Should they happen to kill—or even injure—the countess or her husband, there would be hell to pay. Retribution would be swift. Jillian had no doubt the Prince Regent would raise the rents at Loch Shiel to astronomical numbers and probably revoke the titles to both Cantford and Newburn as well.
Jillian had to tell someone, but whom? With Jamie gone and Shane not back from his trip to Ireland, Duncan was in charge. She could hardly go tohim. Even if she thought he would listen to reason, there was no way he would listen to her. She was one of the hated Sassenachs.
Should she go to Bridget? Unfortunately, Bridget’s husband had gone to Arisaig the day before to deliver a pair of breeding mares. Brodie would not be back until tomorrow.
Perhaps it would be better if she followed Duncan and Broc herself to find out what the details of the plan were before she involved anyone else. She knew where the cairn of stones marked a crossroad, and she thought she remembered an abandoned croft when she had been out riding. It was not far from the castle, and the walk would do her good. Everyone fussed over Jillian’s need to rest, but what she really wanted was to move about.
She would be back well before dawn with no one the wiser. When Brodie returned tomorrow she would tell him she overheard everything in the barn. A little white lie, but better than being lectured by well-meaning MacLeods about leaving the castle unescorted.
Much later that night, Jillian was sure she had made the right decision. Duncan and Broc had been unusually quiet at the evening meal, but she had noticed the looks they exchanged. Now, near midnight, she huddled behind some bushes close to the postern gate. She doubted Duncan would try to leave by the main entrance since the old portcullis that Ian maintained in working order was down for the night with guards posted on the battlements above. She wrapped the dark blue and green MacLeod tartan more closely around her, glad the dark wool plaid both hid her and held in her body’s warmth.
Thankfully, Jillian did not have long to wait. She heard stealthy footsteps approach, then the turn of a key in the iron lock. She held her breath, listening for the sound of the key being turned from the other side, but since there was no real danger of attack, they left it unlocked. She counted to ten and then slipped through the hedge that hid the door.
The path was steep and uneven with only a sliver of new moon to light the way, but she had explored this area when she’d first arrived, thrilled to live in an actual medieval castle. With her unwieldy stomach affecting her balance, Jillian made her way carefully down, sometimes holding on to the long, grassy weeds to avoid slipping.
The ground leveled as she neared the road. Up ahead, she could just make out the forms of Duncan and Broc in the near-total darkness. If they were speaking, she could not hear them.
Once they passed the cairn, the road narrowed to little more than a deer trail, nearly hidden by bracken, and edged its way along a ravine that served as a gully wash when the snows melted in the spring. Now only bramble bushes stuck out from its sloping sides, the bottom littered with broken branches and rocks from downstream.
Careful not to loosen a stone on the rutted path that might give her presence away, Jillian exhaled a relieved breath when she saw the small cottage with its thatched roof gone. Inside, she could hear male voices. She paused, waiting for Duncan and Broc to enter. A little lean-to shed looked like it might offer a good place of concealment. Cautiously, she crept closer and then slipped inside, hoping she was not sharing a rat or badger’s home.
The tiny room cut the chill of the air, and light from an oil lamp flickered through a crack in the mud-and-wattle wall, allowing sound to filter through as well. The conversation was muted though, and Jillian only heard bits of phrases like “Sutherland bitch”, “spotted nearing Ft. William” “need to…” The speaker’s voice lowered and Jillian brushed cobwebs away, stepping closer to the wall to hear. Her ankle turned on a jagged rock and she reached out, catching herself on the sharp edge of a hand plough stashed against the wall. The tin slashed her hand, and she stifled a scream.
Talking ceased inside the cottage.
Jillian dashed outside the shed, running clumsily for the cover of the bracken. She heard cursing and the sound of heavy boots behind her. Not daring to slow down, she followed the winding, twisting path, praying there would be some spot where she could turn off the trail and hide. Her side was beginning to ache, and she clutched her stomach to keep the baby from kicking. She had to get off the path and glancedin both directions. The brush seemed denser and better to hide in to her left. She turned, pushing though—and stepped into open space.
The ravine rose up to meet her as she landed with a hard thump on her side, rolling and tumbling down the craggy side until she landed in a huddled heap atop dead branches.
Above her, she heard the men continue on.
