The Adventurer (24 page)

“You can follow me now.”

Douglas looked up to see that the Mackay guard had returned. He led, followed after by the duke, with St. Clive bringing up the rear.

Where he belonged.

They were led into a room at the back of the house that appeared to be of use as a study. The walls were paneled in dark oak, and a fire burned in the hearth despite the warmth of the day. Across from the door, the windows were opened onto a sun-dappled garden. There was a chaise set there where a man sat, his legs propped up upon the footrest and covered by a woolen blanket.

“The chief will see you now,” the sentry said and turned to leave them.

Douglas approached the chair slowly.

“Come, come,” beckoned an age-gnarled hand. “Come around here where I can better see you.”

The Mackay chief was a man who looked a full decade older than his seventy years. His hair was white and thin and hung about his leathery-skinned face in fragile wisps. His eyes were rheumy and red, and his breathing came in labored rasps. He was not, it would appear, much longer for this life.

“Sir?”

“You’re MacKinnon, I am told?”

“Aye, sir.”

“ ’Twas your clever wife who outfoxed Campbell of Mamore and Fergusson, aye? She must be quite the minx, that lass.”

Douglas smiled. “That she is, sir. I’ve her father with us, the Duke of Sudeleigh.”

The duke took his cue and came forward, leaving a fuming St. Clive to lurk in the long shadows cast through the windows like a ghillie.

“Mr. Mackay,” the duke greeted him. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintanceship.”

“Your grace. I hear good things of you. You are known for your political neutrality. A difficult thing to maintain in this day and age I suppose.”

“Yes, sir, it can be.”

The chief nodded slowly. “So tell me about this lass, the one who is missing ... she is your daughter?”

Affined by both their age and experiences, Douglas backed away and allowed the two men to converse.

“She is my second daughter, with Elizabeth, Lady MacKinnon, being the eldest. Isabella was making a channel crossing from France when her ship was waylaid by pirates.”

“Pirates?” The chief was suddenly seized by a coughing spell. The besieged man’s body was wracked with such force that Douglas feared his bones might break. He crossed to the sideboard to pour the man a glass of water.

“Thank you, MacKinnon.” The chief took a sip. His coughing quieted. He settled back against the chaise once again. “You’ve reason to believe one of these pirates was a Mackay? My clan is known for many things, your grace, but piracy isn’t one of them.”

“If I may,” Douglas interjected. “From the accounts told us by the witnesses, these pirates were flying the
Bratach Bhan.”

The chief was understandably surprised by this bit of news. “The Mackay banner?”

“Aye, and I’m told they used the clan war cry.”

His weathered face grew troubled. “The Mackays have many enemies, MacKinnon, particularly with the part we played in this last rebellion. How can you be certain this wasn’t one of our rival clans trussed up to make it appear as if it was the Mackays?”

“It is a possibility, sir.”

The chief shook his head. “But this matter of the banner disturbs me. It vanished, you know, after the death of my brother, Artair Ros Mackay at Sheriffmuir. But it did appear again. Just once. At Culloden.”

“Do you know who carried it into battle, sir?”

“Aye. But it canna be him. He’s dead. He was killed on the battlefield.”

“That is true, Uncle. But his body was never found.”

Everyone turned to the door where a stranger suddenly stood. He was tall, dark-haired, perhaps thirty years of age. He came into the room and knelt beside the chief, paying his respects.

“Ah, gentlemen, allow me to introduce Alec Mackay, my nephew.”

The newcomer greeted the others.

“Are you suggesting you might know who took my daughter?” asked the duke when the introductions were finished.

Alec nodded. “I’ve a notion, your grace.”

“Who?”

Douglas had asked it, but it was a question they all wanted the answer to.

And Alec provided it. “I believe it was my brother, Calum Mackay of Wrath.”

The chief started coughing again, this time worse than before. Alec returned to the chaise, and patted the man gently on the back in an effort to try to loosen the rattling that was making it so difficult for him to breathe.

The chief held up a hand, and eased back in the chair. “He is alive? Calum is alive?”

Alec nodded. “Aye, Uncle.”

“H-how long have you known?”

“Some months now.” He looked at his uncle. “I promised him I would not tell anyone of his existence. He needed it to be believed that he was well and truly dead.”

“But where has he been living all these months?”

“Up at Castle Wrath.”

“Wrath? How on earth is he surviving? It’s a ruin ... there’s no food, no stock.”

“The man’s a bloody pirate! He’s living off his spoils!”

Douglas shot St. Clive a look that would have quelled a raging bull.

“Who was that?” the chief asked, puzzled at the introduction of a new voice behind him. “Is someone else in this room?”

“Kentigern St. Clive, Mr. Mackay,” he said, coming forward to shake the man’s frail hand. “My father is the Earl of Chilton.”

The chief shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

Douglas, standing off to the side, suppressed a grin.

“Well, from what I have just heard, it seems your nephew is very likely responsible for abducting my affianced wife against her will.”

“Oh, I dinna know about that,” Alec said. “She didn’t look all too upset about it.”

Everyone turned toward him.

“You’ve seen her?” Douglas asked. “You have seen Isabella?”

“Dark hair, lovely face, likes to sit in graveyards and draw the stones.”

“Good God, that’s my Bella!” The duke came forward. “Where did you see her?”

“At the churchyard between my house and Castle Wrath.”

“He’s locked her in a church?”

Alec shook his head. “Nae. She was quite free to wander. In fact, she had a pony with her.”

“A pony?” The duke waved him off. “That’s not Bella. It cannot be. She’s been terrified of horses since she was a girl.”

“Begging your grace’s pardon, but not any longer she’s not.”

“It has to be her,” Douglas said to the duke. “Who else could she be?” He turned to Alec. “Perhaps she had taken the pony to escape from your brother?”

“I suppose ’tis possible, but when she left, she was headed back in the direction of Castle Wrath. And she didn’t seem to be in any hurry. She looked like she was just out enjoying a summer’s day.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” St. Clive cut in. “Perhaps he’s brutalized her. Perhaps she is too traumatized to know to escape on her own.”

“If I may, gentlemen ...”

Everyone turned to look at the chief yet seated in his chaise.

“The only way you’re going to get any answers to your questions is to go to Castle Wrath and find out for yourself. But let me tell you this. When you do go, you’d best go prepared with a strategy. A good strategy. Calum Mackay is one wily and tenacious lad. He’ll fight to the death, if need be.”

“That’s perfectly fine with me,” St. Clive said, cracking his knuckles with all the bravado of a peacock.

“Think of Bella, St. Clive,” Douglas warned. “We don’t want to put her in any unnecessary danger. We’ve no idea what this man will do if we go charging in there declaring war. He had crew enough to sail a ship. For all we know he has a small army living up there with him.”

“So what will we do?” St. Clive sneered, his lip curling derisively. “Shall we just sit back and wait until he and all his men are through with her?”

Alec stepped before him, his voice dropping with a note of ill-concealed warning. “My brother may be many things, sir, but he’s no defiler of women. He’s a Mackay, and thus he has honor.”

St. Clive scoffed. “Forgive me if I disagree. This is my wife we’re talking about.”

“Potential
wife,” Douglas stated. “She hasna agreed to any match.”

Nor will she,
he thought to himself.

Douglas turned to Alec. “You know this Castle Wrath very well?”

“Aye. Played there as a lad. ’Twas to be our father’s legacy, had he not perished.”

“Do you think you can help us come up with a way to breach it?”

Alec thought about it a moment, then nodded. “I’ve an idea. Come, gentlemen, let us allow my uncle to rest while we discuss things further in the garden.”

“That is the one.”

Isabella pointed up the rise to the almost indistinguishable opening of the cave where the boy had vanished the day before.

“You’re certain of it, Miss Maris?” Hamish asked.

They had ridden ponies, with baskets filled with bannocks and cheeses, milk and fruit and fresh water. If they couldn’t find the boy, Isabella had decided she would leave the baskets for him at the opening of the cave. At least he’d have food to eat.

“Yes, that is the one. You see, I marked it with a ribbon from my hair.”

And indeed the red bit of silk yet fluttered from the gorse that clumped near the opening.

They dismounted and climbed the path to the cave where Hamish bent to light the lantern they had brought with them.

“You stay here, Miss Maris,” he said. “I’ll go in first and have a look around. There’s no telling what might be inside.”

Isabella nodded, realizing his need to play the role of the male protector, and not just the stable boy. She had known from the moment she had decided to tell Hamish about the boy and the cave and her intention to return there that she would need to appeal to him as an equal, a cohort. So she waited while he vanished inside the yawning mouth of the cave, and turned to watch for the boy herself out on the moors, lest he was already out and wandering.

She listened to Hamish’s retreating footsteps, heard him calling out in Gaelic, his voice echoing against the cragged rock walls. His voice grew distant the farther he delved into the cave. Still he called. Still there was no responding voice. Until ...

Gabh uam!

Isabella spun around, listening.

She heard the exchange of two voices in Gaelic, a rapid, heated clash of words that gurgled from the opening of the cave.

Her heartbeat quickened. She stood. And waited.

A short time later she spotted the swaying light of the lantern approaching. In moments Hamish had emerged, his hand clutching the boy’s shoulder.

“Hamish, you found him!”

“Aye, miss, but he’s like to run. He thinks you want to send him to the gaol for stealing your basket.”

“No, no, no.” She shook her head in an effort to assure him. “We just want to help you.”

The boy, who appeared to be about seven or eight years old, looked at her in timid and utterly oblivious silence.

“Please tell him for me, Hamish.”

Hamish said something to the boy in Gaelic. The boy glanced at her, suspicion written across his dirty face.

“What is his name?”

“ ’Tis Druhan, miss.”

“Ask him where he lives.”

A moment later, Hamish had his answer. “In the cave, miss.”

“He lives in the cave? This cave? Alone?”

“Nae. His mammie lives with him.”

“His mother?”

“Aye. Seems his da fought in the rebellion and was killed. The soldiers came from England and burned their house and all their things. They’ve been moving along from place to place ever since, wherever they could find shelter. They’ve been at the cave here for about a fortnight.”

“But if his mother is with him ... where is she?”

Hamish spoke with the lad, and the boy immediately started to weep as he gave his answer.

“She’s in the cave. She’s ill, he says. He only stole the food to try to help her to get well.”

“Oh, Hamish, we must get her from that cave. It is too damp and cold. If she’s unwell, she will die in there.” Isabella quickly thought. “Tell the boy we want to bring them back to the castle with us, to shelter them and tend to his mother. Tell him he does not need to be afraid.”

Hamish blinked. “But ... Miss Maris, the laird, he has a rule. No wives and no children allowed at Castle Wrath.”

“Nonsense. She will die if we do not help her. Calum would never turn away someone in such dire straits. I know he wouldn’t. Now give me the lantern and tell the boy to show me where his mother is. Then you ride to the castle quick as you can and fetch a litter that we can hitch to one of the ponies to transport her. Tell no one what you are about. It is much more difficult to turn someone away when they are standing right in front of you. I will speak with Calum when we return. If he is angry, I will tell him I insisted that you help me.”

Hamish spoke to the boy who nodded, staring at Isabella with uncertainty. Then Hamish turned for the ponies.

“And, Hamish, bring blankets. And tea. And some
uisge-beatha.
’Twill help to warm her till we can get her to a bed and a hearth. And hurry!”

While Hamish galloped one of the ponies back to the castle, Isabella and the boy entered the cave guided by the glimmering light of the lantern. The boy said nothing as they went, just kept glancing at Isabella as if to assure himself she really meant him no harm. She smiled at him, touched him softly on the top of his matted hair, and he seemed to ease.

Isabella couldn’t imagine how the boy and his mother had sheltered there for one night let alone fourteen. The walls inside the cave were damp and covered with moss. The air was thick with an unhealthy moisture that clung to everything it touched, chilling Isabella despite the layers of her clothing. It was no wonder the woman had taken ill.

They followed a series of tight twists and low turns until finally they came into a cavern chamber. The ceiling here was higher than the passage they had traveled, the air icy without any fire to warm it. The only light came from a small fissure in the rock overhead through which the daylight filtered—along with the rain, it would seem, for a puddle had formed directly beneath it. Bunches of heather and other brush had been stacked into the shape of pallets, numbering two. One of the pallets was vacant. The other was covered by a thin blanket, beneath that lay the slumbering figure of Druhan’s mother.