Mary huddled beneath her arisaid, clutching it closed as best she could with her bound wrists. The wind picked up with the setting of the sun. Cold and hungry, her hands were numb. She hadn’t said a word since Lieutenant MacLeod had attacked her with such brutality and tossed her on the back of the horse. A dragoon rode on each side of her and there were two more in back. Ahead, Balfour towed her lead line, flanked by another pair. How on earth would she escape from seven redcoats? Seven ruthless varlets, including six who had all stood by and watched while their leader wrestled her to the ground and bound her wrists like a common criminal.

If she harbored any doubt of the depth of her hatred for the Government troops before, there was absolutely no question now. Swaying with the horse’s movement, she stared at the lieutenant’s back devising ways to retaliate. She could form her own Jacobite militia in Castleton. They could sabotage every Government ship that sailed past the Aird of Sleat. But more than that, she wanted Balfour to pay for his treatment of her person. And she wasn’t so naïve to think lodging a complaint with the magistrate would get him anything more than a slap on the wrist.

As soon as she returned to Dunscaith Castle, she’d form her group of mercenaries and their first order would be to find a way to ensure Balfour MacLeod was dismissed from the army in disgrace. I vow it on my very life.

Mary’s conviction infused her with strength. She sat surer in the saddle. “Pardon me, but I’m starving. Surely the lot of you are as well, unless you are some sort of bogles who need no sustenance.”

“Aye,” said one of the dragoons beside her. “The horses could do with a rest as well.”

Balfour turned, the whites of his eyes piercing through the dusk. “There’s a place to make camp ahead. I wanted to ensure we put good distance between us and MacDonald’s galley. No doubt he’ll make the mistake of coming after his ship.” His steely-eyed gaze fixed on her. “And the lass. He’ll find the first with a boatload of dragoons—then discover Miss Mary is nowhere to be found.”

Mary’s chest tightened like her stays had been cinched until she couldn’t breathe. “You don’t mean to kill him?”

The lieutenant flicked his wrist dismissively. “If he attempts to steal Government chattel and resists arrest, he’ll meet his end.”

Twisting in her saddle, she threw a sharp look over her shoulder. How could she send a message to Sir Donald? No doubt he and his men would want to retaliate, and they’d fall into the redcoat’s trap for certain. “But the galley is his property,” Mary argued.

“Not anymore. I obtained a legal writ of seizure. That galley will now serve His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

One of the dragoons riding beside Balfour turned and regarded Mary, his gaze leery, devious. “I reckon the baronet will try to come after the lass soon—they’ll not rest when one of their own has been abducted.”

“I wish he would,” said a deep voice behind her—the hiss of a dirk sliding from its scabbard was unmistakable. “It would be the last ride of his life.”

Mary’s face grew hot. These men thought it funny to make sport of treachery and outright murder?

“That’s why I must marry the wee filly on the morrow,” said Balfour. “Once she’s my wife, there’s nary a thing they can do about it.”

Mary froze, her eyes round and unblinking.

The men around her laughed raucously.

She couldn’t breathe.

On the morrow?

Then with a blink, her mind raced. How could she flee from these tyrants? Now? She must break away at her first opportunity—she couldn’t let him get away with this. No, he could not and she would not allow him to see her pure terror. “I-I do believe I have a say in the matter—And. You. Will never hear me utter marriage vows.”

“Ah, Miss Mary, you’d best reconsider.” The lieutenant chuckled. “I’ll wager I’ll be able to persuade you.”

Not in this lifetime. She ground her teeth and stared at his red-coated back. Red—the devil’s color.

The dragoon riding beside her snorted. “It would be good sport to see Sir Donald MacDonald ride to her rescue.”

“Can the man fire a musket?” The question from behind made Mary’s blood boil. “I thought he moved to Glasgow where he attends the opera and sips fine port.”

The laughter from the mob of vile dragoons swirled around her like ropes being drawn tighter and tighter. Mary wanted to hold her hands over her ears and scream. With their every word, their deceit, their skullduggery grew worse. Aye, they thought they were amusing, but Mary prayed they were wrong. She’d seen the nobleman shoot—had seen the great man win almost every game at the gathering. These soldiers severely underestimated the Baronet of Sleat. The only problem was there were seven redcoats and unless Sir Donald followed her with a regiment of men, he would be sorely outnumbered.

Again Mary slumped. Who am I fooling? Sir Donald thinks I’m as feather-headed as an old woman with softening of the brain. His business transaction is far too important—far more important than I am.

The lump swelling in Mary’s throat made it difficult to swallow.

Who will Father send after me? The guard of Castleton, most likely.

Narin and Fyfe?

Holy Moses, I’m in trouble.

***

There was only one road leading east from Glenelg—the shadowy Military road, following the Glenmore River. But Don had lost precious time—at least a half a day in his estimation—with no chance to map an alternate route. Blast it all, if only he’d known MacLeod’s plans, he wouldn’t have sent his brother to Fort William. A complaint could be lodged any time. This whole sordid affair was wrought with errors.

Growing dark, thick clouds hung overhead making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Spats of rain came and went with the wind blowing against his back. The well-traveled trail was thick with prints and wheel ruts, but the telltale signs of mud recently turned over by hooves were the tracks he needed to follow—tracks he could only see as he crossed over them.

The bad part? The damned lieutenant wasn’t stupid enough to ride alone. It would have made the pursuit so much easier if Don only had to dispatch one man.

Now well past the evening meal, his stomach again rumbled and his head still throbbed. Thank God he’d had the wherewithal to order a meal at the alehouse in Teangue. At this pace, he mightn’t see food for another day or two—or sleep for that matter. He clenched his teeth and bit back his hunger. He’d sleep in a fortnight after his packing salt had been loaded on a ship bound for the Americas.

Living in Glasgow had made him soft—but Don wouldn’t give in to weakness. He’d led his clan’s army into war and he could do it again at any time, if necessary. And Lieutenant Balfour MacLeod had declared war against his clan. Such an act would not go unpunished.

If only he had an army with him now.

But he didn’t.

He must be stealthy and track them until he found his opportunity to pounce. Pushing his powder flask further under his cloak to ensure it stayed dry, Don considered his options. He had two shots—one from his musket and another from the pistol in his belt—then he’d fight them sword to sword. Aye, he’d make every movement count, dispatch them all, then he’d nab Mary and run like hell.

Mary of Castleton. Every time he mulled his plans over in his mind, her freckled face popped into his head. And then his damned chest tightened. What was it about the lass? She wasn’t his type. Don preferred demure, full-figured women who enjoyed embroidery and music…and the wiles of the boudoir. True, by the quality of the minstrels she’d hired, Miss Mary likely enjoyed music, but all the same, she climbed trees and fired a musket like a sharpshooter. Hell, she’d bested him—Don of the Wars. Not a single man at the gathering had bested him in the contest, but Miss Mary charged her musket, pulled the stopper from her powder horn like a seasoned warrior and hit the bullseye square in the middle.

It just wasn’t proper.

Besides, he doubted the lass had any clue what a bedchamber was used for aside from sleeping. His heart thrummed. He shouldn’t berate the lass, not even to himself. She must have had an awful shock when she’d caught her father with the widow.

Regardless, Miss Mary needed to become a proper lady. When this business was over, he’d write to her father and suggest John of Castleton send her somewhere for instruction.

Don bit his bottom lip while he continued to watch the trail pass beneath him.

Where?

Of course his sister, Barbara, would welcome the opportunity to dote over someone like Miss Mary. Though Barbara would be beside herself with disbelief when presented with a Highland tomboy. Genteel, Barbara would never consider touching a musket, let alone becoming proficient with one. Don grinned. Imagining his sister flouncing through society with a redheaded apprentice in her wake amused him. Since the death of his parents, he’d been his sister’s guardian. Barbara lived in the Glasgow townhouse and drove him mad at her every opportunity. Perhaps the lass needed a project.

Then his gut twisted.

In no way could he endure two strong-willed women in his domicile.

The lass cannot possibly go to Glasgow. Miss Mary would pose too much of a distraction in my household. Visions of the imp challenging houseguests to shooting contests made Don shudder.

No, no. Regardless that she’d attained her majority, Miss Mary needed to be fostered by a respected matron in the Highlands. Possibly Ewen Cameron’s wife, Lady Isobel, would take her on.

Don’s gut squeezed. If Mary were to stay at Achnacarry, young Kennan Cameron would be there, no doubt. The lad was hot blooded—liked the lassies for certain. And they liked him. What young maid wouldn’t swoon over that youth’s cocky grin? Devil’s bones, Kennan’s eyes even sparkled when he smiled. Why the hell would God make a man with eyes that sparkled? What if Kennan decided to court the lass whilst she was in Lady Cameron’s care? It would be an abomination. Mary could not be courted by the son of her foster mother.

I would wring his neck.

Onward Don rode, wracking his brain for a solution, until the flicker of a flame caught his eye.