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  She vividly remembered a good deal of the journey, slung across the back of the horse, between the legs of the sour smelling man. The man who had so viscously punched her. As her eyes came back into focus, she found herself lying on a nicely made up pallet with warm dressings on it. She was in a room which, although small, was neat and clean. It was sparse, but there was a fire burning in the small hearth, casting the only light in the room.

  Looking down, she could see that her skirts were filthy. Although moving was painful, she had to touch them, and they felt stiff as a board. It seemed she had been here a while for they had had time to dry. Her hands, too, were dirty and caked with mud. Gently, she pushed a lock of hair from her face. The once soft tendrils were coarse and matted. Not knowing why, or how it would help, she set about separating the long, thick strands with her fingers, in a bid to tidy herself up. Perhaps it was all that she had left in the face of her enemy. To stand as clean and respectable as she could possibly be in her current state. To be defiant.

  Why was she here? What did they want with her? A simple farmer’s daughter was no use to anyone. The thoughts made her head spin, and she rested back against the pallet. She felt sure she would find out soon enough why the foul man had taken her and felt surer still that the reason would not be a good one. She knew that there were men out there who would take a lassie against her will and find pleasure in her pain and degradation. Was that to be her fate? But why bring her here? Whoever he was could have taken what he wanted there and then. She had, after all, been completely alone on the edge of the woodlands. And the roughness and stench of the man... It did not really fit well with her current surroundings.

  Somewhere close by Isobel heard movement, maybe voices. There was a hollowness of echoes which she recognized. She was in no small homestead or farm building. She knew for certain that she was in a small room somewhere deep in the heart of a castle. She could feel it. Her vile captor could not possibly dwell here within this castle’s walls.

  A strange hope surged through her, and her heart gave a small leap as she nurtured a tiny hope that someone had brought her into Kincaid Castle. It was practically her home, after all. Perhaps someone had seen her and thought that she should be back within the stone walls of safety. Sitting on the edge of the bed and staring glumly into the wavering flames, however, she knew she was being childish. This was not Kincaid Castle. The journey, for one thing, had been too long. Unconscious as she had been for much of it, she remembered waking in flashes and seeing the gritty earth race past. It seemed to her that they had raced along for much of an hour, maybe more. With her heart sinking, she knew she was miles away from home. She was here because someone had desired it to be so; but why? For what purpose?

  She rose from the bed and went to kneel by the fire. Reaching out, she rubbed her hands together in its warmth and silently prayed for help to come. Long moments she stared at the flames. At the gold and occasional blue that looked like living silk. It entranced her and relaxed her, and for a while, she was lulled by its hypnotic pull.

  This would not make her safe! She had to get away from here.

  Pacing back and forth, his heart pounded uncomfortably as his excitement grew. Tormod Sinclair had finally done it. After all these years, a plan had presented itself, and it was so beautifully simple. Finding all of the information he had needed had been easy. Who would have dreamed there would be a chink in the tightly woven armor of the Kincaid Clan?

  He could feel another, keener excitement building within him. He had the lassie here now, here, within the castle walls. What a simple thing it would be to go down to that old, unused part of the castle and do what he desired most. Not that he hadn’t, over the years, done just as he’d pleased to whatever woman he chose; but this was different. Yes, very different. She was his prisoner, and not just any prisoner. This woman was a weapon, to be used to draw out his enemy and wound him as he pleased. To do it now would make no sense. He needed him to be aware, to know it was happening and be powerless to stop it. Yes, that would be worth waiting for. He ran his tongue over his thick, ugly lips and continued to pace.

  Gunn’s heart was pounding with excitement, but they were going too fast and he forced himself to ride more slowly. Normally this would have exhilarated him, tracking in such difficult conditions. Tonight his excitement was fear-based, and it was not the way to track. He knew he should be scouring for clues on the ground, and all around him yet his eyes raced ahead and his mind dreamed up all kinds of scenarios. Each one was worse than the last, and it took his concentration from the job at hand. That was what it must be, a job, to be done properly if Isobel was to be found alive. He pulled his plaid tighter around himself as a chill passed over him. Just the thought of her out here alone… or worse, sent ice water down his spine.

  Taking a breath, he calmed his heart and chastised himself for his sense of urgency; this was no way to track. What if he had already missed some vital tell-tale sign? What if he had missed the sign that held her life in his hands? What if it was too late… if she was already dead? Quickly, he fought down these thoughts. In them lay only failure, and he would not do that. Nay, he would not let this wee lassie down.

  Methodically, he swung the torch from side to side, its flame ragged and bright against the dark of the moonless night. The light from the flame was a risk, especially as they were nearing Sinclair territory, but it was a risk he had to take if there was to be any hope of recovering Isobel.

  Against his own will, Gunn had stopped Duncan from shouting out to Isobel as often as he wanted. All he would allow was just one shout, now and again, and then wait. Stand deathly still, eyes closed, and listen. Slow your breathing up, free your senses, and listen. Not just for Isobel, but listen for other hunters or wildlife that had been startled, listen to the wind for what it could tell you. Concentrate and listen with every sense you had.

  For now, they did not know what they were dealing with and, as such, he knew he must keep his emotions in check. Maybe she had fallen, or gotten lost. Maybe she would be holed up in a cave, keeping warm with a fire, but that was not what made his blood run cold and his heart pound like racing hooves. What if she had been taken? What if she had wandered into Sinclair land or had come upon some man… some man like… No, he could not think that way, could not let his mind go down that path, for that way lay the madness of rage and he needed to be strong.

  The best way to get her back was to follow the rules his father had taught him. The rules which, until now, he had never had an urge to break.

  Gunn drifted off once more, a picture in his mind of Isobel in the castle keep loomed large in his mind. He remembered seeing her gathering layers of clothing from a pile which had been left there for washing. It had been her day to assist in the castle, and she seemed intent on her work. Gunn knew that she enjoyed her work at the castle. As much as she loved the farm, the bustle, and company she found at the castle were a welcome change from her day-to-day routine. He had studied her and noted that she never seemed to mind what task she was performing. Never had he heard a complaint or seen her try to swap one task for another, as he had so often seen others do. He often felt he would like to single her out for conversation, but he knew that the other keen-eyed lassies would spy that in a heartbeat. They would give her a hard time and make up stories and gossip that they would hope would ruin Isobel’s chances. Not that they didn’t like her, but when you were the next in line to be Chieftain, the female competition was fierce.

  His eyes had been opened as a young man of fourteen years when a lassie of a few years older had stopped him in a corridor as she went about her work. Grinning at him she had opened her bodice, revealing her round, soft breasts. “Well now, what do you think?” she had asked him with a wink.

  Gunn had felt like a fawn flushed from the cover of the heather. With wide eyes and a racing heart, he’d had too many thoughts to express. Only his mouth fell open, his tongue felt like an old boot, and he blushed as purple as a blaeberry on the bush and
had scarpered. For many months, he could not even look at the lassie. It was made worse because he’d known on instinct that he had made a fool of himself. He should have done something. As soon as he had gone, he regretted it, regretted not reaching out and touching one at least. Every time he saw her, he’d felt his shame and couldn’t stand it. However, by the age of seventeen, the lassie was courting, and soon after she was wed. Gunn often smiled when he saw them as he knew that young man, probably much more forward than he had been, would be having the time of his life. After the wedding, the lassie had never looked his way again, and Gunn could forget the incident... well almost forget, he guessed. You never forgot your first look at the female form.

  That was when he had first come to realize that it was his status in life which women wanted, and not him. How would he ever be able to pick a good match from among them?

  Still, despite the risk of gossip, he had strode towards Isobel one day.

  “So, you’re at the washing then, are you?”

  “No,” she said simply, not changing her expression at all.

  Once again, he felt foolish and lost for words, and he knew that she could see it. Just as he was beginning to regret approaching her, her expression shifted into a brilliant and mischievous smile, before she started to laugh at him.

  “Aye, Gunn. I’m at the washing. Did you think I was skinning a rabbit?”

  “You cheeky wee minx!” He laughed with her and gave her a gentle shove. Then embarrassed, he looked around and was glad to see that the other lassies were not about. It had felt good reaching out to shove her. The touch, although only the top of her arm, had stirred him more than it should have done. It made him want to pull her into his arms, and he could not help but look in her eyes. They were like deep pools of green, fathomless, inviting and yet somehow dangerous. How he had wanted to take a hold of her. Without thinking he’d stepped forward a little, and he saw a smile play across her lips. She knew he wanted her. She knew.

  “Anyhow, I’ll leave you to it, lass.” With his heart in his throat, he’d turned sharply on his heel and walked away. Once again he had run from a woman, maybe it was becoming a habit. This time, he never looked back at her, but could feel her disappointment. It washed over him and mingled with the disappointed in himself, but he could not be sure of her, any more than he could be sure of any of them. With her, it was worse, because he knew he felt deeply for her. Aye, he was stirred by the very sight of her. It did not matter, mayhap he would marry for the clan, and he could not allow his feelings to lead him into stupidity, nor would he.

  Still, his resolve had never dampened his want. He always looked forward to seeing her about and worked very hard at being friendly, but not available to her. What a damn fool he’d been!

  Gunn drew his horse to a gentle stop. Something was different, out of place, but what? Silent as an owl, he slipped from his horse and stood still for a moment. Duncan, with no tracking experience, had no idea what he should do, so he wavered atop his horse and watched.

  Gunn took a deep breath and held it for a moment. Letting it then drift softly out through his parted lips, he softened his gaze and leaned forward with the torch, the flames dancing brighter upon the ground. Duncan watched in silence as Gunn seemed to be in a trance of some sort. Then, as suddenly as he had stopped, Gunn stiffened and crouched down. He was running his fingers over the rough earth of the track at the northern most part of the Glannoch Valley. This really was Sinclair territory now.

  “What is it, man?” Duncan’s voice, although a whisper, held agitation in its tone.

  “This earth is drawn up. There has been a struggle here,” Gunn said through gritted teeth. Something had happened to sweet bonny Isobel, and it made him burn with a fire brighter than this meager flame. Wafting the torch about, he learned what he could and looked up at Duncan.

  The younger man cowered back as he felt the angry darkness emanate from Gunn.

  Chapter 6

  Nairn Sinclair knew that something was wrong in the castle. She could feel it in her very bones. It was like a poison in the air that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Though she had never once been happy within these walls, it wasn’t that. It wasn’t her own despair, today something felt different.

  Not that she could have spoken of this to anybody. Her sons, seemingly spawned in the image of their father, would have scoffed at her in front of whomever was around. Her daughter, Ruth, of whom she had nursed such great hopes of companionship and kindness, had turned out brittle and cruel, caring for none but herself. The child had grown up wanting so badly to win the approval of her father. A man who thought of women as nothing more than entertainment and a means to bring forth sons. Nairn had never understood why it was that Ruth seemed to blame her own mother for these circumstances and not her father.

  She had so loved the chubby, cheeky faced wee bairn. After the hard birth, she held Ruth in her arms and imagined that, for once in her life, she might finally have an ally. Over the years, Nairn had watched as disappointment after disappointment had hardened her little daughter’s heart and soured her very soul.

  Nairn herself had long since begun the retreat into a surreal world, one where she imagined it had been she who had long ago been rescued by the handsome and strong Lachlan Kincaid. In her world, he had rescued her from the woods, and her from the vile, dirty matrimony she had truly been abandoned to. She had seen Lachlan many years ago, at a friendly tournament of open hand fighting held at the castle of the Mackinnon Clan. In those long-gone days, the Kincaid and Mackinnon Clans held close allegiance and, whilst the bonds between Sinclair and Mackinnon were stronger, they were still at least cordial between Kincaid and Sinclair.

  Lachlan had been a young man of twenty years then, and he had yet to become the Chieftain. He had the sort of face and body which she thought, at that time, showed the true generosity of God himself. He was tall and lean, muscular and uncommonly dark for a Highlander. Yet, it was his eyes which she had known she would never forget. The very brightest blue against the olive skin of his face and his dark red-brown, foxlike hair.

  That was then. Before he had rescued and married Effie Mackinnon from Tormod Sinclair, the filthy beast she had then been doomed to wed. As the daughter of Ross Mackinnon’s sister, Nairn had been thrust forward as a compensatory sacrifice after her cousin, Effie, had so successfully escaped and married. How she had hated Effie in the early days. It should have been Effie suffering, not she. She had spent years taking the blows that Effie should have bruised for, and the lewd cruelty and degradation which should have been Effie’s, and not hers.

  Nairn had spied him first, that beautiful, handsome man, all those years ago at the tournament. Effie had never set eyes on him before, not until the day he came upon the hiding wee lassie in the woods. How had it been fair that Effie’s life could have been so wonderful, yet hers was full of pain? She relied only on daydreaming and imaginings, which saw her living her life at Kincaid Castle with such a hero as Lachlan, instead of here with Tormod, her two sons, whom she knew would be as cruel and filthy as their father, and a daughter who despised the whole world.

  In only her forty-fourth year, Nairn Sinclair felt like an old woman; one at the end of her life, and one whose life had been a wasteland of sadness and pain.

  It had taken her many years to reach a point where she realized that there was nothing to forgive Effie for. When first she had heard of her uncle’s promise to wed Effie away to Sinclair, she had feared the worst for her cousin. It had kept her awake at night, knowing that Effie was facing what would be a fate worse than death for any woman. A fate, as it turned out, that was to be her own, and now she could truly vouch that it had indeed been worse than death.

  Effie had escaped because she saw no other way. Nairn knew now that Effie could not have foreseen that Nairn would be forced into Tormod’s arms and bed. Effie had simply run. Effie had done what she might well have done in the same circumstances. Sadly, once Nairn had been bartered away, her uncle
had kept her locked within her own chambers and guarded, for fear his niece would shame him in the same way his own daughter had done. There had been no hope of escape for Nairn. Even her own mother had been barred from seeing her and, since her betrothal to Tormod all those years ago, she had never once seen her beloved mother again.

  No, she knew that she had funneled her anger towards the wrong target for so many years. Effie Mackinnon had not done this to her. Ross Mackinnon and Tormod Sinclair had. They had used and abused her life as if it were no more to them than that of a horse, and the consequences had driven her, this once kind and sweet lassie, to near insanity.

  If something felt different here in this evil castle, then Tormod, she knew, was at the very root of it. Since no member of her own kin would ever tell her what it was, then she must go and find it out for herself.

  The agony of not knowing finally drove Isobel to tears. Her family would now know that she was missing, but what by God could they do? It would be dark now. Would her poor, beloved father be out there in the hills, stumbling through the heather in the darkness, calling her name? She couldn’t bear to imagine his anguish. Her mother and sister would be helpless, pacing the small farmhouse, crying and fearful that they might never see her again. As well they might not. She fought hard against the tears, but the thought that she might never return home again had overwhelmed her. Her shoulders shook, and her tears flowed so furiously that they began to fall, unchecked, onto the wool of her outer skirt, darkening the fawn material into deep brown patches.