Eight #3
“She has him whipped,” the younger man agreed.
“Does she know it?”
Brian rolled his eyes. “What woman doesn’t?”
Gordon shook his head, clearing his mind of the matter. He had no time for Thomas’s love life. “Let me write this letter,” he said, turning his attention to the task at hand.
He knew what he wanted to say and did so in straightforward language. He and Colster knew each other. At one time the duke had been a member of the clan, until Colster betrayed them by taking the Sword of the MacKenna.
Gordon sanded and sealed the ransom note. “Deliver this but don’t wait for an answer,” he told Brian. “I wrote instructions on how he should send word to make the exchange, and I’ve given him one week from receipt of the letter to do so. You won’t have time to linger, and don’t trust anyone.”
“Yes, Gordon.”
“Now ride, and ride fast.” He tossed the money purse to Brian. “I expect you to return in five days’ time. That’s hard riding. Take only the freshest horses. If you are not back, I shall worry.”
A grin split Brian’s face. “You needn’t worry.” He bowed and left.
Gordon was tired and ready for his bed. Outside, he saw Thomas, who had found Grace…or perhaps Grace had found him. As the second in command, Thomas wielded a good amount of power in the clan. Grace would keep her eye on that. They stood by the fire in furious conversation.
Nodding a good night, Gordon would have walked past, but Thomas stopped him. “What if the duke doesn’t give you the sword?” he asked soberly.
“He’ll give it to me,” Gordon answered.
“But if he doesn’t?” Thomas pressed.
“Then we won’t return Constance Cameron,” Gordon said.
Thomas’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, “And what will you do with her?” He shook his head. “You lack the ice in your veins to deal with such a matter.”
“But you don’t,” Gordon answered.
“No, I don’t,” the giant said, satisfied.
“Then I shall hope Colster gives us the sword.”
Before he could be pinned down further, Gordon moved on.
When he’d conceived the kidnapping plan, it seemed simple. Now he knew kidnapping was a dirty game. And for a moment he was thankful that Constance wasn’t some shy, fearful debutante. She would recover from this—and Colster would give him the sword. There was no alternative.
Darkness had fallen. Cooking fires dotted the camp as each family, each group, prepared their own meals.
A footfall sounded behind him. He turned, and was surprised when Fiona fell into step beside him.
“You aren’t going to hurt the English girl, are you?”
Gordon stopped. His voice low so they wouldn’t be overheard, he said, “Fiona, I’m tired and more than slightly irritated that you would ask such a question.”
“Are you?” she repeated.
“What do you think the answer is?” he asked, looking straight into her eyes. Her gaze slid away from his, and it bloody well hurt. She was all the family he had left.
And, yes, Grace was right. He did have an idea about what happened to her at Fort William. He believed she’d been raped. After all, the soldiers had committed the crime against other women. Why should his sister be spared?
Perhaps the time had come to talk about it.
“Please, Fiona, I know what the English did. I know it wasn’t good. But the rest of us are not like them. You must be strong.”
Her face grew set in a frown. She stared at a point beyond his shoulder. “Strong?” She pulled her tartan closer around her. “I am strong. I’m still alive.” Tension radiated from her body.
“I hate that they hurt you,” he whispered. “I despise myself that I wasn’t there to protect you. It’s me they wanted, Fee, not you.”
“I know,” she agreed as if speaking to a simpleton.
“I had nothing to do with this.” She made a short sweep of her hand, indicating the camp, the followers, the rebellion.
“You ruined my life, Gordon. They thought to draw you out, just as you wish to use the English lass to receive what you want.” There was a beat of silence, and then she looked at him.
“Let her go, Gordon. Now, before any harm comes to her.”
“No harm will come to her. I’m not like them,” he repeated, clipping each word.
“You are,” she countered. “You are a man. You can’t help yourself.”
“Fiona,” he protested, but she whirled away from him, hurrying back in the direction she’d come. The expression on her face had been as distrustful as Grace’s.
If he ever discovered the name of the man who’d done this to her, Gordon vowed, he’d kill him.
As it was, his sister would have nothing to do with him now.
Continuing to his tent, Gordon discovered that someone had left his tack, the moccasin Constance had lost during her battle with the Bitch, and a pot of stew outside the front flap. That was usually how he ate. He knew that the women of the camp had done this for him.
He pushed aside the leather flap and carried the pot inside, expecting to step over Tad guarding the door.
The dog wasn’t there.
Instead, over by the chair, Tad, his loyal and most trusted companion, lay on his back at Constance’s feet, his tongue lolling in ecstasy as she rubbed his belly.