Makings of a Good Laird
Mungo didn’t blindfold Shona, so she was able to discern they were traveling south, following the River Lochy. She’d never heard of the rock he’d mentioned to his men and she lost her bearings once darkness fell. They seemed to veer away from the sound of the rushing river.
The night brought a welcome respite from his incessant chatter. She surmised he must be unsure of the terrain. She’d never known a man blather on so much about nothing. He would talk her to death if she was indeed forced into marriage.
They came at last to a clearing. Mungo dismounted and she was obliged to accept his help to stay upright when her numbed feet hit the ground. “I’m frozen to the bone, and hungry, ye big lout,” she complained. “Not to mention I hafta see to my needs—in private.”
“Dinna fash,” he replied, herding her towards an enormous boulder. “Behind there. Go on. I’ll leave ye be.”
Determined not to lose her only weapon, she twisted the hairpin into her curls, then squeezed herself between the rock and prickly hawthorns. No possibility of escape there, and the scurrying of night creatures panicked her into completing the necessary task quickly.
She yanked her skirts off the thorns and emerged, glad to be out of the bushes.
“There’s food and blankets in yon cave,” Mungo said, pointing to some unseen destination up ahead in the dark.
She balked. “Cave? If ye think I’m spending a night…”
He put his hands on her bottom and pushed. “Cease caterwauling and climb.”
It was difficult to see where she was going on the steep, overgrown trail. She lost her footing several times on the slippery pebbles and scraped her wrists and knees. Fingernails tore as she reached for gorse bushes lining the path.
When she feared her lungs might burst, Mungo took hold of her elbow and pushed her into an opening so small she’d have missed it. She crawled through, then shielded her eyes from the unexpected light of a campfire burning inside a large cavern. She wrinkled her nose at the pungent smell of charred meat.
Flames cast dozens of giant shadows on sheer rock walls. Her heart sank—she hadn’t thought Mungo capable of mustering so many supporters. Making a run for it would likely result in being hunted down quickly, even if she made it out of the cave.
“Sit by the fire,” Mungo ordered, dropping a blanket onto her shoulders. “And no more complaining, woman.”
Shutting out the grunts of amused male agreement, she obeyed, glad of the warmth of the fire, but then one voice turned the blood in her veins to ice.
“They’re born complainers, the MacCarrons.”
Ailig.
She peered across the flames. There he sat, cross-legged, chewing on a bone, the scar on his face rendered all the more hideous by the orange glow of the fire.
“Ye’re an outlaw on MacCarron lands,” she hissed.
He spat into the fire. “These are Morley lands, lassie.”
“Which are ruled by the MacCarron laird. My father banished ye.”
He pointed the half-chewed limb at her. “The one who’s dead, ye mean?”
She clutched the blanket more tightly, unnerved by the eerie sniggers of the other men and the evil glint in his eyes. “His ruling stands, and was confirmed by the present laird.”
He tore off a chunk of meat with his teeth. “Ye’re referring to the one who’ll pass through death’s door any day now,” he said, his mouth full.
Hunger, fear and a feeling that there was more going on here than she understood combined to make her dizzy. Ailig Morley was well known for his vile temper. Arguing with him never led to a good outcome.
Someone thrust roasted meat into her bare hands. The greasy smell turned her stomach. Nevertheless, she forced herself to take a few bites.
As the hissing wood burned to embers, her eyes gradually became more accustomed to the half-light. Men drifted to shadowed recesses, but it seemed there were fewer than she’d at first thought. It was difficult to tell in the smoke-filled air. Six, maybe seven. Still too many to outrun, and the dainty weapon tucked into her hair would be useless against one man, let alone half a dozen.
She edged away as Mungo stretched out beside her, shaking her head when he patted the ground next to him.
“I’m nay likely to have my way with ye in a cave wi’ my men looking on,” he teased in his effeminate voice. “Lie down and I’ll keep ye warm. Must look after my wee wife. Important day on the morrow.”
She’d probably fall over if she tried to stay awake, so she obeyed, curling into a tight ball inside the blanket. She flinched when he laid a heavy arm across her hips.
“Just in case ye get a silly notion to run off,” he quipped.
The dying embers hissed. Men snored. Horses occasionally nickered in the clearing below. An owl hooted. Shona listened intently for any sound of rescue, afraid to pay any mind to the small voice that said it was unlikely Ewan Mackinloch would pursue a bride who’d spurned him.
*
Ewan climbed up onto the wooden trestle table and surveyed the crowd of fifty or so men who’d answered his summons to the hall. Strictly speaking, the summons had been sent via Lady Jeannie, who stood beside the table, but he saw only curious looks on their faces, not scowls of hatred.
As he raised his hand to call for silence, an amusing truth struck him. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with this clan, yet he felt a strange sense of being exactly where he was meant to be. These people didn’t realize it yet, but they needed him.
“Ye dinna ken me,” he began.
“He’s the Mackinloch come to wed our Shona,” Jeannie interrupted.
A few cursed—quietly mind you—others muttered, frowning in confusion. He supposed they wondered what had become of the man with one hand.
“Aye,” he confirmed. “But yer lady has been abducted.”
Now voices were raised in genuine anger. He shouted over them. “Mungo Morley has taken her. It’s my belief he thinks to force her into marriage so he can be laird.”
Shouts of Never! Nay! filled the air.
Then one voice was heard above the rest and the crowd parted as a tall clansman stepped forward. “I’m Walter Gilbertson. Kendric MacCarron is our laird. We dinna need a Mackinloch.”
Silence ensued.
Ewan narrowed his eyes at the man who’d spoken. He recalled seeing him in the hall sitting among those opposed to Morley. “And it’s my belief Mungo plans to kill Kendric.”
“He canna be in two places at once,” Walter countered.
Laughter.
“Nay. I suspect his brother will try to carry out the deed,” Ewan replied.
Several muttered Ailig’s name. All eyes turned to Jeannie. “Aye,” she confirmed. “He has returned, and I trust what this young Mackinloch is telling ye. The Morleys plan to take advantage of Kendric’s accident.”
Ewan seized the moment. “I need two men to go with Lady Jeannie to guard the laird’s chamber, and as many as possible to ride with me to find Shona.”
Four or five stepped forward immediately and the laird’s sister chose two.
Raised voices echoed off the rafters.
Has he taken her to Glen Nevis?
Where have they gone?
We wondered where the Morley gang had disappeared to.
Ewan raised his hand again, his heart troubled that, in truth, he had no idea where to look. “I need yer guidance. I was hoping to learn from ye where best to search for my bride.”
The reaction wasn’t what he expected. Folk stared, mouths agape, until Gilbertson broke the silence. “Are ye sure ye’re a Mackinloch?”
Jeannie stood on tiptoe and beckoned him. Perplexed, he hunkered down to listen.
“Ye’ve the makings of a good laird,” she whispered. “They’re nay used to being asked for their opinions.”
Perhaps the years of his father’s influence had rubbed off, despite his best efforts to rebel. His pride was short-lived when a disturbance drew everyone’s attention to the door. He leapt from the table to aid Moira. She struggled to support David. Both had rope bindings dangling from their wrists. The lad staggered like he’d been kicked by a horse, his ruddy complexion now ashen.
Pandemonium erupted as people swarmed around the injured pair.
“Mungo kidnapped my lady,” Moira wailed, accepting a tankard of ale from another maidservant. “He and his men bound us but we finally got free. I feared David was dead.”
David sat on a bench and accepted the ale from Moira. “Nay. But I’ve a fearsome headache.”
Ewan eyed him, but there was no time to wonder about the stammer. Moira’s declaration confirmed the plot and the crowd was clamoring for action. “Did they say where they were aiming to take her?” he asked.
“Conger’s Rock,” Moira replied. “But I’ve never heard of it.”
“I ken where it is,” Walter Gilbertson declared.