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  The man had flattered him with some nonsense about seeing him fight at the Mackinnon Tournaments twenty-odd years ago! Well, he must know of the man. Think, think! He remembered being pleased with the man’s flattery, soaking it up like a cloth. The man’s face was flabby and slack-looking, like unbaked bannock dough. The color was not far off either, gray, and those big, ugly lips. By God, he knew him alright. The man he had shared drunken discourse with had been none other than that bastard, Tormod Sinclair!

  What the hell had he done?

  Rory knew by instinct that whatever he had said on that day had much to do with the shouting and banging and clattering of hooves, all of which seemed to be growing louder and more urgent. What was happening? He wished he could move himself and go and have a look.

  Sinclair! Wily and rotten to the core. Rory concentrated hard, picturing the other man’s face as if to will the old conversation back into the fore.

  “How goes his eldest? Gunn, isn’t it? Much like his father, is he?”

  “Ach, aye! More of the same, more of the same!” Rory had snorted, in a derisory fashion. Seizing upon what must have seemed like such apparent discontent, Tormod pressed him further.

  “Not so fine a man after all, then?”

  “Ach, no! They just bloody think they are. The other boys are right enough, but that damned wee jump up, Gunn, well, let me just say he’s a copy of the old man and needs teaching a thing or two.”

  “Aye,” Tormod was warming to the theme, “as I remember it, Lachlan was just the same at that age. Thought he was maybe a little higher and mightier than he really was!”

  “Aye, aye, my friend, that he certainly was.” Rory had reached for the bladder of wine he was carrying and took the sort of slurp that rendered his shirt as sodden as his chin.

  “So, what’s he about now? Not married, I think? I never heard that he was.”

  “No, no, not married. Got all the lassies fawning about him, though. Wee jump up!”

  “So, no girl in particular? No lassie who, shall we say, lights his fires for him?” Rory had studied Tormod in a vague way, wondering why there were talking about bloody Gunn of all people. Gunn, who was always at him for drinking and chasing the lassies! Twenty-four years old and talking down to him like he himself were a wee boy! He could feel as much bile rising for his cousin’s son as he had always felt for Lachlan himself.

  “Aye, aye,” he said, staring off into the middle distance, nursing his resentment as one might nurse a sickly child. “He has his lofty eyeball on a lass. Farmer’s daughter, she is.” He took yet another swig and rolled his tongue out lasciviously, recalling how he himself had admired the wee thing’s curves.

  “What’s she like?”

  Rory was too far gone, a mixture of drink and bitterness preventing him from being suspicious of what, in a sober moment, he should have known to be serious questioning.

  “Ho ho... She’s bonny right enough.” He made a lewd motion with his hands, outlining imaginary breasts in the sky.

  Tormod leaped on the sentiment, laughing with him, his voice low and conspiratorial. He nodded at him to continue.

  “Hair like flames, rich, long, and clean, bouncing about her milky wee shoulders. She’s firm looking, one you’d like to get a squeeze of. More than a squeeze, if you could get away with it.” He raised his drink towards Tormod, as if in a toast.

  “Sounds just to my liking. I don’t think I’ve seen her, though. I would remember, surely?” He made the statement a question, digging, groping for a name.

  “Aye, you’d know her if you saw her. Isobel Gillies, That’s right... Isobel Gilles.” Rory repeated as if pleased at remembering her name as well as he had remembered her curves.

  The conversation began to dry somewhat after that, and Rory struggled to remember any more, beyond Tormod taking his leave.

  Isobel Gillies. By God, a lassie like that was as good as dead in the hands of someone like Tormod Sinclair. Rory was a rough man, he knew, especially in his chamber. Still, his little perversions could not compare to those reputedly held by Sinclair. By God, what had he done? With a sickening lurch, he rose from his bed. He must find Lachlan.

  Chapter 11

  Isobel felt frozen to her very marrow. The fire had died hours ago, and the dressings on the pallet were no longer enough to keep her warm. Her fingers felt numb, and the lack of food and sleep were making her feel colder still. So cold, she felt she would never be warm again. Maybe that was true, maybe she would not live long enough to feel warmth or light or happiness ever again. She knew she was trampling on her own spirits, but she had long since exhausted her ability to cry any more tears. In all her life, she had never felt more alone.

  Nairn had not returned, and it had been hours since their whispered conversation through the keyhole. Maybe she had been a figment of Isobel’s imagination. Like a child will invent a friend to face the darkness, maybe that was Nairn? Or maybe she had not been able to get the key, or maybe she had been caught by Tormod in the attempt.

  Isobel hoped, with what she felt to be total futility... that the wife of her evil captor had managed to escape and make her way to Kincaid Castle. Thoughts of Kincaid filled her mind’s eye and gave her hope. The castle, the lands, and their wonderful farm. Would she ever see them again? Would she ever see Gunn again? How she wished he had just once taken her into his arms and kissed her, as she’d often felt he was going to. More than once, she could have sworn that he would have done just that, but then something seemed to stop him, some cloud appeared across his beautiful bright blue eyes, and off he would go again. It had hurt her every time, so much more than she had ever been willing to admit to herself. To have admitted the pain would have been to have admitted the depth of her love for him. Well, she would admit it now. She would admit it all. If she were to be beaten and raped and meet her maker well before her time, she would do so with her own heart in good and true order.

  Shivering, she pulled the dressings and her plaid more tightly about and finally found her tears once more. This time, however, she was not crying for the life she was about to lose; she was crying for the love she had already lost.

  Nairn sat in her window seat in the warmth of her large chamber, turning the large key over and over in her hand. She almost giggled with disbelief at her actions. Never, in all her years at Sinclair, had she taken one moment’s worth of control. Not once. Then last night, whilst Tormod drunk himself to sleep, her plan became clear to her. The fact that Tormod was drinking even more heavily than usual meant that he was trying to control the beast within him; he was trying to put it to sleep. He was obviously not planning on returning to Isobel that night, and she felt relieved at the thought of the lassie’s short reprieve.

  She had found no trouble in forcing herself to keep awake, and in the early hours, when his snoring had reached a crescendo, Nairn had crept silently into Tormod’s chamber. The sleeping pig was lying flat out on his back in the center of his bed, still dressed. Even his boots were still on his feet. His arms were stretched out either side of him, giving him the appearance of being crucified. How she wished that were true, for she knew no man on earth who would deserve it more.

  For a moment, she looked for his sword. It stood there in the corner of his chamber. The great iron beast would reach up to her breasts. Could she lift it? Could she bring it down and end her torment? Heat flushed through her as the possibility loomed in her mind. If she did this, then she would be free but most likely would not escape the castle. The guards would find and slay her, but she would be free nonetheless.

  Then the moment passed, and her courage almost failed her. If she were caught? If she mishandled the heavy sword or if she dropped it, then the lassie would suffer and so would she. No, she would go with her original plan.

  Holding her breath, Nairn had crept full into the center of the room, her eyes darting to and fro, searching desperately for the big iron key. It was on no surface that she could see. Her heart, already beginning to sink, skip
ped several beats as Tormod’s snores became choking coughs. He hacked loudly, and thus she feared he would wake himself and discover her there. He turned like a big, fat baby, onto his side and resumed lighter, less raucous, snoring; and there it was! The rounded top of the key poked up out of the pocket of his breeches! She almost squealed with victorious delight, but silently clapped a small hand over her mouth. Could she get it? Could she really ease that key out of his pocket and make good her escape?

  Leaning over him, Nairn had stopped, deathly still, for a full minute. She watched Tormod breathing and, satisfied that it was rhythmic and he was deeply asleep, she reached out her hand. She looked at her hand, expecting it to be shaking, and was surprised to find that it was as steady and as sure as any rock in the Highlands. What had changed in her? She had spent much of her adult life quivering and sweating simply at the sound of his voice in some far off part of the castle. His effect on her very soul had been as profound and as devastating as it was possible to be. Yet here she was, stealing from his very pocket and planning to rescue a lassie she barely knew! Perhaps, at last, she had fallen over the edge of her own reason.

  Focusing once more, she slipped her hand so very gently into his pocket and freed the key without difficulty. She paused, simply holding the key in her hand, as she held her own breath. She wanted to run, to get out of that chamber as quickly as she could. She knew, however, that it could be a terrible mistake. She did not want to risk him stirring now. If he woke as she left, he might come to just enough to feel in his pocket for the key. The moment he discovered it was missing, the game was up, and she would lose. Silently retreating, Nairn carefully chose every step she took. Finally, she was out of his chamber and had quietly pulled his door shut.

  She had made her way immediately back to her own chamber. She would watch for the breaking dawn and put her plan into action. Nairn knew that the men would begin to stand down once the first suspicion of daylight made itself known. They were loyal enough, but certainly not daft. They knew their Chief would be sleeping it off well into the middle morning, for the lazy brute never much roused himself before then. They would get themselves away for a sleep before he rose. They did this night after night, she knew well.

  When it finally happened, she would creep away from the castle, taking the wee lassie with her. For the first time in many years, she would ride atop a horse, and fly across the Highland countryside. She only hoped that Isobel knew the way. Nairn had been a prisoner herself for so long that she could barely place their castle in relation to any other lands anymore.

  As the sky began to lighten, Nairn strained her hearing for sounds that the men were standing down. She thought she could hear the shuffling of feet far below her and smiled in anticipation of her imminent release. Squinting into the breaking dawn, her attention was drawn sharply by the figure of a man peering from behind thick undergrowth at the edge of the castle grounds. His frame was tall and lean and looked suddenly familiar to her. She could see that he was dark haired and was clearly surveying the same men she was waiting on to depart.

  It was Lachlan! Lachlan, after all these years. He was going to rescue her! He was going to take her to his home and keep her there, forever safe and secure. Her heart was pounding; she knew she must move quickly and quietly. Snatching up her cloak, she made, once more, for the disused corridors of the castle. Following almost the same route she had taken the night before, she crept silently past the door to Isobel’s prison, without stopping to open it, and carried on down the winding corridor. She knew there was an old, thick wooden door at the end of the deserted corridor, which led off into outside world at the back of the castle. She would slide the old bolt back and escape that way, leaving it open so that Lachlan could come back in for Isobel when it was safe.

  The bolt took some shifting, and she winced at the rusty squeal it had made as it had finally slid back. Opening it, she stepped cautiously outside, the chill of the air taking her breath away. She did not feel afraid, she felt exhilarated for, moments hence, she would be at Lachlan’s side and all would be well.

  She darted quietly along knowing that, at any moment, she must round the eastern corner of the castle and would then know if the men had stood down from their duties or not. Reaching that terrible moment, she stepped out and around into the front of the castle.

  Chapter 12

  Lachlan stared in disbelief at his cousin. He could not remember feeling so betrayed in all of his life; for the betrayal, he knew, was of him rather than his son. So, Rory’s inadequacies and petty resentments had finally caught up with him. If Lachlan searched his soul, he had always known this day would come. The gentle competition they had fostered as wee boys had grown arms and legs and a life all of its own by the time they had reached their early twenties. When Lachlan had become the Chieftain, the bitterness had become set in stone.

  Lachlan was so deeply angry. He thought of his son, his wee boy, and the love he had known him to harbor so deep in his heart for the Gillies lass. Lachlan had tried in vain to approach the subject with Gunn. He had wanted him to take that risk; to make the same fearless and heartfelt decision he himself had made as a young man in the woods. Do what you feel to be right, he had wanted to tell him. Yet, he had not. All this time, he had stood back, aloof, wanting his son to come to his decisions alone, in his own way, and in that, perhaps, he had failed him as a father.

  How rich that the only other person to have perceived Gunn’s deeper feelings was the red-headed rat who sat there before him, blubbering and stinking and sobering up in all his self-pity. Lachlan wanted to take the axe to him, there and then. He wanted to strike him down in a stream of blood and gore; anything to satiate his own raw anger.

  “I ought to end you, you sniveling wee drunkard!” he rasped, his tone low and lethal. Rory quaked. For the first time in his life, he was not so sure his cousin would overlook his behavior and, maybe, this time, he shouldn’t. Rory knew what he was, and knew what wrong he had done. “You should,” Rory choked.

  Lachlan reddened violently. He did not want this passive acceptance from Rory. He wanted the old Rory, the whiner who would blame all around him for his own crimes. It was too late for this. It was too late for Rory to make these changes. Lachlan felt a surge of fury the like of which had never overcome him before. He thought of the appalling Tormod Sinclair, and his color grew yet deeper still.

  This feud of theirs had simmered, year upon year. Small acts of violence, thefts and a general tide of public insult designed to diminish the Kincaid in the eyes of the surrounding Clans and possibly even the king. However, it had never developed into full fighting as Clans had done in years before. It was a silent, insidious feud. An abiding hatred.

  Now, Tormod Sinclair had brought the fight right to his very castle walls. He had, on the ramblings of this drunken heap before him, stolen away a young, innocent wee lassie, whose only crime on this earth had been to be loved by the son of the Kincaid Chieftain. He had watched and waited. He had spied on Lachlan’s Clansmen until one of his own men could happen upon the child and drag her away to the hell that was Sinclair Castle.

  Now his own son was out there, alone and in danger, to save the woman he loved from being mauled and raped by the foulest smelling beast in the barnyard!

  All these years, Lachlan had lived as peaceably as a Chieftain could, to spare his Clan the pain and loss of battle. Nonetheless, they were well trained. That would go in their favor. It was well known that the Kincaid had spent many a peaceful year. It was less well known that Lachlan’s Clansmen were among the best trained in the Western Highlands. Every day his men practiced at the lists, and each farmer that was of age worked with his men. They fought side by side, trained side by side and prepared for peace just as much as they prepared for war. Lachlan never knew why he had trained them so hard. Maybe it was because disciplined men were happy men, but now he was pleased that he had. His warriors were ready, and they would fight well.

  Still, all these years Lachlan had av
oided battle, and now he sat contemplating a war. A war he himself would take to the enemy, and take it on that very day.

  He rose so abruptly that a startled Rory fell backward from his stool and lay in a quivering heap on the floor. He had instinctively curled himself into a ball and covered his face with his flailing arms. Lachlan looked down on the pitiable sight and, with a grunt of disgust, stepped over him and strode away, out of the chamber. He had work to do.

  Gunn was so intent on watching the space vacated by the guards that he had not seen the cloaked woman creep up to him. Spinning so fast and raising his fist, he had almost struck her before he realized that she was a tiny little woman. She looked pale and excited and held her hands up in supplication to him without a word. He stayed his fist and lowered his sword, whilst looking quizzically at the woman.

  The faint beginnings of a shy smile were forming on her lips, and she looked most directly into his eyes. Feeling somewhat disquieted by her approach, he leaned towards her.

  “Who are you, good woman?” he spoke in a whisper, fearful of attracting attention. Although he himself had watched as the guards had stood down from their posts, he somewhat distrusted his own senses, for had he not entirely missed this woman’s very approach to him? He was utterly exhausted, having taken no rest throughout the night for fear of missing an opportunity to rescue his love; his Isobel.

  “It is I, Nairn.”

  Gunn was still confused and guessed it showed on his face, for her own smile wavered and she went on.

  “I am Nairn Sinclair. Tormod Sinclair took me as his wife.” She stopped and smiled at him as if her simple declaration explained it all.