Mad for the Plaid (17 page)

“Ah. And if you get on the wrong side of one clan—”

“—then you get on the wrong side of all those who've pledged to them.”

“I see. It sounds very confusing.”

She had to fight a smile. “The Scots dinnae care if we confuse you, so long as we win every battle, even the ones we fight between ourselves.”

“You're certainly a contentious people.”

“Och, now you've made an enemy for life.” She tried to look fierce, but had to laugh when he appeared shocked.

Seeing her grin, he gave a reluctant chuckle. “Since the war, the treaties in Europe are just as difficult—everyone is pledged to everyone else until there's a tangle so thick, you cannot sneeze without setting off a wave of discontent amongst your neighbors.”

“Aye, it can raise tensions, but it can also provide small families some protections, and that was the original intent.”

“But if it leads to war, then no one is safer.” He shook his head. “I sometimes think we are too attached to the ideals of what our countries are, rather than to the people who live in them. There's a certain amount of pride involved in any war, a strict nationalism that is as aggressive as a rabid dog.”

“If the Scots excel at anything, 'tis pride. We believe in three things: the power of God, the sanctity of the family name, and the strength of our clan vows. If you break faith with any of those, you open the door to a war that could go on for so long, nae one remembers what began it.”

“How do you know which clan is which?”

“We've our own histories and tartans.” Her smile faded. “Someone left a torn bit of our Mackenzie tartan at the scene of the abduction, tucked under the coach wheel as if someone's kilt had been caught during the attack.”

Nik whistled silently. “So someone wanted to point a finger your way. But that's so obvious—unbelievably so. You might as well leave a signed letter. Couldn't you write Arran and tell him all of this? Surely he'd realize how unlikely such a happenstance must be.”

“The last words the earl spoke to my father included the phrases ‘dirty liar,' ‘bloody fool,' and ‘treasonous traitor.' ” She nodded when Nik's brows rose. “Aye, 'twas an ugly meeting, that. I'll spare you the phrases my father used in return, for they were nae any better. Arran always believes the worst of the Mackenzies. That makes things difficult.”

The prince was quiet for a long while. “When you demanded to be left to run this venture, I thought it was because you were—” He waved a hand, obviously searching for a word.

“Difficult?” she suggested drily.

“That, and bossy, and overly concerned with being in charge.” He winced at her sharp expression. “I'm sorry. It was not the most flattering thing to think.”

“Worse, it was wrong. I am nae a despot.”

“I know. I assumed the worst, and the fault is mine. It never dawned on me there might be legitimate reasons you wished to have the operation under your control. But now I see that it's a delicate situation for you and your clan.”

She'd never expected to hear such an admission from him. “Which is why I dinnae wish to rush in, pistols blazing. Lord Hamilton has been a friend of our family for decades. He is verrah dear to my grandmother—and to yours, I should add. For his sake, and the sake of peace, we must do what we can to return him to his family unharmed.”

Nik rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “From what you've told me, Arran stands to win the most if 'tis proven—even falsely—that your family abducted his brother.”

“He'll have a valid reason to attack Castle Leod, and the crown will do naught since they dinnae get involved in what they call Scotland's ‘family matters.' Family matters, my arse.” She sent him a quick look, her cheeks turning pinker. “I'm sorry. I should nae have said that.”

“I was shocked, but I've decided to shed my tears of horror in private.”

She shot him a surprised grin and then laughed. She had the warmest, huskiest laugh he'd ever heard, each note a seduction. He was slammed with a powerful desire to slip an arm about her waist and kiss the laughter from her lips.

Collecting his thoughts, he managed to say, “So, do you think this abduction is a plan of the earl's? That he abducted his own brother?”

“I dinnae know.” She sighed and pulled her knees close, clasping her arms about them. “Someone else might wish to stir things oop, and it could be that the earl is as much a puppet as we are.”

Nik nodded. “So, believing the abduction was a ploy of some type, you sent your best tracker after the prisoners, hoping to locate and rescue them quickly and defuse the situation before it became public knowledge.”

She shrugged. “What else could I do? I dinnae wish this known; the quicker it is resolved, the less dangerous it becomes.”

He had to approve; it was exactly what he would have done. He frowned, a thought catching him. “In the note you sent me, you said you would alert the constable if you did not find the prisoners soon.”

“Och, I only wrote that so you would nae come running to Castle Leod. I thought if you believed the constable was on the verge of being called in, then your grandmother's plight was in guid hands and there was nothing more to be done but wait on the ootcome.”

“It only made me come the quicker.”

“So it seems. Had I known you were so fond of your grandmother, I would have written a verrah different note.” The wind blew some tendrils of her hair across her cheek and she pushed them away. “That missing outrider from Hamilton's coach bothers me.”

“That caught my attention, too.”

“Aye. He must have helped the abductors, or he would have been left at the attack site like the others.” She pursed her lips. “And why take elderly prisoners such a distance as Kylestrome? Why not hold them somewhere closer? I dinnae understand the need for this lengthy trip.”

Nik nodded. Was someone trying to draw one of
them out? But which one? And why? Was his negotiation with the tsar the target? Or was this indeed a plot concocted by the Earl of Arran or someone to start a clan war? If so, was there an ambush down the trail, one intended for Ailsa? If the earl wished to truly start a clan war, then a swift retaliation for the taking of his brother would do it.
Bloody hell, the more I find out, the less I know.

Ailsa sighed, her breath puffing white in the growing cold. “See? It dinnae make sense. And the ransom request only confuses the issue. I cannae accept that a mere two hundred guineas will make all of this right again.”

“Yet you still intend on delivering it.”

“I have to at least try. Besides, even if it doesn't free the prisoners, the exchange could tell us something.” She picked up her cup and sipped her tea, which must have been cold by now, although she didn't seem to mind.

He watched as thoughts flickered over her expressive face. After a moment, she cut him a sharp look. “So, Prince, I've told you all I know, but you have nae shared a thing. You were surprised to find that I believed Lord Hamilton the target of this abduction, which means you assumed it was your grandmother. Why do you think that?”

She
had
shared her thoughts with him, and quite willingly. In all fairness, he should tell her his purpose in being here, that he feared someone was trying to interfere with what he hoped would be a groundbreaking treaty that could benefit hundreds of thousands of people. That he must regain his grandmother's freedom
quickly, so that he could conduct the coming delicate negotiations without hesitation or distractions.

But before he opened his mouth, caution stilled his tongue. Those secrets weren't his to share. They belonged to his country and to his title. He'd been taught this over and over as a child, and had lived with it for years and years as an adult.
Never share more than is necessary
.
It will only bring regrets.

Still, he couldn't help feeling as if he were letting her down. Finally, he said, “My Tata Natasha has great wealth. Obviously someone knew this.”

Her gaze narrowed. “But only two hundred guineas were requested in the ransom note,” she repeated.

“I cannot explain that. I—”

“Stew is ready.” Mackenzie sat down beside Ailsa and handed her one of the plates he held, steam rising into the air.

She looked over the plate at Nik. “Well?”

He sent a meaningful look at her cousin. “We will discuss this later.”

Her brows knit. “Why—”

“Not now, Lady Ailsa,” Nik said firmly.

Mackenzie blinked. “I'm sorry. Did I interrupt—”

“Nae, nae.” Ailsa picked up her spoon, sending Nik a flat look, as if she knew he was using the interruption to his advantage and the knowledge disappointed her. “We were done.”

Rurik brought Nik a plate of stew, and soon everyone was gathered about the fire, the only sound the scraping of spoons on metal plates.

Still, Nik could not forget Ailsa's expression. It
nipped at him, that disappointed look, and made him wish he could share his thoughts. But he wasn't here to make friends, or to tempt an engagingly honest lady into exchanging confidences.

He was here to save his grandmother and that damned treaty, in that order.

And if that meant he lost Ailsa's regard, tentative as it was, then so be it.

Jaw set, he dug into his plate of stew, fighting the urge to look across the fire into the silver-gray eyes he knew followed his every move.

Chapter 10

The next morning dawned crystal cold, the air burning as one breathed it. Buried deep in fur-lined bedding, Ailsa pulled the blankets over her mouth and nose, drawing her knees to her. Even that small movement had her muscles protesting.
All that riding yesterday. Now I'm as stiff as a board.

Perhaps she should stay still a while longer. She'd just rest until— An odd noise grated in the quiet. Was someone scraping metal over a rock?

She opened her eyes. Stooped by the fire, his cloak hanging from his broad shoulders and pooling on the ground around him, was Nik. As she watched, the morning sun broke through the thick cover of clouds and flooded the campsite with a yellow glow that lit his shoulders and black hair with golden lights.

It was fitting, she decided sourly, for he reminded her more and more of a lion. A large, pompous, opinionated lion.

The clouds converged and stole away the golden light. She glanced about the camp. The other bedrolls were empty, which made her grimace. She should
have been first up, blast it. She might not have slept so late had Stewart not snored through most of the night as if he were sawing enough logs to make a shed.

Her gaze moved back to the snapping fire. A pot hung from the hook—porridge, from the smell of it. The flames had been stoked, and they licked at the fire ring. One rock had been moved into the flames until it glowed red, another pot sitting on it, piping out a steady stream of steam. The scraping sound that had woken her must have come from the tin cup now resting in the prince's hand. He set the cup back down, making no effort to muffle the noise.

Apparently “quiet” was not a word found in the prince's vocabulary.
He is nae a “prince” for this excursion, though
, she thought with satisfaction.
Just Nik, a lowly groom.
In no way did the strong, simple name describe this man. He was far too complex, and far more confusing than the name implied.

She watched him through her lashes as he removed his glove and folded it in half, and then used it to pick up a worn kettle. Steam curled from the spout as he lifted the lid and peered inside. As he did so, he glanced in her direction.

She closed her eyes, hoping he hadn't seen her looking at him. The last thing she wanted to do was add to his too-large pride. Still, it was hard not to stare at him. He was just so very
watchable
. Too much so.

She heard the
thunk
as he replaced the kettle on the hot rock, and then silence once again.