The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,42

next breath, horses’ hooves thudded against the compact dirt road like the steady drums of a death knell. They almost beat louder than his heart.

Too many things could go wrong. And there he sat with Grant’s sister and a half-trained dog.

“Look there—Dicky has a passenger,” shouted one of the riders.

Ciar’s gaze darted to the far shore. The clouds had parted, and the moonlight illuminated Sam’s outline as the lad walked the horse off the ferry.

“But he’s not MacDougall. Look at the size of him—he’s a scrawny bastard like you, Landry.”

Ciar’s fingers dug into the rough wood. If only the man’s name had been Riley or Manfred, he might end this debacle here and now.

“We may as well wait until the old man returns. Mayhap he knows something.”

“I doubt it,” said a third. “If you ask me, MacDougall rode for the mountains. They all hide up there like rats.”

“I reckon the Highlanders transform into ghosts, I swear. We chased Grant and his men up the slopes of Ben Nevis in a snowstorm, and the bastards vanished while we ended up with frostbitten toes.”

“Well, it isn’t snowing now. We’ll find the renegade. Mark me.”

Albert squirmed, giving off a squeak and making the skiff rock, slapping the water. After a few jerks of his head, Emma blew softly in the dog’s ear, as she smoothed her hand up and down his coat. Ciar could have sworn she was repeating the word “stay” over and over again, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Ate too many peas, did ye, Rutford?” asked Landry.

“Shut your gob,” came the reply.

Ciar dared to breathe. The dog will be the death of us.

The men chatted while what seemed like an eternity passed.

“Throw us a rope, and we’ll tug you ashore,” hollered Landry.

Boots clambered across the pier, making it tremble while Ciar shifted his fingers aside a heartbeat before a black boot trod on them.

“My thanks,” said Dicky, his gaze flickering beneath the pier as the coil unraveled.

Ciar bared his teeth—a half grimace, half smile. The blood had drained from his fingers, and they’d already gone numb. His arms were shaking from keeping the boat steady in a constant fight against the wind rippling across the water.

Another set of boots clomped onto the dock. “Who the devil needed a ferry ride at this hour?”

“’Twas a young coal mine worker,” Dickey explained. He must have dreamed up the story on his way back across the river. “His ma died. Told me his father perished in the mines, and the poor sop was worried about the children left alone.”

“Where’s he headed?”

Ciar’s gut clamped into a hard ball. Don’t say Ardgour.

“Pollach.”

Again Ciar let himself breathe. It was unlikely the soldiers would follow. If Dicky had said Ardgour, they’d ask for a ride across the loch and demand to question the lad.

“Where’s that?” asked a dragoon.

“Through the glen on Loch Shiel. I reckon the boy ought to reach home by dawn.”

“Have you seen anyone else this night?”

“Until that lad beat on me door, the only thing I’d seen was the inside of my bloody eyelids. And that’s exactly what I intend to stare at until well after the sun rises.” Dicky strode toward the shore, the heel of his boot smashing Ciar’s finger.

Snapping his hand away, Ciar shook his fingers, making the skiff totter.

Bloody miserable festering maggot!

Thank God, the redcoats followed the crotchety old coot. If it had been Sam’s finger Dicky stepped on, the lad would have bleated like a lamb in a castrating pen.

“Did the coal miner mention any word about Ciar MacDougall?”

“Dunollie?” asked Dicky. “Isn’t he your guest at the fort?”

“He was.”

“It appears Robert Grant’s blind sister helped him escape.”

“You mean to say the king’s dragoons had the wool pulled over their eyes by a blind woman?”

Emma’s shoulders began to shake while Albert squirmed.

Ciar braced himself, ready to dive across the boat and smother the damned canine if need be.

“If she’s Grant’s sister, then she’s a ghost,” said the same one who’d admitted to following Robert two years past.

“I suppose we’ll leave you be for the night,” said a dragoon, the leathers of a saddle squeaking as if he’d mounted. “But if you hear news of anyone catching sight of MacDougall, send a runner to the fort.”

“I’ll do that,” Dickey replied. “But he’d be daft to show his face in these parts.”

Ciar held the skiff steady while the soldiers started off to the tune of the old man slamming his front door.

Emma continued to methodically pet Albert and didn’t release him until the