Seduced by the Laird (Conquered Brides Series Book 2) (20 page)

She shook her head, fearful of what he would do in order to show just how powerful he was.

He grabbed her forearm, squeezing and every cut from the branches screamed out in agony. He ground his erection against her hip. The man had been aroused since the day before. She feared it was only a matter of time before he took his lust to the next level.

She had to placate him, to calm him down.

Pinning herself against the rock, trying to sink into its depths and away from him, she looked him in the eye, the rising sun making pink and orange slashes across the sky behind his head.

“I swear to ye, I know naught of the religious dealings of the laird of Scorrybreac. What I do know, is that they are pious, and they make their tithe to the abbey monthly.”

“Do they offer your abbey protection should it be asked?”

She nodded. “Most of the surrounding clans do.”

“Why is it, ye were sent on behalf of your abbey to instruct Mother Frances in regards to funding and ye know nothing of the treasure?”

“I dinna know. I was sent with the missive. The one ye’ve read, that I have not. Ye know better than I.”

His face came close, only an inch away as he hissed, “Dinna sass me.”

Kirstin clamped her lips closed, afraid of the threats that were likely to come out of her mouth if he didn’t get his stinking body away from her.

She pressed her hands back against the rock, feeling the coolness of the rough structure sink into her skin.

“I’m going to get that treasure, and ye’re going to help me. Else, I kill every one ye care about. I will massacre Nèamh if I have to.”

She nodded, wanting desperately to shout out that he didn’t know anything about the people she cared about, but instead, she kept those words safely corralled on the tip of her tongue.

He rammed his body against her, startling her more than she already was. “Swear it on the life of your lover.”

“I swear on the life of my lover, that I shall help ye find the treasure.”

“On pain of death,” he urged.

“On pain of death,” she whispered.

And then he smashed his mouth against hers, teeth crunching against her own in a bruising, vile kiss. His body rubbed over her and she fought the urge to gag. Was certain now would be when he raped her.

But, he yanked just as quickly away, dragging her back to the horse, and when she happened to glance back at the spot where he’d held her, she saw the clue she’d left behind—the blood from her arms smeared against the boulder.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Bloody fucking hell,” Gregor shouted to the dawn wind, to no one.

They’d been on The Saint’s trail for nearly two days, and every time he thought they were close, the blasted man slipped right between his fingers. Again and again.

They’d stopped the night before, resting only because they had to for the horses’ sakes, else Gregor would have forgone sleep until he was certain Kirstin was safe and The Saint had been caught—and executed. Catching The Saint would send a powerful message to any of the other men who thought that taking a king’s ransom from the English was a good idea. Revenge for Kirstin. For William Wallace.

Owen’s trail had been intermittent with rash traces that he’d either not cared about leaving behind, or hadn’t realized he was. Hasty. And thank god for them, because they had helped Gregor and his men get closer.

But those bits of evidence… They tore at his heart each time.

Clumps of long, raven hair. Bits of gray wool fabric that resembled Kirstin’s habit. And god help him, droplets of blood, had been found smeared on branches.

’Twas almost as if Sir Owen had intended to lead them straight to his whereabouts all along. His movements were reckless, and while they all had their suspicions that he was in fact The Saint, Gregor was also starting to have doubts simply because of how clumsy he was being in his escape.

Gregor stalked the perimeter of their small camp, the scent of smoke wafted around them like pre-dawn mist.

“There’s a fire. A big one,” he muttered.

There were two other men on guard duty with him, and they both came to tell him just the same thing as he said it. The men were starting to rouse and ready their horses.

“Pack up. We need to see what’s going on.” Even if it was simply helping a crofter contain their fire, they needed to, but this smelled of Sir Owen.

A distraction to keep them from pursuing him. Well, Gregor was not going to be distracted from his goal.

The men roused, saddled their horses and soon they were off toward the scent of smoke. As they grew closer, they could feel the heat of the blaze, and see the orange glow consuming an entire croft. Luckily, it had yet to spread to the surrounding trees.

“Make sure no one is inside!” Gregor ordered.

But the closer they got the more serious, and massive, he realized the fire was. Even if someone had been inside, there was no way they could get to them now. The roof shuddered, a loud echoing creak sounding, before it collapsed into the building sending a rush of heat and sparks outward.

“Back up!” he shouted to his men.

They did as instructed.

“We have to find a way to settle the flames.” They had a duty, even if their mission was delayed an hour, to settle the flames before it spread throughout the forest causing further damage.

The men pulled bucket after bucket from a nearby well and flung them onto the collapsed house. With the roof caving in, at least the fire was more contained.

The hairs on their arms singed with the heat, and they breathed in the heavy smoke, not letting it bother them in their haste to get the fire under control.

Wetting the perimeter of the croft, they were able to keep the flames from spreading outward, and the dozens of buckets they tossed onto the center of it seemed to quell the flames enough that they were no longer worried it would spread or rage out of control.

“Ye keep going ahead to Loch Alsh, where ye’ll have to cross to get to Skye. We’ll make certain there are no bodies in the burned out croft,” Sir John suggested, as he threw another bucket onto the flames.

Gregor shook his head, tossing water. “Nay. We’ll both make certain.”

John swiped sweat and soot on his brow. “Ye dinna fully trust me.”

“I trust no one, but my own men.” Gregor sprinted back to the well.

Sir John followed. “I can understand that.”

Gregor nodded, not even bothering to say that it was too bad Sir John didn’t have the luxury of trust with his men given
his
retainer was the one who’d kidnapped Kirstin, and could possibly be the most sought after assassin in Scotland.

“Keep coming with the buckets!” Gregor ordered the men. He tossed on the water, then passed his bucket off. He went to find a long, thick, dry, stick he could use to poke at the rubble to ascertain if anyone had been inside.

Sir John, seeing him, did the same. “We’ll work together,” Sir John said. “And soon ye will come to trust me.”

“Likewise,” Gregor mumbled.

Smoothing off tiny branches and leaves from a thick branch, Gregor used it to sift at the parts of the fire that had been contained. Embers smoldered, but so far he didn’t see anything close to resembling a body.

John did the same as the men continued to dump water. Maybe four hours passed. The men coughed from inhaling the smoke, and so did Gregor, his lungs tight. Still, they couldn’t stop until he was certain.

“I dinna think anyone was inside,” he said at last.

“Neither to I,” John added. “Safe to move on?”

“Aye.”

They each issued orders to their men, and then Gregor checked the ground around the croft for clues in case it was Owen who’d been here.

“If ’twas Owen, why would he set the fire?” Gregor asked John. “Does it mean anything to ye?”

John shook his head. “Simply a distraction I’m guessing. Look how long we spent to contain it. Bought himself nearly half a day.”

“True. I had thought that myself.” Gregor glanced toward the ground. “And we’ve mucked up the ground so much, if it was him, there is no evidence of which direction he’s gone.”

“We know he’s headed to Skye. Let us continue in that direction, and we will pick up his trail again soon. He cannot get there too quickly. “’Tis at least a two week journey to Nèamh, he’s got a woman with him, and we’ve only been going two days, faster than he’ll be traveling with Sister Kirstin.”

“Think ye he’ll follow the route ye took on the way to Melrose?”

“Guessing so, or at least stick close to it as he has been.”

Gregor hated guessing. Hated not knowing exactly what Owen’s next move would be. But he had to settle for that. They needed to keep moving. The fact that the fire had been raging when they arrived meant that if it was Owen who’d set it, they were hot on his tail. He couldn’t have been here too much before them, maybe an hour. Their horse would tire more easily as they had only one with two riders.

They’d be upon him before they got to Loch Alsh, before they were able to cross over to Skye, of that Gregor was certain.

However, there was one thing about certainties, they weren’t really always assured. And that was the case with catching up to Owen and Kirstin. The man seemed to simply have vanished, as if he’d gained powers from the flames, and while he most likely got a half day’s ride ahead of them, it could be more or less.

The men mounted up and continued in the direction of Skye, coming to an open road. Gregor just down, examining the hoof prints. The roads were so filled with divots and wagon wheel tracks that it was hard to tell which direction he’d gone, if it was truly even his horse taking part in some of the markings.

Then he spotted a few droplets of blood. “This way!”

They came across hoof prints veering off the path, and a cursory check revealed a boulder beside the road with blood smeared on it. Even though there was no telling that it was Kirstin’s blood or that of an animal, Gregor just knew it was hers. What awful, heinous things was Sir Owen doing to her. Each passing hour brought Gregor’s temper closer and closer to being completely out of control. But he had to keep himself in check, else he make a mistake. A mistake that could cost Kirstin her life.

Two more days went by without a single sighting, and Gregor was starting to lose his mind. They were at the base of the Cairngorms Mountains, treacherous to travel alone. Thank the saints it wasn’t winter, else Owen would have been leading Kirstin straight into a death trap. Hungry animals, the possibility of an avalanche, a snowstorm that could bury them, just one slip on ice sending them tumbling over the side.

“Think he went up or around?” John asked.

“Up would be stealthier, if that was what he was going for. Seems sometimes he is and sometimes he isn’t.”

“Aye. But with a woman, think he’d risk it?”

Aye, Gregor did think Owen was willing to risk Kirstin’s life. “When ye came to Melrose, did ye go up or around?”

“Around.”

“Then he went up. He’s stuck mostly to your route so far, with a few times veering off. Once here, he’s going to try to lose us for good. He’d not go the same way.”

“I agree,” Sir John said.

That decided, they restocked their provisions in the local village, asking if anyone had seen a woman and a man, both of the church, traveling through. No one had. But oddly, the day before, there had been several things stolen in the night from various crofts and shops. Nothing truly valuable, just a few provisions:  food, whisky, a whetstone, a bow and a set of arrows, a lantern, some candles.

Gregor and John exchanged glances. Had to be Owen. He’d not come into the town to shop before going up into the mountains, but he’d certainly come in to steal.

They finished gathering their supplies and paid the merchant an extra coin for the information he’d shared.

If that had only been the day before, than Owen was only a day ahead of them.

They were that much closer.

Even if it felt so far.

They’d not heard or seen anything the day before, so this bit of news was welcome, as Gregor was starting to worry if they’d lost them altogether.

Not wasting another moment of time, they picked their way as fast as they were willing up the mountains, not wanting to hurt any of their mounts because they had no replacements. Perhaps fifteen miles north of the village, the sun was beginning to set, there was a sound. A muffled cry perhaps, that seemed to echo from all directions.

Gregor stiffened. Listened.

Silence.

“Could have been an animal. A wild-thing catching a rabbit maybe,” Collin offered.

“Aye,” John agreed.

“Or it could have been Kirstin and the bastard is hurting her,” Gregor growled. “Again.”

Mo chreach
he was going to make the bastard suffer.

Fingall shook his head. “He’d not take her all this way if he wanted to… hurt her.”

Gregor looked at Fingall, wondering if the man had lost his sense. “Dinna be naïve. He can hurt her in many ways and still keep her alive. Ye saw the blood on the branches, on the boulder. She
is
hurt.”

Fingall blanched and looked away. “I only meant, he’d not kill her.”

“Look, I know she is your cousin, that ye care about her. And so do I. I dinna want to think about her as being hurt by this bastard, but we have to be prepared that when we finally find them, that Kirstin may well need the attention of a healer, and she will certainly need your prayers.” Gregor felt like his head was ready to explode. Even just thinking about her being harmed sent him into a mad rage. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickled down his spine. He stilled the sudden shake of his fists.

“I say we make camp for the night here,” John said. “If it was indeed her, then they may be making camp, too, and we might be able to scout them on foot out after dark.”

Gregor agreed. “I’m going to be on the first mission.”

“So am I,” Fingall said.

Gregor shook his head. “Nay, ye go on the second, so at least one of us is there should she be found.”

The men set up camp, and Gregor gathered five to scout with him. “No horses. No fire. Use your eyes, ears and sense of smell to ferret out anything unusual. Bring your weapons in case ye need to fight off nature, or The Saint. If ye find them, protect Sister Kirstin with your life.”

“Aye, my laird,” all the men echoed.