The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,79

have an uncle nearby in Glasgow. Perhaps I’ll start by writing him. Will you allow me that?”

“If you think it might help, I’d thank you.”

“This is a precarious path you’ve chosen, but believe me when I say I want to help you. More than anything I want you to be happy.” Janet clutched Emma’s hands. “We first need to figure out where we can find Dunollie. In the meantime, I’ll work on softening Robert’s anger.”

A heavy weight began to shift from Emma’s shoulders. Was there hope? “I would give the world to make him understand.”

“Time has a way of helping men forget.”

As long as Ciar doesn’t forget me.

“I’ll send Betty in and ask her to draw you a bath. That ought to make you feel a bit better, dearest.”

Though Emma nodded, she doubted anything except receiving news that Ciar had cleared his name would make the melancholy pass.

* * *

The two-day journey to Glenmoriston was pure torture. Ciar didn’t give fig about his nagging headache. The agony was the endless time it took to ride through the glens and over craggy mountains.

If the horses had been able to keep going, he would have ridden all night, but Ciar and his men had been forced to stop at the tavern in Laggan last eve. Though he hadn’t slept overmuch, the respite did afford him time for a bath and a shave, which would help him pass muster where Grant was concerned.

Now, as they started up the north shore of Loch Ness, he could hold back no longer. He beckoned the men with an arcing wave of his hand and cued his horse for a gallop. He rode as if chased by the devil, leaning over his mount’s withers, keeping his elbows tight to reduce the drag.

The wind howled from behind, making the loch’s waves crest with whitecaps. Above, the clouds hung low, threatening to release their ire. And to his left, the birch and sycamore trees fought with the gale, popping and rustling, agitated in restless fury. Leaves scattered through the air, hinting at the change of seasons. Even as rain spat from the skies, Ciar refused to slow the pace.

His heart hammered at the signpost to Invermoriston and he turned northward, riding along the River Moriston. The gelding slowed to a trot as his iron shoes thundered across the timbers of the bridge spanning Moriston Falls—the very place Emma had spoken so fondly of. The bower her grandfather had built was clear now. Funny, after all the times Ciar had traveled this route, he’d never noticed how the rush of the water boomed around him, nor had he seen the bower tucked among the trees.

And now he was so close to her, his heart twisted into a hundred knots, making his chest ache. Up the hill he rode until Grant’s expansive manse came into view. Ciar reined his laboring horse to a stop, scanning the numerous windows above the ground floor. Did one of them look out from Emma’s bedchamber or was her room rear facing?

Livingstone rode in beside him. “What’s the plan?”

Ciar’s gaze slipped to the brass knocker. “I suppose I’ll rap on the door and see who answers.”

“Do you ever answer your own door?”

“Nay.”

“So will you speak to the lass first, then?”

“I’ll try to.”

But his plans were thwarted when Grant stepped outside with a healthy contingent of men at his flanks. By the scowl on his friend’s face, this wasn’t going to be easy.

Ciar dismounted. “Were you expecting a battle?”

Robert’s eyes grew dark as he swirled the palm of his hand over his dirk’s pommel. “Perhaps. I wasn’t expecting you to show your face on my lands, for certain.”

A tic twitched at the back of Ciar’s jaw. “No? Is there a rift between us of which I’ve not yet been informed?”

May as well make him spell it out.

“Bloody oath there is.” Thrusting his hand toward an upper window, Grant continued, “I’ve a sister inside who hasn’t come out of her chamber in days. Moreover, she’s ruined on account of you and your carelessness.”

A shadow moved behind the curtains. Was it Emma? Dear God, she must be at her wit’s end after her ordeal. If only the wind had been with him on the voyage from Dunbarton, he might have arrived before the dragoons took her.

“I was delayed.”

“You left her alone on an island. Do you have any idea how fragile my sister is?”

“She insisted, but—”

“Insisted? And where were you at the time? Or was your mind addled because