Uncle Walter surely had Cam’s best interests in mind. She had to trust in that, if nothing else. Her uncle had no reason to wish for Cam’s demise. If her uncle had a desire to see Cam dead, he’d already be long gone.
The horse shifted abruptly, and Elizabeth opened her eyes. Here the road began a steep descent down the back of the mountain. At the bottom, probably a bit less than a mile away, water stretched in a placid blue line, calm and pristine. A lake—no, a
loch
was what they called it here. Green cliffs speckled with great white boulders rose from the opposite bank, ascending steeply toward the puffy clouds. A handful of boats floated on the loch’s surface, mere dots from this distance, and she couldn’t tell if they were moving.
Her gaze followed the far shoreline until the loch came to a rounded tip. Smoke curled lazily from a cluster of structures tucked into the valley leading off from the bank. She couldn’t remember the name of the village—Glen . . . Glen-something-or-other. She studied how the bank curved back around, her gaze skimming over the few brown cottage roofs among the prevailing green on this side of the loch. A bucolic scene, like something from an Italian painting, but even more vivid, more lovely.
Her gaze careened to a stop when it landed on the castle.
“Camdonn Castle,” she murmured.
Robert MacLean, still angry with her, still sitting like a statue behind her, didn’t respond.
Sighing, she gazed down at the structures directly below them. Situated on a spit of land jutting into the loch, Camdonn Castle wasn’t just one building but many, all built from gray stone. With the loch serving as its moat and a solid rock wall barring entrance to the spit, it appeared more an ancient fortress than the glittering silver fairy-tale palaces she’d seen on the trip north from Hampshire. Camdonn Castle looked stony and cold, and altogether
harsh
.
This cold, gray, awful place, this place that looked more like a medieval prison than a house . . . this was to be her home forevermore.
A tremble resonated through her body. Was it her imagination, or did Robert MacLean’s arm tighten around her?
They continued down the mountain in rigid silence. All along, the raw strength of Robert MacLean simmered behind her, and regret for her rash, childish outburst continued to bite through her like scampering mice.
It was too late to take back what she’d said. She’d missed her opportunity to apologize, and she’d probably never see him again.
As they descended to the entryway to the castle, Robert urged the horse into a trot. The animal obliged readily enough, probably anticipating the promise of oats and the release of the heavy weight from its back.
A big, black, heavy iron gate rose from the sheer rock walls. A group of guards stood before it, eyeing them warily as they approached. When they recognized the man riding behind her, they called to Robert in Gaelic, regarding Elizabeth with an unfriendly glimmer in their eyes that curdled her stomach.
Robert dismounted. Leading the horse by the reins, he walked the rest of the way. Elizabeth sat stiffly in the saddle, clutching the horse’s mane so hard her knuckles turned white, but remaining outwardly calm as she eyed the men with disdain.
Robert cocked his head in her direction. He spoke in English, likely for her benefit. “This is Lady Elizabeth Grant, his lordship’s intended. I found her on the road.”
The men glanced at her, then looked away, none of them offering a reasonable semblance of an obeisance. Elizabeth kept her expression even. A huge man with a pockmarked face and a red nose rattled off something in Gaelic.
Elizabeth arched a regal brow at Robert. “Translate, please, Mr. MacLean.”
“He says His Grace, your uncle, is here, but there’s been no sign of his lordship. They’re sending a party to search for him.”
Elizabeth released a silent breath, and a shudder of alarm rippled through her body. She clenched every muscle to combat it, to remain outwardly serene. It was what she did best, after all.
The gate swung open with a loud squeal.
Without sparing another glance at her, Robert strode forward, leading the horse across the narrow length of the spit and then up a winding path to the castle grounds.
People crowded the graveled courtyard in a disorganized mass. Men shouted orders, but nobody seemed to be listening, and Robert made a disapproving noise in his throat.
As they approached, a group separated from the rest and rushed at them. Elizabeth immediately recognized her uncle’s fashionable white wig among the darker heads of the Scots.
“Elizabeth,” he blustered, breaking from the crowd. The gold of the round buttons down the front of his coat came into view, and Elizabeth noted that he’d placed his wig carefully askew to give himself an anxious demeanor. As always, he played the concerned, doting uncle to a T. Now all the residents of Camdonn Castle would spread the rumor of what a fine, caring man he was, and if she ever disputed it, well, they viewed evidence to the contrary right this very instant.
“Oh, my dear.” He reached up to pull her from the horse. Her feet hit the ground with a jolt, and he loomed over her, his face a mask of concern. “Oh, Lizzy. How I have worried. Thank
God
you are unhurt.”
She managed to smile up at him. “I am fine, truly.” She risked a glance at Robert, who watched the scene dispassionately.
“Come, child, let us go inside. It is warm there, and your maid awaits with fresh garments and a warm posset for you.”
“But what about Lord Camdonn, Uncle? He’s lost. I fear he’s been shot or fallen from his horse—”
“Never fear, dear girl. Lord Camdonn’s men will find him. They will scour every inch of the countryside, and I have no doubt he’ll be home by dusk.” He gave her arm a fatherly pat.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Robert take up the reins and lead the horse away. She knew better than to stare, and she tore her gaze away from the Scot as Uncle Walter ushered her toward a long rectangular building with a tall square tower rising from one end. Long ago, this building must have served as the keep.
She’d felt utterly safe with Robert’s strong arm locked around her body. With his powerful legs encasing her behind. As he moved farther away from her, so did that warm, sweet sensation of security.
She looked up at her uncle, saw the silvery glint in his eyes as he slanted his gaze at her disheveled gown, and steeled herself against the panic threatening to consume her whole.
Ceana pushed through the brush and dropped to her knees beside the man. Eyes half lidded, he didn’t seem to register her presence as she assessed his condition. Blue tinged his pale skin, a stark contrast to his red lips and dark lashes and brows. High, slashing cheekbones, a sloped straight nose, and black brows arching over long-lashed, wide-set eyes all worked together to create an artistic masterpiece.
She tore her gaze from his face, which required no further analysis, certainly, for it was uninjured. Only the paleness of his skin offered information; he’d lost too much blood.
Once she escaped the snare of his far-too-handsome face, it was simple enough to diagnose his malaise. Sticky blood covered his shoulder and most of his arm, darkening the black wool coat covering his torso. He’d been dealt a crushing blow to his arm—or maybe he’d been shot. She shuddered, remembering the poachers. Perhaps they weren’t poachers after all.
His rich clothing left no doubt that he was a fine gentleman. Not that it mattered to her—she wasn’t the obsequious, sniveling sort, fawning over the higher orders like they shat gold. People were equal to her, no matter their station in life, and while the difference between her class and his might be clear as day, she’d care for him as she’d care for anyone else. He deserved no more and no less than the lowliest whore or the poorest beggar.
People could either accept her as she was or leave her be. She didn’t care one way or the other, and ultimately, when it came to a choice between living and dying, neither did anyone else. Of any class. No one cared about her appearance or her social standing if she was saving their life.
“Can you hear me?” she asked in Scots. She tried again in English. When he didn’t answer, she spoke more sharply, smacking his smoothly shaven cheek lightly with her palm. His skin was clammy, cold to the touch, his breathing rapid.
His eyelids fluttered, revealing the dark orbs beneath. “Mary MacNab,” he murmured, his lips twitching into a skeletal grimace. “Will you save me this time?”
She stared at him. He’d responded in crusty Gaelic, and he’d mistaken her for her dead grandmother. She didn’t know whether she ought to feel offended or honored. Blinking away her surprise, she pressed her fingers to his neck and found his pulse weak and rapid.
“It’s Ceana MacNab, not Mary,” she snapped. “Mary is dead.” Her words sounded awfully similar to the way her grandmother might have spoken them.
She turned his head to the side in the event he vomited and unbuttoned her jacket to remove her
arisaid
. Her mind rapidly calculated his status: It was essential to keep him warm, to stop the bleeding, to encourage the flow of blood to his heart . . .
She shivered in her petticoat as she shook open her
arisaid
and spread it over him, then tucked her jacket on top. She could survive the cold, but he wouldn’t. Gathering an armful of bracken, she used it to raise his legs.
Reaching under the wool covering, she found the buttons of his coat. She unbuttoned it, then carefully peeled the heavy material back over his arm as he groaned in complaint. Blood stuck his linen shirt to his skin, but she’d take care of that later. The wound was clearly visible through the torn cloth, and she studied it, emitting a small sound of satisfaction. A musket ball had gone clean through him. It hadn’t shattered a bone, and the blood ran clean. He’d be good as new in no time at all. If she could rouse him and get him out of the forest before darkness came and he froze to death, that was. How on earth could she move him?
Gritting her teeth, she ripped the skirts of her petticoat. Using her dirk as a tool, it took her a few moments to fashion a bandage-cum-sling, which she wrapped around the wound and tied tightly at his neck.
“Can you walk?”
He’d drifted into oblivion, and she rapped on his good shoulder. “Can you walk?”
He kept his eyes shut. “Not a chance, Mary.”
“It’s Ceana,” she gritted out. “You must rise and walk.”
He released a shaky breath. “Stop, I pray you. Can’t you see I’m dying? Allow me to do it in peace, if you please.”
“Surely a man who’s capable of such a fine speech is capable of taking a few steps.”
She wasn’t going to share that he’d have to walk nearly a mile before they reached the nearest shelter—her cottage. If he knew that, she didn’t have a hope of his even trying.
He didn’t respond, and she wasn’t surprised. He’d lost too much blood and the flow of liquid remaining in his veins was too sluggish for him to see reason. Ceana rocked back on her heels, gazing at her surroundings. The brush grew thick in this area. She presumed he’d fallen from a horse, and if she was right, the animal might be nearby. She didn’t know the first thing about horses, but she might be able to lead it back and coax him onto it somehow.
Of course, whoever had shot him might be lurking about too.
Leaning forward over him, she vigorously rubbed his uninjured arm and his legs to encourage the flow of blood. Then she pressed her fingers to his neck again and found his pulse had slowed.
Good
.
“Very well, then.” She lowered her voice in the event his attacker was close. “I shall have to fetch someone to help.”
His good hand shot out, clutching her arm with far more strength than she’d expected him to have. “No! Don’t leave me.”
“Don’t be an idiot. We cannot stay here.”
“Why not?” he murmured. “Comfortable. Warm. Hurts to move.”
“Because,” she said with exaggerated patience, “it will be dark soon, and you’ll get cold, and we’ll
both
freeze to death.”
The fool still hadn’t opened his eyes, but his lips turned down. “I don’t want you to freeze. Too pretty.”
She cast her gaze heavenward. “Exactly. Now, I insist you save
my
precious life by leading me to shelter.”
His lips twisted. “You’re tricking me, Mary.”
“I’m not Mary.”
“Sure you are,” he mumbled. “Mary. Mary turned young and beautiful and haloed like an angel . . . Pretty Mary with creamy white breasts . . .”
Grinding her teeth, Ceana glanced down at her bosom, which was indeed brimming over the top of her petticoat, and yanked the material as high as she could as she looked over her shoulder.
Through the branches, the sun dipped low in the sky, sending streams of light all around them. No doubt it did have a halo effect on her appearance. But honestly! Could the man truly think he’d died and met a young version of her grandmother in heaven? She laughed out loud. Delirious fool. “Get up, you oaf.”