Mad for the Plaid (13 page)

And sure enough, a few seconds later, Gregor appeared. He looked as tired as Ailsa felt, not used to the grueling effort, either.

MacKean shot Gregor a hard look. “Got lost, did you?”

The younger man flushed. “I was only lost in my own thoughts and didn't realize you had trotted ahead.” He swung down from his horse and rolled his shoulders.

“I'd keep oop, if I were you,” MacKean said in a flat tone. “Dangerous men hide in these woods.”

“Of course.” Limping, Gregor led his horse to where Ailsa stood. “Here. Give me St. George. I'll take care of the animals.”

She could see the tiredness in his eyes. “Thank you. I'll set oot the pallets. We'll want that done before it
grows dark.” She glanced up at the trees waving overhead against the gray-growing sky, the almost bared limbs showering dead leaves now and then. “We've nae much time to set oop camp. We rode all day.”

“It feels like it,” Gregor muttered, rubbing his back.

Stewart opened one of his saddlebags. “Whilst you do tha', I'll start a fire. I brought some salted beef and dried carrots and such. If you'd like, I can make a bit of stew.”

“Aye,” Ailsa replied thankfully, glad to hear they'd have a warm supper. “Please do.”

They set about their duties, hurrying to get them completed before nightfall. As Ailsa cleared areas for the bedding, she thought about the prince, something she'd done off and on all day.

He'd be furious now, of course, probably cursing her name up one side of Castle Leod and down the other. She had no doubt he'd have followed if he'd known which direction to take.
Which he doesn't, thank goodness. That is not a man whose anger I relish facing.

Once the fire was crackling, Stewart pulled a metal stake from his pack and jabbed it into the ground by the flames. At one end of the stake was a large hook, upon which he hung a small black pot for their stew.

“That's a useful tool.” She nodded to the hooked stake.

“The blacksmith made it for me. It can be used for more than hangin' a pot, too. I've tied horses to it, used it to secure one end of a laundry line, and anchored a tent, as well.”

MacKean sent Stewart a disgusted look. “All of which you could do just as weel wi' a cut stick.”

“You could nae,” Stewart replied firmly. “Nae like this.”

MacKean snorted.

Smiling, Ailsa continued unrolling the pallets. She'd just finished placing the final one when a noise on the path caused her to rock back on her heels and look in that direction, her breath held as she listened.
Was that the strike of a hoof on a rock?

MacKean was suddenly at her side, his rifle in hand. “Stay low,” he whispered. “It could be brigands. I'll go east and loop around to the other side of the trail. Stewart, take the west.”

Stewart rose from the fire and gathered his weapons, then disappeared in the opposite direction, remarkably quiet for such a large man.

Ailsa whispered, “I'll find a place atop that boulder. If I cannae, I'll use that ridge just beyond.”

“Guid. Have Mackenzie set oop behind that fallen log.”

Ailsa nodded and MacKean bent lower still and made his way into the woods, one silent step at a time.

Ailsa made her way to Gregor, who was feeding the horses, unaware of their danger. She grasped his arm and pulled him down.

“We've unexpected visitors,” she whispered. “Stewart and MacKean have gone to greet them. You're to take position behind that log.” She nodded toward it.

“How many?”

“We do nae know.”

He freed his pistol from his saddle. “Where will you be?”

“On the boulder over the camp.”

He checked to see that his weapon was loaded before sending her a serious look. “Be careful.”

“You, too.” She glanced at her saddlebag. The money was securely hidden in its lining, but it wouldn't take long for someone to realize the bag was much heavier than it should be.

Gregor found his way to his assigned position. Though not as quiet as the trackers, he did well enough that Ailsa began to breathe again.

Staying low, she moved toward the huge boulder that shadowed their campsite and carefully climbed up one side. It was steeper than she'd expected, but one hand and foothold at a time, she finally reached the top, her boots scraping on the rock as she scooted across the broad, flat top. She stayed prone, tugging her cloak about her, and looked down at the camp. Through the few dead leaves left on the trees, she could just make out Gregor where he hid not far away, his gun trained on the trail. Better woodsmen, neither Stewart nor MacKean could be seen, though she was certain they were there, too.

A rustle sounded close to the camp, like that of a large animal brushing a shrub, and she turned her gaze back to the trail. In the growing dusk, a rider appeared, flickering in and out of sight through the thick leaves. Tall and broad shouldered, he rode as if he were a part
of his horse. But more than that, he rode as if he owned the trail, the mountain, and all the trees.

And she knew before she saw him who it was.

N
ik pulled his horse into the small clearing, Rurik riding briskly past him. The guard's sharp eyes took in every detail. “Hello!” he called, swinging down from his horse.

Nik did the same, stopping by the pot heating over the fire. “It looks as if we've arrived in time for dinner,
nyet
?”

Rurik sniffed and then frowned. “That does not smell promising.”

“It'll be warm. That's the most important thing.” He looked about curiously. The area was fairly level, which was unusual in this terrain, and protected on one end by a huge boulder, which would keep the wind at bay. A fire had been made, the pot hanging over it and bubbling cozily. Four thick pallets were spread out around the fire. “This is a good camp.”

Rurik nodded.

Nik scanned the woods curiously. “You may come out now,” he called. “We have come to join you.”

“You, sir, were nae invited,” came a testy feminine voice.

Trying not to grin, he looked up where the voice had come from, high upon the boulder. “Lady Ailsa, is that you?”

“You know it is.” She called out in a louder voice, “'Tis safe! Just two lost fools. No one of importance.” She muttered something else, but it wasn't audible.
Still, it made Nik grin. He'd wished to see the surprise on her face, but for now he'd be satisfied with the irritation in her voice.

A smallish slender man with light brown hair stood up from behind a log, a gleaming pistol in his hand.

Nik almost reached for his own weapon, but Rurik stepped forward. “Mr. Mackenzie. How nice to see you again.”

Ah, the cousin.
Nik was glad Rurik and Apraksin had mentioned the man.

“Mr. Rurik, isn't it?” The man left the woods and joined them in the clearing. “Bloody hell, we thought brigands were after us. Someone could have shot you!”

Now that he was closer, Nik could see a faint resemblance between the man and Lady Ailsa.

“I am glad you did not shoot us,” Rurik replied. “Or I would have been forced to kill you back.”

From up above, Lady Ailsa said clearly, “Pah! Men!”

Nik grinned. “What?” he called. “You would not have shot a brigand?”

Stony silence met his query.

“Good evening.”

Nik looked down to find Ailsa's cousin at his elbow.

“You must be the prince; you could be no one else.” The younger man inclined his head in a formal greeting. “I'm Gregor Mackenzie, Lady Ailsa's cousin.”

Before Nik could respond, Rurik's gaze locked on the woods behind them. “Two more come.”

And so they did, from different directions and looking
as opposite as two men could. One was dark and lean, a cunning intelligence in his face, while the other was huge and red-haired, almost lumbering in his gait and expression.

“Good evening,” Nik greeted them. “I see you've already started supper.”

Neither man smiled.

After a stiff moment, Rurik inclined his head. “I must refill our flasks. We just passed a stream, so I can do it there.” He hesitated and then said politely to the others, “Do you need yours refilled, too?”

The two men merely glared at Rurik.

Once more, Mackenzie stepped into the breach. “I'm sure we do. I'll fetch our empty flasks and we can go together.”

“
Nyet.
There is no need; I will take them all.”

Mackenzie started to argue, but Rurik raised a brow in his direction.

The younger man flushed. “Fine. I'll gather the flasks for you.”

Nik went to stand before the huge boulder. It towered over them all, casting a long shadow. “You may as well come down,
krasavitsa.
I know you're there.”

“My name is not Kra— Whatever that was.”

“Fine. Lady Ailsa, then. Come. Join us.”

There was a long silence.

“The stew will be ready soon, I think.”

No answer came, and Mackenzie cleared his throat loudly and called to his cousin, “You might as well join us.”

Nik heard a sigh, followed by a scuffling sound. He
waited and was rewarded when, some long moments later, Ailsa appeared around the edge of the boulder.

His brows rose and he found himself without words. Lady Ailsa with her snapping gray eyes and bold nose in her fitted riding habit, her hat jauntily perched on her dark blond hair was one thing. But Lady Ailsa clad in breeches that hugged her rounded hips, a long fur-lined cloak swinging from her shoulders, her blond hair tied in a thick braid that hung over one shoulder, her mouth pressed in an unwelcoming line so that she looked like a Viking maid from days of old—this Lady Ailsa stole his breath as if he'd been punched in the stomach.

The strength of his own reaction left him speechless, even as she strode past him, slanting him a boldly disapproving glare in a way no woman had ever done. She walked to the fire while he tried hard not to stare, her curves so boldly expressed that his mouth went dry.

She stooped beside the fire and held her hands toward the flames, her cloak pooling about her feet. “Why are you here?”

There was nothing welcoming in that cold, clipped tone.

Mackenzie slanted Nik a sympathetic look. “If you'll pardon me, I'll finish with the horses. I was bedding them down for the night when you arrived.” He inclined his head and then walked to where the horses were tethered a short distance away, D'yoval and Rurik's mount now with them.

Nik walked to where Ailsa stooped before the fire. He stood on the other side so he could clearly see her
expressions, and nodded to the pistol tucked in her belt. “Expecting trouble?”

“These woods are known for harboring violent brigands. You're fortunate nae one shot you. Especially since you were
following
us.”

“We are
joining
you, since our end location is the same.”

“You dinnae know where we're going,” she scoffed.

“We go to meet a man called Greer who is camped at the mouth of the Corrieshalloch Gorge. He has been following the abductors and their captives and will know the strength of this band of ruffians.”

Her amusement fled and she scrambled to her feet, her brows knit. “How do you know that?”

“The same way I also know you're planning to meet the villains who abducted my grandmother and pay that damned ransom.”

“I daresay you know where I am to deliver the payment, too,” she said in a grim tone.

“Kylestrome. An inn.” He smiled. “And now you will demand to know how I came upon such a treasure trove of information. I'm more than happy to tell you all, but even you must agree that such stories are best told around a shared fire.”

Ailsa had to swallow a very real desire to snap an ungrateful “nae.” She supposed it had been naïve of her to think no one had seen them leave. That was a bitter pill to swallow, for it meant she wasn't as good at scheming as she'd thought. But the discovery that the prince and Rurik knew her entire plan was not acceptable.
Has someone betrayed us?

Blast the man, she'd have to let him stay if she
wanted her questions answered. “Fine. You may share the camp with us. For at least one night.”

Stewart, who was once again tending the stew, sent her a glum look, which she studiously ignored, though it gave her a moment's hesitation.
Should
she allow the prince and his man to join them? If she did not, they would go out on their own, and might even reach Greer first. No, it was best to keep these two close by, so she knew what they were doing.

Nik came to the fire and took a seat.

She watched him covertly. His black hair was longer than was fashionable and curled about his collar and face, giving him a rakish look that was augmented by his lack of a shave this morning. Indeed, his face—so clean-shaven just yesterday—was now shadowed with stubble that accentuated the line of his jaw.