Chapter Eleven
Alistair MacRae, Clan Chief of the MacRae’s of Beauly, stepped out of the Dueling Princes Inn in Glenelg, belched, then looked around at the horses tied to the nearby posts.
Lady Marjorie MacPherson had told him her daughter had not taken a horse.
Was it possible the lass was on foot? Had she procured a horse somewhere else?
He didn’t even know which way she’d gone.
North, south, east… He sighed with frustration.
Did she run away with the help of a man?
Alistair would find out. He thought cutting the wench’s hair off would keep men away from her.
But if she was offering herself for aid in escaping, he would kill whoever was helping her.
Rage filled him, balling his hands into fists.
Her father, the baron, had been a very wealthy man. At his death, he bequeathed everything he owned to his daughter, unbeknownst to her.
Baron MacPherson’s estranged wife offered her newly wealthy daughter to Alistair as a bride. If he accepted her, he would lay claim to her father’s fortune. He only had to sign a promise that he would give Lady Marjorie half.
Of course, he had accepted, especially after he laid eyes on Ismay.
She was beguiling and bewitching with her long, fiery tresses flowing all about her.
Her temper flared like a hellcat he ached to subdue and tame.
He’d wanted her but had agreed to wait, like a fool.
When he found her, he would not wait another instant.
Aye, he would still take Ismay as his wife. He wanted what he was promised. As for giving the baron’s wife half the fortune, she would wait for it until she died, which, if he has his way, will not be long after her daughter’s death.
He went to his horse and checked the saddle, then pulled himself up on the stirrup. He was going to find her. If he searched until his last day on earth, he would find her and have her and her father’s fortune.
First though, he had to ride into the forest and find his men’s camp. Of course, the ruffians could not spend the night at the inn. Who would pay? Certainly not him. Besides, they were dirty, rowdy men who would draw attention and offend.
Alistair did not always want to be associated with them. He would soon be rich and his image would be important.
As he entered the forest, he had the sinking feeling that they were going the wrong way.
How could no one have seen her with her sun-colored hair, short or long, it stood out.
She could be traveling with her hair covered, but who would not remember a lass traveling alone or with a man?
Women did not often travel far from their home.
What if she’d gone from Raigmore northeast toward Culloden or south, toward Kiliwhimin? Had she not mentioned joining a convent over becoming someone’s wife? Was Kiliwhimin not Saint Cummein of Iona who had built a church there?
What made him travel west? He had decided on going west, toward Skye because it was mostly a desolate place, with the clan MacLeod in the north and clan MacDonald closer to the mainland. She could hide on Skye without being seen or found for years.
He found his eleven men clearing up their campsite when he arrived. Unlike Ismay, who had either gone in a different direction or did not leave a trace that she had camped anywhere, they left a good amount behind for anyone to find them.
Alistair did not care about cores, or pits, or bones scattering the grass. He cared about catching his defiant bride, and that was all. His men were there in case she had help in escaping.
“Any leads at the inn, Chief?” one of the men asked. He was Ramsey Fergusson, one of the meaner looking men of the group, with a long scar running down his face, two teeth missing, and dark stubble covering half his face.
Alistair shook his head. “Today we will head south.”
No one questioned him. They knew better after he ran Brodie Graham through with his sword after the miscreant made a crude remark about mayhap having a go with Miss MacPherson for all the trouble she caused.
He would kill any man who touched her or even spoke of touching her. If they tried to stop him from finding her or questioned his ability to do so, he would kill them. They were nothing but hired mercenaries anyway. Who would miss them?
“Let’s go.” He didn’t wait for any of them but flicked his reins and took off in a southern direction.
“Kiliwhimin,” he said to the air. “Are ye hiding in an abbey, my dear? I am going to find ye and then I will cut off the rest of yer hair.” He chuckled to himself.
His mirth was dashed to pieces when they reached the abbey in Kiliwhimin days later and were told that there had been a lass here looking for a permanent place to live.
She had been there! He gritted his teeth thinking of the time he had wasted traveling toward Skye.
“We suggested she go on toward Aberchalder.”
“How long ago?” Alistair demanded.
“Almost a fortnight now,” the abbess answered.
Alistair did not care who this woman standing before him served. He cursed, spat, and stormed away.
He wanted to keep traveling without stopping to eat. He had already lost too much time. But the men murmured under their breath and rather than make enemies of them, he gave in and let them fill their bellies.
Soon though, soon he would catch up to her.
And then he would make certain she could never run from him again.
*
Ismay closed her eyes and breathed. She had to tell herself to inhale-exhale-inhale. At first when Lochaber’s Lochiel stepped behind her and fit her neatly against all his hard angles so he could show her how to hold a dirk, she thought about breaking free of him and running.
But, mayhap sensing her fears, he leaned his head in and spoke softly in her ear.
“Dinna fear me, lass. Dinna fear any man. Stab. Jab. Duck.” With each instruction he gave, he moved her hand gripping the dirk to show her how it was done and made her forget her fear.
“Slice at the neck, the thigh. Here, and here.”
His voice filled every nook and cranny within her where fear lurked, chasing it away and replacing it with belief in herself. He held her and had her mime him for the first hour and then he faced her as an enemy and taught her where to strike with a weapon or without one.
She would admit, watching him so close to her, so intent on his lesson, she was tempted to smile and sigh dreamily. She didn’t.
“If I come at ye from this angle, ’tis best if ye use yer knee to kick me in the groin.”
“Nae!” she exclaimed, horrified.
“Ye canna have mercy, lass. Yer life could depend on it. Now, here, dinna—
She jerked up her knee and smashed it into his groin. She threw her hands to her mouth as he went down.
After that, he avoided her kicks, knowing they would come.
Later, Ismay sat on the wide stump of a tree in the yard behind the castle. Before her, about ten feet away, the Lochiel lifted a heavy axe and brought it down on a piece of wood making it two in one clean strike. Several times she found her gaze settled comfortably on him while he worked.
Sleek muscles in his arms danced and glistened under the autumn sun while he brought the axe down.
She blushed twice as many times when he caught her staring at him with dreams in her eyes.
Dreams of things she had thought were impossible.
Dreams she had never dared allow herself to dream before, like, kissing a man’s lips and enjoying it.
Was it possible? Dreams of laughing with him, lying in bed with him.
And other things she didn’t allow herself to ponder too long else she might burst into flames.
It had been a wee bit over a sennight since Constantine Cameron brought her here to Tor Castle. At first, she was convinced that she had to leave. Now, she was not sure she could go. Nothing but her own head and heart were holding her prisoner.
She had made friends, mainly with Joan and Hilary MacDonald—soon to marry a member of the enemy Chattan Confederation.
Bethia was kind to her, but for some reason, Constantine kept her from tending to Ismay.
Of course, Lachlan and Fionn were always friendly and pleasant.
Geoffry kept to himself most of the time and when Lewis was not at the Doomsday Inn and Tavern, he was always somewhere nearby, seemingly ready to trounce anyone into the nearest wall for speaking ill of the Lochiel.
Ever since he’d been warned by Lewis, Hugh was cautious about what he said and whom he said it to.
But the one who made Ismay want to stay at Tor, despite her fear of someone from her past finding her, was the Lochiel. She was more surprised than anyone else would be if they knew her past and how she was beginning to feel about her protector.
The way his gaze grew warm on her when she laughed, and the way he gave in to her every whim—even those whims he did not agree with, drew her to sink deeper, find a closer place within him, and never let go.
Could she go to a convent and live a life trying to forget this virile man? Would God not reject her for her covetousness? Could she stay here and ever be happy with a clan chief?
“Lady,” he called out, dark eyes on her free of his hair, neatly tied at his nape.
He called her “lady” as if he knew who her father was.
She prayed he didn’t know. Among the MacDonald clan, they knew it had been a MacPherson’s bairn who had murdered their chief.
Constantine could not find out. She had told him she was a murderer.
She should have included being a fool to her confession.
What if he had guessed the truth? He was clever.
He went to her, setting the axe against the tree stump. “What is it that darkens yer countenance?”
She smiled, trying to forget her worrisome thoughts. “I always knew what my future would look like. Me, unwed and happy living at home with my father, and then it became me, living hidden behind convent walls. Now…”
He knelt before her. “Now—?”