Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“Lachy, I want you to ride and fetch O’Rourke.
He will prove valuable to us now—the only proof my marriage is valid.
Should he be found and murdered, ’twill be easy for MacNab to wed Isobel to that damned whelp of his, and ’tis a thing to which Isobel’s father might well agree. Can I trust you in this?”
Lachlan nodded. “I promise my best efforts. But, the rest of you?”
“We are going cattle raiding,” Dougal said grimly.
An ancient activity from the Highlands to the borders, cattle raiding represented far more than mere thievery.
It was a goad, a dare, a taunt, and an act of one-upmanship no clansman could refuse to answer.
It had, in the past, started many a feud or war, for cattle represented wealth.
Lachlan departed into the gloom, and Dougal quickly organized his men. They were gathered in the forecourt, ready to leave, when Meg rushed out.
“Are you mounting a rescue?” she demanded, pulling a shawl up over her hair.
“Not yet.”
Meg ignited like dry wood. “You cannot intend to leave her there—”
“I do not!”
Meg ignored him and completed her thought, “the way you left Aisla!”
The forecourt went suddenly silent, all Dougal’s men shooting crosswise looks at him before gazing elsewhere.
Dougal leaned down from his horse to speak directly into his sister’s face. The pain rising inside him made his voice harsh. “Do not ever make such a suggestion again. Do you trust me so little?”
“I did trust you, once,” replied Meg, unintimidated, “and look what came of it.”
“This will no’ end so.”
“’Tis not just the ending that concerns me, but what happens to Isobel before then. I wish to come with you.”
“No.”
“Why—”
“We will be riding hard.”
“You think me incapable of keeping up?”
“I do not wish to have to worry about you, Sister. Get you inside and do what you are best at.”
Meg stiffened. “What is that?”
“Employ that devious mind of yours, bend it to your dark arts. We may yet have need of them.”
He led his troop away before she could protest further.
The night, still vicious with wind and rain, at least held gloom enough to lend cover to the activities undertaken in the next hours.
In his youth, Dougal might have enjoyed the odd spot of cattle-thieving.
Now, distracted by worry and doubt, it became a nightmarish thing of stinging sleet, mud, and naked blades.
MacNab, like any careful land manager, kept his cattle spread out.
Dougal knew this first raid would go easiest; once Randal knew Dougal’s intentions, he would post a heavy guard.
As it was, the fast-moving raiding party encountered only two MacNab clansmen, who were dealt with summarily.
Fine and good, Dougal thought at the end of it, so long as he did not lose any of the stolen cattle, his men, or mounts to a bog, burn, or darkness on the way home. They were frozen through, all, before MacNab’s cattle were stowed safely in his own far pasture, and dawn stained the sky in the east.
Dougal still felt sick with worry about Isobel. Nearly a whole night gone. How did she fare? He could scarcely bear to think of her frightened and alone, yet thinking of her being not alone was worse.
He brought all his raiding party into the great hall to warm by the fire and drink a dram. There he found Lachlan returned with O’Rourke, which lifted his spirits slightly.
The priest, quite obviously drunk, had claimed for himself a place before the fire and held a tankard in his hand. He raised it when he saw Dougal.
“To the Devil!” he cried, and drank.
Dougal looked at Lachlan, who rolled his eyes. Lachy appeared as wet and cold as the rest of them.
“Good work,” said Dougal, crossing to Lachlan’s side. “Where did you find him?”
“In the stinking, dank hidey-hole he calls home,” Lachlan replied distastefully, “and already with a skin full. He had earned himself a jug, earlier, by performing a christening.”
O’Rourke got to his feet and stumbled over. “I thank you, Laird MacRae, for your kind offer of hospitality. ’Tis a vile, wet night to be abroad.”
Dougal eyed Lachlan in question, and Lachlan explained, “I told him he had a bed here for the time, out of the weather.”
“’Tis good of you,” O’Rourke decried and attempted to bow. “And I am sure the things said of you in the district are greatly exaggerated.”
“Aye,” Dougal told him ironically, “and I may need you to return the favor by speaking up for me when the time comes. That marriage you performed for me—you recall?”
For an instant it appeared O’Rourke did not. Then his bleary, pale blue eyes cleared. “The bonny lass with the red hair?”
“My wife, Isobel, aye. She has been stolen away from me.”
“An ab-abomination!”
“It is. And I may need you to swear to the validity of our joining. Accept my hospitality, so, until this business is done.”
O’Rourke thought about it with apparent difficulty. “But—I am needed in the district, to perform various services. What if a babe is born too soon? What if someone should die?”
“Oh, aye,” Dougal murmured. He had determined someone would die, for this. But amidst his ale fumes, the priest truly looked troubled. “If you are needed, Master MacElwain, here, will escort you wherever you need to go. Will you not, Lachlan?”
Lachy looked disgruntled. “Me? I am no priest-minder.”
“More like a bodyguard,” Dougal said. “I need someone I can trust to keep him alive at all costs.”
“Aye, well,” O’Rouke spoke before Lachlan could, “I am all in favor, me lads, of keeping alive.”