If she was in the cave, she was injured or she was dead. And if she was either of those things, it was Tavish’s fault.
He took a deep breath, stretched out one arm and leg and then leaped for the ledge. He landed hard on his left leg and hip and slid across the shelf, scrambling and clawing for purchase with his hands as he came to a stop at the edge. Not daring to stand, Tavish crawled toward the opening of the cave, sinking into the deep mud nearly to his elbows until he slid through the muck and into the darkness.
The smell of seawater and beeswax, old incense and gull shit filled his nose as he gained his feet and blinked, letting his eyes adjust. He crouched and walked deeper into the cave until he came to the grotto, where it was dry and quiet and still.
And empty. Audrey wasn’t there.
The shadows were deep, and so Tavish scoured every inch of floor, every low-lying alcove, but there was nothing there to indicate anyone had entered the cave since he and Dubhán had left it weeks ago. A dark thought occurred to him, and so he reached up into the highest niche, but his fingertips felt the end of his money chest just where he’d placed it. Tavish turned and sat down on the edge of the stone altarpiece with a sigh, and cradled his head in his hands. His roar of frustration echoed back against his own ears.
Damn his pride. Damn it! He’d been so sure of himself, so certain of his success as laird. Determined to show everyone who had ever doubted him that he would rise up and rule his own kingdom. But now…
Now, everything was falling apart. Audrey was gone, he’d driven Muir away. The resentments left burning in Edinburgh had crawled across the Forth while he’d been blissfully unaware, too busy playing lord of the manor, so absolutely certain that now—now—no one dared cross Tavish Cameron. But here they had all come to roost around him at Roscraig, them and so many more dangers that he could never have predicted. He was Damocles, and the sword was falling.
He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand and then rose and left the cave. He held on to the edges of the stone entrance as he emerged, turning his head upward at a sharp angle to see the edge of the cliff.
“Dubhán!” He waited while the gulls swooped and cried.
“Aye, laird?”
“She’s not here. Throw me the vine.”
Dubhán paused. “Forgive my distrust, laird, but what of the trunk?”
“It’s where we left it,” Tavish said. “The vine, Dubhán. I must return to the hall right away.”
Chapter 19
Glenna’s fingers were clasped so tightly together beneath the table she had lost feeling in them. Her chest rose and fell shallowly beneath the black-and-red brocade of her bodice. In her peripheral vision, her curls shivered despite the tightly woven coif young Anne had created, betraying her nerves. She couldn’t force herself to swallow, and she feared that if anyone should touch her, she would shatter.
Hell had broken loose in the Tower.
The hall roared with guests, the number of people packed into the cavernous room seemingly doubled from the last feast, and yet there was no gaiety in the commotion; no music. The food so lavishly provided remained largely untouched. Glenna kept her eyes trained on the table, occasionally glancing furtively to her right to be certain that Harriet was still seated next to her. To her left, King James kept his own counsel, waving away the shouted approaches, the declarations of outrage while his soldiers maintained a perimeter about their liege.
Once, Glenna had glanced across the table and found that Vaughn Hargrave was staring openly at her, a serene smile on his face as if he were an oasis of calm unable to be touched by the discord raging around them. She didn’t look up again.
A man’s shout rose above the noise and would have remained indiscernible if not for the repetitions of those gathered.
“Here he comes!”
Tavish.
Glenna looked to her left at the king, who gestured to his soldiers with a single nod. Half the company pushed through the crowd, and a moment later the guests parted, revealing the soldiers half dragging a struggling brown mass of man before James. Tavish shook off their restraining grips and stood in the hall, his clothing unrecognizable beneath the mud.
Glenna began to rise, but Harriet’s firm hand cautioned her from under the table.
The short, round, well-dressed man with the thin mustache rushed forward, barreling into Tavish before the guards could pull him away.
“Where is she, you animal?” Niall Keane shouted, flinging away the guards. “Where is my daughter? Where is Audrey?”
The hall grew silent, as if everyone held their breath in anticipation of Tavish’s answer. Niall Keane’s breaths wheezed in his barrel chest.
King James spoke. “It seems you forgot to mention earlier that Miss Keane has come up missing, Cameron.”
“I had hopes she would be found this afternoon, my liege,” Tavish said. “I only discovered her absence this morning. I have had all of Roscraig searched—it is where I have just come from.”
“You lie!” Niall Keane shouted, struggling once more with the guards to reach Tavish. “What have you done to her?”
“I’ve done nothing, Niall, I swear it,” Tavish said to the man. “I saw her last night at the feast—she was well and enjoying herself.”
