Chapter 28
Patrick
sat next to Simon Fergusson at the table and did his damndest to listen with rapt, fawning attention.
Fawning didn’t come easily to him, but he would have kissed the bastard’s sorry arse if it meant the Fergusson would think him friend and not foe.
At least for as long as he needed to in order to do what he’d come to do.
Which didn’t, unfortunately, include carving an intricate design in the man’s flesh with a dull blade prior to beheading him.
It was, he decided as he listened with a false smile of admiration on his face, something to hope for.
It kept him, that hoping, from looking over his shoulder to find out what was happening to the woman he loved.
He didn’t even dare close his eyes and offer up a brief prayer of thanksgiving.
It was nothing short of a miracle that he’d found Madelyn, nothing short of the same kind of miracle that he’d even managed to get the forest to work for him.
After three weeks of waiting, he’d begun to suspect that it just might lock him in the future forever.
Waiting had given him far too many hours to imagine what had befallen Madelyn, far too many hours to examine the feelings of his heart, far, far too many hours to determine where he’d gone wrong in the course of his relationship with her.
He’d begun to suspect that he would never have the chance to make it right.
But, against all odds, there he sat at Simon Fergusson’s table, a mere ten feet away from a woman who, if he hadn’t recognized a bit of the skirt pattern beneath the layer of filth, he didn’t think he would have recognized as the one he loved.
He hadn’t been able to meet her eyes. He’d been afraid to, lest she gasp out his name or give some other sign that she recognized him. So instead, he’d listened and admired the Fergusson’s skill at catching and caging a woman.
He was powerfully tempted to put the whoreson in that cage himself before the tale was finished.
But that would come later. Now, it behooved him not to grimace as he drank disgusting wine and ate revolting meat. By the saints, he’d been too long out of the Middle Ages. Not even his father’s table had boasted fare so foul.
“Meat’s good,” the Fergusson said, as he selected more of that fine meat. “Are things so fine in the McKinnon hall?”
Patrick shook his head—his supposed McKinnon head—regretfully. “Times are hard and my cousin’s cook is inept.”
The Fergusson grunted. “I’ll gift him something from my larder. Not my finest, of course, but something tasty all the same. In token of our alliance.”
“He’ll be grateful.”
“Daresay he will.” He shoved more drink at Patrick. “Here. Tell me again what those bloody MacLeods did to anger your cousin.”
Patrick obliged. He reminded himself a final time that right now he was a McKinnon, his enemies were the MacLeods, and he was here to secure Simon Fergusson’s aid in repaying the MacLeods for stealing some of the McKinnon’s finest cattle.
Which in medieval terms merely meant cattle that were still on their feet and had some imagined bit of flesh still on their bones, but who was he to quibble?
Those damnable MacLeods had made off with the poor beasts and the McKinnons were determined to overcome the slight mistrust between themselves and the clan Fergusson to rout out their common MacLeod enemy.
Navigating the complexities—and the enormous egos—of those relationships was something, fortunately, he hadn’t forgotten. Mayhap all those years of flattering his brother hadn’t been wasted. So, whilst his golden tongue gave wing to a tale worthy of song, his mind raced.
Almost four weeks. Madelyn had been in that cage almost four weeks. If her mind hadn’t flown, her ability to stand certainly had. But at least he’d found her. Perhaps that was miracle enough for them both.
Why the forest had taken so long to work, he still couldn’t say.
Mayhap it had been Bentley reclining with crunchy snacks at his elbow and cans of soda and beer crushing on a regular basis that had stopped him initially.
Doing damage to Bentley’s Jaguar had been the reason for his success, of that Patrick was certain.
He’d felt the forest shift just the slightest bit, like an earthquake of immense proportions that lasted only the fraction of a second—so short a time that he had to convince himself he hadn’t imagined it.
He’d left the forest and walked to his ancestral keep to find it in proper medieval condition.
He’d arrived only to find it an uproar over a certain Thomas McKinnon’s escape and alleged kidnapping of Duncan MacLeod.
Thomas was, in a manner of speaking, Patrick’s niece’s husband.
And it was thanks to a lengthy phone conversation with Thomas whilst Thomas was sitting safely in his house in Maine that Patrick had ferreted out all the details of that particular time frame.
Not that he’d known in what time he would be arriving, of course. That was the trick of the forest. Unlike the other X’s on Jamie’s land, the forest seemed to have no predictable destination in mind. It sent you where you were supposed to go and you made the best of it.
Unless you were following a certain person back in time. Then the forest, if you were lucky, sent you back after them.
Patrick had gotten lucky and he knew it.
The trick was going to be getting back home, but he would think about that later.
So, not knowing his particular destination beforehand, he had prepared as best he knew, which had included the most thorough debriefing of all potential political situations possible.
It was a damned good thing he’d pried as many details as possible from Thomas, because that had enabled him to keep himself out of Malcolm MacLeod’s pit.
He’d blamed Duncan’s capture on the Fergussons.
Given that Simon Fergusson had just set his men upon a group of MacLeod scouts not a month before, Malcolm MacLeod had been more than willing to believe just about anything Patrick had said.
When Patrick had introduced himself as a long-lost cousin and then promised to rescue the piper who’d been captured soon after the raid, Malcolm had been overjoyed—overjoyed that he wasn’t having to do the deed himself, likely, but Patrick hadn’t complained.
He’d armed himself with Malcolm’s knowledge of Simon Fergusson’s habits, then headed off into the sunset.
It had taken only a minor amount of creativity to get himself sitting safely at the Fergusson’s table.
As safely as anyone sat at that table, of course.
It wouldn’t be for long. The MacLeods were, even as he babbled, preparing a raid. When that was discovered, Patrick would free the piper, free Madelyn, and ride like hell for safety. Ride thanks to a MacLeod stallion that ran like the wind.
“You look like a MacLeod,” the Fergusson said suddenly. “I’d recognize those bloody green eyes anywhere.”
“Aye,” said the man on Simon’s other side. “Damned odd, those green eyes.”
“Shut up, Neil,” Simon said, waving his hand. “I’m having my look.”
Neil, who Patrick surmised by the familial resemblance was Simon’s brother, fell silent. But he wasn’t happy about it.
Interesting.
Patrick bent his head, trying to look as shamed as possible. “I’m a bastard,” he lied easily. “Child of rapine, as fate would have it.”
“Why didn’t your mother drown you after you were born?” Neil demanded.
Simon backhanded his brother across the mouth, then looked at Patrick. “Why didn’t the laird kill her before she birthed you?” he asked.
Patrick narrowly avoided choking on his wine. By the saints, who was worse? Neil the fool or Simon the merciless? “His mistake,” Patrick managed. “Perhaps’twas for revenge. A child bred to hate is a powerful tool.”
Neil grunted, but ducked when Simon raised his hand again. Simon studied Patrick for a moment or two.
“I suppose so,” he said slowly. “And do you hate?”
“Deeply.”
Simon stroked the table with the point of his knife. “Who, in particular?”
“Malcolm MacLeod.”
Simon looked at Patrick. “Your sire?”
“He was a very young one at the time.”
Simon laughed. “Aye, well, he was quite the wanderer, or so I’ve heard.” He nodded in satisfaction. “Won’t he claim you?”
“Worse yet. Killed my dam.”
“Unsurprising,” Simon grunted. “So, you do have good reason to hate him.”
“Can you fault me for it?” Patrick asked.
Simon scratched his neck with the edge of his blade. “Nay.”
“Revenge as well,” Patrick added. The Fergusson would understand that well enough. “With the aid of the most cunning laird in the Highlands, I’ll see my dam avenged one way or another.” And see you dead for what you’ve done to my woman.
Apparently the sentiment, if not whom it was silently directed at, rang true enough to silence any of the Fergusson’s remaining doubts.
Patrick received a hearty slap on the back, more wine in his cup, and the offer of a fine-looking—the Fergusson’s taste, not his—wench to warm his plaid that night.
Patrick accepted the wine and declined the wench. And when he spewed some long, convoluted tale about his preraid policy of abstinence, the Fergusson vowed he would try the like himself.
“But not tonight,” the Fergusson added with a leering grin. “Take your ease, my friend. We’ll plot more on the morrow.”
The keep began to settle down for the night once the laird had selected his bed partner and retreated upstairs to bed her so thoroughly it was a wonder anyone managed to hear anyone else bid them good night.
Of course, this all happened after a handful of lads had indulged in a few minutes of heaping abuse on the prisoners. The piper cursed them and dodged their blows, but his chains didn’t let him dodge far. Madelyn didn’t respond, but she did flinch when they poked at her with sticks.
Patrick marked each one who took sport of her. He also marked the keeper of the keys. Those he would need later.
He laid down near the door, his sword by his side. The fury in him burned brightly.