Chapter 2
As Fergus made his way toward the Wallace lands, he considered his mission—and the way he had been told to carry it out—and felt an immense surge of doubt and dread regarding its outcome.
Kidnapping was not simply considered dishonorable conduct and unbefitting a laird—or the heir of one.
His honor would be besmirched, of that he had no question.
The added problem, as he saw it, was that it tended to be an extremely messy and unreliable tactic as well.
When it came to the practice of abducting someone and ransoming them, any number of things could go wrong.
Chief among these was the strong possibility that he might be caught in the act.
Then he would end up a prisoner to be ransomed himself.
He doubted they would execute him for the same reasons Laird Oliver had insisted that the Wallace girl remain unharmed.
Both sides wished to end the conflict, not stoke it further, and the killing of a laird’s child would most certainly accomplish the latter rather than the former.
As such, he was not afraid for his own life, at least. But if he was caught, well, then it was very likely the war would end—and not the way his father would have preferred it to.
Fergus would be used as a tool, a bargaining chip, a weapon against his own clan.
In this, his dishonor would be complete and final.
How would he ever be expected to assume leadership someday after such ignominy and disgrace?
The answer to that was simple: he wouldn’t. Rather, he would be passed over by one of his younger siblings.
He had spent his entire life preparing to take his father’s place at the head of the clan when the time came.
He’d practically built his entire identity around that outcome.
He had gone into battle at Laird Oliver’s request time and again to demonstrate to the people of the McDougal clan that he was a worthy successor.
If he failed in this mission, it would all be for nothing.
Then ye had best nae fail, eh? he reminded himself grimly as he trudged to the top of a hill and looked down over the sprawling territories claimed by the Wallaces.
Initially, the plan put forth by Laird Oliver and his advisors had relied entirely on stealth. The idea had been for Fergus to somehow slip into Wallace lands entirely undetected, break into their keep in the dead of night, and make off with the girl.
In a storybook, perhaps, this approach might have worked. In reality, however, it was easy enough for Fergus to observe its inherent problems.
Firstly, Fergus was a warrior and a damned good one, but he was not some thief or burglar accustomed to creeping into secured places.
Second, even if he somehow managed that first part, how could he possibly be expected to make it back out of the keep with one of the laird’s daughters slung over his shoulder?
Even in the middle of the night, there could be plenty of guards or others who might spot him and give chase.
If that happened, he calculated that the odds of his escape would diminish to roughly zero.
And even if he placed a gag over the girl’s mouth, she might still be able to make enough noise to alert her people.
All of which might lead to her being accidentally harmed in the attempt—which, of course, was the last thing Fergus wanted.
No, this endeavor needed to be approached with far more subtlety.
Since the war had gone on for years and battle had been the only means by which the two clans had interacted, it stood to reason that no one in the Wallace clan would necessarily recognize Fergus on sight.
He’d worn his helmet during the fighting, and it had kept his face hidden.
That being the case, it seemed to Fergus that the best way to do this would be to simply walk into the Wallace lands as a traveling stranger with a false name.
In doing so, he might embed himself enough to figure out a better way to get close to Darina Wallace and safely abduct her.
Safely abduct her. The thought brought a bitter smirk to Fergus’ lips. The inherent absurdity of the task to which he’d been assigned was not lost on him at all.
As he hiked down the hillside toward the nearest village, he took in the sights and could not help but notice that the general mood and atmosphere of the place seemed much different from that of his own home.
The members of the McDougal clan wore their wartime grief and despair upon their faces, and in their misery, they had largely neglected to care for their own homes and shops the way they used to, giving the entirety of the McDougal lands a worn-down and vaguely ramshackle air.
The men and boys who would normally have kept the structures in good repair had mostly died, and the few who remained were too dark and melancholic to concern themselves with such things.
Indeed, it was that steadily creeping doom that threatened to engulf them that had driven them to measures as extreme as kidnapping.
It was a constant shadow, a dreary and soul-consuming pall that all of them had been living under for far too long.
By contrast, this place appeared largely untouched by the war.
Oh, there were noticeably fewer menfolk about, perhaps, and those who remained had scars and wounds to signify that they had survived fierce battles.
Still, though, there were plenty of smiles and laughs among them as they interacted with each other.
They still bought and sold and traded in a lively fashion, going about their lives as though there was no war going on at all.
It was a sharp contrast indeed to the people of the McDougal clan, who behaved as though every day was a funeral—since it so often was.
How, then, can such a thing be accounted for? he wondered. What are the fundamental differences between the two?
As he sidled up to a tavern and entered, he asked himself whether it might be that resources were simply allocated with greater efficiency here than in his own homeland. That, it seemed, would be a matter of the clan’s leadership.
But that could not be true, could it? For if it was, that would mean Laird Cawley was a more wise and effective leader than Fergus’ father.
And such a thought was incomprehensible to him. Indeed, even entertaining it felt vaguely like treason, which made him queasy.
When he stepped through the door of the establishment, all of the patrons turned to look at him.
Although he expected eyes narrowed with suspicion and mistrust, for that was what outsiders in his own land would have received upon being met by the locals, there was a general roar of a warm greeting instead.
In fact, several of the fellows standing near the door clapped him heartily about the shoulders and back without even knowing him.
What kind of people are these? he mused wonderingly. I have seen firsthand how hard they fight in battle and the losses they take at the hands of our own men. So how do they still seem so untouched by these horrors? How do they manage tae persevere so steadfastly?
For a strange moment, Fergus felt as though he had been sent on entirely the wrong mission. The true prize to be taken, it suddenly seemed to him, was not some innocent lass but rather the secret of how this clan had still managed to keep so upbeat in the face of staggering adversity.
The man behind the bar was stout and red-faced, with long red mutton chops. Half of his left ear was missing, and there was a long scar over his left eye. When he smiled, he revealed an empty space that was once occupied by his front teeth.
“Welcome, stranger! Haven’t seen ye around these parts before!”
“Nay, I have never been here,” Fergus replied, taking a seat. “Thank ye fer yer greetin’.”
“Here, lad, the first drink is on the house!” the barman said, setting a tankard of ale down in front of Fergus. “My name is Drummond! What’s yers?”
In truth, Fergus was so astonished by the kindness of the man’s gesture—especially in wartime, when supplies of all sorts were generally scarce and jealously guarded—that he almost forgot to give a false name.
“F…Finn.”
“Ah, well, ’tis a pleasure tae make yer acquaintance, young Finn!” Drummond replied jovially. “And what brings ye tae our lands, eh?”
“I was a farmer,” Fergus lied, hating himself fer the dishonesty. “A terrible blight settled upon my lands, and I was forced to leave them. Now I am in search of an honest trade.”
“Have ye nay wife? Nay children?”
Fergus shook his head. “None, thankfully, or they might have starved. As it is, I have barely been able tae scrape out a livin’ fer myself.”
“Then when that tankard is empty, ye must have another at once,” Drummond told him, “fer most in yer position might have turned tae banditry, and ye are tae be commended fer nae havin’ done so.”
“Again, thank ye,” Fergus answered. His gratitude was genuine enough; he remained amazed at the man’s unfettered generosity. “I was raised by a father who taught me the value of good deeds and honesty above all else.”
That, too, was true, and it made his stomach turn all the more at the task at hand.
“If that is true, then I believe ye will thrive here indeed,” Drummond said, “for ours is a clan that prides itself on such traits in its people, as well as its laird. Do ye intend tae remain with us for long?”
“Aye, if I can find work tae support me.”
“I hope ye will nae take offense if I make some inquiries on yer behalf, then?” the barman asked. “Perhaps we might be able tae find work that would suit ye.”
“I would be most grateful tae ye, Sir, if ye would do so.”
“’Tis Drummond, lad,” the stout man reminded him with a wink. “There’s nay need fer ‘sir’ around here.”
Before Fergus could respond, he heard a mild commotion outside the tavern. “What is going on?”
“Ah!” Drummond slapped his hand down upon the bar happily. “Nay doubt that’s Laird Cawley’s daughters! They visit us the same day each week, sure as the sun rises, tae distribute bread and alms tae those in greatest need.”
Now Fergus was frankly agog. How could this clan possibly have adequate resources to simply give away food and money? He could not fathom it!
Several of the patrons went outside to greet the daughters, and as Drummond went to join them, Fergus followed him closely. When they stepped out into the bright sunlight, sure enough, Fergus saw four young women moving among the peasants. They were indeed handing out coins and loaves of bread.
“If ye make haste,” Drummond told Fergus, “ye might be able tae secure some alms for yerself before they run out.”
For his part, however, Fergus was rooted to the spot.
Partly, this was because some fragments of him were oddly concerned that once he was close enough to the oldest daughter, he would not be able to stop himself from simply grabbing her and running off with her.
It was a foolish impulse—there would be no hope of success in such an impulsive venture—but it was a strong one just the same.
It was also because he found himself utterly entranced by the beauty of the daughter in question.
She was, without doubt, the most glorious specimen of womanhood he had ever seen.
Her body’s curves were marvelously inviting, and her long brown hair had vivid red highlights which lit up in the rays of the sun like smoldering embers.
Her blue eyes sparkled with curiosity and merriment, yet there was nothing frivolous in them.
It was as though she was fully capable of seeing and acknowledging the darker aspects of the world around her without being especially troubled by them.
She moved and spoke in a way that seemed so self-assured, so independent, unlike the silly girls of the McDougal keep who bubbled and giggled and talked all the time while managing to say very little and, certainly, nothing of interest.
He was captivated by her, and it shook him to his core. This was the girl he was meant to kidnap. How could he visit such a dismal fate upon her?
Fergus pointed to her, just to make sure he had the right girl. “Is she the oldest, then? The one named Darina?”
“Aye, that’s her, right enough,” Drummond affirmed. “A sweet lass with a keen mind and a lovely heart. Some noble lad will be lucky indeed tae be wed tae her!” He sighed wistfully. “Whereas lowborn fellows like ye and me can only dream, eh?”
“Aye,” Fergus said quietly, still staring at her. “I suppose we can, at that.”