The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,43

sound of retreating horses faded. “My lands, that was close,” she whispered.

“Too close.” Ciar peeked over the pier, checking all directions, before he shoved the skiff into deeper water and picked up the oars. “The faster we row away from here, the easier I’ll breathe for certain.”

“How far do we need to go?”

“We ought to pass Castle Stalker in about an hour—a Stewart keep. Then I’m hoping we slip by Dunstaffnage before dawn.”

“Why?”

“’Tis held by the Campbells now, and I don’t trust them any farther than I can throw a twenty-stone rock.” As he pulled on the oars, he scanned the loch’s eastern shore. “Dunstaffnage once was ruled by my kin when the MacDougalls were Lords of the Isles.”

“Once? Did they lose it in a feud?”

“A major feud of sorts. My ancestor, John MacDougall, fought Robert the Bruce and lost.”

“How unfortunate.” Emma tilted her face to the skies as if she were thinking. “But you have Dunollie now.”

“Aye. And it’s but three miles south of Dunstaffnage as the crow flies.”

“So, will we be there by first light?”

“Nay, lass. I’m not taking you to my keep. The risk is far too great.”

Chapter Fourteen

Emma stretched. The pillow cradling her head was so soft, she wished she could sleep forever. Intending to do her best, she rolled to her side and smoothed her hand over exquisitely fine linens.

“Yowl,” came a happy, though unwelcome, sound from the foot of the bed.

“A few more minutes, Albert.”

His tail beat against the mattress as he scooted up and licked her face.

Emma pushed his head aside. “Go on.”

Then reality dawned. Bolting upright, she wrapped her arms around the dog’s neck. “Ciar?” she shrieked. “Are you here?”

“Aye, lass,” came a raspy reply, one sounding as if they were in a tunnel.

“Where are we?” She clutched the blanket beneath her chin. “H-how did I end up in a bed?” It was a very comfortable bed, but she had absolutely no recollection of anything beyond Ciar rowing the skiff and talking about the landmarks they’d pass along the way.

“Forgive me.” The sound of his boots brushed over a solid floor. “You were asleep when we arrived, and I hadn’t a mind to wake you. We’re on the Isle of Kerrera in my sanctuary.”

“We’re in a church?”

“Nay.” The bottom of the bed depressed as he sat.

Still clutching Albert, Emma drew her feet away and tucked them to the side. Ciar MacDougall had just sat at the foot of her bed. The mere thought befuddled her mind.

“We’re in the cellars of Gylen Castle,” he calmly explained as if it were perfectly normal to be in an unmarried lass’s bedchamber…sitting on her bed, no less.

“Cellars?”

“Aye, the keep was built by my grandfather’s grandfather. But during the Wars of the Three Kingdoms, the Covenanters besieged the castle. Clan and kin put up a brave fight until they ran out of provisions and had no choice but to surrender or starve.”

Emma pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. “I still do not understand why you have a bedchamber in the cellars.”

“Well…” Ciar’s voice grew haunted. “After my ancestors laid down their arms, the Covenanters burned and sacked the castle. They massacred everyone, including the women, save my grandfather’s father, another ancestor named John. On that day the wee lad became the Seventeenth Chieftain of Dunollie.”

Good heavens, she hated barbarity. “My word,” she whispered. “Such mindless violence.”

“After, the castle stood in ruins—still does. However, when William and Mary ascended to the throne, usurping the rightful heir, my da kent civil war would come again. We set to clearing the rubbish out of the cellars and turning it into a place of refuge. Mark me, Gylen still looks lonely and ruined on the outside, and any treasure seekers or soldiers who come snooping about would never find the entrance to this hiding-hole.”

Emma lazily swirled her fingers behind Albert’s ears. “’Tis a refuge in plain sight, then?”

“Aye. I keep general stores stocked. Nothing fancy, mind you, but there’s dried meat and apples, and a barrel of oats. We’ve plenty of whisky, and there’s a spring with fresh water amongst the remnants of the outer bailey.”

“It sounds ideal.”

“Far from it, but it ought to keep us alive until I can settle this charge against me.”

“Us?” Dare she hope? “Do you mean to keep me here with you?”

“Och, Emma, I apologize from the bottom of my heart, but I can see no other way. If Wilcox found you, he could do unimaginable things to ferret me out. And I