Chapter 3 #2
“Help her into the saddle,” she requested. “Then we’ll remove her boot and have a look.”
Duncan gently spanned Muirne’s waist with his hands and swung her up on the horse. “Poor wee lass,” he said as he settled her in the saddle.
“I think I saw some salve in Graeme’s bag,” Isabail said. “If you fetch it, I’ll rub some onto her toes.”
“Duncan,” came a dark voice from behind her. “If you fetch it, I’ll be embarrassed to call you kin. She’s playing you for a fool.”
At his chief’s cold words, Duncan’s scowl returned in a furious rush.
Isabail spun to face her nemesis. Although she was growing accustomed to his large size, his towering form still stole her breath away.
Or was it the fierce male beauty of his face?
Really, the devil must have had a hand in shaping the man—he had it all: a powerful body other men would envy, an easy grace that made the sword in his hand seem like an extension of his arm, and the face of an angel. An avenging angel.
She swallowed. “She complained of pain.”
“Liar.”
The faint heat in Isabail’s cheeks became a bonfire. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was watching the two of you as I approached. Your maid was not favoring her foot; nor did she wince with pain. You are a liar.”
His voice was cold and hard, not loud and angry, so Isabail was able to hold her ground, even though her instincts were clamoring at her to flee. He could kill her with that sword. One mighty swing and her life would be over in a flash. Like her mother’s had been.
But he wouldn’t kill her.
Not until he had the information he desired. At least, she prayed that was so.
“Please,” she begged. “Release us. It was my brother with whom you had a grievance, not me.”
He stared back at her, seemingly unmoved by the tears that had sprung into her eyes. “Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll have no need to hold you.”
Isabail heard Muirne gasp at his words and knew what the other woman was thinking.
Tell him and we’re as good as dead. There was a fair chance she was right.
Especially as she suspected his clan was camped somewhere at this end of the glen—the tension in the men’s shoulders had eased in that way that suggested they were home.
He would not risk releasing her and having MacPherson discover his kin.
“I do not recall any names. It is too long in the past.”
He sheathed his sword. “Then face the consequences.”
Two huge hands reached for her, and Isabail crammed her eyes shut.
It was an instinctive reaction, but a woefully inadequate defense.
Shutting out the world never made the punishment more bearable.
Indeed, it had often made it worse—even that small rebellion had infuriated her father.
But it was all she could do against the might of a man’s anger. She steeled herself for the blows.
But they never came. MacCurran simply tied something soft about her head, blinding her view. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and prodded her forward. When her outstretched hands met the warm, silky coat of his huge steed, he thrust her unceremoniously into the saddle and leapt up behind her.
“For your lies,” he growled, “you’ll miss the evening meal. You’d best hope the pinch of hunger in your belly stirs your memories.”
* * *
Aiden wasn’t certain what made him angrier—the woman’s continued attempts to throw herself into danger or the look of frozen terror that took over her face each time he lifted a hand.
What cause had she to believe he would strike her?
Aye, she had annoyed him. But there was a huge leap between feeling anger and using one’s fists.
A warrior was only as good as his self-discipline, after all.
He shackled her tight to his chest with one arm and guided his mount around a huge oak with the other. Her fear was understandable, given what she knew of him. But it still rankled.
If she would simply confess the names of her brother’s guests that night, they could part ways.
She would be free to seek solace from Tormod MacPherson, and he could hunt down the filthy cur who’d actually done the evil deeds he’d been accused of.
Oh, to have the satisfaction of running that bastard through.
“You went off into the woods in search of miscreants. Did you slay anyone?” Isabail asked, a note of faint disapproval in her voice.
“Not today.”
She grimaced at his response and turned her head away.
Aiden refused to feel guilty for reminding her that he’d slain several of her men the day before.
He blamed her for that necessity. She had incited the head of her guard, Sir Robert, to a lovelorn devotion.
He’d seen her speaking with the man in the orchard two days before, her cheeks flushed, her hand on his sleeve.
The man had been given ample opportunity to surrender, but he had refused, insisting on fighting to the death.
Had he surrendered, all of his men would have surrendered as well. Bloodshed could have been avoided.
With her head slightly bowed, she asked, “Where are you taking me?”
“Does it matter?”
Her shoulders sagged. “Perhaps not.”
Aiden frowned. She made him feel like a cad and a brute, all with a simple sigh. Yet he was the one who had been wronged; he was the one who had lost everything. She’d lost nothing thus far but a few hours.
They reached the mossy stump and swung left.
Moments later, they exited the forest and came upon an overgrown circle of stones three feet high—a small broch, even older than the one that housed his clan.
Useful, in that it distracted casual observers.
Most never bothered to study the surrounding rocks, and none had thus far discovered the barely discernible path snaking up into the mountain.
There was a plateau above them, but it wasn’t visible from this level.
Large rocks that had broken from the mountain a thousand years past hid it from view.
Aiden led the climb up. The slope was littered with shards of fallen shale, but nimble as the horses were, they gained the top of the foothill in short order. Only after he navigated the shattered shale was he rewarded with the sight he yearned for.
There, amid the snow and boulders, lay a much larger broch.
A fortress, really. Compared to others Aiden had seen, it was a detailed structure—double stone walls that were in some places six feet tall.
The outer wall was built into the existing rock and took advantage of large sections of mountain stone that provided a natural defense.
The inner wall was a man-made oval that stretched more than sixty feet wide.
A dozen roundhouses were scattered inside the enclosure, each with a new thatch roof laid by Aiden’s men.
He slipped Isabail’s blindfold from her head and signaled Duncan to do the same for her maid. Then he dismounted.
At first glance, the broch appeared deserted. But he knew better.
“Give the signal,” he said brusquely to Graeme.
Niall’s men communicated via a series of clicks and whistles that resembled noises of the native wildlife.
Aiden had never mastered them. As the eldest son, all his spare hours had been spent with his father, learning to manage Dunstoras and play the political games required of a Highland chief—identifying which clans he could count on and which were his enemies.
Aiden glanced at the lovely woman seated on his horse.
Of course, his father would have counted the Grants among his allies.
And look how that turned out.
Graeme trilled a short series of whistles and then waited for a response. The wait was not long. No sooner had the sounds been carried away on the breeze than a man stepped out from behind a large rock, sword and targe at the ready.
He offered Aiden a deep nod of his head. “A fine sight you are, Chief.”
“Udard,” Aiden acknowledged. “Is all well?”
The guard frowned. “MacPherson’s men have been more active of late, and they’ve caused us grief. You’ll want to speak with Niall about it.”
“My brother has returned?”
Udard nodded. “Last eve. Quite the adventure he had, but I’ll let him be the one to tell you the tale.”
The guard led them forward, and as they breached the outer wall, members of his clan came out of hiding, greeting him with smiles, waves, and hailed good tidings.
As pleased as he was to be home, Aiden was struck by the obvious signs of hardship and poverty.
The past few weeks had not been kind to his clan—clothes were threadbare, bodies were gaunt, and faces were etched with weariness.
This life as hunted outlaws was taking a cruel toll.
In the open space between the two walls, the men had set up quintains to practice their sword craft and straw targets to hone their bowmanship, while the lads maintained the horses.
Inside the inner wall, women and children worked and played with the subdued enthusiasm of those in hiding.
Fires were small to contain any smoke to mere wisps, and voices were low and calm.
The roundhouses with rebuilt roofs served as homes, though they were primitive compared to the blackhouses built in the lee of Dunstoras castle.
A group of men were gathered in the center of the ruin, and as Aiden led his party into the close, one of the men broke away from the group and trotted toward Aiden.
Niall.
Aiden helped Isabail dismount, then turned to face his half brother. As he expected, Niall’s face was a mask of cool blandness. Reading his thoughts had always been a challenge. Yet he must have been surprised to see Aiden’s two guests.
“What news?” Niall asked, as if Isabail Grant wasn’t standing in front of him.
Equally dispassionate, Aiden responded, “Nothing yet. And you?”
“I returned from Duthes yestereve. Upon my arrival, I was informed that one of our hunting parties was lost to a MacPherson patrol. Three days ago. Hamish, Conal, and four others were taken.”
Aiden grimaced. “Were they caught with game in hand?”
“Aye.”
“He’ll see them hang for poaching.”