Kidnapping the Laird (2 page)

Damn her foolish heart but she wanted Padruig Grant to look at her that way.

Chapter Two

The moon rose above him, shining enough light down for him to continue his journey home without waiting for dawn. The relentless spring rains had finally given way to drier days and pleasant nights. He was about two miles from the keep when they attacked. Padruig fought with all his strength, but they—four or five warriors—took him prisoner. A hood was tossed over his head, covering his eyes, and a gag tied around that. With his hands bound behind his head, he was trussed up like a roast in the cook’s larder and tossed over the back of his own horse. Though Padruig tried to estimate their direction and distance, but he lost track after only a few minutes of hanging upside down over a moving horse.

‘
Twas clear to him that whoever they were, they wanted him alive, for once they got his sword away from him, they could have killed him. So, Padruig decided to wait to see before taking any action. Though laird of the clan, he had brothers to step into that chair if something happened to him, so he did not fear for the clan or its future. Even Catriona would be cared for. But why kidnap a laird? Only retribution and destruction could follow and who would gain?

They traveled for some time, up hills and down, near rushing water and away from it, until they drew to a halt and he was dragged from the horse. His legs shook and his head spun as they pulled him along a path, through a doorway that was too low for his height and into some kind of croft or cottage. His arms were untied and he was forced to sit on the dirt floor. Padruig grabbed the nearest kidnapper and pulled him down, too, but he was quickly subdued, this time chains replacing the ropes.

Other than some muffled whispers, Padruig could not tell how many were present or who they were, but they efficiently chained him to the wall, his arms separated and placed on either side of him. The chains were low enough and long enough only to let him sit or stand, but not to move more than a half-pace from the wall itself. Once he was secured, he heard them speaking both inside and outside the building, again, with voices too low and too muffled to identify. The conversation continued for some minutes and he took advantage of their inattention to him to shift around and get some idea of how much movement he could accomplish in spite of the chains.

The door slammed, surprising him, and he heard hammers pounding nails into the frame around the door. He tried to yell against the gag, demanding answers, but between the noise of the hammering and the gag and hood, Padruig knew no one could hear him. Then, as quickly as this escapade had begun, he could hear them leaving—leaving him chained to a wall, and gagged. Padruig struggled then, pulling against the chains and trying to reach the knot in the gag to get free of it.

Who would do this? Who would take him prisoner and leave him so? Did they think to ransom him? Ha! The Grants could call many to their sides in a dispute or war, but they were not a wealthy clan at all. There would be no ransom for him. If he got free, he would beat the truth out of someone.

He twisted around and finally reached the knot behind his head and tugged it loose. Padruig loosened the canvas hood and drew it off. He expected not to be able to see anything in the dark, so the lamp burning on the table surprised him.

But the sight of Catriona standing there shocked him more.

Catriona swallowed against the fear and tried to meet his gaze. She had begun to reconsider this rash plan before she’d taken the first step, but now she knew it had been a mistake. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as though he did not believe what he was seeing and she recognized the moment when he accepted it was her, there, before him.

Husband or not, Padruig Grant was a formidable man to have as an enemy. Even chained to a wall, the power in his arms was evident—his muscles rippled as he tested the resistance of the chains. A bruise darkened the edge of his jaw even now. Catriona fisted her hands and fought the urge to touch it. It must be the tension of this plot that made her notice such things now, when she’d rarely done so during the last four months.

“
What is this, Catriona?” he asked her, his voice milder than she dreamt possible.

All of the words, all of the possible explanations, she’d planned in the weeks while she laid her plans and none came to mind in this moment.

“
Tell me!” he yelled louder than, his demand echoing around them both as his anger grew and the chains rattled against the stone wall behind him. Catriona trembled for a moment and then regained control over herself.

“
Do you do your father’s bidding? Who were your accomplices?” he asked again.

He pulled against the chains and she jumped back a step in reaction. Cat raised her hand and rubbed her forehead. Why had she ever thought this would work? Padruig somehow managed to climb to his feet. Now he used his height to intimidate her since his loud voice had not. Dougal had warned her of what to expect when Padruig lost his temper and so far, he knew his brother well. What had he advised? Oh, hold her ground. Let him yell. Then negotiate. She’d done that the morning after their wedding and it had worked, so Cat had every expectation that it would she would be again. . . but this time with much different results.

Laughter bubbled inside her at this inappropriate time. From the anger in his eyes, the clenching of his jaws and the way he pulled against the chains, Cat understood there would be no negotiating with him for a while. She would be lucky to leave here alive, let alone with a husband. His brothers had not seemed worried over their safety, but that gave her no comfort—they were blood, she was a MacDonnell. She sighed and shook her head and, crossing her arms over her chest and standing as tall as possible, she spoke the words that entered her mind.

“
I want a husband.”

And then it happened and he responded as all Grants did—to her name, her family’s history and based on the animosity that existed between their clans—with anger. If anyone remained behind after bringing him here and securing him, they would have heard his rants in spite of the boarded-up door and windows and in spite of the thick, stone walls of this house. He rained down curses on her and her clan. He fought against the chains until his wrists bled. Cat attempted to interrupt him several times to explain, but he did not stop. . . .

Until he did.

Collapsing against the wall and sliding down to the floor, Padruig pulled in one ragged breath after another trying to regain his control. He’d always been lauded as the even-tempered of Micheil Grant’s sons, but clearly he had inherited his father’s ability to lose his self-control without warning. Though being attacked, beaten, kidnapped and threatened with death was more reason than most would expect. Now, he wiped across his face with his arm and tried to catch his breath.

“
Another husband?” he asked in a voice hoarse from shouting. “There are far easier ways than this to get a new one.” He jangled the chains for emphasis.

She did not say anything. Padruig could see that he’d frightened her out of saying anything now. Good. He could not ever remember displaying his anger like this, not even when faced with a wife who did not want him. That morning, he may have raised his voice, but that was more about the affront to his clan than to himself.

A pang of guilt touched him just then, reminding him of the way her words had indeed hurt him. And in a way that had nothing to do with his clan or hers, but in every way it was about him. His pride over his position in his clan had been offended. Worse, her words that morning had called his honor into question.

He watched as she silently walked around the chamber, gathering things he only now noticed and putting them on a wooden tray. She walked towards him and he stood, not wanting to miss the chance to get hold of her and force her to give over the key to the chains. It was then that he realized where they were, where she’d had him taken. . . and the implications of it.

Long ago his father had built a small house for his mother. Not one to live in, but one that sat on the stream that fed into the loch nearby. Her ‘lady’s house’ his father had called it and it became a place of refuge for his mother, a place of quiet and a place of privacy. From the far-away expression in their eyes whenever this place was mentioned, Padruig could only imagine, and did not want to, the time spent and the things done here. The sound of wood scraping along the floor drew his attention back and he saw Catriona pushing the tray nearer to him. She remained just far enough back so that he could not reach her, but close enough to maneuver the tray to sit within his reach.

A bowl of water. Some cloth scraps. A small jug. A piece of bread and another of cheese.

“
You must be hungry,” she said, walking across the room and sitting in the chair there. “You missed both the noon and evening meal.”

He wanted to deny it, but his stomach chose that exact moment to rumble loudly, enough that he witnessed a fleeting smile pass over her mouth. Padruig slid back down and pulled the tray closer. She’d had him kidnapped but offered him food and water. . . and the small comforts to clean himself of the blood that now trickled down his arms and hands from his wrists. In the midst of planning such a radical thing, she’d taken time to notice he’d missed meals and had food ready for him.

Her eyelids began to flutter as she watched him eat. By the time he’d consumed the last crumb of food and drop of ale, she sat asleep in the chair, her head leaning to one side. Padruig would wait, not that he had any choice in the matter, and get his answers in the morn. Thinking on the implications of all of this, he realized something else.

She might want a new husband, but she did not wish him dead.

Or, at the least, not dead yet.

Chapter Three

Catriona woke with a start, forgetting where she was and why she was sleeping in a chair. Scant daylight entered through the one small window left uncovered near the doorway, revealing that morn had broken. She rubbed her neck as she straightened her head, easing the pain of sleeping with her head leaning to one side. Only as she did so, did she remember. . . everything. And him!

“
Good morn, Catriona,” he said.

His tone was so pleasant she could have believed them meeting in the hall of the keep to break their fast. Glancing over at him, she gathered her loosen hair back into its braid and stood, her arms and legs screaming in protest after hours spent in one position. He’d cleaned his wounds and wrapped some of the cloth rags around them to protect them from further injury. Cat stumbled as she stood and he moved against his chains. Had he tried to help her? She met his gaze and nodded at him.

“
Padruig.”

They lived separately, though under the same roof, so she had no experience with him in the mornings. Or the nights, though she knew, as did everyone in Clan Grant, how he spent those. Cat walked to the small hearth, stretching her arms and legs as she moved, and found the kindling there and started a fire.

Dougal and Jamie had been thorough in stocking this house for her use—the storage room below held weeks’ worth of food and supplies, a cistern fed fresh water through a pipe, and wood and peat stood waiting to be burned. She thought about the room above her head and felt her cheeks warm from a blush at the thought of the unusually-large bed with its plush furs and bedcovers that sat waiting there. Cat turned back and found him watching her every move.

“
I will have some porridge ready soon,” she told him. This casual chatter would be difficult between them.

“
So, you need me alive then?” he asked. His question was posed quietly, but it did not fool her—he was probing for information about her plans. Not that it surprised her.

Padruig had become laird a few years back and was accustomed to being in charge. He oversaw every aspect of the clan—its people, its farms, its lands and its future—and was considered, even by her father, to be one of the canniest men in Scotland. She tried to gather her thoughts and her arguments, but they remained scattered. Cat ignored him, or attempted to, and was being successful, in her attempts until he interrupted her again.

“
I need to. . . .”

He paused and so she was forced to face him. With a few gestures he indicated his need to take care of a personal task and Cat found herself with the heat rising in her cheeks at the thought of such a thing. She found a pot and slid it over to him, turning back to cooking, blushing even more when the sound of it reached her. Worse, he whistled throughout it!

Cat focused on her task and soon the porridge bubbled in the cooking pot. She avoided looking over her shoulder at Padruig. Scooping some into two bowls, adding a spoon in each, and then pouring some watered ale in cups, Cat prepared the meal. As the eldest sibling in a large group of them, cooking was something familiar to her. Though he probably knew it not, she’d been cooking meals at the keep for months, bringing with her the favorite recipes of her mother and her mother’s mother and helping in ways that made her feel useful. . . especially since she was not fulfilling any wifely duties. She carried his bowl and cup over to him.