Highland Passage (8 page)

Mac felt herself blush. “Why, Hamish, I think you have gone soft.”

He got up abruptly and said gruffly, “Dinnae grow used to it, lass.”

Mac suppressed the broad smile that sought to be free. “I wouldn’t think of it, Hamish.”

“And dinnae worry Fergus with talk of such things.”

“Such things?”

Hamish cleared his throat. “He didnae want a lass trailing along.”

“Trailing?”

Hamish shrugged. “He thought you might slow us down.”

Mac bristled. “Oh, great. So Fergus hates me.”

“Not at all. He just doesn’t want a girl to look after.”

“What—does he think I’ll slow you down by stopping to fix my mascara?”

“Mascara?”

“Eye makeup.”

Hamish frowned in confusion.

Mac smirked. “Never mind. I’ll be fine.”

Hamish did not dismiss it so easily. “Lass, you must promise to do as I say. We’re riding into danger, and our ways are strange to you yet. Stay close and mind me.”

Although Fergus kept his footfalls silent, his figure was still visible as he came back from the other side of the hill. In a low voice, Hamish said, “Dinnae speak of the stone chambers.”

Mac’s jaw fell slack.

Hamish looked gravely into her eyes. “I ken how you got here. ’Tis a family secret, and it must remain so.”

“But—”

He glanced toward Fergus, who was quickly approaching. “Whisht! We’ll not talk of it now.”

Fergus joined them with three salmon, scaled and gutted, hanging from a horsehair line. He stuck them each on a wet stick and handed one each to Hamish and Mac to hold over the fire.

Hamish spoke to Mac as if continuing from where he’d left off. “Before we found you, a messenger came from Clan Ross to tell us they’d captured Ciarán. It seems they came onto our lands and lay in wait until they could find one of us to ransom.”

“One of us?”

“I’m the Constable of Eilean Donan, and Ciarán would take over in my absence. I’m sure Clan Ross would rather have me, but they found Ciarán first, and they knew I would pay for his freedom.”

“Except that you didn’t,” said Mac.

The corner of Hamish’s mouth twitched. “We don’t want to appear too eager lest they ask for more ransom.”

Mac nodded. “And Ciarán’s safety and comfort mean nothing?”

Hamish shrugged indifferently. “Och! Comfort.”

“Yes, comfort. You can’t just leave him there for weeks on end.”

Hamish studied Mac. “Men must have grown very soft in your time.”

Mac’s jaw dropped. She had no retort. Compared to the men of this time, one could make a good case that by eighteenth-century Highland standards, twenty-first-century men were soft, in the sense that they enjoyed central heat and air and the occasional overpriced coffee. She was in Hamish’s time now, so she abandoned the point with a sigh. “Never mind.”

Turning her thoughts back to Ciarán, she pieced together what must have happened. The men from Clan Ross had caught him as he had returned from seeing her. If his journey through the stone chamber had been anything like hers, they might have found him passed out on the ground, helpless to defend himself until it was too late.

“What will they do to him?” Mac asked, afraid for the answer.

“Och, they’ll lock him away and wait for us to come. By the time we arrive, they’ll have tired of playing this game and will accept what we offer for ransom.”

“And if they don’t?”

“We’ll do something else.”

Mac gave up trying to look patient. “Something else. This ought to be good.”

Hamish smiled at her for a little too long. He swept his fingers through his long strands of hair.

Before Hamish could speak, Fergus said, “Help him escape. You could do it.”

Mac drew back in surprise. “Me?”

Fergus had addressed her directly. It must have pained him to do so. Mac was unsure of how to react, but her curiosity led the way. “So you want me to rescue him”—as she said it, she realized Hamish’s reason and nodded—“to avoid paying the ransom.” She glared for a moment then looked away and said softly, “Cheap bastard.”

Hamish shrugged. “We’ve got better use for the money.”

“Better use than freeing your brother?”

“Aye.”

“I don’t know what’s worse, your tight fist or your arrogance.”

“Oh, my fist, by far.”

Mac lifted her chin. “Are you threatening me?”

“Why would I bother?”

This annoyed Mac even more.

Seeing her frustration, Hamish said, “Lass. Dinnae fash. I’ll not harm you, nor will anyone else.”

“And what about Ciarán? Can you promise that no one will harm him—if they haven’t already?”

Hamish looked at Mac as though she were the one with the problem. “Calm yourself, woman. Ciarán’s a strong lad. He’ll take care of himself. We’re on our way to him, are we not?”

“Yes, and I finally see why you came back for me.” Mac rolled her eyes and looked away.

Hamish ignored her as he pulled his salmon from the fire and started to eat.

Fergus muttered to Hamish, “She’s a wee bit high-strung, that one.”

“I heard that,” said Mac. “Look, Fergus, you can stop trying to convince me that you hate me. I get it.”

Fergus gave Hamish a questioning look and then turned his attention to the fish. He rotated it and then pulled it from the fire and offered it, skewer and all, to Mac.

She eyed him suspiciously. “Thank you.”

When he went on and ate with no more than a glance, Mac decided to do the same. Unsure of how to eat it, she reasoned that it would not do to eat it like a corn dog, so she gently slid the meat off in bite-sized pieces with her fingertips. After a minute of unnatural silence, Mac looked up to find the men watching her with looks of suppressed amusement before returning to their food, which they bit off in large chunks from the sticks.

She looked away and murmured to herself, “What’s that, Fergus, a smile? That must have hurt.”

After they had all finished eating in silence, Mac looked around, searching for anything that might serve as a napkin. She soon gave up and wiped her hands on her skirt. When she was done, she turned to the men. “So, gentlemen.” She was not going to let them get the better of her. If she could manage obstinate five-year-olds, she could manage a crusty old Scot and his constable. “You must have a plan. What is it?”

9

To Balnagown Castle

Balnagown Castle looked wondrous and grand until Mac remind herself that the man whom she thought she might love was a prisoner there. Having been warned that Clan Ross would be watching, she proceeded on foot all alone. When a guard stopped her at the gatehouse, she told him she was looking for work.

“What sort of work?”

Judging from the look in his eyes, he seemed to have something in mind, but Mac did her best to ignore it. She had another sort of work in mind, for Hamish had told her that one of the kitchen maids had recently come down with a stomach ailment after spending some time in the tavern with him.

Mac said, “I’ve been a dairymaid and a cook’s helper.” She paused and watched his eyes travel the length and the breadth of her slowly.

“Go inquire over there at the kitchen.” He tilted his head to indicate where. “I’ll come along later to see how you fare.” His lips spread into a smile.

Mac lowered her eyes as she curtsied and moved on. The guard turned and watched her walk away for a moment before he was torn away to resume his duties.

Mac arrived at the kitchen to find it aflutter. She stopped at the doorway and tried to get someone’s attention. Having no success, she took a step inside. The cook saw her and said, “Not now. Can’t you see that we’re busy?”

“I was told you needed help.”

The cook sized her up in seconds and thrust a large basket at her. “Take this out to the garden and fetch some turnips and kale.”

Mac nodded, concealing her stunned reaction, and took the basket. It was the shortest job interview she had ever had. A few inquiries got her out to the vegetable garden. “Excuse me, sir,” she asked a man she assumed was the gardener. “Which row is the kale?”

He rolled his eyes and then nodded toward a row of curly green leaves and went on with his work. After filling her basket, Mac went back to the kitchen.

As the evening wore on, she wore out. It was grueling work, and as fit as she once thought she was, she was no match for eighteenth-century kitchen labor. When she was at last permitted to rest, she was given a plate of food to eat outside in the twilight. She had eaten but half when the cook came to the doorway. “Take this to the room at the top of the tower.”

One of the kitchen maids took in a sharp breath and then crossed herself. Seeing this, Mac asked, “What is it?”

The maid’s eyes darted toward the cook but then returned to her work, taking great pains to avoid Mac’s gaze again.

Before she could inquire further, the cook thrust a tray at Mac, saying, “Dinnae be all day about it.”

“Aye, mistress.”

At the top of the stairway, Mac paused. There was no one around. She did not need to ask where to deliver the food, for there was only one door. It was locked. “Hello?” she called.

Someone stirred from the other side of the door. “Aye.” The voice was deep but ragged.

“I’ve your dinner here for you.” She had been told to slide the tray under the door. There was a space of just a few inches between the door and stone floor. Mac set down the tray and did as she had been told.

The cloth cover slid off to reveal a thick slice of bread and a shallow bowl of water, there being no room for a cup to pass under the door. A hand shot through the gap and clutched hers, and she gasped. The grip tightened.

“Please, sir. I was told to be quick.”

“You’ve a strange sort of speech. From whence come you?”

Mac tried to wriggle free, but he was too strong.

“I said, where are you from?”

Mac turned her ear toward the sound of his voice, but she could not be sure. “Far away, sir.” Loud footsteps sounded from the stairway. Mac looked but saw no one.

“Mac?” said the voice from the other side of the door.

“Ciarán!”

He loosened his grip on her hand. Then he put his other hand over hers and tenderly stroked the inside of her palm and wrist.

She smiled, thrilled by the touch of his hand stroking hers.

“What are you doing here, lass? How on earth did you find me?”

“We’ve come to bring you home.”

“We?”

In a futile effort to draw nearer, Mac reached her other hand under the door, desperate to touch him as much as she could while they hurried to whisper all that was on their minds and their hearts. “Hamish and Fergus are with me.”

“God’s teeth, lass, how did you come upon them?”

“Remind me to tell you that later. Right now, I need to know who has the key to this door.”

“I dinnae ken, lass.”

“Okay. I’ll try to find out.” She pressed her cheek to the door as though it might bring her closer to him.

Ciarán’s voice caught in his throat. “It isnae safe for you here in the castle. Hamish shouldnae have allowed it.”

“I insisted.”

“And he let you. I’ll have words with him when I see him again.”

“Don’t blame him, Ciarán. I had to.”

“Och, Mac.”

“It’s your fault. If you weren’t such a good kisser, I might not have.”

He tried to laugh, which was what she wanted him to do, but their feelings were too deeply rooted. His grip tightened around her hand.

Mac squeezed his hand in response. Hasty footsteps drew near. Mac looked but still saw no one. “I work in the kitchen, so I’m not far away. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

She screamed as a hand gripped her rump and then pulled at her hips. Her hands were pulled from Ciarán’s grasp, but she gripped the bottom of the door with her fingertips. Ready to kick and fight off her attacker, she turned. But no one was there.

Ciarán’s voice was frantic as he reached under the door. “Mac!”

“I’m okay.” Her voice was breathless. She stood and searched the hall, pulling aside tapestries to make sure they were alone. But her fearful panting betrayed her. “Someone touched me, but no one is here.” She reached under the door for his hand. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. “Be careful, lass.”

“I promise I will.” She squeezed his hand in return and then hurried back down the stairs, her heart still pounding.

All eyes were on her as she came into the kitchen. It made her uneasy.

The cook asked, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she lied. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.”

With that, everyone returned to their duties.

Mac started helping one of the girls make some oatcakes. “What is it? Tell me.”

“I dinnae ken what you mean,” said the girl. She could not have been more than thirteen or fourteen, and she blushed far too easily.

“You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”

The girl’s eyes opened wider. “Seen who? I dinnae ken what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. Tell me.” Mac looked her straight in the eye until she glanced around to make sure no one was looking. Finally she gave a weak nod.

“Who’s up there?” asked Mac.

“Och, no! Did he do something to you?”

Mac gave a slight nod. “He touched me. Who is he?”

“Did you see him?”

“No, I just felt him—or rather, he felt me.”

Now overwhelmed by sympathy, the girl leaned closer and said in hushed tones, “Black Andrew.”

“Black Andrew? But how could he have climbed up that narrow stairway and then just disappeared?”

The maid whispered, “Because he isnae a man; he’s a ghost.”

A week ago, Mac would have laughed, but too much had happened since then that no one would believe. Ghost or not, she had felt creepy hands groping her bottom. With a shudder, she had to admit to herself that she believed in Black Andrew. But she believed in Ciarán more, so she would do what she must to save him—even if she had to go through Black Andrew to do it.

When darkness fell and her work was done, Mac went to find Hamish and Fergus behind the stables, where they had agreed to meet. They had secured lodgings outside the castle, in a small byre with hay for a mattress. They produced an extra plaid for Mac to use as a blanket since the length of tartan she had brought with her was too fine to provide her the warmth she would need on a chilly summer night in the Highlands.