Chapter Eighteen #2
Hugh palmed it and after a brusque nod, left the premises.
Once outside, he took Fhortan’s reins and surreptitiously scanned the area.
He couldn’t see either Darragh or Fergus but either of them could appear at any moment.
With studied nonchalance, he opened a saddlebag, as though he searched for something, before sliding the letter into the bag to hide it from view.
Swiftly, he read the missive from the earl.
It seemed not only had Hugh’s first message been received shortly after he’d sent it, but the earl had lost no time in planning for Roisin’s return.
Decoding the cryptic missive, it transpired the earl and his men were barely half a day’s ride from this town, at the very manor Hugh had been thinking of the other day, and merely needed confirmation of a rendezvous to safely deliver her into his charge.
The words burned into his mind and his gut clenched.
Roisin could leave the camp tomorrow. And although he had no right to keep her by his side, a despairing rage churned through him at how twisted fate could be.
What, after all, were the chances one of the earl’s messengers would travel to this town, just hours before Hugh arrived?
The truth was, he hadn’t expected an answer this quickly, despite knowing how vast the network of spies was spread across the Highlands and beyond.
God knew, the man might still be here, on the slender possibility of having an update by the end of the day to report back to the earl.
Methodically, he ripped the paper to shreds as he did with every message so there was never any chance of one being found and fisted the evidence. While the message had been clear about rescuing Roisin, there had been no mention of Hugh’s release from this life.
What more did the earl want from him? The whisper he had heard in Eire of his brother’s sighting in the Highlands had come to naught. How could he discover Douglas’s whereabouts, if his brother had been murdered and buried a year or more ago, and God only knew where?
“There ye are.” The sound of Darragh’s voice pulled him sharply back to the present. He straightened, tightening his fist around the incriminating proof that he was working for the Earl of Argyll. “We’ve time for an ale before Fergus leaves.”
So Fergus wasn’t returning to camp with them.
It was good news, since there was something about the man that caused his flesh to crawl, but it wasn’t enough to lift his mood.
Nothing could do that. Not now, when he knew his chance of even a fleeting happiness with Roisin was nothing more than the charred remnants of an impossible dream.
The three of them made their way to the tavern in the center of the market and hitched their horses outside the small, whitewashed building that had seen far better days. As they entered, Hugh followed last, and he tossed the destroyed message into the fire that burned low in the hearth.
They ordered ale from the tavernkeeper and sat on a bench in a corner of the room. The two other men clashed tankards and took long swallows of the liquid, ignoring Hugh as if he were part of the wall. Which was fine by him. He just wished he hadn’t been roped into this awkward gathering.
Fergus lowered his tankard and finally acknowledged Hugh’s presence. “So ye were a redshank.”
“Aye.” Hugh took a swallow of his ale as he braced himself for an interrogation. But again, why bring him all the way into town to do it?
“Saved Symon’s life more than once,” Darragh remarked. “Which is why I let him stay with us.”
It was true. He had saved Symon’s life on a couple of occasions when they’d been in Eire, but they had been comrades in arms, and he’d never turn his back on a man under his command. Even if that man was a MacGregor.
“And then ye rescued Lady Roisin MacDonald from an attack by bandits.”
He didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken but managed to keep his tone casual. “’Twas fortunate Symon and I came across her when we did.”
“Fortunate is a matter of perspective. Exactly how many of my best men did ye slaughter, Hugh?”
Hugh froze, locking his gaze on Fergus. His suspicion that the MacGregors had been behind the attack had been correct. He just hadn’t expected them to admit it. Had Darragh been involved in the plot, too?
Darragh gave a dry laugh. “Ye told me they were mercenaries. And lousy ones they were, too, since they botched the job. ’Tis just as well Hugh and Symon found her. At least they brought her back in one piece.”
He should likely keep his mouth shut, but he had to know. “What do ye want with Lady Roisin?”
“What do ye think?” Fergus gave him an unpleasant smile and before he could stop himself, Hugh surged to his feet.
“Hold yer fash, lad.” Darragh waved a hand at him, sounding faintly amused, and Hugh glowered at Fergus, who appeared supremely unconcerned as he took another mouthful of ale. Inhaling a long breath, Hugh sat back on the bench.
Darragh remarked, “They planned on holding her for ransom, that’s all. Ye don’t mistreat a valuable hostage.” He tossed Fergus a mocking glance. “Isn’t that right, then?”
“Aye.” Fergus’s response didn’t sound convincing. “That’s right.”
“I’d always planned on meeting up with Fergus and his kin later in the summer,” Darragh said. “When ye rescued the lass, I brought my plans forward.”
It seemed Darragh hadn’t been a party to the original threat against Roisin, although he certainly wasn’t averse to using any circumstance to his advantage.
Hugh recalled the fallen tree Roisin had told him about and eyed Fergus.
She had been specifically targeted, and he needed to know why.
“Ye went to a lot of trouble. What’s so special about Lady Roisin? ”
“Don’t ye know?” Fergus gave him a calculating look, and ice gripped Hugh’s gut. Fergus knew exactly who Roisin was. But maybe he was mistaken. It took every shred of self-control for him not to react. Instead, he shrugged.
“Know what?”
“She’s one of the MacDonalds of Sgur Castle. Her sister is wed to William Campbell.”
Contempt dripped from every word, but Fergus’s response jarred in Hugh’s brain.
William was a wealthy laird to be sure, but it was Alasdair who had the close connection to the earl.
He’d been certain that, had Roisin been targeted because of her relatives, it was because her other sister was married to the earl’s half-brother.
It stood to reason that if Fergus knew of William, he had to know Lady Freyja was wed to Alasdair. It didn’t make sense. But he would discover the reason.
“And who is William Campbell?”
“William Campbell,” Fergus said with undisguised loathing in his voice, “is the pox-ridden turd who murdered my half-brother, Alan MacGregor. I’ll see justice done if it’s the last thing I do.”
Christ, no. Hugh finished his ale to give him a moment’s reprieve so he didn’t need to hold Fergus’s glare, but inside he was reeling.
Alan MacGregor was the man who had infiltrated William’s inner circle more than two years ago and had tried to murder him by pushing him overboard during a storm. And then, after William had wed Lady Isolde, Alan had set his sights on her.
His heart thundered in his ears at the realization that the danger against Roisin had magnified a thousandfold. It had never been merely a kidnap attempt by Fergus to exchange a valuable hostage for specific demands.
It was personal.
“Alan,” said Darragh, his single eye boring into Hugh as though he were about to impart a great revelation, “was the true laird of Creagdoun Castle.”
More than four years ago Torcall MacGregor, Alan’s father, had rebelled against the earl and in the battle that followed, the earl had killed him and claimed his castle and lands. He had then bequeathed it all to William in recognition of his loyalty to Clan Campbell.
Hugh needed to say something. The last thing he could afford was to raise their suspicions when, for whatever reason, they seemed to trust him enough to share such information in the first place.
“And Creagdoun should now be yers?” He eyed Fergus.
“No. Torcall wasn’t my father. But no way in hell should Creagdoun be infested by Campbells.”
“Does Creagdoun not mean anything to ye, then?” Darragh said.
“What?” Hugh shot him a sharp glare, his defenses on full alert. Were the jaws of the trap finally snapping around him and he had failed to notice?
“Never mind.” For a bizarre reason, the older man appeared to be dryly amused. What in the name of God was going on? “Ye should be glad to know the lady will continue to be under yer protection when we arrive at Fergus’s camp. I’m certain ye’ll make the best of it.”
Fergus stood. “I’ll take my leave and see ye in a week or so. I’ll be watching out for ye.”
Darragh also stood and the two men grasped arms. After a piercing glance in Hugh’s direction, Fergus left the tavern and Darragh turned to him. “We’d best be making our way back to camp if we want to be in time for supper.”
They walked outside, and as they unhitched their horses, his head throbbed with what he knew had to be done.
Whatever Darragh might say about Hugh being responsible for Roisin’s safety, the truth was that the moment she stepped foot in Fergus’s camp, she would be in mortal danger.
There was no choice anymore. As if there ever had been. He needed to send a message to the earl, confirming the time and location where he could ensure Roisin was safely returned to her kin.