Until the Knight Comes (31 page)

“O-o-oh, nay, lad.” Kenneth shot out a hand, catching him before he could plunge down the steps. “She may have gone that way, but she won’t be down there now.”

He was certain of it.

But Jamie looked unconvinced.

Lowering his torch, he opened and shut his mouth twice before he found words. “She could be lost. Braw men have entered such passages . . . never to return. My own father’s castle has such a hellish maze. She—”

“Is in the hands of that loose-in-the-tongue stot who came chapping at our gates,” Kenneth finished for him.

He was already striding for the door. “Come—we must ride now. That will serve us better than stumbling around below ground. We find those bastards, we have my lady.”

“Aye, that will be the way of it.” Sir Lachlan pushed through the men thronging the great hall. “Those varlets would ne’er have left otherwise.”

He glanced round, looking pleased when others nodded. “I’d advise we leave a token guard here, send a swift rider to Eilean Creag for reinforcements and another to Dun Telve to gather the men in wait there. The rest of us ride at once, let not a sod of earth unturned until—”

He broke off, waved aside the young squire offering him a brimming wine cup. He looked at Kenneth, his face draining of all color. “Holy saints!” he swore, his eyes mirroring Kenneth’s horror. “There
is
something that would have kept them here! The promise of—”

“My coin and the lute.” Kenneth snatched the wine from the gog-eyed squire and downed it in one deep, quenching gulp. He tossed the cup onto the rushes, every fearing dream he’d e’er suffered gloating at him from the shadows. “Those knaves were in a ferment at the first hint of such riches. They’ll have questioned Mariota and I’ll wager she’s vowed she can take them to both.”

The hall fell silent.

Everywhere, men froze. They exchanged glances, their dark expressions and the number of hands dropping to sword hilts, more telling than words.

“Split me—that means they ken you lied.” Jamie leaned back against a trestle table, looking as if he needed its support, but he pushed away as quickly, his eyes widening. “And that is just the beginning! When they discover she’s bluffing as well, they’ll—”

“Aye, they will,” Kenneth agreed, anger piercing him like a knife blade. “That, and more.”

He flinched at every darkness lurking behind the word
more,
but forced himself to keep his voice level. “Dinna you worry, lad,” he said, choosing his words as much for his own benefit as Jamie’s. “We will find them before they can even think about doing aught to her. Meantime, I want you to ride to my uncle, have him send what men he can spare.”

“Me?” Jamie blinked. “I can ride fast enough, and ken the way, but . . .” He tailed off, glancing at the other men. “I already failed the lady once,” he blurted, looking miserable. “Had I but heard—”

“You did all anyone could have done,” Kenneth argued, the young knight’s ill ease minding him of his own doubts only some months ago in his uncle’s hall.

Doubts Duncan MacKenzie swept aside by knighting him there and then, the bold gesture securing Kenneth’s place in the clan in a way no one could refute or deny.

Not even Kenneth.

He flushed now, remembering his surprise, his pleasure.

But Jamie already wore knight’s spurs and he carried his own blade, a weapon he swung with greater skill than any other man in the hall.

He only needed a boost of confidence.

And of a sudden, Kenneth knew exactly how to give it to him.

Whipping back his plaid, he yanked free his new battle-ax and offered it to Jamie. But when the young man only stared at the weapon’s gleaming blade, Kenneth stepped closer and slid the long, smooth haft beneath Jamie’s belt.

There was a moment’s silence. Then Kenneth gave him a gruff nod and others began roaring approval. Looking down at the weapon, Jamie flushed with a blend of pride and astonishment.

“I canna accept this,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“Och, to be sure and you can. And dinna make such round eyes—yon ax is far more useful in your hands.” Kenneth lifted his voice above the raucous acclaim rising around them. “Duncan MacKenzie might wager his soul on such a piece of wickedness, but I find the thing damned unwieldy—as any man present will attest!”

“Aye, laddie,” a deep voice boomed from the back of the hall, “the Black Stag would be proud to see you carry his ax!”

“’Tis true.” Kenneth raised a hand when Jamie tried to argue. “Why do you think my uncle urged me to take you as one of my men? Many were the nights he praised your skill at swordery—and with a battle-ax!”

But Jamie only shook his head, looking stunned. “Still . . . he gave it to you, wanted you—”

“He wanted to know me well armed, and I am. But I do better with my own good fists and a dirk.” Kenneth patted his sword hilt, gave Jamie a pained smile. “Sakes, lad, I count my blessings that I can swing this blade with some accuracy. I do not need a Viking’s ax hampering me as well!”

“But—”

“No buts. Mayhap after some years of lording it here, I’ll feel more at ease with a knight’s weapons. This night, I prefer to rely on my wits!” The words spoken, he grabbed Jamie’s arm and pulled him through the jostling crowd. “Just remember what matters most—my lady. And dinna stop until you reach Eilean Creag. We need my uncle’s men.”

His
men parted for them, clearing space as they passed. And when they reached the far side of the hall, the door swung wide. Outside, men hastened to unbar the gates and saddled horses already stood at the ready.

“Off with you now!” Kenneth nigh pushed the young knight into the bailey.

Jamie threw him one last wild-eyed look, then took off running.

“Godspeed,” Kenneth called, but Jamie was already halfway across the courtyard, making straight for one of Cuidrach’s fastest horses.

“I’ll reach Duncan by nightfall,” he cried, swinging up into the saddle. “Those wretches will be damned forever and aye before the morrow ends!”

And with that, he spurred toward the gates and was gone before any shouts of encouragement could reach him.

Well pleased, Kenneth released his pent-up breath and turned back to his men.

Damned forever and aye, indeed!

Jamie’s last words rang in his ears. And good words they were. A fitting fate for the blackguards who held his lady; a stirring battle cry that fired his blood.

Naught else needed to be said—or could be said, so tight was his throat. So he wrenched free his sword and held it aloft, knowing his men would understand.

And they did.

As one, they poured into the bailey, ready to ride.

More than eager himself, Kenneth sheathed his sword and tore after them, his confidence soaring as he vaulted onto his stallion’s back.

To be sure, young Jamie had the rights of it. As did his men if the glint in their eyes was anything to go on.

Within hours, his lady would be back in his arms.

The saints only knew what would come of him if they were wrong.

“A bannock, my lady?”

Ignoring Ewan the Witty’s offer, Mariota stepped from the shelter of a great Caledonian pine and smoothed her skirts with as much dignity as she could muster. Faith, for a man of such uncommon height and girth, the lout crept about on feet as silent as cat’s paws.

A skill he’d deftly used to her disadvantage . . . and embarrassment.

Well aware of it, he stood near a clump of wet heather, broadsword at his hip, his plaid tossed arrogantly over his shoulder. And most galling of all, his whole demeanor struck her as prickly proud.

Disturbingly intimate.

“I have hung higher-born ladies than you,” he boasted, his face hardening. “And for far less sins than yours.”

“You needn’t remind me,” Mariota returned. “’Tis well enough I ken the style of you.”

His brow darkened. “By God and the Virgin! You dare speak to me thusly! You, a murderess!”

The tops of Mariota’s ears began to burn. She drew a breath, choosing to ignore his outburst. “How long have you been standing there?”

Lurking at the wood’s edge.

Leering at her.

He shrugged, his rage seemingly forgotten. “Cautious men live longer than careless ones.” He drew himself to his full height, oozed self-congratulation. “Nor are they likely to lose what they’ve gained. And it’s not just that—at times, they’re even treated to the most unexpected . . . delights.”

Mortification froze Mariota’s tongue. She knew exactly what kind of delight he meant and the knowledge made her face flame.

Saints of mercy, he’d been there the whole time!

Watching her.

“You swore no one would follow me,” she protested, her cheeks so hot she wondered they didn’t ignite.

Ewan folded his arms, looking amused. “I said
no one
would follow you—I did not say I would not . . . trail along.”

A crackling silence spun out between them, its tension making Mariota’s temples throb. She could only stare at him, indignation sweeping her. “I see,” she finally managed. “See that you are a knave of such wickedness you ought ne’er to have been born!”

“Och, he’s a craven cur, to be sure,” one of his men chuckled, “e’re preying on women, bairns, and dotards!”

But Ewan ignored both Mariota’s slur and his man’s jest, only flicked a few rain splatters off his plaid. And grinned.

Hot gall rose in Mariota’s throat and she glanced aside, caught a small red squirrel peering at her from a moss-grown stone rising from a patch of late-blooming bell heather. Not that she minded the wee creature’s regard, but she would have sworn his round, black eyes held sympathy.

But then he darted away, disappearing into the dead bracken, the mists sliding down the braes. And leaving nothing behind but the wet wind whistling through the trees and Ewan’s sharp, unnerving stare.

The letch that clung so thickly to him she could almost taste his lust.

Shuddering, she shook out her skirts again—leastways so good as was possible with tied hands.

Still needing to exhibit her disdain, she squared her shoulders and straightened her back. That much she could do. She simply would
not
let her composure crack, wouldn’t let him see any more of her ill ease than he already had.

Even if nothing was going as she’d hoped.

For truth, they could have been anywhere—or nowhere.

Nigh on Kintail’s boundaries, or mayhap not farther than a few leagues from Cuidrach’s walls. On such a chill, gray day with so much drifting mist, it was impossible to tell. Not even full noon had brought a lift in the dark, roiling clouds, the curtains of fog cloaking the glens.

But wherever they were, she had a sinking feeling they’d been riding in circles and
he
wasn’t letting her out of his sight.

Not even to tend her most private cares.

Holding his gaze, she kept her chin lifted, refused to shrink from him. Hugh Alesone had once praised Ewan the Witty as a man of uncommon talents and she now believed one of them must be the ability to ferret out a foe’s weakness—as he was proving now, catching her at her most vulnerable and then increasing her misery by waving his fool bannock at her.

As if he knew she hadn’t eaten since yestereve.

“Well?” He stepped closer, cocked a brow. “Dinna tell me you aren’t hungry?”

Mariota stiffened, resisting the urge to bite his fingers when he thrust the moldy bit of sustenance beneath her nose. “I would sooner break bread with the Devil,” she snapped, then cringed when her empty stomach betrayed her with a loud rumbling growl.

The men milling about sniggered.

Scattered laughter spread through the small clearing, quickly becoming coarse and ribald. But Ewan only rocked back on his heels, pinned her with a piercing stare.

His mouth curved in a mocking smile. “Do not press your high-flung ways, lady. If you shun our food, we might see ourselves forced to offer you
other
forms of nourishment.”

“Hech—I’d rather feed on
her.
A bite o’ tender thigh . . . a savory taste o’ fine and slippery female heat!” The bull-necked speaker emphasized his desire by rubbing his crotch. “O-o-oh, aye, Ewan, give us a peek at her sweetness and I’ll show the lot of you what a Highlander’s tongue can do!”

“As if we dinna ken!” someome quipped from deep in the mist.

Raucous laughter underscored the general agreement as men came closer, heated anticipation on their bearded faces.

“Highlanders’ tongues. Hah!” Ewan whirled on the crotch-rubber. “
Your
Highland tongue can be ripped right out of your mouth if you dare.” He glared at the man, raised fingers to probe the bluish swelling at his left eye. “I dinna doubt
that part of her
has teeth just as wicked as the swing of her fist. Not that she’ll be taking any more swipes at us.”

His lips twisting, he tossed aside the bannock. “So-o-o! Have your look, my friends. But no more tarse-pulling . . . leastways, not yet.” The warning spoken, he reached for Mariota’s skirts. “And come no closer—”