Chapter 3
Watching MacCurran leap to the ground and hand off his horse, Isabail felt a surge of hope. Had the soldiers from Lochurkie finally caught them up? Was freedom only moments away?
“If you release me peacefully,” she said quickly, “my cousin will show you mercy.”
“These are not your cousin’s men. They are MacPhersons.”
Was that supposed to frighten her? If so, it failed.
Tormod MacPherson was a personal acquaintance—he’d been to Lochurkie on several occasions to meet with her brother.
He had been tasked with holding Dunstoras until the king pledged it to a new lord.
If his patrol had chanced upon them, Dunstoras must be close.
Almost as if he read her thoughts, MacCurran tossed her a hard look.
“Before you open your mouth to alert them, you should be aware that MacPherson’s men are mostly hired sword arms. They believe raping and pillaging are their just dues.
I’ve buried several women who did not survive their attentions. ”
Isabail’s stomach turned.
Whether the story was real or not, it had the desired impact.
Isabail lost her urge to shout into the forest. She allowed the MacCurran chief to disappear through the trees without uttering a single syllable.
But she wasn’t willing to let her dream of freedom die without a fight.
With their leader gone, this was her best opportunity to escape.
Her gaze turned to his men. In theory, a younger man would be less set in his beliefs and easier to sway than an older man.
But Graeme’s pride had been wounded during her attempted escape.
Now almost as grim faced as their leader, the tall, black-haired warrior had taken to strapping four blades to his body—a broadsword, two dirks, and a small ax—all honed to a razor’s edge.
Earlier in the day, she’d seen him fell a rabbit with the ax and then gut and skin the poor creature in a matter of minutes.
Aye, Graeme was too great a risk. She’d have better luck with Duncan.
The older man, a sturdy fellow with a hint of gray in his sandy beard, had a gentle eye, especially when he looked at Muirne.
Even as she studied him, the burly warrior helped Muirne dismount and offered her a round of bread and some cheese.
Isabail slipped down from the big black-and-white destrier and joined them, leaving Graeme with the horses.
Muirne offered Isabail food, which she accepted with thanks.
Isabail spoke quickly and quietly. “Duncan, you are a good and kind man. Anyone can see that. And it’s clear you understand the hardship this event has presented for myself and Muirne.”
The warrior stiffened, but said nothing.
She pressed on. “A woman shouldn’t be the pawn in a political game. We have a chance, right this minute, to ride off to Dunstoras and make our way to safety. Will you turn your back for just a moment and let us go free? Let us reach safety?”
His brows knitted together. “Do you know what you’re asking?”
“I’m asking you to show two innocent women some leniency.”
“Nay,” he snarled, stepping back from Muirne.
“You’re asking me to betray my chief and allow the sister of John Grant to escape.
The sister of the man who saw our clan outlawed and cleared from these lands.
The lands that have been our home for three hundred years.
Because of him, the MacCurrans were slain, arrested, or scattered hither and yon.
Homeless. My brother and his wife are gone—I know not where—and I may never see them again. ”
He spat in the snow at Isabail’s feet. “Aid my enemy in making an escape? I think not.”
Then he snatched the food from Isabail’s hands and stomped away.
Muirne gripped Isabail’s arm. “Och, they hate us, they do. It’s a miracle their chief didn’t murder us in our sleep at the bothy.”
Isabail shook her head. “He was more interested in information than revenge. He pestered me with questions about visitors to the keep.”
“Well, one thing’s for certain,” Muirne said. “Had you given them the information they seek, we’d be lying in the sod, not standing here shivering and hungry in the cold.”
Isabail would have disputed that assessment a few minutes ago, but the depth of Duncan’s hatred had come through in his words.
He’d not even given her the chance to remind him that it was the MacCurrans’ actions that had caused their grief, not John’s.
John had merely done his duty as justiciar of Glen Avon.
The MacCurran had murdered his kin and stolen a necklace from the king.
How did they expect John to react? His duty had been to uphold the law.
But Muirne was right. They weren’t safe here.
* * *
Aiden crouched and picked up a small rock loosened in the dirt.
The glimmer of metal flash on one surface told him the horses he was following were shod, which confirmed it was soldiers from the castle.
MacPherson regularly combed the woods for souls still loyal to the MacCurrans, although it was unusual for a patrol to venture this far south.
Aiden would prefer not to stir the hornet’s nest by alerting the patrol to his presence, but he could not risk the lives of his captives either—and MacPherson’s men had a tendency to choose weapons over diplomacy.
He slipped between the trees, taking care to leave the ground unturned and branches unbent.
In the past few months, he had learned a great deal about stealth from his half brother, Niall.
Niall had grown to a man in these woods and could pass unnoticed through the trees in broad daylight.
Aiden was not so skilled. His expertise lay in the blade.
Still, he was a far better woodsman than MacPherson’s lot.
They left a trail so clear that even a bairn could follow it.
Even before he spotted them, he knew they were six men mounted on bronze-shoed horses.
He also heard them long before he gained sight of them.
Not their voices—they were professional soldiers, not given to idle chatter—but the clink of their mail and the jingle of their horse trappings.
Cutting through the trees at an angle, he caught up to the patrol. One sergeant and five armed soldiers plodding along on sturdy Highland ponies. They scanned the barren wood left and right as they passed, hoping to spot a movement, be it man or deer.
The path leading to the old Pictish palace lay just ahead, and Aiden’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
Was that their destination? Were they under orders to investigate that section of the glen?
Hidden among the rocks, the old broch was not easy to spot, but a determined search would almost assuredly lead to its discovery.
They’d been lucky so far; soldiers who’d passed by had given the terrain only a cursory look.
He peered through the trees. Was his clan alerted to the impending danger? It was impossible to tell. Niall’s Black Warriors, the clan’s most seasoned men, were all formidable woodsmen. If they were watching the advancing patrol, there was no sign.
The patrol moved deeper into the woods, until they were only twenty paces from the moss-covered fallen tree that marked the path to the broch. At any moment one of MacPherson’s men might spot a clue that more than fifty men, women, and children were secreted in the rocky terrain ahead.
Having been absent for several weeks, Aiden could only pray that his kin were prepared—that they had gathered the evidence of their existence and taken shelter.
Else the arrival of a patrol would result in disaster—crying children, terrorized women, and slain men.
A flare of anger burned in his chest. This was what John Grant had wrought with his false accusations.
The torture of innocents. A life for his clansmen that had danger and fear hanging constantly over their heads.
Protecting the clan was paramount.
He was about to step out in the open and draw the patrol’s attention when the leader of the small group of soldiers tugged his reins and turned his horse west. Still eyeing the shadows between the trees with a piercing stare, the fellow led the patrol slowly and steadily away from the broch.
Aiden watched them until the beat of his heart had returned to its usual pace; then he spun on his heel and slipped back through the trees.
* * *
Isabail wrung her hands. Time was short.
She had to make another bid for escape. But how?
Steal a horse? She eyed the horses. Graeme held two of them behind a large holly bush, murmuring an occasional soothing word to keep them quiet and still.
His hand was loose on the reins, but his focus was entirely on the beasts.
It was unlikely she’d be able to snatch one.
Graeme lifted his gaze and caught her staring at him.
Isabail flushed and lowered her eyes.
Without a horse, she’d not have a hope of outrunning Aiden MacCurran.
A man who could track them through a blinding snowstorm would have no trouble locating them in a winter woodland.
There wasn’t enough brush to hide behind.
So, it had to be Duncan’s horse. The chestnut gelding with one white stocking.
But if stealing a horse from Graeme was a challenge, taking one from Duncan was doubly difficult. He hadn’t stopped glaring at her.
Fortunately, Isabail had a secret weapon, and her name was Muirne. She turned and said, “Whatever I say, nod and look forlorn.”
The maid blinked, a little confused.
Isabail bent to Muirne’s leg, lifted her skirt a bit, and peered at her foot.
“The toes are paining you, are they? It must be remnants of the severe chill you took.” She flung an arm around Muirne’s waist and pretended to take some of her weight.
“We should get you off that foot. Back in the saddle, I think.”
Hobbling forward, Isabail glanced at Duncan. Sure enough, the sandy-haired warrior had exchanged his glower for a look of concern.