Chapter 10
They rode for several hours in silence, excepting the occasional shouted order, the clank and jangle of harness and bridle, and the creak of saddle leather.
Nicholas and his men seemed extremely watchful to Gillian.
He’d hardly spoken to her since they’d set out.
He’d said more to her horse, Morfran, than to her, admonishing the beast when it tried to bite his men.
But still, it seemed Morfran had resigned himself to the earl’s continued presence in his life and tolerated him well enough, merely baring his teeth and glaring nefariously.
Gillian’s belongings and Broc were to follow, arriving at Kincreag a few days after them.
Gillian slid another look at her husband from beneath her lashes. He sat tall and straight on the enormous white horse beside her. He squinted slightly into the sun, thick black lashes shadowing his eyes.
Her husband. It was done now. There was only one thing left to bind them together.
With nervous anticipation Gillian wondered when and where.
Kincreag was not far from Glen Laire, but they’d started late, and unless he planned to travel at night, they would have to camp.
She surveyed the score of men in their party and didn’t relish laying with her husband for the first time among so many strangers.
But then again, they were witnesses. No one could claim non consummation later if they heard it all.
Gillian glanced over to find her husband watching her like a sleepy wolf.
“My lord?” she said, cheeks warm from the direction of her thoughts.
“My lady.” He inclined his head to her.
Gillian’s mouth curved into a secret smile of pleasure.
She was no longer Gillian MacDonell. She was now the countess of Kincreag, Lady Glenesk, and an assortment of other titles he held, including the sheriffdoms of a dozen shires.
Kincreag’s men treated her with great respect and deference.
She found herself a bit nonplussed by it all and uncertain how she was expected to behave.
She studied Nicholas’s expression—obscure, as always. “Do you still have reservations?”
“Oh, aye,” he said readily, still watching her with that curve to his lips that wasn’t quite a smile.
Her lips thinned in irritation. When would she learn that if she didn’t want to hear the truth, she shouldn’t ask the question? For Nicholas was always brutally honest.
“Then why did you rush forward with the wedding?”
“I promised to wed you. I keep my promises.”
“So do I,” Gillian said meaningfully.
He raised a skeptical brow but didn’t respond. She wondered how long it would take for him to trust her. She understood his distrust now, but she still didn’t like it, and wished they could just get past it and on with their lives.
“Tell me about Kincreag.”
“You’ll see it for yourself soon enough.”
Gillian smiled patiently. “You are going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Really? Why won’t you tell me something about my new home, then?”
He lifted one shoulder. “Because my poor words cannot do it justice. You must see it.”
“When will that be?”
Nicholas looked at the sky thoughtfully. “Tomorrow—by midday, I should think.”
They traveled that way for several more hours—Nicholas never leaving her side, Gillian making a valiant effort to uphold a conversation with her taciturn companion.
After a time she just enjoyed the countryside in silence.
Coarse moor grass spread around them in dips and swells, freckled with colorful wildflowers.
Rough, lichened rocks jutted from the ground, lush ferns sprouting from crevices.
There were few trees here, but they frequently passed thick stands of birch and juniper.
As twilight neared, the sky darkened and a thick fog rolled over the ground, obscuring the riders a horse length away.
Nicholas called a halt. His dark eyes scanned the wall of fog as he gave orders to set up camp.
Everyone was subdued and watchful. They were probably on Kincreag lands now or on some of his clan-held lands.
With a twinge of uneasiness Gillian remembered the reason for the rushed wedding and departure: feuding clans under Nicholas’s jurisdiction.
Men had died. Living near the border for twelve years, Gillian was no stranger to feuds and lawlessness.
Memories of life on the borders, the blood feuds—racing to the tower house and bolting themselves in while English Foresters tried to burn them out—came back to her with sickening clarity.
The Highlands were no different. Blood feuds abounded, carried down generation after generation, the hate and remembered slights more precious than any valuable heirloom.
And they were still far from Kincreag, with no tower house or other protection in sight.
Gillian peered into the swirling mist. The shadowy figures of Kincreag’s men milled around her, some starting fires, others pitching the earl’s tent, but she couldn’t identify any of them.
Sir Evan emerged from the fog directly in front of her.
Gillian took a surprised step back, glancing around for her husband, but she could not identify him through the rapidly thickening mist.
Sir Evan stared down at her with his pale, empty eyes. “I’m to take you someplace private.”
“Why?” Gillian wrapped her mantle more closely around her.
“So you can do your womanly thing without anyone tripping over you in this fog.”
“Oh,” Gillian said sheepishly. “My thanks.”
He took her elbow and led her through the soupy fog. She kept an eye out for a tree or bush she could hide behind to do her business, but there was nothing. Just heather and mist.
After what seemed a rather long walk, Sir Evan stopped and stood very still. Gillian stood beside him, waiting. She couldn’t hear the camp anymore, just the lone call of a raven.
“Go on.” Sir Evan pushed her.
“I need a bush or something.”
He let out an impatient breath. “Just walk about ten paces and I’ll not be able to see you at all, aye? When you’re ready to come back, call to me, so I can call back and you dinna lose your way.”
The fog had rapidly grown so thick that she thought five paces would likely put her well out of sight, but she went the recommended ten, just to be safe.
She glanced furtively around her, preparing to raise her skirts, when a hand snaked around her waist and another clamped over her mouth.
A scream burst in her throat, muffled to a squawk behind the hard hand.
Panic streaked through her. She struggled wildly as her captor dragged her quickly and silently away.
He made not a single sound and smelled faintly of earth and damp wool.
She threw her weight toward the ground, but he only hefted her into the air and carried her, legs flailing.
She tried prying at the hand over her mouth and managed to peel one finger back.
A screech got through. She kept bending his finger, hoping to break it. He grunted and jerked his hand away.
“Help!” Gillian cried. “I’m—”
Her kidnapper jammed a wad of wool into her mouth and wrenched her arms behind her back. He whispered low in her ear, “Sámhach!” Gaelic. Quiet.
The wool was crammed too far into her throat. She gagged and moaned, but he only jerked her arms higher. Tears pricked her eyes, and she stumbled. She retched in earnest, fighting to pull in enough air through her nose, terrified she would choke to death on her own vomit.
The wool was quickly yanked from her mouth.
Gillian dropped to her knees and lost her last meal.
Leather boots, laced to the knees with a crisscross of fabric, paced around her, waiting for her to finish.
The air, cold and damp and smelling of decay, pressed in on her, dampening her hair and clothes, filling her nose so that she couldn’t stop heaving.
When her stomach was hollow and aching, she sat back and wiped her mouth with a shaking hand.
Her throat hurt. Through blurred vision she finally saw her captor—a young man with silver-blond hair and pale eyes.
He looked from her to the mist around them.
After a minute he put his hands to his mouth and made the same harsh raven call she’d heard earlier.
“You must return me,” she rasped, her throat raw.
He came at her the moment she opened her mouth. She tried to scramble away, feet slipping on damp heather. “Listen to me! I am the countess of Kincreag! You’ve obviously made a terrible mistake, but if you return me now, I’m sure my husband will be lenient.”
The young man hauled her off the ground. “I’ve made no mistake,” he said, speaking Scots now. “It’s you we want.”
Gillian started to scream, but he waved the wool threateningly at her. “I’ll let ye choke on it this time.”
Gillian’s mouth snapped shut.
“She’ll not be much use to you dead,” a disembodied voice rumbled from the haze of fog.
Her captor seized her, hauling her hard against his chest. He produced a dirk and pressed it to her ribs. “Who’s there?” he called, his head whipping about wildly.
Gillian searched the mist, desperately trying to locate the source of the voice.
A dark shape appeared, moving toward them, materializing out of the murk.
It stopped just far enough away so only the great height and breadth were clear, the features obscured.
But Gillian knew exactly who it was, and her heart did a painful leap of joy. Nicholas.
She bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood, wondering what she could do to aid him.
Her bodice, arisaid, and stays were thick enough that the dirk’s blade was only a threatening pressure.
He’d have to exert great force to penetrate the stiffened leather of her stays—at the angle he held her, it would be a mean feat even for a man of his obvious strength.
“Kincreag!” the man said. “Come no closer or I’ll kill her.”