Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (15 page)

Balcomb bowed his ebony head nobly. “I be a member of the Scottish Highland travellers. Someone from that castle”—he pointed without looking behind him—“took me children captive almost three weeks ago.”

Yancy’s gaze drifted to the keep.

He blinked, shook his head, and then blinked again.

“Holy, bloody hell.”

Chapter 19

A shudder of revulsion skittered down Isobel’s back.

Our wedding feast.

Angus’s words echoed over and over in her head. He intended to marry her himself.

Over my dead body.

Mind churning, she fingered the lavender-blue satin at her waist. Though a trifle too short and low-cut—her breasts threatened to spill from the bodice if she took a deep breath— the gown would do nicely.

If her circumstances weren’t so dire, she would be agog over the confection. How had such an exquisite gown come to be here? Perhaps the dress belonged to the lady of the castle or the laird’s daughter.

An insidious notion slithered into her mind.

Or, had the gown been ordered for the wedding? Come to think of it, the garment did seem perfect for someone Lydia’s size. That meant the abduction had been planned for some time.

By whom? MacHardy? Laird Blackhall?

Isobel frowned, her fingers stilling. She hadn’t met the laird, or anyone else for that matter, with the exception of Dunbar, Angus, and those petrified servants earlier.

Wouldn’t the clan’s leader want to meet his prisoner?

When she’d been ushered into the keep, she had caught a glimpse of a disheveled, gray-haired man seated at a table on the great hall’s dais. He and several others had been hunkered over tankards, but no one had turned to see who’d entered the fortress.

They had appeared deep in their cups, at midday, too.

Ewan wouldn’t tolerate such drunken slothfulness.

Dunbar said Angus was the Blackhall war chief. Was he related to the laird then? Precisely who governed here?

Somewhat revived and blessedly clean, although scared witless, she’d eaten a bowl of surprisingly tasty mutton stew. She would need her strength if an opportunity to flee presented itself.

The women, occupied with preparing her bath, had taken no notice of her. The sheathed knife now lay secured to her thigh with another strip from her chemise. If ever a garment were worthy of reward, that decimated scrap of fabric had earned a place of honor.

Worry gnawed, its hundreds of razor sharp teeth nibbling at her stomach. She had expected to be escorted below promptly upon completing her toilette. Pray God something had delayed the cleric, although in Scotland one needn’t be present for a couple to wed.

Anyone could officiate, as long as the bride and groom agreed to the union. A reverend did bind things up a mite tighter should anyone contest the joining later, but since the Scottish kirk permitted divorces, even church marriages could be dissolved.

If she didn’t agree to wed him, Angus would kill her, and if she did, he’d kill her when he discovered she wasn’t Lydia.

Opening the shutter, Isobel searched the landscape. A disheartened sigh escaped.

They won’t get here in time.

“Hello?”

Isobel whipped round.

The young woman from earlier stared at her from the adjacent window. A puzzled expression furrowed her forehead and worry shone in her heather-colored eyes. “I thought I heard someone over there today. I am Tasara Faas. Are you held captive too?”

Should Isobel reveal her real identity?

Everyone would know soon enough.

She moved as close as the window would allow. Brushing her hair behind her back, she whispered, “I am Isobel Ferguson, and yes, I was abducted. They intend to force me to marry the war chief this evening. Although, they believe I’m someone else, and I fear for my life when they learn the truth.”

She patted the windowsill. “If I had a rope, I would use it in a blink. What of you? Why are you here? I saw a young boy earlier. Your brother?”

Tasara sent a swift glance behind her. “Yes, he and my sister are sleeping.”

“You have a sister with you as well?”

An entire family? The Blackhalls had much to account for.

“Lala’s four. We were seized many days ago—almost three weeks, now—when I took the children to collect the stray goats.”

She glanced inside her room again. “I don’t dare try to escape with the little ones, and I cannot leave them behind. I think we are being used as blackmail.”

Fear shadowed the delicate lines of Tasara’s bruised face. She’d suffered at the hands of those brutes too. She toyed with the fringed end of the scarf tied around her head. “I overheard one of the Scots mention something about forcing my tribe to help them.”

Isobel frowned. What in God’s precious name were the Blackhalls about? Abducting gypsies and noblewomen? Coercing the travellers? Did they want to start a war, for heaven’s sake?

“Help them? With what?”

“I
dinnae ken
. I haven’t seen this Scottish clan before.” Tasara’s lovely face brightened. “I shall help you escape. Then you can send others to rescue us.”

She tore the scarf off her head. A cascade of ebony tresses billowed about her shoulders. Pushing her hair over a shoulder, Tasara turned her attention to untying the scarves at her waist.

She held them up. “With these and lengths of blanket, we can make you a line to escape. I have a knife.”

Isobel shook her head. “I don’t have anything with which to tie a rope in my chamber.”

Uncertainty swept across Tasara’s features. Her gaze fell to the ground before meeting Isobel’s again. “Can you walk along the edge to my room? There is a heavy bed in here.”

Licking Angus’s filth-covered boots held more appeal, but providence had handed Isobel a means of escape, and she wasn’t going to let a phobia ruin her one chance.

“Yes.” She forced air into her constricted lungs and offered Tasara smile that probably wobbled.

“I have a knife too. Start cutting the blanket and tie the ends together. I’ll do the same over here.”

Tasara nodded before disappearing into her room.

Dashing to the chair, Isobel wedged its back below the handle. It wasn’t large or sturdy enough to keep anyone out for long, but it might buy her a jot of time. She didn’t dare waste a second. Angus might send for her at any moment.

After untying the dagger from her thigh, she snatched up her blanket. Why hadn’t she thought of cutting it into strips?

Terror, hunger, and a concussion might have a whit to do with the oversight.

Isobel’s heart whooshed in her ears, and her fingers seemed thick as sausages as she worked. Dear God, she must hurry, or else . . .

Once she’d tied the pieces together, she stood on one end and yanked each knot to tighten it. A gnat’s antenna couldn’t pass between them now, and the ties would provide handholds as she descended.

Flying back to the window with the blanket’s remnants, Isobel cast a hurried glance to the sky. Clouds pregnant with moisture drooped low. Her escape would be that much more difficult, trying to hide her trail on the sodden ground.

“Tasara, I’m done.”

Tasara immediately poked her head out her casement.

“I’ve tied mine off to the bed.” She flung her rope over the sill. “See, almost halfway.”

Reeling the material up, she formed the length into a ball.

“Catch.” She lobbed the makeshift rope at Isobel. The wad fell short.

Isobel smothered a groan as she speared an anxious glance to her chamber door.

More time wasted.

Determination carved on her face, Tasara compressed her lips and removed her bracelets. After looping a scarf through the clinking metal, she knotted the ends and heaved the line again.

Bracing her legs against the wall and gripping the casement, Isobel leaned out as far as she dared and snatched the rope with her free hand as it unfurled.

Grinning, Tasara gave a little triumphant clap.

Isobel removed the bracelets then secured the two lines together. Taking a deep breath, she lowered the rope. At least ten feet remained between the end and the ground. However, once she hung directly below Tasara’s window, there would be a few more feet hanging horizontally.

Not too bad. She stood over five feet, making the drop nearly insignificant.

As long as I manage without falling.

She pulled the cord into her window, daring to entertain a glimmer of hope.

“I’m going to change shoes. What should I do with your bracelets?” Isobel held up the trinkets.

“Throw them out the window. They aren’t valuable, and if you leave them in your room, the Blackhalls will know for sure that I helped you.” Tasara inspected the ground and pointed. “Maybe over there, in that tall grass.”

Once she’d kicked off the embroidered silk slippers, Isobel stuffed her feet into her half-boots. Worrying her lower lip, she laced them with trembling fingers.

Heights so frightened her that as a child she hadn’t climbed trees. But she had scaled the rocks and that hadn’t bothered her. Climbing out a window and poking along a narrow ledge wasn’t so very different.

Balderdash.

Pressing her hands to her cavorting middle, Isobel sucked in a bracing breath. She had to do this. Angus would kill her if he discovered she wasn’t Lydia.

After sliding her dagger into her boot, she glanced around the room. A leftover piece of cheese and hunk of bread sat on the plate. She wrapped them in her cloak before hurrying to the window and dropping the bundle to the ground. The lump landed soundlessly.

“Isobel, wrap the rope around your back and underneath your arms and tie it in front.” Tasara demonstrated what she wanted Isobel to do. “You will be more secure, and the line should be long enough.”

Should be
?

Isobel swiftly secured the cord as Tasara had suggested. She did feel somewhat safer, though fear of slamming into the stones continued to plague her.

She pressed her lips together. There was nothing for it. Risk her life escaping or risk Angus forcing her to marry him and then discovering her true identity. At least the former offered her a slim chance at life.

The latter, none at all.

She tossed the extra line over her shoulder then clutched the sill with one hand. She shoved her gown above her knees before gingerly climbing onto the opening.

Oh, my God!

Turning sideways, she eased through the crevice. The fit proved snug. The stones snagged her gown and scraped her skin, forcing her to wriggle to free herself.

Damned wide hips.

Terrified, she clutched the casement. One slip, and . . .

Biting her lip, she cautiously wiped her damp palms on the dress, one at a time. A cold sweat dampened her upper lip and forehead.

“You can do it, Isobel,” Tasara assured encouragingly.

Surely Isobel’s thundering heart had alerted all within five miles of her intent. The Blackhalls undoubtedly streaked to the back of the keep at this very moment.

Grasping the knot below her breasts with one hand, she groped the craggy exterior with the other and inched along the strip, determined not to look down.

Step by petrifying step, she crept along, the minutes dragging as if the hands of time had slowed.

“A few more steps and you will be directly in front of my window,” Tasara promised. An eternity later, she touched Isobel’s ankle. “I’ll help you inside. How does that sound?”

Positively horrid.

“Fine.” The strangled croak Isobel forced past her stiff lips clearly indicated otherwise. After this, she wouldn’t set foot anywhere taller than herself again.

Ever.

A minute later, she stood quaking inside Tasara’s chamber.

The gypsy’s gorgeous eyes swam with tears, and she embraced Isobel. “I don’t know another woman as brave-hearted.”

“Bravery had nothing to do with it. Desperation did.” Isobel wiped the sweat from her face. “That is the most God-awful thing I have ever had to do.”

The children slept on, their cherub mouths partly open, oblivious to the drama playing out beside them.

At least descending the rope, she would face the stones and couldn’t see how blasted far the drop was. “Let’s be about it. I want to be well and gone before my disappearance is discovered. What about you? They will know you helped me when they see the rope.”

Tasara sent an anxious glance to her brother and sister. “I can untie the rope and then drop it outside. If you hide the line, they will have no proof.”

Isobel had no idea where she would stuff the crude rope, but Tasara had risked much to help her. “Yes, that will do. I shall hide it in the woods somewhere.”

Tasara’s hand on her arm stayed Isobel.

“I know my father or others of my clan are near. Find them in the forest, and they will help you to your people.” A tear crept from the edge of her eye.

She brushed the droplet away. “Our troop is not large enough, nor do we have the weapons to fight these . . . these
vafedi mush
, evil men. Perhaps you know someone who can help us?”

Isobel nodded. “My brother is Ewan McTavish, laird of—”

“Craiglocky.” Hope glimmered in Tasara’s eyes. “All the brethren know of Laird McTavish.”

The children started to stir from their naps, and Isobel hugged Tasara again. “Ewan will help, and one of his greatest friends is England’s War Secretary. Lord Ramsbury won’t hesitate to assist my brother in any manner he is able.”

If Yancy is alive.