Cowboys and Highlanders (8 page)

Then she remembered Allister.

Tears sprang to her eyes. The young man had died because of her. His mother—Elise choked back a sob and a wave of dizziness wrenched her stomach. She forced her breathing to slow. At last, the nausea subsided and she shifted. Pain lanced through her head, but she squinted at the blur that had come into view on her right until the figure of a man riding came into focus. He stared unabashedly.

Elise ignored the tremor his stare elicited and looked past him, skyward, where dim points of light showed through thin, grey clouds. She shifted again and found herself staring up at the jut of a square jaw. Above that, the bluish hue of moonbeams filtered through clouds. The pain relaxed to a dull throb and her stomach settled. The clouds parted and the moon blazed in her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut, but registered its position and estimated the time as just past midnight.

"There's been no sign of MacGregor," her captor said.

Marcus would have expected her to be at supper tonight. He might not notice her absence, but Allister's mother would notice his.

"The horses need rest," the other man said. "They're spent."

"We stop up ahead," the man who held her said. "Leave them saddled and tether them."

A few minutes later, they halted. Elise's captor handed her down to the man who had stared at her. He pressed her close to his chest. The hand wrapped around her legs slipped beneath her skirt. She thrashed. Hot spikes of pain fingered out through her body. His hand rubbed her outer thigh. She gave a weak scream. He laughed, lowering his head toward her mouth.

"Rory!" her original keeper shouted, and took her into his arms.

Elise fought tears as he turned and her heart lurched when she caught sight of several more riders dismounting. She kicked and slammed a fist down onto her captor's chest.

"Cease," he growled. "Fighting will do ye no good."

She yielded, too spent to do anything else. He strode to a cluster of medium-sized rocks, then set her down against the rocks and returned to his horse. Rory approached, horse's reins in hand. Elise tensed. Their gazes remained locked until he disappeared from view behind her. Another man followed, then the next and the next, and she realized the horses were being tethered near where she lay.

Her keeper approached carrying a tartan and a small pouch. He stopped beside her, shook out the tartan, and squatted, settling the blanket over her. He regarded her. "We left MacGregor land long ago. You are in Campbell territory and wouldn't have a chance in hell in these hills. You cannot see, but 'tis barren country. Nothing for miles."

"Why—" she stopped, seeing the implacable set of his jaw.

He reached into the pouch and produced a biscuit. He handed it to her. Elise took the food and watched him stride to where his comrades sat huddled on smaller rocks. She looked at the biscuit, then sniffed it. To her surprise, she detected no mold. A small nibble and her stomach rumbled. She pulled her knees up and reached for her foot. She unlaced one boot, took it off, then did the same with the other. She arranged the boots beside her and took another bite of the biscuit, while edging herself into a more prone position. She took another, larger bite.

"We should bind her hands." Rory's voice abruptly broke the silence.

"Touch her and I'll kill you," her captor said through a mouthful of food.

A pause followed, and Elise shivered as much from the threat as the cold. She pulled the tartan up over her shoulders, closing her eyes.

"You wouldn't be wanting her for yourself, would you, William?" Rory demanded.

"She isn't yours, Rory."

"What if she escapes?"

"She was knocked half senseless," William replied. "She couldn't manage it."

"I know women who could," Rory retorted.

"She wouldn't know which way was home." William paused. "She's asleep."

"Easy pickings," Rory commented.

Grunts of approval from the men sitting in the group sounded.

"Mayhap not so easy." William shifted, the sword strapped to his hip scraping against rock.

Elise shrank beneath the tartan and ate the last bit of biscuit. Finally, the men's voices quieted. A moment later, she heard a nearby rustling. She peered past a corner of her tartan and discerned the forms of men lowering themselves to the ground. She recognized William, still sitting with his back to her.

A close snigger told her Rory was among the men bedding down nearby. Her stomach wrenched. She glanced heavenward. Dawn was no more than four hours away. MacGregor territory lay southeast of Campbell land. They had ridden approximately fifteen hours. She could reach Brahan Seer by tomorrow afternoon. Marcus might not welcome her back, but she had to make sure he knew who was responsible for Allister's death. She thought of the wedding band sewed to the lining of her shift. She had planned to go from Michael's to Glasgow and catch the first ship away from Scotland. But Allister deserved recompense just as much as Amelia and Steven.

When snores at last told Elise the men had fallen asleep, she crawled from beneath her blanket. The biscuit had settled her stomach, but the trembling deep within persisted.

"Where are ye going?"

She stopped at the sound of William's voice and twisted to look over her shoulder. He still sat on the rock, back to her.

"I-I need a moment of privacy."

"There are guards," he said.

"What?"

"Out there." He motioned with his head to the blackness beyond their camp.

Her blood chilled, but she forced her body into motion and crawled around the rock.

* * * *

Marcus tensed at sight of a figure moving in the shadows where the Campbell horses were tethered. "Did you notice any of the guards returning to camp?" he demanded of Michael, who squatted beside him on the hill from which they watched.

"Nay," Michael whispered.

Marcus strained to make out the figure's form in the moonlight, but the hill cast too dark a shadow on the valley. "God damn it," he muttered. "If anyone has given away our presence—" The loud neigh of a horse broke the quiet. "What the bloody hell?"

"The horses," Michael hissed as the Campbell horses bolted.

Shouts rose, and the Campbells sprang up and after their mounts.

"What are they up to?" Marcus yanked his gaze back onto the figure in the shadows near the horses. He leaned forward in the saddle and was riding to the left of the camp.

"Take two men and bring back that rider," Marcus said. "Be careful not to alert the others to our presence."

Marcus turned his attention onto the Campbell men running through the trees in an effort to retrieve their scattered horses. Then waited.

The light sound of a boot treading close came from the darkness and Marcus jerked his head around.

"Laird," one of his men said, "come quick. We have the rider."

He pulled his
breacan
close and backed away from the crest of the hill, jumped to his feet, then hurried downhill at a near run. At the bottom, he broke through the circle of his men, hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Nay! Laird, stop!" came a chorus of low voices.

Marcus felt his sword arm jerked back, but he saw the prisoner even as someone grabbed his other arm. He went stock still. "Elise?"

"Yes," she replied.

Even in the shallow light of the cloudy darkness, he could discern her drawn expression. "Are you unharmed?"

She smiled, her mouth quavering a little. "I have a blazing headache, but I'll live."

Marcus started forward, but two of his men seized his arm. "Release me." He yanked free, then took two steps and halted before her. "You are the rider?"

"Yes."

She swayed. Marcus caught her to him.

Elise clutched at his shirt, burying her head in his chest. She didn't move for a long moment, then took a shuddering breath and mumbled against him, "If I could sit down."

He whipped off his cloak and wrapped it around her. Marcus slipped an arm beneath her and she threw her arms around his neck when he lifted her into his arms. He knelt and gently settled her in a seated position on the ground. Her arms remained tight about him for a moment, then finally relaxed.

Marcus straightened, his gaze falling on her bare feet. "Where are your shoes?"

She glanced from her feet back at him. "I took them off. What woman attempting an escape would go barefoot?" She gave him a hopeful look. "Sensible, don't you agree?"

"Sensible?" he repeated.

Elise abruptly grasped her stomach. Marcus held her head to the side as she wretched violently. The convulsion ceased and he wiped her mouth with the tartan.

She sat up. "Had to happen eventually," she croaked.

"Will you be all right?"

She nodded but averted her face. "I'm much better."

Marcus stood. "Michael, you, Brian, and Finn remain here. Get the horses," he said to the remaining men, then looked at Elise. "I assume you freed their horses?"

She nodded.

"Marcus," Michael said. "We stumbled upon two Campbells. They were the guards west of the camp. Seems we were wrong. They had moved. Probably the only ones who had horses."

"Dead?"

The older man nodded.

Marcus's men returned with the horses.

He took Alexis's reins and mounted, then said to Michael, "It may take some time, but I won't leave before catching every last one of the bastards. If so much as a shadow flickers, get out."

Michael nodded, and Marcus reined his horse around, his men following.

* * * *

Marcus stood, legs apart, staring down at Elise. She sat on the couch, head bowed, her gaze on the carpeted floor of his library. He took a deep breath and seated himself beside her.

"A day on the trip home and I held my tongue," he said. "Then a day here at Brahan Seer. You're well enough now to answer to me. What in God's name were you doing?"

"I promised Michael I would come."

"Michael would not hold you to any such promise."

She lifted her chin and met his gaze. "I didn't go alone, as you know."

"You took a boy, Elise."

Pain flickered across her face. "I will not make that mistake again."

"Nay, you will not, but that doesn't explain why you insist upon going. Bloody hell, Elise, no one but you is a risk-taker."

She stiffened. "I am sorry you had to come for me—"

"
Sorry I had to come for you?
You little idiot. It wasn't the coming for you that you need be sorry for, but the fact you nearly got yourself killed. It's a miracle you survived the fall from your horse."

Marcus shifted his gaze to her right cheek where the light yellow of a severe bruise peeked out from beneath her thick hair. He was well aware of the gash that lay hidden beneath her hair. She had taken great pains to hide the wound.
What else did she hide?

"What of the Campbells, Elise?"

She frowned. "I don't understand why they took me."

"Nay?"

She started. "I'm not a complete fool. I understand their intentions. But why make off with me? Why not attack me there?"

A mental picture of them
attacking
her there rose on a tide of a fury that forced Marcus to his feet. He strode to the sideboard, poured a whiskey, drank it in one gulp, then set the glass down and faced her. He leaned against the sideboard and folded his arms across his chest.

"They like to savor their victims."

Her lips parted in a soft gasp.

"Did you think otherwise?" he asked.

"The beady-eyed one, Rory, would have taken me there, but their leader, William—"

"William?" Marcus interjected savagely. He started toward her. Her eyes widened when he closed the gap between them. He yanked her from her seat. "What did
William
want, Elise?"

"He stopped Rory from…"

"Did he now?" Marcus shoved her onto the couch, pivoted, and returned to the sideboard. He poured another drink and emptied the glass as he had the last, then faced her again. "It didn't occur to you he didn't want a woman who was used up?"

Her cheeks reddened, then her expression hardened. "There had been no sign of Campbells for weeks. How long am I supposed to let your fears rule me?"

"Until I say otherwise. Just be glad I don't tie you to your bed."

Her eyes narrowed. "What sort of threat is that?"

"The kind I will enforce with relish."

Elise jumped to her feet. She swayed slightly. Marcus started forward, then stopped when she fisted her hands at her sides.

"Ooooh." She drew the word out in a long frustrated breath. "You are an arrogant knave, Marcus MacGregor, not to mention foul natured. Does it give you pleasure to threaten me?"

"Threaten you?" He gave an exasperated laugh. "I haven't given you even a small sample of my power."