The Laird (29 page)

Rachael appeared at his elbow with a goblet. “Drink this, my liege.”

He took the wine from her hand and tried to swallow, but his throat had closed completely. Tears blurred his vision and he put the goblet down. “I canna lose her, I canna.”

Isaac patted his back. “We will find her.”

“Ye ken this stinks of the Bruce.”

“Aye.”

 ~#~

Beth awoke in a dank, black-as-pitch place. She blinked as she tried to see, and her eyelashes caught on something close to her face. She gasped and something collapsed against her teeth. She cried out. Instinctively she tried to brush it away and realized to her horror she was trussed like a turkey, with her hands and feet bound behind her back. She writhed and screamed, praying all the while that she was having a nightmare. Nothing changed.

After minutes of struggling, her heart thudded so painfully, she feared she might die. She forced herself to calm. She held her breath, refusing her lung’s demand that she continue to pant. Slowly she exhaled and then eased a lungful of the fetid air back in. Her eyelashes again caught on something, and—now calmer—she realized she wore a hood. A second later, her memory came back to life...Flora leading her into the glen, the Bruce’s men grabbing her, and then one of them slamming a fist into her cheek, rendering her unconscious. Against her will, she started to pant again.

  
Oh, God. Please, God help me.

  She opened her mouth to scream. Before it could rip from her parched throat, she heard heavy footsteps. She snapped her jaw shut and listened. The footsteps—out of synchronization, telling her two people approached—grew louder, and then silence.

She nearly jerked when a man’s mirthless chuckle echoed directly above her.

“Should the lady wake, give her naught.” She recognized the deep voice. It belonged to John the Bruce, who apparently studied her from above.

A different voice, this one gravelly, “Aye, my liege.”

The footsteps, again out of sync, sounded and then grew faint.

She took a deep breath, jerked at her bonds. A second later, fresh air seeped into her mask. Her heart lept with the realization that the hook wasn’t secured around her neck. She shook her head repeatedly, dipping her chin, and was relieved to find she was able to see a glimmer of light.

Her tears flowed as she twisted and squirmed on hard packed dirt, aggravating an already miserable headache, until the mask finally slipped off.

She took a deep lungful of air, craned her neck and saw damp stonewalls in every direction. She looked toward the light, up through a narrow tube, and saw a metal grate. She was in a bottle necked dungeon. But why?

This cell was larger than Blackstone’s dungeon, could easily have held four big men. The only keep of any size within two days ride of Blackstone was the Bruce’s. It made sense, but she couldn’t be sure. She could have been out cold for an hour or for a day—perhaps two, from the feel of her head--but then she couldn’t be sure. Without windows she couldn’t tell if it was day or night.

She took a second, deep shuttering breath. “Damn Flora.”

Her thoughts flew to Duncan. He had to be frantic by now. She hoped he would see through Flora’s duplicity, but there was every possibility he wouldn’t. She hadn’t. Like a naïve fool, she’d blindly followed Flora, thinking her a friend, while picturing sautéed fiddle ferns in a garlic butter sauce.

A sob wracked her.
Beth, you’re too stupid to draw breath!

Her fear that something dreadful—torture or rape—lurked only minutes away gave way to a new, far more compelling terror; that Duncan wouldn’t find her.

What if Flora told Duncan she’d fallen into the sea? He’d search the coast, not his enemy’s keep. What if she’d told Duncan she’d run away? Would Duncan only search the roads? Her heart stuttered...oh God...what if he thought she’d deliberately slipped away from Flora so she could remove his ring and return to her own time?

The very thought turned her blood to ice, nearly made her ill.

Surely not.

  Surely, he knew she loved him and would never leave without a very good reason—and certainly not without saying goodbye. Her fingers found his ring. Out of habit she spun it, seeking comfort. She rubbed a fingertip across the small cabochon rubies, the first she’d ever worn. Her heart thudded when it slipped over the first joint.

Good Lord! She could remove it if need be. She had a means of escape.

Her breath hitched as she pressed the ring into place, closer to her heart.

Did Duncan realize how much she loved him even though she hadn’t said so?

Fresh tears made mud along her right jaw as it rested on the floor. Why the hell had she waited to say, “I love you,” wanting him to say it first? And why the hell hadn’t he said it?

As hour after silent hour passed, she decided she would not--short of dying--slip the ring from her finger. She would face the devil if need be, but had to cling to the hope he would eventually find her. She also resolved that if she did survive, she would declare her love the moment she laid eyes on Duncan’s handsome face. Then she’d swat him—-hard--for putting her through this agony.

She started to cry again. As another muddy puddle formed under her cheek, she wondered how she could still have tears. She’d not had a drop to drink in what felt like forever.

~#~

Angus pointed to the ground. “Three horses, my lord, one carrying a heavier burden than the rest.” He pointed to a flat, muddy print. “One has foundered.”

They were in Bruce territory. Duncan, sweat running down his back and chest, only nodded and kicked Ransom’s flanks.

With every step Ransom took, Duncan prayed he’d find Beth safe. He had come to depend on her smile, her gentle hands, even her odd ways. Just knowing she would be at his side, that she’d willingly accept his babe, he’d been able to face all she’d told him of his future. But what if she was truly lost to him? Would he be able to brave his future? He didn’t think so.

Hell, he wasn’t even sure how much longer he could suck air into his chest if she wasn’t around to breathe the same air.

Lud, why has this happened? Why hadn’t he seen it coming?

“My liege, ahead.” Angus pointed above the tree line toward the Bruce’s stronghold.

“Line up four abreast, shields and swords at the ready. Jacob, do ye have any questions or worries?”

“Nay, my lord.” The lad straightened in the saddle as he sat behind Sean and thudded his chest.

“‘Tis a brave lad ye are, son.” Satisfied all was in readiness, Duncan said, “Then sound the trumpets. Let the sneaky bastard know we arrive in force like real men.”

~#~

“How many?” John the Bruce asked.

“Only twenty, my lord, all mounted.”

“Order double their number around the bailey. Then drop the bridge and bid the MacDougall enter.”

“Aye, my Lord.”

Finally.

It had taken ten long years to bring Duncan MacDougall to his knees, but he’d done it. By the next full moon his enemy would have naught but the tunic on his back. No wife, no keep, no lands and no clan.

All would become Bruce holdings, though he had no use for the plain wife. He hoped Lady Beth would die quickly. He might have use for the dungeon if the MacDougall balked.

The Black, looking furious, strode into the Bruce’s hall with his full contingent.

“John, I dinna want to hear dissembling. I want my wife.”

“Your wife?” John smiled and picked up the tankard at his elbow. “Have ye lost yet another one, MacDougall?”

The Black growled, his hand instinctively moving for his sword. Thirty Bruce men stepped forward drawing their own steel. MacDougall men did the same.

The Bruce stood and waved his clansmen down. “We’ll have no blood shed over a simple misunderstanding.”

Standing before an empty hearth, he invited Duncan to sit, motioning toward the high-backed chair next to his own. “I already have a wife, who ye have no doubt heard is doing her verra best to render me wode. Why the hell would I want yer Lady Beth?”

Duncan, ignoring his invitation to sit, growled, “We tracked the men who took her onto your lands.”

“Ye may well have, but they dinna stop here.” He came forward. “MacDougall, think on it. If I had yer woman, would I have let the bridge down?”

The Black stared at him. “Do ye swear on yer eldest bairn’s head that ye don’t have her?”

  The Bruce hesitated for only a heartbeat before saying, “I swear. Now, come and quench ye thirst before ye take leave to search again.”

  Duncan almost smiled. The bastard would rue the day he swore that oath. As planned, Duncan made a show of shedding his brilliant blue doublet and hood so all would remember what he wore. “My men need drink, as do our mounts.”

“Of course.” As the Bruce ordered the horses tended and the ale served, Duncan’s men--save Jacob, who had positioned himself near a far doorway—-wandered, clanging and banging around the great hall as they found places among their enemies. On Duncan’s silent command Angus rudely bumped chest-first into one of the Bruce men. Growling, both reached for their dirks.

When Angus swore at the man, Duncan yelled, “Enough Angus! Stand down.” As he’d hoped, all eyes turned toward the men-at- arms in confrontation.

The Bruce repeated the command to his own man.

Within minutes all had settled within the hall though it was painfully apparent none were comfortable.

  ~#~

“Psst!”

Beth forced opened her swollen eyelids, not sure if she’d heard a real voice or one her imagination had conjured out of desperation.

“Psst. Up here, my lady.”

She rolled onto her back and stared up the shaft. “Jacob?” She started to cry. “Oh, thank God!”

“Sssh!” He looked over his shoulder before addressing her again.

“Move to the side, my lady, so I might drop a blade. Our liege will never forgive me should I kill ye.”

“He’s here?”

“Aye, my lady, but move quickly afore I get caught.”

Relief and hope jump-started her tears again, but Beth did as she was told. Within a heartbeat she heard the blade’s thump.

She almost laughed seeing Rachael’s silver
sgian dubh
lying only inches from her nose. When she looked up to ask when Duncan would come, Jacob had disappeared.

Deciding it didn’t matter so long as he knew she was alive, she rolled around until she got the blade into her hands.

Her numb fingers fumbled repeatedly.

God, please.

To her relief, she felt the intricate carving of the hilt. She started sawing at the bindings at her back and prayed she wasn’t slitting her own wrists.

~#~

When Duncan spotted Jacob’s worried countenance peeking around the far doorway, he sent a silent prayer of thanks to heaven--the lad had not been caught snooping below--and put down his tankard.

“Bruce, I thank ye, but we have imposed on yer hospitality long enough. Given the hour ‘tis best we return to MacDougall land. Say a prayer my lady is somewhere safe.” As if it were an afterthought he added, “And say one for the bastards who took her for they willna see another sunrise once I find them.”

He stood and hit his half-f tankard with the back of his hand. As metal clanged against the stone hearth all eyes turned toward him, and Jacob slid unnoticed back into the room. When the lad thumped a fist to his chest, Duncan’s heart stuttered. The lad had found Beth. Alive. Had he not, he reassured himself, surely the lad would be greeting.

It took all his control to calmly lead his men en mass through the torch lit bailey lined with watchful Bruce men-at-arms and into the stables where their horses waited.

In a dark corner of the stable Duncan yanked off his doublet and hood and threw it at Angus, who just as quickly jerked off the coiled rope he wore beneath his plaid.

“Our lady?” he hissed.

Jacob, donning Angus’s cloak, whispered. “The dungeon, m’lord. She’s a woeful sight but alive.”

“Praise God.” Duncan, breast soaked with sweat, then silently pledged to bring The Bruce to his maker at the first opportunity.

He cast a glance at Angus now dressing in his doublet and cape. Rope in hand, Duncan whispered, “Thank ye, lad. Now into Angus’s helm and garb with ye.”

While Jacob was hoisted onto Angus’s mount, Duncan slipped deeper into the barn’s shadows. He took a deep breath and prayed his men safe as Angus, now hooded and riding Ransom, led his men out into the bailey proper.

Without a backward glance Angus and the clansmen formed up into a column of three abreast and road out under the raised portcullis.

T
he minutes felt like hours and the hours like days for Beth as she tried to rub the circulation back into her hands and feet. She started hearing heavy footsteps above her. Praying it was Duncan but not knowing that it was, she hurriedly assumed her trussed position just in case.

When she thought the guard might be peering into her cell, feeling parched and nearly frozen, she pleaded for water and a blanket.

The man chuckled, “Ah, so ye wake.”

A moment later a bucket of cold, rancid water splashed on her head. As she gasped and fought to keep her freed hands locked behind her and away from the suffocating mask, she was assaulted with a long string of expletives that called hers and Duncan’s paternity into question.

When the guard left, she ripped the mask from her face, sucked in some much needed air and mumbled a few rich curses of her own. She then realized she didn’t feel the need to cry anymore. She certainly couldn’t credit her lack of tears to courage. No. The peace she now felt came from simply knowing Duncan was close and he’d come as soon as he could.

She scooted away from the muddy spot she’d been lying in. To pass the time she pictured a calendar in her mind. She counted the days she been Mrs. MacDougall and counted the days since her last menstrual period, something she’d been avoiding since seeing Wee Mary give birth. Thirty-seven. No, that couldn’t be right. Regular as a Swiss timepiece, her cycle ran twenty-eight days. Chewing her bottom lip, she started counting again.