Lord Keeper (23 page)

They crested a barren hill where before them lay a modest village. As they rode through the streets, not a single light flickered to life in response to the noise of riders in the dead of night. The band wound down a side street and stopped in front of an insignificant cottage. David dismounted and was joined by Edwin.

A man approached her horse. He clamped strong hands around her waist and pulled her from her mount She braced her feet for meeting solid ground, but he threw her over his shoulder and, an instant later, tossed her into the darkness of the cottage. The door slammed shut behind him.

Chapter Twenty-Four

David Robertson had a penchant for eyes. Iain peered through the slit of the eye not yet swollen shut. He kept his gaze fixed on the shadowy progress of a rat making a stealthy approach along the wall toward where he sat on the dirt floor. Iain’s jaw worked in tandem with the brutal kick that sent the rat flying backward with a squeal. Eight of the rodents lay dead. One more would bring him nearer the dozen he aimed for before the night was finished.

“Cowards,” he muttered. “No true Highlander uses such methods of torture.”

Iain canted his head, his attention centered on sounds outside his prison. “Well now, come back to replenish the hungry beasties, eh?”

He squinted against the light of a torch that flooded his cell, silhouetting the figure that entered the room. Before Iain could identify the intruder, the door closed and he found himself once again in darkness, but this time, not alone.

“So, you are still among the living.”

Iain sprang to his feet, the heavy chain that shackled his leg to the wall rattling.

“
Hockley,
” he said in a harsh whisper.

Memory of Victoria’s limp body as she fell, dying, into his arms, sprang to life. Had he been wrong in believing she had ridden back to the castle before David captured him? Or was Hockley’s presence proof he hadn’t escaped the past after all? Was this moment a dream as the other had been? Had Victoria’s death been a dream? Iain gave his head a hard shake and ran a palm along the bridge of his nose and forehead. His head swam, but he squinted in the earl’s direction.

“You would do well to kill me for I will come for her.”
Only this time, your bloody sword will not touch her.

Iain slowly bent and reached for the chain shackling his foot to the wall. “Did she tell you she carries my child?” Silence followed, and Iain prayed Hockley believed the fabrication. “Aye.” Iain winced when the chain clinked as he carefully lifted it from the floor. “My child.” The earl shifted, but still, no sound of steel leaving the scabbard. “Do you think she will give up the babe?” Iain took several stealthy steps backward, stopping when shoulders touched the wall.

Hockley broke the silence. “When I return, be ready.”

“Aye,” Iain agreed. “I will be ready.”

“If you wish to live, do as you are told.” Edwin’s voice hardened.

“I will not let her go,” Iain said.

“Beware, MacPherson,” Edwin said, his tone blunt, “no man finds revenge beyond the grave.”

Iain’s heart pounded.
So, too, would I have said before I awoke in that meadow.

* * *

Shouts shattered the silence of night. Iain sprang up from the floor, heart pounding at the faint but unmistakable sound of swords clashing. Gathering the chain at his side, he crouched.

Moments later, the door eased open. Pale moonlight shone outside, and Iain’s eyes shifted in painful motion from the huge Robertson warrior standing in the doorway to the men darting between cottages across the way. Sword before him, the warrior approached. Iain tightened his grip on the chain.

The man stopped just out of reach of Iain’s chain. “Iain MacPherson?”

Iain remained quiet.

“It will not do either of us any good if you brain me with that chain.” He cocked his head so that moonlight revealed the face of a young man, eighteen, maybe nineteen.

Iain rose to his feet. The chain rattled as he let it fall full length at his side.

“You want me to release you?” the young man asked.

“How do you plan on accomplishing that?” Iain asked. “Even that sword of yours will not cut this iron.” He tensed when the man shifted, turning the blade in front of him.

“I had not thought of that. If I swung it wide enough I might be able to do it.”

Iain swung the chain so that it jangled. “I would not swing that sword in my direction, lad, if you want to stay in one piece.”

The young man sheathed his sword, then reached into his boot and produced a dirk. “I did not plan on using my sword, but my hands.”

Iain observed massive hands as the young man extended the dirk, hilt first, to Iain. Iain took the blade.

“I believe you know my sister,” the boy said, kneeling before him. “Jillian.”

Iain started. “Bran Robertson?”

“Aye.” Bran gripped the chain with both hands and pulled. A link shuddered open.

“Christ,” Iain murmured.

Bran grunted and dropped the chain.

Iain gave his leg a shake, rattling the chain still attached to the shackle. “No way to rid me of this?”

Bran shook his head. “Even I cannot break the steel of a shackle. But do not worry.” He stood. “Your man is waiting close by. By the time we reach him, the battle will be nigh over and we will be able to better deal with the shackle.” Bran pulled out the large battle axe tucked into his belt. “Take this.” He handed the axe to Iain.

Iain grasped the handle. Weight of the weapon in his hand sent a surge of strength through him. He strode to the door and examined the blade of the dirk in the moonlight. “Nearly razor sharp, but,” Iain ran the blade across the head of the axe, “I cannot chance any burrs.” He brought the dirk down in a final quick stroke along the axe head. “Bran, do you have a strong stomach?”

“Aye,” the boy answered.

Iain looked at him. “And a steady hand?”

“Of course,” he replied, his voice laced with the indignation of youth.

“Come here, lad.”

Bran crossed to his side and halted.

“You see this swollen eyelid?” Iain pointed to his eye with the tip of the dirk.

The young warrior nodded.

Iain tucked the axe into his belt. “I need the sight of this eye. Here,” he pulled his eyelid taut, “just beneath the hair of my brow. Slice the swollen lid to allow blood flow.” Iain thrust the dirk into his hand.

Bran hesitated, then reached up, hands shaking.

Iain grasped his hand. “Easy now. A single misstep and you cut my eyeball.”

Bran took a breath and, with one swift movement, slit the eyelid.

Iain staunched the flow of blood with the edge of his sash. “Have you any black powder to seal the wound?” he asked.

“Nay,” Bran replied, “but I have allium.”

“Fine.”

“What awaits us out there?” Iain asked as Bran dug through his pouch.

Bran snorted. “A wily bunch of dogs. We estimated thirty, but ’tis more like forty.” His voice hardened. “How they managed such a force William will be wanting to know.”

“MacPhersons?”

“Thirty,” Bran said, pulling out the bag of allium.

“Uneven odds,” Iain said.

“Nay,” Bran said, “there are also thirty Frasers and thirty Englishmen.”

“Englishmen—Hockley,” Iain rasped. “Since when are they friends?”

“I would imagine since your wife enlisted their help.”

Christ, what sort of pact did Victoria make to enlist the aid of that bastard?
“I will strangle her with my bare hands.”

Bran poured the allium on Iain’s eyelid. Iain packed it down, halting the flow of blood almost immediately. Another instant, and he blinked the swollen eye.

“Where are we to meet Thomas?”

“A cottage on the east side of the village. You are on the outskirts of the village. Strange,” Bran said, “you would think they would keep you under closer guard.”

“Arrogance,” Iain replied. He peered cautiously out the door and found the lane their cottage occupied deserted. “We had best get there.”

Iain reached for his axe as Bran unsheathed his sword, and together they stepped outside. They hurried across the open lane and stopped at the cottage Iain had seen the men hurrying past earlier.

He cocked his head, listening. “There is fighting in the center of the village.”

He paused at the corner of the building and peered around the edge. A Robertson warrior lay dead between the cottage they hid behind and the one opposite it. Another man’s legs stuck out from the back of the far cottage. Iain pushed away from the wall and strode past the dead man. Bran glanced at the man and frowned.

“I am sorry,” Iain said.

“No need,” Bran said.

“You knew him?”

“Enough to know I did not like him.”

They reached the back of the cottages. Iain halted, leaned against the wall, and slowly looked around the corner. Men fought some distance down the lane.

“Bran,” Iain pushed away from the building and glanced over his shoulder at the boy, “come—” the words died at the sight of a Robertson warrior behind Bran, sword lifted.

“Bran!” Iain grabbed Bran’s arm, yanking him clear.

Iain lunged forward and swung his axe, slicing a furrow across the warrior’s midsection. Blood spilled from his gut. The man faltered, but continued the descent of his sword toward Iain. Iain swung again, his axe opening the man’s chest. Cool air met the warmth of his innards and steam rolled in large gusts from the warrior’s body. He fell onto his face, showering spurts of blood onto Iain and Bran’s boots.

“Thank you,” Bran said as another Robertson flew around the corner. He bumped into Bran, bouncing off his large body. “Rory,” Bran growled. “I never liked you either.” Bran lunged, thrusting his sword through Rory’s belly. The man fell to his knees.

“Christ,” Iain said. “I pray you never have reason to dislike me.”

Bran gave a vicious kick below Rory’s jaw, sending him flying onto his back. Bran jumped forward and plunged his sword through the man’s heart.

Iain caught the look of bloodlust in Bran’s eyes as the boy leapt over Rory’s body and started at a run toward the sounds of fighting. The shackle’s chain jangled as he followed.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Victoria distinguished muffled sounds of battle before the cottage door flew open. She gripped her skirt in readiness to run while David Robertson scanned the dark room. He took a few paces into the shadows that protected her and she dashed for the door. As she tore past him, a hard yank on her hair brought Victoria to her knees, wrenching a cry from her. In one quick motion, David wound a handful of hair around his hand, jerked her to her feet, and brought the back of his hand across her cheek. She reeled, stopped from being thrown back by his hold on her.

“Is striking a woman universally practiced among cowards?” she hissed.

He gave her hair another vicious yank. Despite the flash of light that blurred her vision, Victoria laughed. A foreign taste seeped into her mouth. She spat, realizing it was blood. David released her hair. Gripping her arm, he dragged her out into the night.

Victoria caught sight of the horse he was headed for. She twisted, kicking at him, but her intention to break away was halted by the fighting she glimpsed between the cottages. “MacPherson plaide,” she whispered. Curling her fist, Victoria swung as hard as she could at David Robertson’s face.

“Bloody—” David’s oath died as she shoved away from him.

His grasp slipped downward and closed around her sleeve. A yank was followed by a ripping sound and cold air rushed across her back. David’s fingers tightened, catching the tender flesh of her arm and pinching hard.

He jerked her to him. “Try that again and you will find yourself with naught but rags to cover your body.”

“Preferable to being your prisoner.”

Victoria spat in his face and reared back to swing at him again, but he brought the back of his hand across her mouth in another brutal blow. Pain shot through her. Her knees weakened, then gave away altogether, and she slumped against him as darkness washed over her in a crushing wave.

“Coward,” she mumbled, vaguely aware rough hands had grasped her waist and lifted her from the ground.

She twisted, seeking soft flesh to sink her teeth into, but a final blow across her jaw left her with the memory of the arms that tightened around her like a vise.

* * *

Iain scanned the room for the hundredth time that morning, looking for any clue as to what had become of David Robertson. The cottage, larger than the rest and modestly furnished, was lavish in comparison to the other cottages. Just the sort of abode a man like Robertson would insist on even as an outpost.

Since discovering the disappearance of David Robertson and Victoria last night, they had combed the village and surrounding area a dozen times. Iain fought back panic. This situation was nothing like the
dream
when she’d fallen by Edwin’s sword. He would find her. Iain forced his thoughts from the memory of Victoria falling lifeless into his arms and focused on Edwin Hockley.

“I warn you,
Sassenach,
if you know anything about the whereabouts of this dog or my wife…” Iain pinned him with his good eye.

The earl’s expression turned patronizing. “If I knew where she was, would I not be there as well?”

“I am certain,” Iain put in savagely, “you had no intention of being caught here.”

He shrugged.

“You are sure this is the cottage David used?” Iain asked again.

“Quite sure,” Hockley replied.

“And you have no idea where my wife was held?”

He shook his head. “They separated us.”

“I am still at a loss as to how you allowed that.”

A slight smile curved one edge of his mouth. “I would imagine, very much the same way you left her to find her way home alone from a meadow.”

The two men glared at one another, and Iain caught the smallest flicker in the earl’s eyes. “It is your choice, Hockley.” Iain hadn’t stripped the Englishman of his sword.

He regarded Iain, then said, “Death is not what you fear most, is it, MacPherson?”

Iain clenched then unclenched his jaw. “Death is the
very
thing you should fear.”

Thomas stepped through the door, shifting Iain’s attention from Hockley.

“Well?” Iain demanded.

“No sign of her,” Thomas reported.

“You are sure the Robertson men spoke the truth?”

Thomas exhaled. “We were very persuasive. At this point, I think they would have little reason to lie.”

“You searched the other cottages again?”

Thomas nodded. “But it would not matter which one she had been kept in, she is not there now, and for all the evidence she never was.”

“His men have no idea where Robertson has taken himself off to?”

“There were not many left after the battle,” Thomas said. “It is possible those who knew either ran like the rats they are or were killed.”

“I will have Carrigan sent for,” Liam’s voice came from the doorway. Iain shifted his attention onto him. “He is the finest tracker I have.”

“Good,” Iain said. “Meanwhile, we will begin our own search.”

* * *

Pain seared through Victoria’s consciousness. Up, up, her mind swam, past the deep throb that worked against every stroke she took toward full awareness. Muddled understanding wove a slow course through her mind and she shifted on the saddle.

“Do not move a muscle.”

The rough voice recalled her to a vague sense of danger. Victoria squinted, looking up past the trees at the stirrings of dawn. Another moment brought full memory, and she was unable to stifle a small cry.

David’s grunt reverberated through her body. “So you remember,” he said.

Nay, she hadn’t forgotten and sat still as stone with the recollection. Her heart pounded against her chest. When had they left the barren hills for the lush foliage they now rode through? David Robertson had the horse at a canter. Had they ridden at that pace throughout the night? No. He would have ridden hard at first in an effort to put as much distance between himself and the MacPherson forces. She closed her eyes. Had Thomas found Iain and, if so, was he dead or alive?

Half an hour later, the sun broke over the horizon and shafts of sunlight streamed through the trees. A lone rider shot out of the trees onto the path in front of them. Victoria gave a cry and David jerked back on the reins, narrowly averting a collision with the stranger. She blinked at the bearded rider who wore a wide-brimmed turban and sat atop a steed as black as night.

A rumble forced her attention from the man and onto an ornately painted wagon emerging from the forest behind him. David pulled back on the reins, backing the horse up several steps. His muscles tensed when at least two dozen men rode into sight behind the wagon. Another wagon followed, then another, and yet another.

“
Egyptians
.” The word from David Robertson held the slur the name entailed.

A tingle ran through Victoria.
Gypsies.
The memory of her singular encounter with the Gypsies on that first trip to Fauldun Castle surfaced even as the small door behind the seat of the lead wagon opened, revealing an exquisite woman. Dark hair cascaded down strong shoulders, and Victoria looked into eyes she knew had seen far too much of the world. A corner of the woman’s mouth curved upward almost as if she’d read Victoria’s mind.

Victoria bolted upright from David’s chest. “Help me! This man has kidnapped me from my husband—”

David’s hand clamped over her mouth, wrenching her head back against him. “Silence wench,” he hissed.

Her heart pounded harder when David turned his horse’s head and it looked as if no one would help her. But before he turned, the man who had cut them off made a clicking sound with his tongue and his steed lurched forward, barring their path.

“What does the woman speak of?” he demanded.

“Do not stick your nose into something that does not concern you,” David warned.

The man’s attention shifted to Victoria, who pleaded with her eyes while struggling to pry David’s hand from her mouth.

The man returned his gaze to David. “What crime has she committed?”

“The worst crime a woman can.”

Victoria ceased struggling. The voice had come from the woman in the wagon. She stepped to the ground.

“Or nearly the worst.” The woman laughed as she approached.

“Aurari.” The man glanced over his shoulder.

“Do not bother telling me to mind my own business, Evan.” She stopped beside him, her eyes on Victoria. “The woman speaks the truth. This man has stolen her from her husband.” Aurari canted her head. “And he has no intention of returning her.”

The words, spoken matter-of-factly, sent fresh alarm through Victoria.

“Be about your business,” David growled. “The world will not miss a few more Egyptians.”

Aurari’s attention never left Victoria as she said, “It is time.”

David shifted abruptly and Victoria realized he was reaching across her for his sword. His grip on her loosened and she bit down on the edge of his palm. David stiffened, but still slid his claymore from its scabbard.

Evan urged his mount close and jammed the point of his sword against the back of David’s neck. “Release her.”

David eased his weapon back into place. He gripped Victoria’s shoulders. Too late, she comprehended his intention. His fingers bit into her flesh, and she was hurled to the ground. She landed on her side. A sudden high neigh rang out, and David’s horse reared. Victoria watched the powerful hooves of the stallion hang motionless in mid-air before beginning their descent toward her.

“Move!”

Aurari’s shout broke the spell. Victoria rolled away an instant before hooves met solid ground. She lay unmoving as Evan’s sword pierced David Robertson’s neck. In one great spasm, David keeled forward, then dropped to the ground beside her with a sickening thud, blood pooling under his neck.

In the chaos that followed, Victoria was lifted from the ground and carried to Aurari’s wagon. The Gypsy women chattered as they patted her shoulder, offered her tea, and pointed to the high bed in the back of the wagon. Victoria didn’t miss the fact that Aurari slipped out the door. Victoria stood and, despite the loud objections, stumbled through the door and down the steps. Men had already begun digging a grave alongside where David Robertson’s body lay where it had fallen.

“What sort of fool are you?” a loud male voice riveted Victoria’s attention onto the man talking to Evan.

“Manouche,” Evan said in a calm voice.

Aurari glanced over her shoulder at Victoria. “That one is a fool.” She pointed at Manouche. “He believes helping you was a mistake.” Without waiting for comment, Aurari strode to the two men and said, “Leave this
old woman
to his babbling. He should join the other women, hiding in the wagons.”

Manouche looked at Aurari. “This is a grave error.”

“Manouche,” Evan began again, “Aurari has never led us astray.”

Manouche’s lips pursed. “She is wrong this time. We should not return the Englishwoman to her husband. You know as well as I do the
Gajikane
will slaughter us in payment for our kindness.”

“Coward,” Aurari said with a low snort.

“Aurari,” Evan admonished. “You should not speak to him in that manner. His father will not like it.”

Her mouth twisted with derision. “I care not if he is chief tomorrow. I will never bow to him.”

“You will do more than bow to me.” Manouche looked at Aurari as a man would a possession. Victoria expected him to deal Aurari a blow just as David had her, but instead Manouche turned back to Evan.

“You allow beauty to influence you in matters where it has no place.” With that, Manouche strode away.

Evan sighed. “You will someday regret your actions, Aurari.”

“Perhaps.” She tossed her hair in a manner that said she had little faith in Evan’s prediction.

* * *

Victoria spread the MacPherson tartan across her shoulders and looked at the sun, sunk low in the sky. She closed her eyes, her body rocking with the slow rhythm of the wagon. Not one night had yet passed since her rescue. Many days of travel still lay ahead. How was she to deal with not knowing if her husband lived or died? A chill ran through her. What if it was Edwin who discovered him first? Would Iain have allowed Edwin to walk away alive? Had Edwin kept his word and freed Iain? The wagon swayed. Victoria opened her eyes to see Aurari swinging up onto the wagon next to her.

“I woke you?” Aurari asked.

“Nay,” Victoria replied. “I feel as though I will never again be able to sleep.”

They lapsed into silence, and Victoria fell to studying the men who rode before them.

“You find my people interesting?” Aurari broke the silence.

“Aye.”

“But still somewhat odd.”

There was no question in her words, and Victoria didn’t pretend ignorance. “You are foreign to me. But I am not such a fool to think it bad.”

“And not such a fool to accept it as good.”

“I have seen nothing terrible.”

Aurari’s mouth twitched. “You have seen us kill a man.”

“Indeed,” Victoria answered, “and for that, I offer my gratitude.”

There was a flicker of something in Aurari’s eyes. Curiosity, Victoria thought, but the Gypsy woman turned her attention forward again.

“The men will be hungry soon.”

Victoria glanced up at the first stars in the evening sky. “We are far north. The journey is nearly a week.”

Aurari’s face showed surprise. “You read the stars?”

“I have found it…useful.”

A laugh, throaty and full, came from the Aurari. “Ah, a woman who has lived by her wits?”

Heat crept across Victoria’s cheeks. “Perhaps, but such secrets are better left alone.”

Another lusty laugh followed by Aurari giving her own knee a hearty slap. “I never knew the English possessed such wit. You need not worry, I am no mind reader.”

Victoria studied her companion for no more than an instant before concluding the Gypsy woman was not above stretching the truth.

As if reading her mind, Aurari’s eye twinkled. “Mayhap there has been a time or two I have seen inside another soul, but it is the darkness that reaches out to me.” She opened the lower half of the door behind their seat. “Come, we will begin the night’s meal.”