Chapter 1 #2
Muirne nodded and sat silent for a time, chewing on her bread and cheese.
Although morn was surely only an hour or two away, the reivers laid bedrolls near the fire and offered two of them to the women.
Isabail claimed her spot with trepidation.
Passing a night under the stars without a tent overhead was disturbing enough, but in the presence of three dangerous men .
. . Impossible. Especially with their leader staring at her across the campfire.
The flickers of the firelight added bleak shadows to an already stern countenance.
His expression left her with the distinct impression that he resented her, though heaven only knew why.
She’d seen him for the first time just two days ago, in the orchard.
At the time, unaware that he was a villain and a cad, she had silently admired his physical form.
Few men of her acquaintance sported such a blatantly muscular body, and he possessed a rather handsome visage for a heathen brute—the sort of sharply masculine features a woman does not soon forget.
He stood suddenly, and Isabail’s breath caught in her chest. By God, he was huge.
Dark and powerful, a veritable thunderstorm of a man.
He tossed back one side of his fur cloak, revealing a long, lethal sword strapped to his side.
Beneath the cloak, she spied a leather jerkin atop a dark lèine and rough leather boots that hugged his calves.
His clothing was common enough, but there was something decidedly uncommon about the man.
Perhaps it was the intensity of his glacial blue stare—neither of the other two held her gaze for more than a glance. Or perhaps it was the way he held himself, shoulders loose but firm, like he was a direct descendant of Kenneth MacAlpin himself. Lord of all he surveyed.
He glared at her and drew his sword.
Muirne shrieked, and Isabail’s heart skipped a beat.
But the brute did not advance. With his gaze still locked on Isabail, he returned to his seat before the fire and began to clean his weapon.
It took long moments for Isabail’s heart to resume its regular rhythm. Not one word had been exchanged, but she had felt the weight of his blame as surely as if he’d unleashed a furious diatribe. In his mind, it would seem, she was the cause of his troubles.
Perhaps Muirne was right. Perhaps he had no intention of ransoming her. Perhaps escape was a wiser option after all.
Isabail dove beneath the blankets provided by his men and lay on her side with her back to the fire.
The bedroll provided little comfort—the frozen ground dug into her hip and shoulder, and the fire only warmed one side of her body.
Her nose and fingers were chilled, but rolling to the other side was not an option.
Her nape already tingled under the cold gaze of her captor. Facing him would be unbearable.
“The women are slowing us down,” one of the men muttered. “At this pace, it’ll take another full day to reach Dunstoras.”
Isabail froze. Dunstoras?
“That assumes the earl’s men don’t catch us first,” retorted another.
“You worry for naught,” said their leader crisply. “The earl’s men are a league behind us. They think we’re headed south. We’ll lose them when we turn west and descend into Strath Nethy.”
Nausea rolled in Isabail’s belly. Dunstoras was home to the MacCurrans—the clan whose chief had robbed the king and murdered her brother.
The same chief who had escaped Lochurkie’s dungeon and absconded to parts unknown.
If the man seated across the fire was Aiden MacCurran, she was in far more dire straits than she had thought.
A murderous traitor to the Crown would hardly follow the unwritten rules of hostage taking.
She lay stiff and silent, unable to sleep.
MacCurran deserved to pay for his crimes.
John had been a fine man and a good earl—far more noble and worthy than her father had been.
If only she could escape, she could ensure MacCurran was brought to justice.
From the standing stone, she could find her way to the hunt bothy with ease—she and John had stopped there a dozen times over the years.
The challenge was getting away from MacCurran and his men. It might be possible for one of the women to sneak away, but two? Unlikely. Yet she could hardly leave Muirne behind. No, if an escape was to be made, it would be both of them or neither of them.
Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, Isabail reviewed her options—discarding most ideas as foolhardy. Eventually, she settled on one. She waited until MacCurran and the other guard had bedded for the night and uneven snores were rising into the dark sky. Then she nudged Muirne.
“I’ve a need to visit the privy,” she whispered.
It took a raised eyebrow and an exaggerated wink to sweep the sleepy look from her maid’s face. “Och, of course you do. Let’s away, then.”
They donned their boots and cloaks, then crossed the camp to where the eldest of the reivers stood watch—a grizzled warrior with a patch of gray hair braided at each temple.
Isabail pointed to the standing stone, which was a vague shape in the darkness.
“I must see to my needs. My maid will accompany me to the privy.”
He followed her finger, frowning. “Nay, that’s too far. See to your business behind this boulder. I’ll not pry.”
Isabail straightened her shoulders and favored him with her most imperious stare. “That will not do at all. Women are not men. We do not simply open a door and piss into the wind. Privacy is an absolute requirement for a lady.”
His lips thinned with annoyance. “Fine.”
Isabail fought to contain a grin of satisfaction. She had won. “We’ll return shortly.”
“That you will.” He strode across the camp and nudged one of the other men with his boot. “Graeme, wake up,” he whispered. “The ladies need to visit the privy.”
“What?”
“Just get up.”
Isabail’s heart sank as Graeme rolled out of his pallet and reluctantly got to his feet. So much for their grand escape. Even with his eyes groggy from sleep, the beefy warrior would not miss them scurrying through the heather. Her plan was dashed before it even started.
She sighed heavily.
She and Muirne made quick work of seeing to their needs and returned to the warmth of the fire.
Graeme replaced the older warrior on watch, giving his cohort leave to bury himself in the blankets and close his eyes.
As Isabail should do. But the tantalizing thought of escape refused to die.
MacCurran was a madman. He would slay her just as surely as he’d slain her brother—no doubt in some far-fetched notion of justice.
But the ruin of his clan was his own fault, not hers or her brother’s.
He’d dared to covet the ruby necklace King Alexander had commissioned for his new bride and had murdered a dozen people to get it.
He was touched in the head to blame the Grants for his imprisonment.
She shivered. Unfortunately, having right on her side wouldn’t save her. She was at MacCurran’s mercy. He could exact whatever revenge he wanted. And with huge fists made for beating, he could do it with ease.
She must make another attempt. Dawn would soon be upon them, and this might be her last opportunity to reach safety.
“Muirne,” she whispered.
“Aye?”
“Make the lad a spot of tea.”
Her maid frowned. “You want me to show him kindness, after what they’ve done?”
“The man is no doubt chilled. Chat with him for a moment; ease his lot.”
Muirne tossed her a rebellious glare but got to her feet and put a small pot on the fire. The men’s supplies had been bolstered by their raid on Isabail’s party, and the copper pot was one of hers.
Isabail tried not to resent that as she peered around the camp area for a suitable rock.
It had to be small enough for her to lift but large enough to knock the man out.
Problem was, she had no clue how large a rock it would take.
Denting a man’s skull was not one of the skills she had acquired while acting as chatelaine of Lochurkie.
And even if it had been, she’d have been out of practice by now.
Her cousin Archibald’s wife had taken over her duties after John’s death, leaving Isabail at a loss for purpose.
Aha. There was a rock that might do.
The guard was watching Muirne. Isabail waited until the maid had approached him with the tea; then, taking care not to wake the sleeping men around her, she eased from her pallet.
Snowflakes had begun to drift down from the night sky.
Moving as swiftly as her long woolen skirts would allow, she snatched up the rock with both hands and ran for the large boulder at the guard’s back.
But the icy ground beneath her fine leather boots proved perilous.
One moment she was darting for the boulder, the next she was flat in the snow.
Her hip and elbow took the brunt of the fall.
She bit back a squeal of pain, but feared the thump of her fall had alerted the guard. She held her breath and listened.
Muirne and the guard were talking.
“And what do they call you?” she asked him.
“Graeme.”
“Is there a lass waiting on your return, Graeme?”
They had not heard her fall. Isabail released her breath, slowly and carefully.
Then she scrambled to her feet and rounded the boulder, slipping up behind Graeme.
Apparently, Muirne’s conversation had him thoroughly engrossed.
Only when she was within striking distance did he pivot to face her.
But by then it was too late. The rock was already on its descent.
She slammed it against his skull, and he went down fast and hard, collapsing against her and sliding to the ground at her boots.
A trickle of blood oozed from beneath his hair, and Isabail felt a bitter pang.
“Did I kill him?” she whispered.
Muirne bent over him. “Nay. He’s still breathing.”