The Highland Laird

by Amy Jarecki

  “Fortunate.” He slapped Sam’s knee. “Dicky will ferry you and your horse across to Ardgour. From there it’s a straight ride up to Lochiel’s fortress, but I do not recommend making the journey at night. Lord kens where Wilcox is sending his troops.”

  “Ye intend for me to go alone?” asked the lad.

  “Aye.” Ciar stepped away from the horse. “You said you were tired. Once you’re across, ride into the hills and take a bit of rest. Dicky will give you some food.”

  “I will?” asked the old man, pulling Sam and his horse toward the loch. “Next ye’ll be giving away the plaid off me back.”

  “Do you have a spare?” When Dicky responded with an audacious scowl, Ciar chuckled. “Thank you, friend. I’ll nay forget your kindness.”

  The old man beckoned the lad. “Come, there’s a parcel of dried meat in the boat.”

  Ciar’s humor faded in the blink of an eye. He reached up to help Emma dismount. “We’ll be rowing a skiff from here.”

  “Will that be safer?”

  Rather than set the lass on her feet, he cradled her in his arms. “Faster. I reckon safer as well.”

  She patted her hip. “Come, Albert.”

  Ciar looked toward the rickety wooden pier where the skiff was tied. Dicky had already shoved off. “Blast, I should have had Sam take the pup with him.”

  “But he’s my dog.”

  “And he nearly got us killed before we had a chance to flee.” Ciar hurried down to the pier and helped her to the bow seat of the boat. “You’ll need to keep him quiet.”

  “I will. I promise.” She patted the bench, and Albert hopped into the hull, sat, and put his head in her lap. She ran her hand along his fur. “You mustn’t bark.”

  Ciar untied the rope, then climbed onto the rowing bench and took up the oars.

  “Och!” Emma gasped, her back stiffening while Albert’s ears pricked. “Riders are coming.”

  Ciar’s gaze darted northward toward the road. Seeing nothing but the outline of trees through the darkness, he whispered, “Can you hear them?”

  “Two horses…no, three.”

  “Ballocks,” he growled. “Duck your head, I’m pulling the skiff under the pier.”

  She bent forward, grasping the medal around her neck. “Saint Lucia save us.”

  Ciar released his grip on the dock’s slats long enough to move the sword into his lap, but quickly grabbed hold again to ensure the skiff remained hidden. “Can you keep Albert quiet?”

  “Aye.” Emma slid an arm around the dog’s back. Holding him firm, she gently clamped his muzzle closed. “Sh, stay,” she whispered in the dog’s ear so quietly it was barely audible. “Good laddie.”

  With Ciar’s next breath, horses’ hooves thudded against the compact dirt road like the steady drums of a death knell. They almost beat louder than his heart.

  Too many things could go wrong. And there he sat with Grant’s sister and a half-trained dog.

  “Look there—Dicky has a passenger,” shouted one of the riders.

  Ciar’s gaze darted to the far shore. The clouds had parted, and the moonlight illuminated Sam’s outline as the lad walked the horse off the ferry.

  “But he’s not MacDougall. Look at the size of him—he’s a scrawny bastard like you, Landry.”

  Ciar’s fingers dug into the rough wood. If only the man’s name had been Riley or Manfred, he might end this debacle here and now.

  “We may as well wait until the old man returns. Mayhap he knows something.”

  “I doubt it,” said a third. “If you ask me, MacDougall rode for the mountains. They all hide up there like rats.”

  “I reckon the Highlanders transform into ghosts, I swear. We chased Grant and his men up the slopes of Ben Nevis in a snowstorm, and the bastards vanished while we ended up with frostbitten toes.”

  “Well, it isn’t snowing now. We’ll find the renegade. Mark me.”

  Albert squirmed, giving off a squeak and making the skiff rock, slapping the water. After a few jerks of his head, Emma blew softly in the dog’s ear, as she smoothed her hand up and down his coat. Ciar could have sworn she was repeating the word “stay” over and over again, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Ate too many peas, did ye, Rutford?” asked Landry.

  “Shut your gob,” came the reply.

  Ciar dared to breathe. The dog will be the death of us.

  The men chatted while what seemed like an eternity passed.

  “Throw us a rope, and we’ll tug you ashore,” hollered Landry.

  Boots clambered across the pier, making it tremble while Ciar shifted his fingers aside a heartbeat before a black boot trod on them.

  “My thanks,” said Dicky, his gaze flickering beneath the pier as the coil unraveled.

  Ciar bared his teeth—a half grimace, half smile. The blood had drained from his fingers, and they’d already gone numb. His arms were shaking from keeping the boat steady in a constant fight against the wind rippling across the water.

  Another set of boots clomped onto the dock. “Who the devil needed a ferry ride at this hour?”

  “’Twas a young coal mine worker,” Dickey explained. He must have dreamed up the story on his way back across the river. “His ma died. Told me his father perished in the mines, and the poor sop was worried about the children left alone.”

  “Where’s he headed?”

  Ciar’s gut clamped into a hard ball. Don’t say Ardgour.

  “Pollach.”

  Again Ciar let himself breathe. It was unlikely the soldiers would follow. If Dicky had said Ardgour, they’d ask for a ride across the loch and demand to question the lad.

  “Where’s that?” asked a dragoon.

  “Through the glen on Loch Shiel. I reckon the boy ought to reach home by dawn.”

  “Have you seen anyone else this night?”

  “Until that lad beat on me door, the only thing I’d seen was the inside of my bloody eyelids. And that’s exactly what I intend to stare at until well after the sun rises.” Dicky strode toward the shore, the heel of his boot smashing Ciar’s finger.

  Snapping his hand away, Ciar shook his fingers, making the skiff totter.

  Bloody miserable festering maggot!

  Thank God, the redcoats followed the crotchety old coot. If it had been Sam’s finger Dicky stepped on, the lad would have bleated like a lamb in a castrating pen.

  “Did the coal miner mention any word about Ciar MacDougall?”

  “Dunollie?” asked Dicky. “Isn’t he your guest at the fort?”

  “He was.”

  “It appears Robert Grant’s blind sister helped him escape.”

  “You mean to say the king’s dragoons had the wool pulled over their eyes by a blind woman?”

  Emma’s shoulders began to shake while Albert squirmed.

  Ciar braced himself, ready to dive across the boat and smother the damned canine if need be.

  “If she’s Grant’s sister, then she’s a ghost,” said the same one who’d admitted to following Robert two years past.

  “I suppose we’ll leave you be for the night,” said a dragoon, the leathers of a saddle squeaking as if he’d mounted. “But if you hear news of anyone catching sight of MacDougall, send a runner to the fort.”

  “I’ll do that,” Dickey replied. “But he’d be daft to show his face in these parts.”

  Ciar held the skiff steady while the soldiers started off to the tune of the old man slamming his front door.

  Emma continued to methodically pet Albert and didn’t release him until the sound of retreating horses faded. “My lands, that was close,” she whispered.

  “Too close.” Ciar peeked over the pier, checking all directions, before he shoved the skiff into deeper water and picked up the oars. “The faster we row away from here, the easier I’ll breathe for certain.”

  “How far do we need to go?”

  “We ought to pass Castle Stalker in about an hour—a Stewart keep. Then I’m hoping we slip by Dun
staffnage before dawn.”

  “Why?”

  “’Tis held by the Campbells now, and I don’t trust them any farther than I can throw a twenty-stone rock.” As he pulled on the oars, he scanned the loch’s eastern shore. “Dunstaffnage once was ruled by my kin when the MacDougalls were Lords of the Isles.”

  “Once? Did they lose it in a feud?”

  “A major feud of sorts. My ancestor, John MacDougall, fought Robert the Bruce and lost.”

  “How unfortunate.” Emma tilted her face to the skies as if she were thinking. “But you have Dunollie now.”

  “Aye. And it’s but three miles south of Dunstaffnage as the crow flies.”

  “So, will we be there by first light?”

  “Nay, lass. I’m not taking you to my keep. The risk is far too great.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Emma stretched. The pillow cradling her head was so soft, she wished she could sleep forever. Intending to do her best, she rolled to her side and smoothed her hand over exquisitely fine linens.

  “Yowl,” came a happy, though unwelcome, sound from the foot of the bed.

  “A few more minutes, Albert.”

  His tail beat against the mattress as he scooted up and licked her face.

  Emma pushed his head aside. “Go on.”

  Then reality dawned. Bolting upright, she wrapped her arms around the dog’s neck. “Ciar?” she shrieked. “Are you here?”

  “Aye, lass,” came a raspy reply, one sounding as if they were in a tunnel.

  “Where are we?” She clutched the blanket beneath her chin. “H-how did I end up in a bed?” It was a very comfortable bed, but she had absolutely no recollection of anything beyond Ciar rowing the skiff and talking about the landmarks they’d pass along the way.

  “Forgive me.” The sound of his boots brushed over a solid floor. “You were asleep when we arrived, and I hadn’t a mind to wake you. We’re on the Isle of Kerrera in my sanctuary.”

  “We’re in a church?”

  “Nay.” The bottom of the bed depressed as he sat.

  Still clutching Albert, Emma drew her feet away and tucked them to the side. Ciar MacDougall had just sat at the foot of her bed. The mere thought befuddled her mind.

  “We’re in the cellars of Gylen Castle,” he calmly explained as if it were perfectly normal to be in an unmarried lass’s bedchamber…sitting on her bed, no less.

  “Cellars?”

  “Aye, the keep was built by my grandfather’s grandfather. But during the Wars of the Three Kingdoms, the Covenanters besieged the castle. Clan and kin put up a brave fight until they ran out of provisions and had no choice but to surrender or starve.”

  Emma pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. “I still do not understand why you have a bedchamber in the cellars.”

  “Well…” Ciar’s voice grew haunted. “After my ancestors laid down their arms, the Covenanters burned and sacked the castle. They massacred everyone, including the women, save my grandfather’s father, another ancestor named John. On that day the wee lad became the Seventeenth Chieftain of Dunollie.”

  Good heavens, she hated barbarity. “My word,” she whispered. “Such mindless violence.”

  “After, the castle stood in ruins—still does. However, when William and Mary ascended to the throne, usurping the rightful heir, my da kent civil war would come again. We set to clearing the rubbish out of the cellars and turning it into a place of refuge. Mark me, Gylen still looks lonely and ruined on the outside, and any treasure seekers or soldiers who come snooping about would never find the entrance to this hiding-hole.”

  Emma lazily swirled her fingers behind Albert’s ears. “’Tis a refuge in plain sight, then?”

  “Aye. I keep general stores stocked. Nothing fancy, mind you, but there’s dried meat and apples, and a barrel of oats. We’ve plenty of whisky, and there’s a spring with fresh water amongst the remnants of the outer bailey.”

  “It sounds ideal.”

  “Far from it, but it ought to keep us alive until I can settle this charge against me.”

  “Us?” Dare she hope? “Do you mean to keep me here with you?”

  “Och, Emma, I apologize from the bottom of my heart, but I can see no other way. If Wilcox found you, he could do unimaginable things to ferret me out. And I cannot take a chance on seeing you hurt.”

  “But I want to stay. I want to be of use.”

  “For now I need you to remain out of sight whilst I visit a crofter in Balliemore.”

  “Where?”

  “The tenant who tends my sheep on the isle lives two miles north of here. He’ll take a message to Livingstone, and I’ll dispatch one to your brother as well—let him ken you are safe and unharmed.”

  “Robert,” she whispered, clamping a hand over her mouth and trying to blink away a tear. “He’ll be angry with me.”

  “No, lass.” Ciar scooted up the bed until his big arms surrounded her shoulders. “This is all my doing, and I doubt your brother will ever forgive me. If I had kept riding to Spean Bridge and ignored the crime, I wouldn’t be in this dilemma. Neither of us would be.”

  “It isn’t like you to keep riding. You did the honorable thing, and you will prove your innocence. I know it right down to my bones.”

  “Thank you, lass. I need such words of encouragement.”

  Emma closed her eyes and sighed as Ciar kissed her forehead, his beard a tad prickly but alluring all the same.

  He slid his fingers down her arms and grasped her hands. “Before I go, I want to show you the lay of the place.”

  “I suppose it sounds awfully crude to call it the cellars.”

  He pulled her to her feet. “Mayhap, though that is exactly what Livingstone and I call it—either that or the vault.”

  “Who else kens of it?”

  “Only Braemar and the crofter, Archie. His wife, too, I suppose.” Ciar gently took her hand and brushed her fingers over a wooden table. “The bed is at the rear of the cellar, and there’s a washstand beside it—chamber pot beneath. The floor is covered with a rag rug that I can roll up if you prefer.”

  Emma patted her thigh, telling Albert to follow. “It shouldn’t cause a problem as long as I grow accustomed to it.”

  “There are two wooden chairs and a table straight ahead, and to the left there’s a wee hearth with brushed sheepskin on the floor before it.”

  “I can feel the warmth on my face. But isn’t it dangerous to have a fire?”

  “We’ll need fire to cook over the iron hob, but I use only lignite coal from my mine in Northern Ireland. It burns clear.”

  “Truly?”

  “Aye, but only in small amounts.”

  He led her past the chairs. “On this side you’ll find the cellar door. In the passageway to the right are the vaults with stores, and to the left is the way out. ’Tis a long affair of about three hundred feet, tunneled through earth and rock.”

  “We don’t exit into the remains of the keep?”

  “That would be far too obvious. The outlet is covered by heather rushes and is only paces away from the eastern beach. I’ve hidden Dicky’s skiff in the gorse just beyond the beach, covered my tracks as well.”

  “Heavens, no one will ever find us here.”

  “Not likely. But I have no intention of staying any longer than necessary.”

  “What do you intend to do?” Emma asked.

  “First thing is to notify Livingstone of my whereabouts.”

  “And then?”

  “And then you shouldn’t worry about how I will bring my accusers to justice. ’Tis nay pretty, but it must be done. You’ll soon tire of this place, as will I.” He pulled out a chair and urged her to sit. “There’s dried meat, apples, and an ewer of water on the table. I ken ’tis not much, but I’ll return with some more substantial fare.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else you need before I go?”

  “Ah…” She went through the map of the chamber in her mind
, then scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. “Is there but one bed?”

  “One large bed, but not to worry. I slept on the sheepskin pelt before the fire. ’Twas by far more comfortable than Fort William’s hospitality.”

  “Oh.” A moment of awkward silence filled the chamber. Of course he would have slept elsewhere. She ought to be relieved. “Must you leave now?” she asked, grappling for something to say to encourage him to stay a bit longer.

  “I’m afraid I must.”

  She brushed her fingers over the table, finding the plate of food. “I’d like to go with you.”

  “Not this time. I expect Wilcox to have men combing every inch of my lands, at least at the moment. For the next sennight or so, I do not want you to leave the cellars unless I am with you, understood?”

  “Aye.” She nibbled a bite of dried meat. “How long will you be?”

  “A few hours. I hope to return in time for the noon meal.”

  “And what of Albert? He needs to step outside soon.”

  “I took him out not long before you woke, and he knows the way now. I doubt anyone will suspect a dog traipsing about, but you must remember there are ships sailing the seas around Kerrera, and some are not friendly. You won’t hear them when they’re a half mile out, but they will most definitely see you, and that we cannot risk.”

  * * *

  An old sheepdog rushed across the grass, barking like a savage as Ciar approached the croft. Preparing to defend himself, he gripped the hilt of the rusted sword, hoping there’d be no need to use it.

  Just in time, Archie bolted out of the cottage. “Come behind, ye flea-bitten mop o’ fur.”

  His wife, Nettie, was right behind, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’s all the commotion?”

  “Just an old friend,” said Ciar as he continued forward.

  Both of them gaped as if they’d been surprised by a visit from royalty. “What the blazes are ye doing on Kerrera, m’laird?” asked Archie.

  “I’ve something to speak to you about.” Ciar gave the man a pointed look. “In private, though I’d be much obliged for a basket of eggs, bacon, and anything else you have to spare, Nettie.”

  She thwacked his arm. “Is that all the welcome we’ll see? Why not come inside and have a smoke and a pint? Ye look as if ye’ve been in the wars.”