The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,98

for the moment. The Jacobites can raise an army, but not one powerful enough to face Argyll when they’ve already organized their conscripts,” said Chisholm. “Mar believes it is best to bide our time and, if need be, attack when the opportunity presents itself.”

Ciar slammed his fist on the table. “But the Hanoverian usurper has not yet been crowned. If we act now we can instill fear in his heart.”

“I agree with you, but there is one more critical item to be considered.”

“And what is that?” Ciar asked.

“Thus far, we’ve received no word from the prince.”

Ciar raked a hand through his hair. “What an unmitigated disaster. Someone must sail across the channel and confront him, bless it.”

“We were hoping you would.”

“Me?” Good God, why do they always come crawling to me begging for favors? “I’ve been home for all of two hours at the most. Moreover, my new bride is waiting in her chamber. I cannot possibly leave for the continent.”

“But you are allies with more clans than anyone in the Highlands.”

“So that is my due for being good-natured.”

“We need you.”

“My wife needs me—and ye ken she’s no ordinary woman.”

“True.”

Ready to spit, Ciar gripped the chair’s velvet armrests. “My vote is for you to go.”

“I beg your pardon?” The man sat back. “But I am not yet a laird, sir.”

“Why not sail across with your father?” Ciar asked, his mind drumming up a plan. “Chisholm is a respected name throughout the Highlands, just as is Dunollie. You must take a letter with you—one pledging our fealty and our arms and signed by the chieftains. James must know we will stand behind the true heir.

Ciar looked his ally in the eye. “Will you do it?”

“Aye.”

Chisholm rapped his knuckles on the board. “I’m certain a pledge of support will encourage him to set sail for Scotland once again.”

For the next two hours, Ciar made a list of the Highland clans and their numbers, estimating how many men each clan might bring to arms. Roderick left with the folded piece of parchment tucked inside his doublet, but the heavy weight of duty hung from Ciar’s shoulders like an anvil. Was he the best man to visit James? Perhaps he was. Nonetheless, he could not commit to sailing across the channel mere hours after he’d brought Emma to the castle.

Damnation, Ciar might be a loyal vassal of the true succession, but clan and kin must always come before king and country. He had a new duty now.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Ciar’s heart flew to his throat when found Emma collapsed on the floor, lying in a pool of blood. “God, no!” he cried, dropping to his knees and gathering her into his arms while Albert stood and hovered. “What happened?”

She jolted, sobbing as she wiped a bloody kerchief across her brow. “No!” she bawled, struggling to catch her breath. “T-this cannot possibly work. They haaaate m-m-meeeee!”

“Easy, lass. Calm yourself.” He rocked her as his blood turned icy. How had she transformed from happy bride to nearly hysterical in a few hours? “Who did this? I swear I’ll slice my dirk across their cowardly throats!”

“No.” She pounded her fists on his chest as she sniffed, tears streaming from her eyes. “You…you…do not understaaaaaand.”

Ciar sat cradling her for a moment while a tic twitched in his jaw. The last thing he wanted was for Emma’s first experiences at Dunollie to be miserable. What the bloody hell had happened, and why had no one come? The sight of her unhappy, bleeding, and crying made a boiling rage pulse through his blood. He must act swiftly to ferret out the scoundrel who’d hurt her. But first he needed to see to her care.

He pressed his lips against her forehead. “Shhh, mo leannan.” Tightening his arms, he rose and carried her to the bed.

After he fluffed the pillows and ensured her comfort, he hastened to the bowl, but there was no water in the ewer. “Where the blazes is Betty?”

“She’s…” Emma patted her chest, trying to control her staccato breaths. “…with…the houskeeeeeeper.” Albert jumped onto the bed, and she immediately wrapped her arms around him. Thank God the dog had been there to comfort her.

Ciar could have kicked himself. He’d suggested Mrs. MacClarin take the lady’s maid under her wing because it seemed like a good time for it. Of course, he had no idea he’d be called away only moments after arriving.

Dashing to the door, he jerked it open. “Bring water at once!” His bellow made the timbers rattle. “Livingstone! Come