The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,69

from the crowd.

“’Tis true what they say, that God has condemned her for her sins and delivered his wrath. She is the devil’s own.”

Emma clenched her teeth. Robert had sheltered her from the evils of society, but she knew well enough the fears and superstitions about the blind. She wanted to shout that she was a good person. She wanted to tell them about Ciar’s innocence, but they wouldn’t listen, not when they thought her a demon.

The soldier forced her to bend forward and lowered the bar over her head, trapping her wrists and neck. Panic surged through her blood. She fought against the rigid pillory while taunts from the crowd grew louder. Something vile smelling smacked the side of her head and streamed toward the corner of her mouth. She spat, but the acrid taste of mold made her gag.

“Stop!” she shouted, but her claim only made the crowd badger her more.

“You are a disgrace!”

“Take her to the gallows!”

“The woman’s a witch. She will cast spells on us all unless she’s drowned!”

Emma winced, shaking her head. She refused to listen. She would not let their hateful words hurt her. No matter what, she must remain strong. One day this misery would be over. Ciar was out there somewhere. She had to put her trust in him. He would clear his name and come for her.

Closing her eyes, she sent her mind back to Gylen, to the cozy cellar, the quiet cove, to Ciar’s loving arms protecting her…

* * *

The return trip to Kerrera should have taken a day, two tops. But it seemed the luck from Emma’s medal of Saint Lucia had run its course. Once Ciar and his men sailed out of the Firth of Clyde, there was no wind to be found and, when a gale finally hit, it came from the north like a rogue. They were pummeled by torrential rain while they tacked from east to west, barely making progress. Now it had been over a sennight since they’d set sail for Dunbarton.

Rain still came down in sheets when the men pulled the galley ashore at Kerrera.

“Do you intend for us to stay the night?” asked Livingstone.

Ciar wiped the droplets out of his eyes. “MacIntyre will think we’re not coming.”

“Surely he’ll wait, given the storm.” Livingstone hopped over the side, and Ciar followed. “There’s room in the cellars for the men to camp. And Riley isn’t going anywhere.”

Ciar glanced back to the mast where the dragoon was tied, his chin dropped to his chest. The man was conscious, though he had a mouth filled with bile.

“Lock him in the rear cellar,” said Ciar. “Bail out the water from the hull, then let the men take their rest.”

Good God, he was bone weary. It was late, and one more night shouldn’t make a difference at this stage. If MacIntyre had returned to Spean Bridge, Ciar would just have to send someone to fetch him.

As he entered the passageway, a musket fired down near the cove. He stopped for a moment. Before he could consider whether to go out and see what the men were up to, Albert dashed through the passageway, tail wagging as if he’d missed Ciar immensely.

He scratched behind the dog’s ears, noting the laddie’s coat wasn’t as well-groomed as Emma usually kept it. “Did you miss me?”

Albert yowled and started for the exit.

Ciar pulled his collar. “We need to pay a visit to Emma first.”

Albert yowled again, hopping on his rear paws and snorting as if he desperately needed to go outside.

“Go on then.” Ciar waved him away with a flick of his hand. “But stay out of trouble.”

Another musket fired. Strange. But he was too eager to see to Emma to think much of it.

Albert stayed on Ciar’s heels. “I thought you needed to go out, laddie.” Water sloshed from his shoes while he plodded down the passageway. As he neared the door, a sinking feeling gripped his stomach. Oh, God, the dog was trying to tell me something has happened to her.

Ciar’s breath stopped dead in his chest as he ran into the vault. “Emma!”

When she didn’t answer, he spun toward the hearth.

“Em—?”

The last thing he heard was a sickly thud swelling through the cavern.

* * *

Robert Grant dug in his spurs as he demanded a gallop from his horse. Never in his life had he been so angry. As soon as he’d received word from Janet, he’d raced for Achnacarry, praying his sister had returned. Over a fortnight had already