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Jean braced. Though she had never once suffered his temper, she'd watched warily through their childhood as others had. Alasdair's great good humor blackened into fury, as sudden and mercurial as a Highland storm.

“You've not come to choke me again, is it?” He dashed the  water from his face and gave a low laugh. The smile in his  eyes was directed at his sister. “You forget, it's our brother  Gillespie who likes your vile potions, not me.”

She briefly returned her brother's smile. Like a great bear he was, and God help those who'd tempt his wrath.

“Your sister bears news of our… guest,” Scrymgeour told

MacColla.

Jean looked up at Scrymgeour, gathering strength. Though he'd let go her elbow, he still stood close by her side. She missed being in the  care of a man. It felt good to remember how it was to have one speak for her at the most trying of times.

She looked back at MacColla. A strange look pinched his eyes, and Jean wondered if she wasn't seeing something protective flicker in her brother's gaze.

“Aye.” she said. “Her bed is cold. I'd swear she's been gone

since before dawn.”

“What?” MacColla's face grew dark.

She felt Scrymgeour put his hand at the small of her back.  Jean appreciated the gallant gesture, but she knew  Alasdair would rather injure his own self than bring harm

to his sister.

“Och,” he growled, stalking to his bedside to retrieve his  plaid. He remembered their time together in the kitchen.  Haley's peculiar warnings of Ireland had unsettled him. “I  knew something was amiss. Did  she run away?”

Jean only shrugged mutely.

He shook his head impatiently. His sister would have no idea what had become of the woman. “Aye, of course you'd not know.” He hastily wound his tartan about his waist.  “What game does she play at?” he wondered aloud.

MacColla looked up at Scrymgeour. “Come, let's see her room then.”

“Aye, perhaps there's some clue.”

He stormed into the hallway, Scrymgeour's words at his back.

It was dim. There was light enough that the torches weren't lit, yet the sun had not yet reached high enough in the sky to burn off the night's cold shadows. The gray stone was cool under MacColla's bare feet. Scowling, he noted the stairway at the end of the corridor. Her room was just far enough away, just close enough to the stairs, that she could've escaped silently.

Who is she?
 
MacColla tried to tamp down the anger he felt surging through his veins.
 
Where could she have gone?

He'd been taken in by those pretty gray eyes. Had he missed some ulterior motive? She'd asked so many questions about James, had such unnerving insights about the king, about Ireland. What could her purpose be? Why trick him so, only to skulk away in the night?

He strode into her room and paced a quick circle around it.

“Is anything missing, then?”

“I… ” Jean  hesitated.

“Not that I can see,” Scrymgeour interjected. “There's

naught much for the taking.”

MacColla walked to the bedside and tore back the sheets

as if he might reveal her hiding there. He tossed aside one  pillow and another, and then grew utterly still. A chill ran  up his back, dread filling his gut like ice.

He leaned down slowly and placed his hand on her pillow.  Right beside a bloody handprint. A man-sized bloody handprint.

“God help her,” he whispered.

“What?” Jean found her voice. “Alasdair, what is it?”

“The lass didn't run.” He looked up at his sister, then to

Scrymgeour. “She was taken.”

Jean's mouth opened and shut wordlessly. She knew better than any of them what that meant.

“Campbell?” Scrymgeour asked.

“Who but?” MacColla's hand we nt to the back of his neck.

An automatic gesture, reaching for the claymore that was usually strapped between his shoulders. His hand met only air, and he was instantly on his guard.

He'd not let Haley be taken by Campbell's dogs. The urge to find, to kill, to
  
destroy
 
the Campbell erupted anew, enraging him. Invigorating him.

“The man goes too far.” Their feud was a crucible, boiling  his craving for vengeance to unprecedented fury. MacColla  would be damned if he'd see another of his people taken by  Campbell.

Especially this woman. This woman who had been badly injured before. He'd not see Haley injured again.

“I must find her,” he growled. “I leave at once. I'll track

them. Find them.”

“Aye.” Scrymgeour said gravely. “I'll keep Jean with me.”

Something flashed in MacColla's eyes as he looked from  Scrymgeour to his sister. Some complicated internal calculus, a question asked and answered.

“Take her south,” he responded finally. “To safety. My  family waits for us in Kintyre. Take her for me,  Scrymgeour.”

“I will.” Scrymgeour didn't appear to think then, simply  reached his hand to rest protectively at the small of her  back. “Leave, now,” he said. “And I'll keep Jean safe in my  care.”

Chapter Fifteen

“I have to”  - Haley lowered her voice into an outraged hiss  “I have to, you know,
 
bu thoil learn fual a dhèanamh
.”  Somehow saying she needed to pee in Gaelic made the task  easier.

The man only gaped at her. The small fire flickered between them, casting severe shadows on his face, exaggerating his puzzle ment. She sat silently, waiting stubbornly, all the while wondering at what she might have accidentally said.

She'd sat through the night, refusing to fall asleep, even though two of her three captors had dozed loudly, their backs to the flames.

Of course Campbell hadn't appeared drowsy at all, and stared at her unabashedly through the night. Haley did her best to stare a challenge right back, thinking all the while that the man likely didn't let much slip past him.

“Tha i ag iarraidh mùin”
 
Campbell growled. He didn't take  his eyes from Haley, which scanned her with something  between distaste and desire. Only he could make some  crude remark about pissing sound menacing.

“Go then.” the man announced. His use of English scorned  her attempts at Gaelic. He was much younger than  Campbell, in his twenties, she guessed. The dirt brown

beard that covered his face like a great soiled and furry

mask split into a grin.

She didn't need to fake her urgency. She really did have to

go  - she thought she'd burst from it  - but had waited until  the third man had awoken and gone off to do his own  business.

The more she could better her odds, the greater her chances for escape. From what she gathered, they were riding back to that hideous castle at Inveraray. And she wasn't  about to let herself be the next guest in Campbell's

cellar.

Haley thrust out her hands, still bound, and raised her eyebrows. They'd untied her feet, but her hands were still tied tightly in front of her.

“No,” the bearded one said flatly, as if to an impudent

child.

“Come on.” She raised her hands higher. “What am I going  to do?” She turned to Campbell and added, “You're surely  not afraid a woman could best you?”

Her gamble worked. Campbell
 
didn't
 
think a woman could best them. He nodded at the bearde d man to cut her

bonds, and hope flickered to life in her chest.

She creaked to standing, stiff from holding the same cross-legged position for so long on the cold ground.

“Go with her,” Campbell spat. She shot what she hoped  was an innocent look in his  direction, and he added. “Be  quick about it, girl. It's time for us to leave before your  husband finds us.”

“My husband?” Surely he didn't think she and MacColl

were married?

The bearded man snorted a laugh, and a slow smile spread across Campbell's face. Haley chalked it up to simply his version of a lewd joke.

She turned to head deeper into the trees when she heard  Campbell say, “Go with her.” The bearded man must've made some suggestive gesture because Campbell quickly added, “Do, and I'll punish you  myself.”

Haley's mind raced. She'd hoped they'd let her go alone.  That she could get a bit of a head start. Then run like hell and hope for the best. But of course that would've been too

easy.

She heard his shuffling feet following close behind her and

mentally sized him up. He was about five -eight, five -nine

tops. Not much taller that she was.

But he'd be armed. She'd seen the glint of a pistol at his waist. She imagined he probably slept with the thing strapped to him. It would take him some time to lo ad it.  Fifteen seconds, maybe.

He wasn't wearing a sword. Did he have a knife, though?

That was something to consider.

She wished she'd tucked her own knife into her dress

somehow. The blade wouldn't do much damage, but it

would've been better than nothing.

She wondered again if he had a dagger. If she didn't manage to escape this time, perhaps she could somehow steal it. She felt her corset tight at her chest. It was stiff, unbending. She could tuck a blade away in her clothes.  Maybe tear a slit along the bottom of her corset and slide it in.

The corset.
 
Her heart kicked hard with excitement. Of

course  - her corset. She already had a weapon.

She was wearing it.

She'd marveled at the hideous contraption as Jean had laced her up tight. Most old corsets  had ivory busks running up the front. A rib roughly two inches thick and fifteen inches long, stiff enough to hold a woman in tight.

Not so this one.

Hers had a busk all right, but it was made of steel. She'd heard of metal busks but had never seen one,   and imagined it would've been cheaper than its ivory counterpart.

At the time, she had unlaced the top a bit, peeked at the buckskin that encased the steel rib. The leather was

mottled dark brown, stained with some other woman's

sweat.

“Give me a minute,” she called to the bearded man and  thought the crack in her voice was just as well. He'd  assume she was nervous for other reasons.

She brought her hands to her sternum, and dug between her breasts for the small laces that secured the busk into

the front   of the corset. Her fingers worked quickly,

oosening, fumbling.

She glanced over her shoulder and he stood, smiling. Dark brown decay clung like moss in the crooks of his slanted teeth. It gave her focus.

Relieving herself was the first order of business. If the creep wanted to watch, let him. Turning her back firmly to him, she squatted, tucking her dress up only as far as absolutely necessary. He'd think he was getting a show, but really all he'd see was the back of her dress.

She took a moment to shudder in relief, then groped at the top of her corset with renewed concentration. She worked a finger into the narrow pocket that formed the front panel of the corset. Touched the cool edge of leather that encased her busk.

Her weapon.

She had to arch her b ack to shimmy it free, and she gasped with the pain the motion shot through her ribs.

“Hurry yourself, girl.”

She heard him shuffle impatiently at her back.

The busk was heavy in her hand. A reassuring heft, like a length of construction rebar. She tucked it close to her chest.

Her preference would've been to pick at the stitching and pull the steel from its leather enclosure, but she had no time.

Just as well
, she thought, as a plan came to her. She slid her hands to the base of the busk, as if it were a bat, and savored the weight in her grip.

A sturdy little club.

Smiling, she stood and walked briskly forward, keeping the clansman at her back.