Page 423 of Wicked Highland Heroes

“You are sure the Robertson men spoke the truth?”

Thomas exhaled. “We were very persuasive. At this point, I think they would have little reason to lie.”

“You searched the other cottages again?”

Thomas nodded. “But it would not matter which one she had been kept in, she is not there now, and for all the evidence she never was.”

“His men have no idea where Robertson has taken himself off to?”

“There were not many left after the battle,” Thomas said. “It is possible those who knew either ran like the rats they are or were killed.”

“I will have Carrigan sent for,” Liam’s voice came from the doorway. Iain shifted his attention onto him.

“He is the finest tracker I have.”

“Good,” Iain said. “Meanwhile, we will begin our own search.”

* * *

Pain seared through Victoria’s consciousness. Up, up, her mind swam, past the deep throb that worked against every stroke she took toward full awareness. Muddled understanding wove a slow course through her mind and she shifted on the saddle.

“Do not move a muscle.”

The rough voice recalled her to a vague sense of danger. Victoria squinted, looking up past the trees at the stirrings of dawn. Another moment brought full memory, and she was unable to stifle a small cry.

David’s grunt reverberated through her body. “So you remember,” he said.

Nay, she hadn’t forgotten and sat still as stone with the recollection. Her heart pounded against her chest. When had they left the barren hills for the lush foliage they now rode through? David Robertson had the horse at a canter. Had they ridden at that pace throughout the night? No. He would have ridden hard at first in an effort to put as much distance between himself and the MacPherson forces. She closed her eyes. Had Thomas found Iain and, if so, was he dead or alive?

Half an hour later, the sun broke over the horizon and shafts of sunlight streamed through the trees. A lone rider shot out of the trees onto the path in front of them. Victoria gave a cry and David jerked back on the reins, narrowly averting a collision with the stranger. She blinked at the bearded rider who wore a wide-brimmed turban and sat atop a steed as black as night.

A rumble forced her attention from the man and onto an ornately painted wagon emerging from the forest behind him. David pulled back on the reins, backing the horse up several steps. His muscles tensed when at least two dozen men rode into sight behind the wagon. Another wagon followed, then another, and yet another.

“Egyptians.” The word from David Robertson held the slur the name entailed.

A tingle ran through Victoria. Gypsies. The memory of her singular encounter with the Gypsies on that first trip to Fauldun Castle surfaced even as the small door behind the seat of the lead wagon opened, revealing an exquisite woman. Dark hair cascaded down strong shoulders, and Victoria looked into eyes she knew had seen far too much of the world. A corner of the woman’s mouth curved upward almost as if she’d read Victoria’s mind.

Victoria bolted upright from David’s chest. “Help me! This man has kidnapped me from my husband—”

David’s hand clamped over her mouth, wrenching her head back against him. “Silence wench,” he hissed.

Her heart pounded harder when David turned his horse’s head and it looked as if no one would help her. But before he turned, the man who had cut them off made a clicking sound with his tongue and his steed lurched forward, barring their path.

“What does the woman speak of?” he demanded.

“Do not stick your nose into something that does not concern you,” David warned.

The man’s attention shifted to Victoria, who pleaded with her eyes while struggling to pry David’s hand from her mouth.

The man returned his gaze to David. “What crime has she committed?”

“The worst crime a woman can.”

Victoria ceased struggling. The voice had come from the woman in the wagon. She stepped to the ground.

“Or nearly the worst.” The woman laughed as she approached.

“Aurari.” The man glanced over his shoulder.