He said nothing as they rode, leading the group over the rough terrain without a hint of uncertainty or indecision. The only sound that left his lips was an occasional series of clicks to encourage their horse when the terrain was especially challenging. Isabail actually managed to forget that she was the prisoner of a Highland barbarian... at least briefly.
Exhaustion crept up on her. It grew harder and harder to keep her eyes open and her back stiff. Especially during those moments when the path led straight up the mountain. Isabail struggled against her drooping eyelids... and lost. The last thing she remembered as her eyes slid shut was a gruffly worded, “Sleep.”
* * *
Aiden felt Isabail go limp in his arms and knew she had finally succumbed to the rigor of her snowbound adventure. She surprised him with the extent of her endurance—she’d slept no more than a wink during the night. Her timing was unfortunate, though.
He reined his horse in at the edge of the cliff and looked out over the wide glen below. Forest stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions, the trees a mix of barren winter branches and green needled firs. Approaching Dunstoras from the east always made his heart soar. Wrapped in leafless winter vines, the pale gray stones of the castle’s tower were clearly visible against the afternoon sky. They stood above the trees like a beacon calling him home.
“Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes,” Graeme said, drawing alongside him.
Aiden nodded, but his gaze had already moved south of the tower, settling on a rocky rise at the base of the mountains—the site of their current camp, a ruined palace built by the Picts more than five hundred years ago. Or so said the legends. For the past several months, he and his clan had camped amid the rubble, hidden from view by the harsh landscape. Using remnants of the old stone walls as a foundation, they had laid new thatch roofs and wooden floors, creating a primitive but livable abode. The stone castle designed by his father and raised with the blood and sweat of his MacCurran kin might lie under the temporary stewardship of Tormod MacPherson, but he could still go home.
At least, for now.
Aiden turned his mount away from all that had once been his and made his way down the slope to the glen. The woman in his arms was not to blame for his plight, but he still felt the twist of a knife in his gut when he looked at her. John Grant had stolen his future. Living in the Pictish ruin was bearable only because it held the promise of returning to their true home. Once that was gone, it would be only a matter of time before all else was gone, too.
MacPherson had been ruthless in ridding the land of his outlawed kin. Many had died in the siege of the castle, but many more had simply been run off. Men, women, and even children had been dispossessed. The king’s man had shown no mercy. Those who had not made haste to leave Dunstoras land had been run through or tossed in the cramped dungeons beneath the keep.
The bitter taste of gall rose in Aiden’s throat.
He’d sworn an oath to protect his kin, and he’d failed them. The clan elders, the learned men who’d appointed him chief upon his father’s death, were all dead. Two of them had fallen victim to the poison, the remaining three to the siege and the trials of a cold winter. All he had left was a small band of skilled warriors and a solitary clue to who had wreaked havoc upon his clan.
Reaching the bottom of the hill, Aiden urged his mount into a canter. In the glen, amid the trees, the snow cover was thin and easily navigated. Proving his innocence would save his kin. He had nine days left to succeed, and by God, he would do it or die trying.
The leafless boughs of the woodland gave Aiden a sweeping view of the land as he rode. Having hunted almost every inch of the glen over the years, he was very familiar with the trail—and he knew immediately that a broken twig on a nearby hazelnut thicket was cause for alarm. A quick glance at the frozen ground confirmed his suspicions. There was almost no snow here, but in the occasional patches of white, he made out the faint curve of hoofprints. Somewhere up ahead, there were riders.
Raising a hand, he drew his party to a swift halt.
With two women among them, they were at a serious disadvantage. They could ill afford to engage any soldiers over a sharp blade, else they’d put the women at risk. He signaled to Duncan to dismount and take responsibility for the ladies. Aiden put a hand over Isabail’s mouth, then shook her awake.
Her eyes widened in alarm, and he removed the hand from her lips.
“Go with Duncan,” he told her quietly. “Do exactly as he says.” Then he lowered her gently to the ground and drew his sword.
Chapter 3
Watching MacCurran leap to the ground and hand off his horse, Isabail felt a surge of hope. Had the soldiers from Lochurkie finally caught them up? Was freedom only moments away?
“If you release me peacefully,” she said quickly, “my cousin will show you mercy.”
“These are not your cousin’s men. They are MacPhersons.”
Was that supposed to frighten her? If so, it failed. Tormod MacPherson was a personal acquaintance—he’d been to Lochurkie on several occasions to meet with her brother. He had been tasked with holding Dunstoras until the king pledged it to a new lord. If his patrol had chanced upon them, Dunstoras must be close.
Almost as if he read her thoughts, MacCurran tossed her a hard look. “Before you open your mouth to alert them, you should be aware that MacPherson’s men are mostly hired sword arms. They believe raping and pillaging are their just dues. I’ve buried several women who did not survive their attentions.”
Isabail’s stomach turned.
Whether the story was real or not, it had the desired impact. Isabail lost her urge to shout into the forest. She allowed the MacCurran chief to disappear through the trees without uttering a single syllable. But she wasn’t willing to let her dream of freedom die without a fight. With their leader gone, this was her best opportunity to escape.
Her gaze turned to his men. In theory, a younger man would be less set in his beliefs and easier to sway than an older man. But Graeme’s pride had been wounded during her attempted escape. Now almost as grim faced as their leader, the tall, black-haired warrior had taken to strapping four blades to his body—a broadsword, two dirks, and a small ax—all honed to a razor’s edge. Earlier in the day, she’d seen him fell a rabbit with the ax and then gut and skin the poor creature in a matter of minutes.
Aye, Graeme was too great a risk. She’d have better luck with Duncan. The older man, a sturdy fellow with a hint of gray in his sandy beard, had a gentle eye, especially when he looked at Muirne. Even as she studied him, the burly warrior helped Muirne dismount and offered her a round of bread and some cheese. Isabail slipped down from the big black-and-white destrier and joined them, leaving Graeme with the horses. Muirne offered Isabail food, which she accepted with thanks.
Isabail spoke quickly and quietly. “Duncan, you are a good and kind man. Anyone can see that. And it’s clear you understand the hardship this event has presented for myself and Muirne.”
The warrior stiffened, but said nothing.
