Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (14 page)

One maid held toiletries, another towels, and a third stockings, stays, and a chemise, and the fourth, an exquisite periwinkle gown and slippers.

“Come, lass.” A thin-faced maid darted a nervous peek at the men loitering in the room. “We needs to see ye bathed and yer hair washed. Yer weddin’ be this evenin’.”

Chapter 18

Isobel’s heart seized for a moment as the breath hissed from between her stiff lips.

Hell, Hades, and Purgatory.

She stood, and the room spun. She’d risen too quickly.

“I’m not taking a bath, and I most certainly am not getting married.” Drawing on every ounce of courage she possessed, she raised her chin. “I have been abducted and am held prisoner. When my family—”

Angus sauntered into the overfull chamber. His coffee-brown gaze slithered over her. “Either ye let the lasses help ye undress and bathe, or Dunbar and these laddies be havin’ the pleasure.”

The knaves undressing her with their eyes elbowed one another and whispered amongst themselves.

Tears of frustration welled. They would find her dagger, sure as spittle flew in the wind.

She twisted her hands in her cloak.

“I’m not accustomed to so many eyes upon me during my toilette, especially strangers.” She sucked in a trembling breath, aware he preferred cowering, defeated females. Making her voice quiver, she asked, “Might I be permitted to disrobe and bathe myself?”

Begging this despicable oaf galled. “Please?”

He tilted his head and stared at her a lengthy moment.

Surely, he would deny her request.

“
Aye
. Two lassies will stay and help ye wash yer hair and get ye dressed.” He dug at his beard then gave his chest a vigorous scratch. “Me men be outside should ye try anythin’.”

He ought to consider a good scrub and a shave himself.

Isobel released her breath and unfastened her cloak. She might yet be able to keep her dagger concealed. “That’s acceptable, thank you.”

It wasn’t acceptable, but what choice had she? No one except Maura had seen her naked since she wore diapers, and Isobel had known the nursemaid her entire life.

More tears threatened. Isobel blinked the weakness away and dropped her cloak onto the pallet. She swayed slightly as another wave of dizziness engulfed her. Her head still hurt from Angus’s blow, and that, combined with lack of food, caused her lightheadedness.

“Ye two stay.” He pointed to the skinny girl and the servant holding the gown.

Everyone else obediently turned to file from the room, Angus at the rear. He took her measure, his keen gaze lingering far too long on her bosom. “Have ye eaten?”

Surprised he would concern himself with something so mundane, Isobel returned his appraisal and resisted the urge to cover her breasts. “No, not today. I had some broth and bread last night.”

“That be all?” He pivoted toward the guards waiting in the entrance, bitter lines carved into his scarred face. Dead calm, he stared pointedly at the messy contents of trays strewn outside the door. “Ye ate her food?”

His tone chilled her to her toes and raised the hair on her arms.

The sentries exchanged anxious glances.

A second later, Angus plowed his fists into their faces, one right after the other.

They slumped to the floor. Blood dripped from one man’s gashed cheek and oozed from the clearly broken nose of the other.

Trepidation glinting in their eyes, the rest of the terrified servants stood stock-still.

They reminded Isobel of a family of mice cornered by a ravenous fox, not daring to flee, yet certain if they remained, they would be the beast’s next victim.

His knuckles bloodied, Angus pointed to the youngest Scotswoman. “Fetch a generous tray for the lass, includin’ ale, and if ye dare to eat a crumb, I be guttin’ ye.”

He jammed his thumb in the door’s direction. “Git. Send Dunbar to stand guard, and take these worthless pieces of
shite
with ye.”

Angus kicked the nearest guard in the ribs.

The servants scampered to do his bidding, except the women he’d told to remain.

If the situation weren’t dire, Isobel might have appreciated the ridiculousness of the oversized men cowering before Angus. What kind of man inspired such intimidation?

She didn’t really want to know. What she’d experienced at his hands explained much about the man. What humanity he had once possessed had long since departed.

He turned his peculiar, dispassionate gaze on her. He had rendered two giants unconscious, and not a whit of emotion lingered on his bland countenance.

Despite the fire burning brightly, she shivered but refused to avert her eyes.

His full lips edged upward a fraction. “Eat first, and then bathe. I
canna
have ye swoonin’ durin’ the ceremony.”

MacHardy’s here
?
Already
?

She’d missed his arrival. No surprise there. The gatehouse entrance graced the opposite side of the keep. The urge to tear to the window and screech for help until she was hoarse choked Isobel.

Assuredly, Ewan tracked her, but she couldn’t wait for her brother. She must escape before MacHardy saw her and revealed she wasn’t Lydia. Isobel’s very life depended on it.

Angus strode to the door as the women hustled about, preparing her bath and repeatedly sent him apprehensive glances beneath their lashes.

“When . . .” Isobel licked her chapped lips, forcing her panic aside. How much time did she have to escape? “When does the ceremony take place?”

He turned halfway back to her. “As soon as the rector arrives. Should be sometime before the evenin’ meal.”

Angus smiled then, a humorless bending of his wide mouth. “It’s meant to be our weddin’ feast.”

Yancy loosely tied Skye’s reins to a branch before squatting and inspecting the tracks pressed into the drying ground. They’d been made by a horse carrying two riders, and not more than a few hours old, if he had to guess.

A few hours.

How many? Four? Eight? More?

Still crouching, he exhaled a long breath. Where the hell was Sethwick? This was his area of expertise. He should have overtaken Yancy yesterday. Unless Sethwick chose to take a different route or something at Craiglocky had delayed his departure.

Damn, had Gregor died?

Sethwick’s delay became increasingly worrisome by the hour. Yancy frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. His studied the rugged track ahead. Not the most travel-friendly course he’d ever taken, to be sure. Truth be known, he preferred a comfortable carriage for extensive journeys.

Unaccustomed to such long hours in the saddle, his legs and arse ached. He wrinkled his nose. And he stank, almost as foully as MacHardy.

The Scots had headed straightaway for Blackhall lands, which meshed with Tornbury Fortress’s borders for a good seventy miles. To his knowledge, the Blackhalls had no grievance against the Farnsworths. What exactly were the scunners about, then?

Isobel was of no use to them.

He’d thought long and hard on that particular, and the conclusion he’d arrived at sent dread snaking along his spine.

The bastards had snatched the wrong woman.

He clenched a fist and pounded his thigh. Miss Farnsworth had been the intended victim. He didn’t want to contemplate what they would do to Isobel when they discovered their error.

Yancy fully expected a hostile reception at Dounnich, and there wasn’t a by-blows’ chance of inheriting a dukedom he would get farther than the outer gate without a plan and massive reinforcements.

How had it come to this? He’d journeyed to Scotland to restore order amongst the clans, and instead found himself on the receiving end of a sword’s tip, the woman he adored in jeopardy.

The knowledge sent another wave of ire boiling through him, especially since his chance of rescuing her was slim to none without a vicious fight. Good men might die—would surely die—in the skirmish.

Perhaps Sethwick had concluded the same and sent word to the nearby clans. Waiting for the recruits to arrive would have delayed him.

In the meanwhile, Isobel remained at the mercy of fiends.

“Bleeding hell.” Yancy heaved a stone at a nearby tree. He smiled in grim satisfaction as bark splinters exploded every which way.

Exactly what he yearned to do to the faces of the bastards who’d taken her.

He traced the hoof’s indentation.

The Scots didn’t appear to attempt to hide their trail after the first day and a half. They hadn’t expected anyone to tail them so speedily. Bold as ballocks they’d been, waging an attack on Craiglocky lands, no doubt certain of a victory.

Arrogance and stupidity on their part. They’d started a conflict they were destined to lose. Not only was Sethwick a powerful chieftain, but Prinny favored him, and as War Secretary, Yancy had authorization to use British troops at will.

He would pulverize the MacGraths and Blackhalls into dust and pave the streets with their crushed bones if they’d harmed Isobel in any way.

Skye snorted and pawed the ground, and Yancy twisted to gaze at the horse. “I know, I’m frustrated, too.”

Something white beyond the gelding caught Yancy’s attention.

Another sign from Isobel.

Straightening, he hurried to the spot and collected the soiled strip. He pressed the scant cloth to his nose. Her subtle, mellifluous scent lingered on the scrap.

What other woman would dare, or have the faculties, to leave bits of fabric and makeshift arrows or partial words scraped into the ground to guide her rescuers? Each time he found one, his heart lifted the merest bit.

It meant she was well; at least as well as she could be given her perilous circumstances. He folded the scrap before adding it to the others nestled in his pocket.

Skye nudged his shoulder then nibbled his coat.

Yancy chuckled. “No, you cannot eat it. It belongs to your future mistress.” He swung into the saddle. “We’ve a damsel to rescue, old chap. Both our sweet tooths will have to wait to be satisfied.”

Several hours later, he skirted a pitiable village, nothing like Craigcutty, the thriving hamlet on Sethwick’s lands. Wisdom dictated Yancy keep his presence a secret. Likely the villagers had orders to inform the keep the moment anyone noticed a stranger in their midst.

Though a road split the forest as neatly as parted hair, he kept to the shadows and outer woodland border as he advanced toward the castle.

Dismounting, he surveyed the sky. Charcoal-colored clouds promised more rain and darkened the dismal afternoon, much like a fine mist blanketed his depressing thoughts.

He led the horse around another downed tree and after tethering Skye to a lengthy branch poking upright from the center, inspected the area. Well away from the road, yet far enough inside the woodlands to be invisible from the meadow, Skye should remain undetected.

The castle, a bleak, rectangular, stone monstrosity, interrupted the otherwise pleasant horizon. A high curtain wall with strategically placed turrets wrapped the front portion of the keep. The drawbridge lay open, as if the castle residents expected welcome guests rather than an army of enraged Scotsmen.

Had the Blackhalls thought their actions through at all? This was not the fifteenth century, for God’s sake. Surely, they had to be aware there would be consequences for their rashness.

Perhaps they intended to start a war with England and the clans who’d pledged their fealty to the crown decades before. He didn’t doubt that two hundred years from now, some Scots would still strive to regain independence from England.

Blister and rot, nothing good could come of this nonsense.

Giving Skye a final pat on the shoulder, Yancy left the gelding. Mindful to keep hidden from the lookouts posted, he crept from trunk to trunk. Slim chance existed that he’d be spied him amongst the pines. However, he deemed caution prudent. A wounded or dead man couldn’t rescue anyone.

Subtle movement to his left caught his attention. He silently withdrew his dirk and turned, ever-so-slowly.

A traveller crouched behind a fallen tree, staring at the castle. If the gypsies collaborated with the Blackhalls, why did this man hide in the forest?

Suddenly, the man straightened and shaded his eyes.

Yancy followed his gaze.

A third story window framed a black-haired woman.

“Tasara.” The man’s agonized whisper floated through the trees.

Another woman appeared in the next window.

“Isobel.” This time Yancy’s murmur penetrated the forest’s half-light.

His gaze flashed to the traveller. He had moved forward, his hands on his hips.

A twig snapping under Yancy’s boot gave him away.

Blade drawn, the gypsy spun in his direction. Fury darkened his already-swarthy skin. “Who are ye?”

Yancy didn’t doubt the man’s ability to use the weapon he wielded.

“I might ask you the same question.” Yancy lowered his blade marginally. “I mean you no harm.”

Never taking his gaze off the gypsy, he inclined his head in the keep’s direction. “Someone dear to me is being held there.”

“Me
chi
and
chavvis
, son and daughters, be as well.” The man’s harsh features eased, although misery immediately replaced the tension.

“Bartholomew, Earl of Ramsbury.” Yancy sheathed his dirk and approached the man, his hand outstretched.

The tinker returned his evil-looking knife to his waistband, before shaking Yancy’s hand. “Balcomb Faas, yer lordship. Ye be English?”

“Yes, brought to Scotland on His Majesty’s business.”