent expression now—and grunted in acknowledgement. “They may have flocked to me at one time, but they run from your frightening face always.”
Kerr MacAlister, Laird of Clan MacAlister, grinned, holding the reins of his huge black stallion in one hand. With the other, he pulled Gavin into a bear hug—an animal Gavin swore his foster brother just might be related to. As big as Gavin was, Kerr was even bigger, with eyes and hair as dark as Gavin’s were fair. The long, thick strands of that dark hair had been secured in a leather thong at his nape and fell past his massive shoulders.
The bleakness began to lift as hope and lightness filled Gavin’s soul once more—as light as he could be not knowing if his son was hurt or scared or dying.
“’Tis good to see you, Brother,” he said roughly.
“Aye. It’s been a long winter not having your bonnie face across the table from me or hearing your sister’s agreeable, dulcet tones.”
Gavin barked out a laugh. Calling Gavin sweet and Isobel agreeable was like calling their foster father, Gregor, dull-witted.
“She missed you too,” he said, “although she would ne’er admit it. ’Tis high time you find a way to convince her to marry you. I desire cousins for Ewan to play with when we finally get him back.”
“You’ll get him back long before then,” Kerr said, “And I hear from Darach that cousins are already on their way. Caitlin is with bairn.”
A smile cracked Gavin’s face, and he felt more optimistic than he had since he’d said goodbye to his foster family last fall. “What a blessing for them and for all of us! Knowing Caitlin, she’ll give Darach a daughter. Several daughters. Every one of them as fair and sweet as she, and just as much trouble.”
Kerr laughed. “I can hardly wait. Best we find Ewan soon, so he can start training to keep them safe.”
The breath caught in Gavin’s throat, and he had to remind himself to breathe—slow and deep. Still, his voice rasped with emotion when he spoke. “Aye, best we find him soon.”
Kerr clapped him on the shoulder, and they began walking toward Gavin’s small campsite. Glancing back, Gavin looked for Kerr’s men. “You’re alone then?” he asked when he couldn’t spot anyone.
“Nay, I have Sorley and Greer with me. I sent them on ahead—told them to look for the campsite in the best defensive position.”
Gavin laughed. “Aye, Gregor taught us well.”
“You said in your letter you were meeting someone here with news of Ewan. Has that changed?” Kerr asked.
“Nay. She should arrive sometime today. She told my man, Lorne, that she saw a young lad fitting Ewan’s description at a recent wedding, but she was nervous and wouldn’t say any more.” His teeth ground together as he thought about the next part of her letter. “She said it was too dangerous.”
Kerr’s brows rose. “In what way?”
“I doona know, but Lorne’s stuck near her, just in case. He didn’t want her to get scared and run. Or be put in a grave before she could pass on the information.”
“And he couldn’t entice her?”
“I’m sure he tried. Yesterday, I thought maybe…” Gavin trailed off and scratched his hand through the scruff on his jaw, surprised by his reluctance to tell Kerr about Deirdre.
“Maybe what?” Kerr prompted.
“Do you know Lewis MacIntyre? Son of Laird MacIntyre?”
“I met him a few times when we were younger. He’s quiet but not disagreeable. A better man than his da, that’s for sure. His father and my father were friends—if you could call it that—before I killed him.”
Gavin knew Kerr referred to his own father. Laird MacAlister had been a degenerate man, and when Kerr was just seventeen, he had killed him. To save his own life, yes, but also to stop the abuse of men, women, and children at Clan MacAlister—and anywhere else his father could find them.
Gregor MacLeod, Kerr and Gavin’s foster father, had known that someday MacAlister would make an attempt on his son’s life. Gregor had trained Ke
rr hard to prepare him—even harder than he’d trained the other lads—so Kerr would survive. Each year at harvest time, when the lads returned to their own homes, they’d said goodbye to Kerr with heavy hearts, not knowing if that would be the year he wouldn’t return.
“I met his wife, Deirdre, yesterday. She was…watching me,” Gavin said.
Kerr raised his brow and gave him a look. “How exactly was she watching you?”
“Not like that. Although…”
“Although…what?”
Gavin shrugged. He took a moment to control his heart rate as he dodged a cart in the crowded market. “’Tis nothing. She’s married. I was just going to say she’s a lovely lass, but she seems a wee bit broken. And I wondered if Lewis might be the cause.”
“I ne’er sensed that in him. His father, for sure, but not him.” Kerr furrowed his brow, and Gavin could see he was trying to remember something. “Now that you mention her, I think Deirdre’s great-grandmother may have been a MacAlister. That would make Deirdre my cousin. Many times removed, of course.”
“Truly? Her hair is dark like yours, but she’s fair skinned with light eyes—a gray-blue color with a dark-gray rim. And her lips are red, like the inner petals of a young rose.”
Kerr stopped in the middle of the crowd and stared at him, his brow raised high and his eyes wide. Gavin could practically see the gears turning in his head, and heat washed up his cheeks. “’Tis not what you’re thinking.”
“Inner petals? Young rose? I’ve been pining after Isobel for five years, and I’ve ne’er once compared her to a flower.”
“Maybe that’s your problem. There’s no romance in your soul.”
“And there is in yours?”
Gavin grinned suddenly. “Apparently.”
Kerr shook his head and resumed walking. “Did you romance her, then? Married or not, you obviously wanted to.”
Shame flooded Gavin, and he scrubbed his fingers through his beard again. “Nay, I was rude to her. I may have used the word ‘swiving.’ And ‘tupping’ too.”
“Why? What did she do?”
“She’d been watching me from a distance and then staring at me like she recognized me. I thought perhaps she knew something about Ewan. And I was already thrown because of…”
“Her petal lips?”
Gavin sighed. “I’ll ne’er live that down, will I?”
“Nay.”
“And you’ll tell Darach, Lachlan, and Callum, no doubt.”
“Of course. And Gregor too.”
“God’s blood,” he muttered just loud enough for Kerr to hear. “’Tis no wonder Cain murdered Abel, if his brother was as annoying as you.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kerr smile. “I was thrown because it’s been a long time since I’ve been so drawn to a woman, and I doona mean just physically. But at the same time, her behavior made no sense. I’d swear on my life, on Ewan’s life, that she knows something about his disappearance.”
“Then we’ll speak to her immediately. I doona need to drop off my bags at your camp. Where is her tent located?”
“I didn’t ask. I was afraid I’d become the one watching her from a distance. After my talk of tupping, she would have felt unsafe.”
“She would have felt unsafe anyway. Have you looked in Isobel’s mirror lately? You’re a prosperous laird, for Christ’s sake. Have someone else trim your hair and whiskers.”
Gavin shoved his hands through the short, choppy strands and then scratched over his jaw and under his chin. It felt good. There had been a time—before Ewan was taken—that he ne’er would have had whiskers if he could help it. Now the most upkeep he did was taking a sharp knife to it every few weeks or so. He didn’t want to look like the Gavin of old. He wanted to stay rough and raw until he got his son back.
And maybe that was what had bothered him so much about Lady MacIntyre. She tempted him to want warm and soft things again.
“Laird MacKinnon.”
Gavin looked over and saw Lorne, a man slightly younger than him with a bulbous nose and heavy brow—which hid a quick mind, no matter what some might think. He also had a fair and loyal heart. Gavin quickly stepped forward, and they clasped forearms in the way of warriors.
“Well met, Lorne. ’Tis good to see you.”
“And you, Laird.”
Glancing behind Lorne, he saw a no-nonsense-looking woman in her middle years, standing with her arms crossed at her waist. Hope rose in his chest. She didn’t look like the type of woman to come forward just for the reward. She would want to do right by his son.
“I’ll have my money before I say a word,” she said when she saw Gavin watching her. He barely held back a surprised laugh. So much for his keen sense of observation.
“I canna give you the money until I verify your information,” he said.
She looked around the market with suspicious eyes, and both Gavin and Kerr did the same, moving automatically into better fighting positions lest they be attacked.
“Would you prefer somewhere more private?” Gavin asked.
“Aye, over by that tree.” She pointed to a tall Scots pine near the edge of the market.
Gavin met Kerr’s eyes. Was it an ambush? “Nay, come have a meal with us at our camp. It’s the least I can do after your long journey.”
The woman nodded curtly. Gavin took the lead while Kerr brought up the rear of their group. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but he didn’t want to take any chances. After arriving at camp and settling the woman on one of the logs around the fire with a hot bowl of cooked oats, Gavin sat down beside her. He couldn’t wait any longer. He braced himself for disappointment, knowing that the chances this woman knew anything were slim. Nevertheless, he couldn’t stop the hope and eagerness that bloomed in his chest. It reminded him of how he’d felt when he’d spoken to Deirdre in the tent yesterday. Right before she’d said she didn’t know anything.
No matter. If this woman’s information was good, he ne’er had to think about Deirdre MacIntyre again.
“Can you tell me now?” he asked. “Where have you seen my son?”
“At a wedding I attended last summer. The lad you search for was there with his mother.”
“His mother is dead.”
“That may be, but the young laddie called her Mama, and she called him Ewan. She certainly watched over him like a mother hen. He’s the spitting image of you. Are you sure you didn’t get the lass pregnant and not know it? I’ve heard rumors that her husband is rarely in their bed.”
“In whose bed?” Gavin asked, his impatience and frustration making his voice sharp.
“Lewis MacIntyre’s, son and heir of Laird MacIntyre. ’Tis Lewis’s wife, Deirdre, that you seek.
“I swear on my grave that Deirdre MacIntyre has your son.”
Two
Gavin rode Thor, his huge gray stallion, across the hard-packed trail as fast as he could, despite the late hour and only moonlight for guidance. Kerr rode alongside him with five of their men—three MacKinnons and two MacAlisters—trailing behind them on their horses. The moon was full and the night sky clear, but it still didn’t brighten their trail enough to show all the ridges, holes, and debris on the road. Especially at the speed he’d set.
And not a single one of the men had protested.
They’d wasted time earlier looking for Deirdre’s campsite before learning that she’d packed up yesterday. The woman had headed home shortly after she’d spoken to Gavin.
After she knew Ewan was my son!
She’d looked him in the eye, seen the resemblance—the spitting image of Ewan in his face—and run as fast as a thieving fox back to her keep. He might never have known his child was within a day’s ride if the other woman hadn’t come forward.
Fury swelled within him again, turning his anger as hot as the blacksmith’s forge. The MacIntyres and MacKinnon
s were now at war, and if any harm had come to his son, whoever was responsible would pay with a sword in their belly.
Deirdre’s husband and father-in-law couldn’t save her now. Nor could her brother, Boyd.
“Gavin!” Kerr yelled at him, his cry barely discernible over the pounding of the horses’ hooves.
Gavin heard his foster brother but kept moving. He knew what Kerr was going to say, and he didn’t want to hear it. The big bear of a man lunged forward and grabbed Gavin’s reins, slowing his horse. The others skidded to a halt behind them.
Gavin rounded on him, his blood hot, his face tight with anger. “Imagine if Isobel were in that castle! Would you be stopping right now?”
“If it were Isobel, then I hope you’d be riding with me, urging me to be cautious, so we didn’t ruin our chances of saving her.”
“That woman has had Ewan for two and a half years. She will not have him for one more minute!”
“That woman is my cousin, and she may well be innocent. We will let her explain herself before we do anything that canna be undone!”
“I doona need her explanations! She saw me, she knew who I was, and she ran. She. Is. Not. Innocent! You’re either on my side in this or you’re against me…Brother.”
“Shut it, ye wee ablach! Of course I’m on your side. But for the sake of your son, for my nephew, we will go in with a plan, and we will go in carefully! Do I need to bloody well fight you on this? Getting us caught or killed will not save Ewan!”
They were leaning toward each other across their saddles, almost nose to nose. A red haze of anger clouded Gavin’s vision, and he almost smashed his fist into Kerr’s face.
And Kerr would smash his fist right back, that was for certain. It wouldn’t be the first time. Or the last, most likely. And where would that get them? Rolling around in the dirt while Ewan stayed trapped in the MacIntyre keep.
Gavin ground his teeth together, then looked to the rear of the group and locked eyes with Clyde, his second-in-command. Clyde was a short, stocky man with the strength of Goliath and hands the size of dinner trenchers. For a moment, Gavin couldn’t decide whether to ask Clyde for his opinion or order him to kick Kerr in the arse.
Highland Captive Page 2