Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides) (13 page)

She lay still, calming herself with logic. She was safe here at Dun Ard. All was well.

But just then a noise whispered in the darkness, so quiet it seemed to be no more than a thought.

Yet she was certain she hadn't imagined it.

She forced herself to sit up while her mind foolishly told her to lie still, that if she didn't move, she would be invisible.

But invisible from what?

She glanced stiffly about, her heart beating hard against her ribs, and her lungs forgetting to breathe. The room was tiny, containing no more than a single trunk and her bed. There was nothing frightening there, nothing at all. Swinging her legs carefully, over the edge of the pallet, Shona rose to her feet.

It was not like her to be afraid, not here in Dun Ard, where she had always been safe. And yet the night seemed filled with a thousand evil things. Evil things that snarled at her from the darkness, that threatened her very soul. She stood paralyzed with an unknown fear.

A miniscule scrape came from the hallway. With a soft pant of fear, Shona grasped Dragonheart in her fist. The amulet felt cold in her palm, but the feel of it in her hand brought back a thousand memories—vows made in a high tower on a stormy night, bonds forged long ago, promises to be bold and brave like the Flame and the Rogue.

Without another thought Shona slipped to the door and wrenched it open.

The narrow hallway was empty. But there was something, a terror so frightfully sharp it seemed difficult to draw a breath.

Her fingers tightened on the dragon. Twas not the way of the MacGowans to hide, she reminded herself, and very silently, very carefully, she slipped along the wall to follow something or someone she could neither see nor understand.

The night was as silent and stifling as death, but Shona forced herself to move on down the hall until she had reached Kelvin's door. Pressing the portal carefully open, she peeked inside. He lay in happy exhaustion, his limbs tangled with those of the other boys who shared his bed. All was well there.

Shona moved on, skimming down the darkened hallway. Her feet were bare and made no noise against the wooden floor. But her gown was white and utterly visible in the darkness. Still, she could not turn back, could not return to her room. Someone had been at her door. Someone had planned to enter her room. She was certain of it, though she had no idea how.

Stairs spiraled downward. She stepped onto them. The stone was cool against her feet. It was impossible to see to the bottom, to make certain no one lay in wait for her, yet she had little choice but to continue, for something drove her on.

The stairs opened onto the great hall. Shona let out a single breath and glanced about. Sleeping bodies were sprawled everywhere, but not a soul moved. Whoever had been at her door was not there. But he was somewhere, somewhere close.

She must know who it was, and therefore she must be absolutely silent. Without making a sound, she skirted the bodies and slipped along the wall toward the door.

A passageway opened on her right and from there she heard an indefinable whisper of sound.

She turned with a start. A shadow flickered at the edge of her consciousness, but in a moment it was gone. She squinted into the darkness, and there, far away, she thought she saw a faint line of light.

Quiet as nightfall, her hands damp as she pressed against the wall, Shona slipped down the darkened hall. It seemed like an eternity before she realized that the glow she saw was nothing more terrifying than light shining from beneath a closed door.

She moved closer still. Whoever had been at her door must have come this way, but the numbing terror was gone now, replaced by the rush of excitement such clandestine adventures always caused.

She tiptoed closer still.

Voices murmured from the far side of the door.

"The king is little more than a babe," someone said. She did not know the voice but remained perfectly still, holding her breath and listening. "Do ye not see the trouble in this?"

"Aye." Uncle Leith's voice was distinctive. "The trouble is clear, Archibald. What is not so clear is what steps to take to assure Scotland's success."

Archibald! Archibald, the Earl of Angus—the husband of their exiled queen, and King James's stepfather? Shona wondered. When had he arrived? She should have known. She should have kept better track. After all, she had responsibilities now. What did he want here? And where was the queen?

"Tis certainly clear that our success does not lie in the hands of a French regent who does not even remain on Scottish soil," said Archibald.

"In all honesty, ye must admit that the regent has used all good wisdom to rule our land." Her father's voice was solemn and thoughtful.

"All good wisdom!" said Archibald. "Good God, man, the regent does not even speak lowland Scottish, much less the Gaelic. What can he know of our needs? I would think ye would be the first to be offended by his lack of interest."

"And what is your interest in this?" Leith asked.

"My interests lie with the interests of Scotland," Archibald said.

"Do they? In truth, it seems that your interests sometimes lie with those of England."

A movement jerked Shona's attention away. A shadow off to her right! Or was she imagining it?

No, it was there. Fear prickled up her spine, but she could not entertain it.

A noise scraped along the edges of her consciousness, calling her on, down the narrow passageway, across the great hall. Not a soul moved there, but when she focused on the door, it seemed she could see it shift ever so slightly. Had someone just exited there?

She glided swiftly across the open area, skirting the sleeping bodies of men and hounds. In an instant the latch of the huge, arched door was beneath her hand. It creaked in quiet protest, but she did not delay. Outside the air was still and damp, eerily silent. Nothing moved. She hurried out into the bailey, but still nothing caught her eye.

But someone had been at her door, and someone had been near the room where the men talked.

Who had it been?

Gathered at Dun Ard were her kin, her friends, her...

Kinnaird! His face appeared suddenly in her mind—his knowing smile, his eerie eyes. Where had he been during the games? Maybe her wild idea hadn't been so far-fetched; maybe he truly
was
a spy.

And if that was the case, twas her job to find out. Through careful questioning, she had learned, amongst other things that he slept in a private barracks above the stable, for she had fully intended to search his belongings. But the time had never seemed right. Surely, she had thought, she couldn't do so at night, for then he would be in the very room she meant to search. But what if he had been the one at her door? Then his room would be empty and she would know that he had been prowling about.

Shona glanced back at the great hall. It would be wise to change her clothing, at least, but there was no time. If she was going to learn the truth, she must go now.

Dragonheart lay warm and approving against her breast, and somehow its reassuring presence pushed her on. It was no more than a piece of metal and stone, of course, but it reminded her who she was—a MacGowan, a Forbes: invincible.

Hence, she hurried forward through the darkness, past the herb garden and the mill. Inside the barn it was darker still. A horse nickered from its stall, but no one questioned her purpose for being there, so she crept, quiet as thought, up the ladder.

Above the stables the loft had been divided into individual barracks. She hurried past the closed doors, counting them as she went then stopped at the fourth.

What to do now? She could hardly just barge in and demand to know where Dugald had been, for perhaps he had been there the whole while—or perhaps he wasn't there at all.

The hair prickled on the back of her neck. If she were wise, if she were prudent, if she were a lady, she would hustle back to her own chambers.

She lifted the latch to the room. It moved as silently as if it had just been oiled. She held her breath. Her heart pounded. She pushed the door quietly open.

But suddenly something smacked against her back. She was thrown inside. The door swung shut behind her, pitching her into absolute blackness. She tried to scream, but something struck her head and she was flung sideways. She landed diagonally across a bed and tried to scramble away. But a blanket was yanked over her head and wrapped tight about her throat, muffling her screams, cutting off her breath. She clawed to escape, to breathe, but darkness as black as hell filled her head. Terror found her. Reality escaped, fleeing beneath the oncoming unconsciousness.

She was going to die. She knew it. There was no use fighting, and yet she did, scraping frantically at the cloth. Her fingernails met flesh. Skin curled beneath her nails, but it gave her no satisfaction. She was dying, fading, going limp. Of course—limp.

It took every whit of discipline Shona had to force her muscles to loosen. But she did so, stifling the desperate terror of dying, and forcing herself to drift flaccidly toward oblivion.

An eternity of screaming silence passed before she heard a scratchy hiss of satisfaction. The blanket let up a tad. She felt the rush of air against her face. Sweet, so sweet, but she did not take it into her lungs. She did not move. Instead, she waited, one second, two, three, a lifetime. And then, like a striking snake, she jerked up her knee.

It slammed against something solid. Her attacker stumbled backward, but she had no air, no strength left, and already he was returning, lunging at her, something raised in his hands.

She felt it descend, heard the hiss of air as it rushed toward her head. She rolled across the pallet, but not soon enough. It grazed her skull and struck the mattress, spinning her toward oblivion.

Malevolence drew nearer, and she was powerless to escape. There was nothing she could do.

She had failed.

But suddenly the door was yanked open.

Someone leapt into the room on a pale shaft of light.

A hiss of noise cut through the night air, and then all was silent.

She tried to see who had arrived, tried to clear her vision, to speak, to warn him as he stepped toward her. She felt the newcomer's presence more than saw it, imagined him leaning over her then imagined her assailant slipping behind him.

"Careful!" she croaked.

He jerked back at the sound of her voice.

"Behind ye!" she rasped.

She saw the pale shadow of his face turn away. But in a moment he was staring at her again.

Heaven's wrath! Couldn't he see the attacker? Couldn't he feel the evil?

She tried to struggle up to save them both from the man who had attacked her, but a hand on her shoulder held her down.

"Stay!" he ordered, and turned away to disappear through the door.

Strength seeped weakly back to Shona. She dragged herself to a sitting position with her back against the wall and tried to still her spinning world.

Footsteps echoed on the floor and stopped. There was a sound like a knife slipping into its sheath. A spark flashed in the darkness, hurting her eyes. Instinctively, she covered her face and flinched away, but the spear of brightness only settled into a small flame, lighting a candle nearby.

It illuminated dark features and set silvery eyes ablaze.

"What the devil are ye doing in my room?" asked Dugald Kinnaird.

Shona tried to find her equilibrium, or at least think up a good lie. But there was little hope of that, for her head pounded and her eyes throbbed in sockets that were suddenly too small.

"Where is he?" she croaked. The words sounded fuzzy to her ears.

"Who?"

Who indeed. "The man," she mumbled. Every inch of her battered body ached, while her jaw felt as if it had been attacked by a battering ram.

"You came here to be with a man?"

His voice sounded oddly sharp, unlike his usual seductive timbre. She tried to focus on him and found that she was marginally successful. Her hands were still shaking, but her lungs no longer felt as if they were being squeezed by a wine press, and her head felt as if it might, despite her first impressions, still be attached to her neck.

"And what man did you hope to see?" he asked, drawing nearer. "What man could you
wish
to see dressed in naught but a nightrail, Damsel Shona?"

All right, so she had been about to snoop through his private things. But that was hardly the issue here. She had been attacked! Could he be so dense that he didn't realize that? What had happened to her assailant? How had he slipped away so quickly, so silently that this Dugald did not even realize he had been there? “Where is he?" she croaked again.

"Who? Who did ye plan to meet here?"

The truth seeped slowly into her battered mind. He thought she had planned a tryst here. Dear God, he was dumber than a rock!

"Who?" he repeated, stepping forward.

He seemed different somehow tonight, sharper, harder, not the handsome scoundrel sniffing out a rich bride, but something entirely different. Who was this man? she wondered, and realized suddenly that he was dressed in loose fitting breeches and a simple belted tunic, all of it the same shade as the night.

"Tell me who you planned to meet here, lass, or I'll have to tell your father you've been sleep walking where you shouldn't."

The threat cleared her head better than Fiona's bitter tonics.

"Who did I plan to meet? Oh, I dunna know." She tried to shrug and felt strangely disembodied.

"Any man that would have me I suspect, Dugald the Daft."

"That's Dugald the Deft," he corrected through his teeth.

"Oh!" She was really not in a mood for conversation. "And what makes ye think so?"

"I did not take the name myself."

"Of course. I believe ye claimed it was the queen of Kalmar."

"Actually, I believe it was the Queen of Spain who mentioned it first."

"Was it after your 'short acquaintance' with her also?'' She dared a fuzzy glance about the narrow room. It was empty but for the two of them. Why was she here? she wondered foggily.

"Mayhap I saved her from a fate worse than death," Dugald said.