Chapter Eighteen
Blindfolded and gagged, hands bound behind her back, Lucy endured a painful ride on her belly, slung over a saddle in someone’s lap—a very smelly someone reeking of fish, stale beer, and urine. He maintained a rude grip on her behind. With the saddle’s pommel digging into her ribs, and the sour tasting rag in her mouth, she was slowly suffocating.
Blood rushed to her head, making her drift in and out of consciousness. At one point, she sensed the horses slowing.
“She awake?” a man asked.
“Nae,” answered the man above her.
“Not dead is she? We won’t get paid if she’s dead.”
Her fetid saddle mate grabbed a fist full of her hair and lifted her head. Her shriek of pain merely a muffled squeak.
“Nae. She’s still alive.”
Someone had ordered her abduction. Who and why? And would they ransom her or kill her?
“Shall we have a bit of fun before we deliver her?”
Fun? What did that mean? Would they violate her? Lucy’s heavy limbs jerked to life. Kicking. Thrashing. Unable to connect with anything.
“See what you did? She was still until you opened your fat mouth.”
Lucy growled like a rabid animal until a boot swiped her hard against the side of her head. Lights flickered behind closed eyes, her lids having been sealed shut by the pressure of a blindfold tied so tight her head throbbed. The cup of her ear pulsed with searing pain. Was she bleeding?
“Shut up, or next time I’ll cut your pretty face.”
Lucy must have lost consciousness again, for when she resurfaced, the motion had ceased. Cool, wet stone pressed against her cheek. No sounds of horse hooves and creaking saddle leather. No sounds at all. Instead of the bruising pain of the pommel against her ribs, the points of her shoulder and hipbones ground against a cold hard surface. She lay curled on the floor, hands still bound behind her back.
She attempted to ease the pressure on her wrists, the rough rope having rubbed her skin raw. Aside from a general throbbing sensation in her palms, she couldn’t feel her fingers. The blindfold remained in place, as did the gag. Taking stock of damages, she flexed her ankles, testing, then straightened her legs. No broken limbs. She rubbed her forehead on the stone floor, trying to remove the blindfold, but to no avail.
Lucy righted herself, grunting with the effort. The shift in position caused her head pain, a nauseating pulse as if her brain might burst her skull open. After taking a few deep breaths through her nose, the bilious feeling subsided.
Think, Lucy. Stay calm and think.
Her father had often said those who kept their heads in battle lived. To lose one’s head meant certain death. She must stay calm to survive.
Blind, mute, fingers numb, only her ears and nose served to sense her surroundings. No more rank human smell. Only a damp musty odor similar to her father’s wine cellar. And the sea. A strong smell of the sea. No sounds save her own breathing. She was alone. Left in a room below ground? If so, there must be a door.
She whimpered. Stop it. Stop crying. Crying will get you nowhere. Get on your feet and get out.
Lucy struggled to stand, staggering a little. She tested the ground with a tentative foot before shifting her weight. Three, four, five steps and her toe hit a surface. A wall. Unable to feel with her fingers, she placed her cheek against rough, cold, damp, hard…a stone masonry wall.
The echo of distant footsteps reached her. Heels against stones. Then a jangling of…was it keys? Was someone coming to release her?
Lucy cried out, “Help,” but only made an ineffectual muffled grunt.
A key inserted into a lock turned, and then the creak of a door. She twisted her head right, then left. Which direction? Someone was entering. She could smell him. Lucy backed away from the footsteps, fetching up hard against another wall. Two dull clunks. She flinched.
“Stand still,” a deep voice commanded. Lucy froze. A rough hand tugged off the blindfold. She blinked, her eyesight blurry. Torchlight flickered behind a massive figure. She flinched again when he reached behind her head to untie the gag. He fumbled with the knot.
“Bloody hell,” the voiced hissed, angry, impatient. “Turn around.” He turned her roughly by the shoulders and pressed her forehead against the stone wall. “Don’t move a muscle or my hand may slip and take off an ear.”
Lucy felt another jerk on her gag. It loosened, and she spit it out. She swallowed and moved her tongue around her mouth, trying to work up enough saliva to speak. Peering over her shoulder, she could see better now. Well enough to spot the glint of a long dirk in his hand. She screamed a ragged cry.
“Quiet. I’ll no’ kill you. I’m here to free your bindings. Stop your screaming.”
Lucy panted, certain her life would end at any moment. She felt the searing pain of the ropes cutting into her wrists again. “Please,” she begged. “Please let me go.” A snap and her hands fell to her sides, heavy, throbbing, starving for blood. Sudden spiteful pain surged from her wrists to her fingertips, at once brutal and welcome.
Gently massaging her hands, Lucy faced the man. He pointed to the floor and said, “Piss bucket, water bucket. Dinnae get them confused.” He sheathed his dirk and headed out the door of her windowless chamber. Any glimmer of hope that the man was there to rescue her evaporated. This man was her jailer.
“Why am I here?” Lucy called. “Stop. Please let me go.” She took three steps toward the door before he slammed it shut, leaving her in total darkness.
Lucy pounded an aching fist against the solid door. “Please. Don’t leave. My father is the Duke of Chatham. He’ll pay you handsomely for my life. Please.”
A jangle of keys, the clunk of the lock, and footsteps faded to silence. Lucy stepped back from the door and blinked. Darkness. Eyes open or shut made no difference. For a moment, she felt disoriented, as though she floated in a black void. She reached for the door again, seeking to anchor herself in space.
Stay calm. Stay alive. Stay calm. Stay alive.
…
About a mile before they reached Dunrobin Castle, Alex, Ian and Declan left the road and led their horses deep into the wood.
Alex turned to Declan. “Walk back to the road and confirm the trail leads to the castle then report back. Keep yourself well hidden, aye?”
“Got it.”
He watched Declan’s back as his cousin snaked his way through the dense stand of firs. Alex’s jaws ached from grinding his teeth together. His imagination painted terrifying scenes of Lucy in chains, Lucy injured, Lucy bleeding, his woman violated…dead. Terror and rage waged a fierce battle within his chest. He wanted to kill the bastards who had taken her. Cut off their limbs one by one, hear them scream and beg for mercy before sinking his dirk into their chests.
“Brother?”
Alex whipped his head around, reaching for the hilt of his dirk. He relaxed fractionally when he met Ian’s gaze.
“You cannae lose your head,” Ian said. “I ken you fear for Lucy, but a rash decision willnae save her.”
“I know, brother. I know.” But Ian had no idea the effort it took to shed what was instinctual for Alex, to fight against his nature…to be different. “I should think what Da would do.”
“Nae, brother,” Ian said, a hint of a smile teasing his lips. “This situation takes more than Da’s logic. This problem needs a creative solution. One only a mind like yours can conjure.”
Alex closed his eyes and leaned his back against a tree, releasing a chestful of wrath in one long breath. A creative solution. Jesus, since when did his creative solutions lead to anything but disaster? Still, his brother’s belief in his abilities buoyed his self-confidence. Lucy believed in him—had believed in him. Once. It had meant everything to him that day by the river when she’d said she knew he could keep her safe no matter the danger. He couldn’t let her down now. He had to prove to her he was still the best man, the only man for her.
“I have to find her. Not knowing where she is or if she’s in pain—it’s killing me.”
“You love her,” his brother said, a statement of fact, not a question.
He scrubbed his hands over his face, drawing them down his cheeks until his palms met under his chin in a gesture of supplication. “I do. I love her. She may not love me. She has good reason to hate me.” He dropped his hands to his side and closed his eyes. “Doesnae matter. I just need to find her. If, God willing, I find her unharmed, I can bear all else.”
Ian clapped a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “When Declan returns, we’ll plan what to do.”
Declan was a canny bastard and the best man for reconnaissance. Able to move silently through cover, slim as a birch tree, Declan was known to get close enough to the enemy to overhear conversations and return with the exact number of their ranks. Alex and Ian spoke very little while they waited and waited and waited. Time seemed to creep along. With the sun cloaked heavily by clouds, Alex had difficulty determining the hour but was certain at least three had passed. He feared Declan might have met with disaster.
“I’m going after him,” Alex said.
Ian grabbed hold of his arm. “Nae. Listen.”
He heard the familiar call of a curlew, then Declan materialized in front of him. Irritation with his cousin swamped his initial relief. “Where the hell have you been, man?” his voice rasping and furious.
“Got anything to eat?” Declan asked. “I’m famished.”
“Never mind your empty belly. What did you find out?”
Ian extracted a piece of dried beef about the size of a chestnut from his sporran and handed it to Declan.
His cousin popped the whole of it in his mouth and talked around the hard chunk as he chewed. “The tracks definitely lead to Dunrobin. As long as I was at the castle wall, I learned what I could about their strength.”
“What did you see?”
“Two men at the gate by the road. Six men guard the entrance to the castle. There’s two stationed in the back by the old entrance to the keep.”
“Anything else?”
“For what it’s worth, the masonry crew working on the new construction create such a din, you cannae hear a thing. Plus there’s plenty of coming and going, what with materials arriving by the cartload.”
“Do the guards question the deliveries?” Alex asked.
“Nae.” Declan chewed and swallowed. “Just wave ’em on through.”
Alex smiled for the first time in two days. “You did a fine job, Declan. Rest now. I need time to think.”
Declan uncorked his flask and drew a long swallow of whisky. He wiped his mouth with a dusty sleeve. After a few minutes, he asked, “Have you got a plan, yet?”
“Aye, I’m working on one. We’ll bide here the night. First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll put my plan into action.”
Ian asked warily. “What do you have in mind?”
“A bit of highway robbery, brother.”
…
Shrouded in a silent darkness, Lucy battled with despair. Where was she? How long would they keep her? Would they feed her, or let her starve to death? And who were they?
Feeling her way around the space, she estimated the dimensions to be roughly nine feet wide by twelve feet deep. It was deathly cold in her cell. Her bones ached, her shoulders shivered, and her teeth chattered. To keep the cold at bay, she walked the circumference of the room, using her fingers on the wall as a guide. She counted her strides, each one roughly three feet. When she became dizzy, she changed direction.
Each time she stopped to think about what was happening to her, what would happen to her, the urge to scream and beat the walls threatened to take hold of her reason. So, she concentrated on the steps, the counting. Her mind often drifted to thoughts of Alex. Would he search for her? Would he find her? Would he rescue her from this hellhole? Liam had seemed certain Alex would follow them.
Liam.
Was he dead? Should she feel sorry for the man? After the carriage had overturned, a man had dragged her from the wreck and made her lie face down in the dirt road, his knee pressing into the middle of her back while he tied her hands together. She’d seen the driver run away. Another kidnapper had lifted a pistol and fired at the fleeing man. A crack, a puff of smoke, and the driver had crumpled to the ground. Then the blindfold had been wrapped around her eyes and yanked tight. Lucy had heard Liam pleading, “No, no, don’t shoot.” She’d cried out to him, her call drowned out by another crack of gunfire. Liam had spoken no more.
She was glad she had not seen Liam’s shooting. As much as she didn’t like him, she would not want him dead. Elizabeth, on the other hand…
Lucy stopped her pacing. Alex had been right to warn her about English soldiers. The man in the glen who had tried to kill Alex had been an English soldier, her captors were English soldiers. But why? Who would order the King’s men to perform criminal acts?
Something else tickled her memory. Something Alex had said when they spoke in the garden about the first attempt on her life. Patrick Sellar, the man she met in the tavern. He had said Patrick Sellar threatened to harm her should the Sinclairs interfere with his business.
“Alex interfered with Sellar’s business when he went to see Granny Mackay,” Lucy said out loud.
Her voice pinged back from the wall in front of her, carrying with it a new and terrifying thought. It hit her like a fist in her belly. If Sellar was behind her abduction, he wouldn’t ask for ransom. Sellar would do away with her as a means to punish Alex and Laird John.
She whispered a prayer, “Please God. Don’t let me die.” Lucy started walking again, this time quietly chanting, “I’m not going to die. I’m not going to die. I’m not going to die.”
This was definitely not the great adventure her brother George had in mind. None of this was good. It was all bad. The cold, the dark, the rustling sound coming from the corner. Rats. She shuddered. Even more disquieting, she didn’t know the time of day. How many hours had passed?
As if in answer to the question, Lucy heard her jailer enter the hall outside her cell. Hope blossomed in her chest while fear churned in her belly. Hope that the man was coming to release her. Fear that he was coming to kill her. She backed into the far corner and waited for him to unlock the door.
A dim shaft of light spilled inside her cell. “Supper,” her jailer announced, and dropped a tin plate containing something brown on the floor. “And here’s a blanket.”
Lucy stepped forward and snatched the wadded blanket from his outstretched hand. “May I have a lantern, sir?”
The big man’s features were hidden in shadow, but he seemed to hesitate. Maybe the man held some sympathy for her. She could appeal to his better nature. Maybe he would help her escape.
She asked nicely without whining. “Please, sir. I’m frightened in the dark.”
He slammed the door shut and turned the lock, dashing her hopes of freedom.
Groping on her hands and knees, Lucy found the plate of food, some sort of stew containing mushy vegetables and grizzly chunks of beef. She ate it with her hands and licked her fingers clean. Rats were present, and the smell of food would draw them in. She placed the empty plate on the floor in one corner. Then Lucy wrapped herself in the scratchy blanket and sat in the corner farthest from the plate.
God might bless her, watch over her, but he was not going to save her. She whispered another prayer to the only one she knew could rescue her. “Please, Alex. I’m sorry I was such a proud fool. Find me. Save me.” She closed her eyes, repeating her prayer.
How long she waited, she couldn’t say. She’d lost her sense of time. Lucy roused at the sound of keys. The jailer was back. The door creaked opened a crack and one arm reached inside and set a chamberstick with a lit candle on the floor.
“Thank you,” she said in a voice that sounded unintentionally childlike. “You are very kind.” The door shut. Without another word, the lock turned and the jailer walked away. How long did she have? How many hours? Would Alex find her before someone came to take her life?