Devil in a Kilt (44 page)

She
had no other choice.

The
cold wind increased then, accompanied by a hollow wail and the sound of waves
washing over rocks, then receding. Kenneth hurried their steps, practically
dragging her around the last few curves of the stairs until they emerged into a
good-sized cave.

Deep
shadows and flickering light from a small brazier cast eerie, shifting images
on the glistening walls and domed ceiling. The sea wind was stronger here,
whistling unhindered through a tall crevicelike opening on the far side of the
cavern, the chill gusts whipping her cloak against her legs and tangling her
unbound hair.

Sea
spray dampened her skin and burned her eyes, whilst dampness from the wet,
sandy floor seeped through the leather soles of her boots until her toes felt
like clumps of ice.

Rubbing
her hands together to keep warm, she glanced around. Two men guarded the narrow
entrance, each one holding a sputtering, smoke-spewing torch. Gilbert, the
smelly giant who'd seized her when she'd stepped into her chamber, remained
hulking on the bottom step of the stairwell.

His
towering bulk blocked all hope of snatching Robbie and disappearing into one of
the secret passages, ruined any chance of escape.

Even
worse, Robbie was nowhere to be seen.

Straining
her eyes for a glimpse of him, Linnet tried to peer past the two men lurking
near the cave's entrance. She hoped to see the child somewhere on the
rock-strewn shore beyond, but she saw naught except whitish curtains of fog
drifting across the jagged boulders and the choppy, pewter-colored surface of
the loch.

Ill
ease curled through her, settling in the pit of her stomach like a coiled,
venomous snake. "What have you done with Robbie?" she demanded,
finally finding her voice.

"I
woulda thought your special talent would've taken you straight to his
side," Kenneth quipped, his tone full of mockery. "Or is your sight
as false as my brother's supposed valor?" he added, releasing her to limp
hurriedly toward the two men guarding the entrance.

Linnet
ignored the insult to her husband for Kenneth's taunting words about Robbie,
and his sharply barked orders for his men to ready boats for a swift departure,
sent alarm coursing through her.

She
must find the lad.

Frantic,
she scanned the cavern, peering deeply into its shadows, desperately searching
for some sign of her stepson, half-afraid of what she'd find.

Her
sight was no help. She'd attempted to look inside herself, but had glimpsed
naught but darkness and cold.

Then
her gaze fell upon a dark, rounded lump in the farthest corner of the cave, and
her worst fears were confirmed.

Almost
hidden behind a cluster of black, glistening rocks jutting out from the
cavern's sloping wall, the wee lad huddled, knees drawn to his chest, his
wooden sword clenched tightly in his hands.

Linnet
ran to him, dropping to her knees on the wet sand. "Robbie, lad, praise
God you are not hurt," she cried, hugging him to her breast. "They
will take us from here, laddie," she whispered, holding him close,
"but dinna you worry. I will find a way for us to escape, and your da will
surely come looking for us. "

Robbie
twisted in her arms, turning away from her. "I won't go," he sniffed.

"But
you must, we both must—we don't have a choice," Linnet said, taking his
chin between her thumb and forefinger, forcing him to face her.

She
drew a sharp breath at her first good look at him. Pale and drawn, his cheeks
streaked with tears, his eyes filled with pain, the lad appeared to have aged
years. His lower lip trembled, and the hands clutching his toy sword shook.

His
usual hardy spirit was gone without a trace.

Thoroughly
vanquished, the bold bravery he was always wont to display.

A
fresh burst of tears spilled down his cheeks, and he tore away from her grasp,
lowering his head to stare at the cave's sandy floor.

"Robbie,
lad, you mustn't be afraid," Linnet crooned, smoothing a hand over the
warm silkiness of his bowed head. "I will not let aught happen to
you."

He
looked up then and a spark of his old self flared in his dark blue eyes.
"‘Tisna for mesself I cry, lady," he said, his voice breaking as if a
world of sadness bore down on his small shoulders. "‘Tis Mauger"—he
sobbed then—"the bad men killed him."

"Oh,
Robbie." Only then did she notice the old dog, barely discernible in the
deep shadows behind Robbie. Silent and unmoving, naught more than a tangled
heap of fur and bones, his dome-shaped head matted with blood, his
ever-trusting eyes, closed. "Oh, laddie, nay. ‘Tis so sorry I am,"
she breathed, now spilling tears of her own.

"Uncle
Kenneth kicked him."

"Aye,
and he deserved to be kicked," Kenneth said, closing his fingers tightly
around Linnet's arm and yanking her to her feet. "The mangy beast meant
to bite me."

"I
hate you, you're bad!" Robbie sprang to his feet and began thwacking at
Kenneth's legs with his wooden sword.

Kenneth
laughed. He grabbed the neck of Robbie's tunic and hoisted the boy high above
the ground so his spindly legs dangled loosely in midair. Robbie's toy sword
slipped from his hands as he thrashed about trying to strike his uncle with his
balled fists.

"Take
him—I grow weary of the pesky brat." Kenneth fair tossed the child into
Gilbert's arms. "‘Tis time we are on our way."

The
foul-reeking giant slung Robbie over one shoulder, crossed the cavern with a
few long strides, then disappeared through the narrow opening.

Kenneth
gave Linnet's arm a sharp tug. "Your boat awaits you, milady."

"You
will not live to savor this foul deed. My husband will come for us."

"Think
you?" Kenneth shot her a wolfish grin, then shoved her through the mouth
of the cave. "Did you not say the man is gravely wounded?" he asked
with a wicked smile, stepping through the opening.

"That
will not stop him," Linnet swore, as Kenneth pulled her across the rocky
shore toward one of the tiny coracles.

"We
shall see, lady, we shall see."

Then
he shoved her into the small boat, climbed in after her, and began rowing them
away from shore. Nearby, Gilbert practically flung the still-struggling Robbie
into another of the round, little boats, whilst Kenneth's remaining men
followed suit close behind them.

Thick
curtains of fog pressed in all around them, swallowing Robbie's high-pitched
squeals of protest and eventually closing in around the solid bulk of Eilean
Creag's thick gray walls.

Soon
the forbidding MacKenzie stronghold vanished from view, slipping behind the
enveloping swirls of mist, disappearing as thoroughly as if it'd never been
there.

And
all Linnet heard was Kenneth's heavy breathing as he rowed them farther and
farther away, the rhythmic slapping of the oars hitting the water, and the
overly loud beating of her anxious heart.

"Can
you hear me, laddie?"

Duncan
opened his eyes a crack and glowered at his old goat of a seneschal. "Of
course, I can hear you," he groused, "the way you've been blaring in
my ear, a deaf man would hear you, and I am not deaf."

That
said, he promptly shut his eyes again.

There
wasn't a single part of his body that didn't ache, and his head throbbed as if
he'd downed Eilean Creag's entire store of spirits.

Nay,
he did not want to be disturbed.

Not
by Fergus, not by anyone ... not even his sweet lady wife.

The
way he felt, he wouldn't even stir for the blessed St. Columba should the
highly revered holy brother care to pay him a Visit.

"Be
you still awake, laddie?" Fergus shouted into his ear, bellowing as if he
sought to rouse the dead.

Duncan's
hands curled into fists, and his eyes shot wide open. "If I was not, I am
now, you dolt! Can you not let a man rest?"

"Someone's
come to see you," Fergus, still leaned low over the trestle table,
bellowed into Duncan's ear.

"If
it is not God the Father Himself, send him on his way," Duncan ground out,
each word, each movement of his lips, sheer agony.

He
tried to close his eyes again, but Fergus, the persistent wretch, started
rattling Duncan's uninjured arm. "You canna keep sleeping. ‘Tis nigh unto
vespers, you've slept the day through and your visitor brings us grim
tidings."

With
a great effort, Duncan pushed himself up on his elbows and tried to focus his
hurting eyes... they burned as if someone had poured sand into them. "What
tidings? Has my bastard half brother marched into the hall and laid claim to
the high table?"

"It
is grave news, sir." This from Fergus's lady, and Duncan did not care for
her tone.

Following
her voice, he squinted up at her. The expression on her face was worse than
her tone. Her nose glowed bright red, and her eyelids were puffy. The woman had
been crying.

Sobbing,
from the look of her.

As
he peered at her, she gasped, clapped her hands over her mouth, and wheeled
away from him, her rounded shoulders heaving.

Duncan
forgot his wounds and sat straight up. "What madness has befallen us
whilst I've slumbered?" he wheezed, fire shards of pain shooting through
him.

To a
man, the kinsmen gathered around the trestle table avoided his gaze, each one
suddenly shuffling about as if their feet were afire or plucking at their
clothes as if they'd been beset by a horde of man-eating fleas.

Even
Fergus. The grizzled old seneschal stood half-turned away from Duncan,
scratching furiously at his elbow.

"What
goes on here?" Duncan boomed, now fully awake and furious himself.

"‘Tis
your lady, Laird MacKenzie," a great hulk of stranger said from the foot
of the table. "Your brother has her."

"You
lie!" Duncan made to leap off the table but white-hot pain knifed through
him. Black rage nigh blinding him and sheer terror squeezing the very air from
his lungs, he doubled over in agony, tightly clutching his middle.

Fergus,
his gnarled hands firm and strong, eased Duncan gently backwards until he was
once more in a prone position on the table. "Becalm yourself, laddie, we
dinna ken aught for certain. Not yet. Marmaduke's gone abovestairs. We'll soon
hear if any harm has come to your lady or the wee lad."

Inclining
his head toward the stranger, the seneschal continued, "He be Murdo, of
the MacLeod clan. Says he was on his way here with a message from his laird.
The MacLeod would bid us to send men. They need help rebuilding their hall
after a fire and—" Fergus paused to rest an arm about his weeping lady's
shoulders, "—on the way here, he came across some of Kenneth's men. They
boasted the whoreson had your lady and Robbie and meant to ransom them,"
he finished in a rush.

For
a long moment Duncan said naught. He couldn't, for terror constricted his
lungs, and each one of Fergus's words had been like a nail hammered into his
heart.

Lifting
his head as best he could, he narrowed his eyes at the stranger. Something
about the man struck him in a bad way, and it wasn't just the grim tidings he
brought. "I ken John MacLeod well. His men, too, but I dinna recall ever
meeting you."

Murdo
nodded, then withdrew a gleaming golden brooch from a leather pouch suspended
from his belt. With grimy fingers, he held out the finely wrought piece of
jewelry for Duncan's inspection. A large red gemstone in its middle winked and
sparkled in the reflection of a nearby rushlight.

‘Twas
a choice gem and a brooch of rare beauty.

Duncan
knew it well... he'd seen it oft as the MacLeod laird wasn't wont to go about
without the brooch fastened to his cloak.

‘Twas
a charmed piece, John had sworn.

One
he always wore.

Murdo
must have seen the recognition in Duncan's eyes, for he dropped the brooch back
into his pouch and gave Duncan a broad smile.

Duncan
didn't return the smile. "I canna believe John would part with that
brooch."

The
stranger's smile dimmed, but only for a moment. "Oh, aye," Murdo
disagreed, bobbing his shaggy, unkempt head. "He knew you wouldn't know me
and sent along the brooch to vouchsafe for my identity."

"I
see." Duncan didn't believe a word of the man's story. He slanted a glance
at Fergus, but the bristly old fool was still scratching his elbow.

Looking
back at the stranger, Duncan hissed out a sharp breath before he opened his
mouth to speak. Saints alive, just turning his neck sent sizzling bolts of pain
shooting down his spine. Wincing, he forced his lips to move. "What of a
fire? How many men does John need?"

"So
many as you can spare. All but the bare stone walls are ash and soot. Oh, aye,
‘twas a fierce fire," Murdo said, rocking back on his heels. "You'll
be wanting to send a party after your lady first, though. My lord willna
begrudge you looking after your own afore you send help."