Chapter Eight
Two weeks until Midsummer’s Eve
Baird Sutherland paced the hall of Rosecairn Castle. His clansmen had returned from another search, and yet again there was no sign of Cait MacLeod.
Her kin had warned him that she had no sense of direction, that she got lost easily, but he hadn’t taken it seriously. His pretty cousin seemed smarter than that, but perhaps he’d been wrong about her. It hardly mattered. He simply needed a MacLeod bride, and any one of Donal MacLeod’s daughters would have done.
Baird was an ambitious man. One day he intended to be as powerful as the Fearsome MacLeod of Iolair—or greater still. Forging a strong bond through marriage to the MacLeods was the first step. When Baird had proposed, Donal had sent his daughter along smartly, just as Baird hoped, eager to renew the connection with his dead wife’s kin.
He remembered his cousin as a weedy girl, awkward and shy. It had been great fun to make her cry, since it had been a challenge to reduce her to such a state. She was brave and stubborn even then.
Now, days before midsummer, his intended wedding day, his bride was nowhere to be found. It was a serious impediment to his plans.
Damn her. He needed this alliance. Everything else had gone according to his plan—He’d spent months raiding Culmore and making Alex Munro look like an incompetent fool. Now the Munros of Culmore lived in fear, knew their laird couldn’t protect them, and believed the clan’s luck had died with old Hugh. They needed someone to restore their good fortune—oh, yes, Baird knew the ancient legend of the Munros, their seanchas was told even beyond the borders of Culmore. The Munros had lived by their belief in fairy magic for hundreds of years, and by all appearances, it had served them well. Their lands were rich, their clan successful. But it also made them smug and weak, easy prey for a more powerful clan. Added to his own territory, Culmore would make Baird rich, with lands and prestige to rival Donal MacLeods, or even surpass it. Aye, that’s what he wanted . . .
And Cait MacLeod was the key to fulfilling his ambition. He’d intended to ride into Culmore on Midsummer’s Eve with her by his side and the Culmore Pea in his pocket. As the Monros watched, he’d slide the wedding ring onto Cait MacLeod’s finger and claim the magic and Culmore for himself. He, not Alex Munro, would be the one to fulfill the prophecy of the seanchas. There’d be no need to kill anyone. Well, Alex Munro would have to die, but the others would simply accept Baird as their rightful laird, ordained by fairy magic.
Fairy magic. He almost laughed at the very idea of it, even now, with so much at stake. Magic indeed—having Cait as his wife meant that Donal MacLeod would be unable to interfere, to bring his might down to help the Munros.
Cait and her family connection was the key to everything.
But she was missing.
And so was the Culmore Pea.
Furious, Baird gritted his teeth and swore.
He’d been waiting for this day, for midsummer, planning this since old Hugh Munro died. He even had the ring—or he’d thought he did. The bumbling fool he’d paid to steal it had almost been caught. He’d dropped it, and now it was lost . . . Baird picked up a pitcher of ale on the table and threw it hard against the wall, where it shattered.
No one even flinched. His clansmen were used to his tantrums now, the way they’d once been used to the dull peace of his uncle’s rule. But Baird was a man of passion, of action.
He threw the cup after the pitcher, cursing Cait MacLeod. Ropes of foam slid down the stone wall. It had been nearly a fortnight since she vanished on the night of the last raid against the Munros. He was beginning to suspect they’d stolen her, but there’d been no demands for ransom. They’d expect a devil’s fortune for her, and they’d send her back raped and scarred and utterly ruined. It’s what he would do. It hardly mattered—all he needed was her hand, and a finger to slide the ring onto before the gathered Munros.
But now if he had to tell her father she was gone, possibly dead, he’d face the full wrath of the Fearsome MacLeod, and that would be like standing in the mouth of hell and facing the devil himself.
He bunched his fist and glared at the clansmen and mercenaries he’d tasked with searching for her. He stepped forward and punched the nearest man hard in the face, watching as he went down in a crumpled heap, his nose smashed and bleeding. The rest of the men stood still and stared at the wall without expression.
“Do the Munros have her?” Baird demanded.
“We haven’t seen her,” one man said blandly. “We’ve been watching Culmore for a week.”
“Well ye wouldn’t see her, would ye?” Baird snapped. “They’d have her in the dungeon, or tied to a bed somewhere.” His mouth twisted. “Did ye ask anyone?”
The man shook his head. “We’d give our contact away if he was seen with us.”
“Then don’t let them see ye! Idiots! We have less than a fortnight left. Is there any sign of the ring?”
The man looked straight ahead again. “He says it’s lost, that the Munros are searching for it.”
Baird put his fingers to his temples. “Plan another raid and bring him here. I need information. If you have to march into the hall and drag him out in full view of every single Munro, I want him brought here, and I want to know if Cait MacLeod is at Culmore. Burn everything and leave them with nothing. Then we’ll see if they believe in fairies.”