Page 60 of The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

Sorcha. She wondered if knowing the name would draw the witch’s attention, but then she recalled that Ewan had been sent to the witch to ask about the poisoner at the wedding feast. That meant the witch already knew of her - at least her name and that of her husband, and a witch who had a name could learn as much as she wished about the individual to whom the name belonged.

Niamh thanked her cousin for the information, then left, casting a measuring look at the sky as she did so. The weather was chill, but fine, however, it was far too late in the day to undertake a journey beyond the castle walls. Especially since she had no idea how long it would take to reach the witch’s home, or how long a discussion might last. She would have to wait until tomorrow.

Which, of course, also meant that she would have to find an appropriate excuse to disappear. She could hardly tell Alistair the truth about where she wished to go - he’d surely forbid her. However, neither could she use an excuse that might be proven false under questioning, such as claiming to have joined the ladies working on Samhain projects. One question would unravel that pretense.

On the other hand, if she said she was working on private Samhain preparations, or a tradition unique to her family or her clan, such as the letters she and her father wrote every year… that might serve.

Niamh’s stomach chose that moment to rumble, reminding her that it had been some time since she’d last eaten. With a chagrined smile, Niamh made her way to the kitchens in search of some morsel to tide her over until the evening meal.

She had a plan, and a chance to find some of the answers she sought. All that was needed now was patience, and the proper opportunity.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Alistair woke the morning after the wood-gathering expedition to sore muscles and the sound of someone tapping gently on his bedroom door. The light coming in through the windows indicated it was early morning, and Alistair hauled himself out of the bed with a grumble. He hadn’t slept nearly as long or as well as he wanted to - Niamh had been acting strangely shy and withdrawn around him, and he’d been worried.

Worried, and confused. More than once it had seemed as if she was about to kiss him, or embrace him, but each time, she’d pulled back, as if afraid or unwilling to do so.

Was it because she’d seen him at his bloodstained, brutal worst, in the aftermath of the brigand interrogation? Was she afraid of him now? She hadn’t seemed to be that night when she’d washed his hair and listened to his words, but he was at a loss to understand her actions otherwise. He’d almost confronted her about it, but he’d changed his mind at the last moment.

If Niamh truly was afraid of him now, or afraid of the danger that being his wife placed her in, then he wasn’t sure he could bear to know. Despite how much he wished it weren’t true, he knew deep within himself that he didn’t want to let her go, not even for her peace of mind or her safety. It was selfish, and it was foolish, but it was still the truth, and he had never been one to wallow in self-deception.

Another knock, quiet but firm, roused him from his thoughts. Alistair sighed, pulled on a shirt, and opened the door.

Ewan stood on the other side of it, his expression set in a near unreadable mask that made Alistair’s gut clench. That expression on his brother’s face never boded well. “What is it?”

“Scouts are back. And they said there’s something ye ought tae see.”

That was even more ominous. Alistair grimaced, then looked back at the bed. Niamh was still sleeping soundly - left alone, she’d probably not wake for another candle-mark at least. On the one hand, he was tempted to wake her, to bid her farewell. On the other, she would surely have questions. He didn’t want her to worry, if there was nothing for her to be concerned about.

In the end, the desire to protect her won. Alistair slipped back into the room long enough to gather his clothing, boots and weapons, then followed Ewan out into the front room to dress. “Did the scouts tell ye more than that?”

“Just that there were signs o’ possible trouble, and they wanted ye tae see what they’d found, afore they acted.”

His senior scouts were all experienced, sensible men. That they wanted his opinion before acting was not a good sign. It meant that, whatever they’d discovered, it was more problematic than wolves or brigands.

Alistair finished dressing, then he and Ewan made their way to the kitchen for a quick meal of cold meats and bread, washed down with scorching hot tea, before going out to the stables. The horses were already saddled and waiting for them, and within half a candle-mark of being woken, they were riding south-east, following the young scout who’d been sent to bring them the news.

They’d scarcely ridden two candle-marks before they encountered Damien McClean, the oldest and most experienced of Alistair’s active scouts. Damien saluted them with a grim nod. “Me laird.”

Alistair didn’t bother to waste time on niceties. “What did ye find?”

“Campsite, me laird. At least, it appears tae be. And nae simple brigands. Too large.” Damien was a man of few words. Without any further explanation, he turned his horse and led them further on, to a small valley surrounded by low hills. Well-guarded by the landscape, unless you knew to look for it.

Alistair dismounted and moved closer, his steps light as he crossed the trampled ground. Damien was right. The scattered stones around scorched earth indicated a campfire - no, two of them. There were holes where tents had been staked into the ground as well. Most bandits didn’t have tents - they made do with blankets or natural caves and hollows to shelter from the elements. Alistair counted at least a dozen separate tracks of men by variations in the stride and the boot-prints in the softer earth, and to one side he found rows of hoof-prints as well, where horses had been tethered on a long lead line.

The area was clean, no signs of the usual offal and meal remnants that were common in bandit camp grounds, even if it were only a resting place for a single night. Whoever had been here, they were orderly, and they’d kept quiet enough that they hadn’t been noticed before they left.

All the signs pointed to one of two things - a band of sellswords completing a task, or a group of soldiers led by a commander, in service of a laird.

They were waiting here fer the men who went after Niamh. Tae tak’ her away tae Fergus MacTavish, or tae… tae… they were waiting tae…

Alistair felt his thoughts dissolve into incoherent shards as terror and fury swept over him. “Nay… nay… it cannae…”

It had almost happened again. I… if she hadnae run, if I hadnae seen the tracks and turned back…

They were going to tak’ her away or kill her. Like Constance.

It cannae… it cannae happen again. It cannae… it cannae… it cannae…