The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,71
lips. “She was here—visited me the morning before Dunollie escaped. Furthermore, her dog barked, and a woman was seen fleeing with him.”
“A woman?” Robert snorted. “This woman? Hardly. How can a sightless lass elude your highly trained soldiers? That she might have is unconscionable, unless you are completely incompetent in the exercise of your duties.”
Wilcox rubbed the back of his neck.
“I am taking my sister home.”
“She is my prisoner and an accessory.”
“She is a victim.” Robert eyed him. “And you are abusing your station in making a public spectacle with her.”
The governor let out a long sigh, looked to the window and back. “I had thought to use her as bait, but after three days, the bastard still hasn’t shown his ugly face.”
“What happened…to Ciar?” Emma mumbled.
Robert tightened his grip around her. “See? She has no idea as to Dunollie’s whereabouts. For all you know he’s fled to Ireland or worse.”
Emma shook her head. “No, no.”
“Calm yourself, sister. You are delirious with exhaustion and hunger.” Robert eyed the governor. “She has paid far too high a price for your incompetence.”
“I disagree. Her punishment thus far has been lenient. We discovered her in a hidden cellar on the Isle of Kerrera—Dunollie’s lands, mind you.”
Robert backed toward the door. “That still does not make her guilty.”
“Go on.” Wilcox flicked his hand. “Get out. She is of no use to me now. You ought to keep a tight rein on the chit—lock her away for good.”
Without another word, Robert headed for his mount. “I will see you safely home, lass,” he whispered as he set her on the horse and mounted behind her.
Steadying Emma in his arms, Robert shook his head. “I once considered Dunollie my greatest friend. But I swear on our father’s grave, he will never come near you again.”
“No!” Emma shrieked, throwing an elbow and smacking him in the arm.
Good God, the lass had endured unconscionable trauma, driving her to complete madness. She mustn’t have any idea what she was saying. “Shhh, girl, and calm yourself. You are safe now.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Something warm and slavering swiped across Ciar’s face. The warmth was pleasant but the lingering moisture made his eyes flicker open for the briefest of moments. Groaning, he rolled his head aside while a hammer in his head punished him for moving.
“No, ye beasty,” demanded a young voice. Female, but too high-pitched to be Emma.
When someone applied a cool cloth to his forehead, Ciar forced himself to open his eyes.
He didn’t recognize the bedchamber. It was relatively small, and rain tapped the roof. Above were exposed beams, as if he were in a windowless attic room. His body was covered by a quilt, his head resting on a feather pillow. Beside him stood a serving maid wearing a white apron over a plaid kirtle.
Ciar looked from her hands to her head. Her brown tresses were covered by a mobcap, and as she leaned over him, wisps of her hair swayed with the motion. “Ye’re awake.”
“Where am I?” he asked, his throat dry.
“Glencoe. A guest of His Lairdship, Hugh MacIain.”
Pressing the heels of his palms against his throbbing temples, Ciar winced, trying to remember. “How the blazes did I end up here?”
The sound of boots pounding the floorboards made the pain grow worse. “I brought you to MacIain after the redcoat bastards bludgeoned you,” Livingstone said. “It was the only place I kent you would be safe.”
Ciar tried to move, only to make the throbbing worse. “But MacIain? Glencoe?”
“He’s the staunchest Jacobite in Scotland.”
“I need to find Emma.”
Livingstone gave the maid a dismissive wave of his hand. “Leave us and take the dog with you.” As the door clicked behind her, the man-at-arms pulled a wooden chair beside the bed. “How much do you remember?”
“Musket shots. Aye, I went into the cellars to find Emma, but she wasn’t there. And I heard muskets.”
“We were ambushed by redcoats. One of them was waiting for you inside—hit you on the head with an ax handle.”
Ciar groaned. “Another bloody knock in the head?”
“Aye. I reckon I need to fasten an iron helmet on ye.”
“But you said they ambushed? Was Emma harmed?”
“They took her to Fort William about a sennight ago.”
The cloth dropped to his chest as Ciar tried to sit up, blinking his eyes against the pain. “God no.”
He tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed, only to be pushed back by Livingstone. “You need to listen to it all afore ye charge out of here like a wounded bull.