Bride for a Knight (32 page)

Jamie blew out a breath and shoved back his hair. The foxes, a fine-looking pair and three older pups sure to soon be on their own, ignored him and continued on their way through the bracken. No doubt heading for a cozy den hidden deep in one of the mist-filled corries gouged into the sides of the gorge.

Only the male fox looked back to stare at him. Oddly familiar though Jamie couldn’t say why, the creature’s queer golden eyes bored into him in such a disconcerting, penetrating manner that the prickles erupted again on his nape. This time they even spilled down his spine.

The little red fox had strange eyes.

But before Jamie could ponder what else about the creature disturbed him, the fox was gone.

And only then did he realize he’d reached his destination: the tumbledown dry stone wall and the ruined cot house, relics of a long-ago time. And, Jamie saw, little more than a pathetic heap of moss-grown stone. Almost entirely covered by thigh-high bracken, the one-time entrance to the Macphersons’ secret tunnel was as much a faded memory as the souls who once called this desolate little patch of earth home.

Jamie frowned.

He’d wasted time and effort. And the palm of his left hand still stung like Hades.

He’d been so sure.

But then, he’d also been certain he’d felt hostile eyes watching him. He would’ve sworn the rustlings and pebble-scatterings behind him had been of malevolent origin.

Truth was, he could still feel a presence.

And not the ethereal, wispy passing of
bogles
he didn’t believe in.

Nor strangely gleaming golden fox eyes, odd as the wee creature had struck him.

Then something
did
strike him.

A great running shove from behind. Hard, breath-stealing, and full to the center of his back. So swift and unexpected he only caught a lightning-quick flash of Macpherson plaid as the tall, powerfully built
bogle
skidded to a lurching halt and Jamie, far from halting, went sailing over the cliff edge.

Horror whipped through him as he fell, the wild rush of the wind, icy flying spray, and the roar of the falls all he knew until the churning cauldron of white rushed ever closer and then, blessedly, went black.

There hadn’t even been time to cry out.

Not that he’d have been able to with the wind knocked out of him.

Nor could he scream now with frigid, surging water swirling all around him, rushing into his ears, mouth and nose, choking and blinding him, tossing and rolling his body, hurtling him against the rocks, drenching and drowning him.

Just like his brothers had drowned.

Only Jamie didn’t want to die.

Not now.

And not like this.

But he couldn’t breathe. Each spluttering, gasping attempt only sent more freezing water shooting into his mouth and nose, filling his lungs until he was sure they’d burst.

And if the water was freezing, his body was on fire. His throat burned and his eyes stung and if the searing pain in his chest meant anything, he’d surely cracked his ribs.

But at least he was alive to realize it!

Determined to stay that way, he thrashed about, trying to keep his head above the rapids and using his arms and legs as best he could to avoid crashing into the worst of the jagged, black-glistening rocks.

A battle he was losing, no matter how fiercely he wished otherwise. Desperately, he grabbed at every crack and fingerhold of each rock he shot past, but the rocks proved too slippery, his fingers too numbed by the cold, his split-second chance at each rock too fleeting.

His teeth were chattering now, too, and the weight of his clothes dragged him down, pulling him under the icy, churning water.

There was nothing he could do.

And what he could have done—namely heed Linnet MacKenzie’s warning—he’d ignored.

Then, just when he was certain his lungs truly were on fire and his end must be imminent, he saw the fox again.

That it was the same fox, he was sure. The creature had the same startling eyes.

Alone now, he kept pace with Jamie, running along the rock-strewn edge of the rapids, his golden gaze fixed on Jamie even as he seemed to be looking about for something.

Something he apparently spied, for he suddenly shot ahead, vanishing like a flash of red-gold lightning only to reappear where a fallen tree cluttered the riverbank.

A fallen tree that had split into several pieces, one of which was a fat, good-sized log.

Jamie coughed and spluttered, blinking hard.

He couldn’t see well at all.

Not tossing about in the rapids as he was. But he
did
see the little fox stop beside the log and the giddiest sense of hope swept him when the creature began nudging the log forward, rolling it ever closer to the water’s edge.

“By the saints,” Jamie gasped, not caring that the vow cost him another mouthful of choking, freezing water.

By the holy saints!
He cried the words in silence the second time, his throat too tight to voice them when the fox gave the log one last push and it fell into the water.

Just there and then when Jamie hurtled past.

His spirits surging, he lunged for the log, his arms closing around its life-saving girth in the very moment he was sure the last of his strength left him.

Clinging tight, he tossed his head, trying to shake the water from his eyes. But the splashing rapids and cold, tossing spray made it impossible. Renewed hope
did
give him a resurgence of strength, though, and he thrashed his legs with greater fervor, summoning all his will and might to reach the water’s rock-torn edge.

Then suddenly the log slammed into solid, pebbly ground and Jamie felt the stony riverbank beneath his weakened, quivering knees.

“Saints o’ mercy,” he gasped, hot tears blinding him this time.

Too weary to do aught but drop his head onto the log and lay sprawled where he was, he dragged in great gasping gulps of air, too grateful to be alive to care that the icy water still swirled over his lower legs.

His heart thundering, he looked around for the strange-eyed little fox, but the creature was gone, the riverbank empty and quiet.

Silent save for the ever-present din of the Rough Waters and, saints preserve him, the rustling
crash
of someone hurrying toward him through the underbrush.

A large someone, tall and powerfully built judging by their pounding footsteps. They were running now, wild-eyed and shouting, their expression murderous.

And they were wearing a Macpherson plaid, its tell-tale folds flapping in the cold wind as the figure raced near, leaping and vaulting over broken stone and debris in their haste to reach him.

A figure Jamie knew, the shock of recognition stilling his heart. The man’s tall frame and awkward, somewhat clumsy gait gave him away.

As did the huge wicked-looking Viking ax clanking at his side.

It was Beardie.

Aveline knew something was wrong the instant she came awake.

Dread sluiced over her like icy water and she didn’t need to fling out an arm and feel the cold emptiness on Jamie’s side of the great four-poster bed to know he was gone.

Or that something dire was the reason for his absence.

Cuillin knew it, too.

The old dog paced in front of the closed bedchamber door, pausing now and again to paw, sniff, and scratch at the door’s heavy oaken planks. Or just sit and whimper.

It was his whimpering that had wakened her.

Dogs didn’t fret and whine at doors without good reason. Nor did they ignore large and well-fleshed meat bones.

Just such a bone lay temptingly near the hearth fire, Cuillin’s favorite sleeping spot, and that could only mean one thing.

Jamie had sought to keep the dog quiet so he could slip away unnoticed. And the wish to do so bode ill. It meant he was off on some nefarious scheme.

Something dangerous.

And without doubt foolhardy, though it was the
danger
part that had Aveline dashing about the room snatching up her clothes and dressing as quickly as possible.

There were only two places he would have gone.

To Hughie Mac’s; she’d seen last night that he hadn’t accepted her notion that the old man had been entertaining a lady love.

Or he’d gone to the Garbh Uisge.

Indeed, as soon as the dread name crossed her mind, she knew that was where he’d headed. The certainty of it made the floor dip and weave beneath her and she grabbed the bedpost, holding fast as a great, icy shudder ripped through her.

Her stomach churned and her mouth went dry. Every warning that had passed the MacKenzie women’s lips flew back at her, each word taking stabs at her, freezing her heart with such ice-cold fear she couldn’t breathe.

“I won’t let anything happen to him,” she vowed, clutching the bedpost, certain that if she let go the floor would split wide and swallow her, plunging her into a deep dark void so cold and unending she’d never see another glimmer of light for all the rest of her days.

A horror she had no intention of allowing.

She lifted her chin and set her jaw, determining to be strong. But even then, her fingers slid over the smooth cool wood of the bedpost and she remembered caressing Jamie’s face just the night before.

Anything but cool and unresponsive, he’d turned his cheek into her palm, pressing against her hand until his warmth flowed sweetly through her fingertips, reaching clear to her heart.

A heart that now squeezed with dread.

Her chest tightening, Aveline jerked away from the bedpost, her pulse leaping. She looked at her hands, half certain the bed frame’s satiny, impersonal wood had grown viper heads and bit her. She wanted the warmth and solidness of
Jamie
.

She blinked hard, cursing the sleep that had claimed her so fully. The dark night and its stillness, the quiet cloak of morning he’d used to slip away.

Away on some knightly hero’s mission, she was sure.

Saints preserve her if aught should happen to him.

She wasn’t sure when or how it had happened, but she’d fallen crazily in love with him and couldn’t imagine her life without his sunny-natured smiles and grins. The way he treated her as if she were infinitely precious, worth everything to him. And not despite her smallness, but because he prized her just as she was.

She began to pace, trying to think what to do.

But most of all, she just wanted him safe, and in her arms.

Och, aye, she loved him.

Desperately.

And for many more reasons than his high looks and gallantry.

It was the warmth that welled inside her each time he looked at her or she even just thought his name. The sense of feeling whole only when he was near, and empty and bereft when he wasn’t.

She loved him to the roots of her soul. A truth borne home by the lancing pain inside her now, her surety that something horrible had happened to him.

She
knew
it.

And the knowledge gutted her.

Closing her eyes, she sank down onto the bed and bit her lip. She would not cry. If she did the pain already ripping her would tear her into jagged little pieces.

Clearly sharing her dread, Cuillin trotted over to her, first nosing under her elbow, then nudging her knee, his troubled gaze alternating between her and the door.

But when he leaned into her, dropping his head on her lap with a groan, her resolve almost broke.

“Nay, nay, nay, Cuillin,” she said, pushing the words past the tightness in her throat. “Mooning about will serve naught—I only needed to catch myself and now I have.”

She pushed to her feet, reaching down to stroke the old dog’s head. “Truth is, he may only have gone down to the hall to break his fast earlier than usual.”

A lie if ever one passed her lips.

Hearts didn’t lie and she felt in the depths of hers that he was in mortal danger.

Her heart also told her who had to be informed first—even if she knew waking his da with such news would only distress him.

It couldn’t be helped.

But as soon as she opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit passage a low, keening wail reached her ears.

Munro’s wail.

And coming from the stair tower.

Hitching up her skirts, Aveline ran down the corridor, Cuillin trotting at her heels. She nearly collided with Munro in the gloom for he stood teetering in the shadows at the top of the turnpike stair, one hand pressed to his heart, his stricken gaze on a tall, plaid-draped figure slowly mounting the stairs toward him.

A figure Aveline recognized at once, her shock so great she could only stare in horror.

Cuillin growled.

The figure smiled.

Then she nodded at Aveline, looking so pleased Aveline knew before her sister opened her mouth what she’d have to say.

“Jamie is dead,” Sorcha told her, confirming it. “I pushed him into the Garbh Uisge—just as I had done with his nine vainglorious brothers.”

Chapter Sixteen

S
orcha!” Aveline stared at her sister, disbelief clamping ice-cold talons around her heart. “What have you done?” she cried, the stairwell tilting crazily, the whole world seeming to spin around her. “You’ve run mad!”

“O-o-oh, with surety,” Sorcha agreed, smiling. “Full mad and with the best of reasons!”

Aveline shook her head, shock laming her.

Her sister
was
mad.

The best of reasons?

Chills swept down Aveline’s spine. There could be no reason for what Sorcha claimed she’d done.

Nor for her appearance in the stair tower. Her blood-curdling appearance, dressed as she was in her long-flowing hooded cloak, with a Macpherson great plaid slung around her shoulders.

She stood a little more than halfway up the spiraling, corkscrew steps, not far from a well-burning wall torch. The smoking, hissing flames threw a wash of light across her from above, casting her face in dark and eerie shadow while showing the wild, unnatural glint in her eyes.

Looking at her, Aveline shivered, denial pounding through her. Her heart was splitting, such tight, blinding terror winding around her that she couldn’t breathe.