The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,67
spoon in front of her chest. “Hello?”
No answer came, but a hushed whisper curled through the air.
Emma gasped, certain she’d heard someone say, “She’s in there.”
Barking, Albert bolted forward while Emma dropped to her knees and crawled under the table between the chairs, her heart beating so fast it thundered in her ears.
The door swung open to Albert’s vicious snarls. A riding crop hissed through the air, followed by a yelp.
“No!” Emma shouted, stretching her hand out for her dog.
Albert skittered beside her, shaking with fear while heeled shoes tapped the floor. “Well, well, we’ve found the rabbit but not the fox.”
As Emma recognized the man’s voice, ice shot through her veins.
A chair grazed the flagstone as Governor Wilcox pulled it away. “Hello, Miss Emma. We meet again.”
Either she was shaking as violently as Albert or the dog was trembling so badly he was quavering her. Nonetheless, she refused to stand and curtsy before the man. Not after all the pain he’d caused.
“Swallowed your tongue, did you?”
She said nothing.
“I’ll make it easy. I require only one tidbit of information. Where is Dunollie?”
“How did you find me?”
He chuckled. “It was just a matter of time. I have spies everywhere. Clever, though, it wasn’t until his men sailed into the hidden cove that I received a report.” He grabbed her elbow and dragged her from under the table. “Tell me where MacDougall is now, and I’ll forgive your crimes.”
She jerked her arm away. “He’s innocent, and you’ll never find him.”
“Everyone slips sooner or later.”
“Not Dunollie.”
“Hmm. What I cannot understand is why he would leave a blind woman stranded on an island alone.” Wilcox pulled her toward the hearth while Albert growled. “One who cooks, it seems.”
Emma clamped her lips together.
“My guess is wherever he went, he won’t be gone for long.”
“You’re wrong. He’s…he’s…” She wrapped her fingers around Albert’s collar and drew him to her side.
“He’s what?”
Wilcox emitted a hint of amusement in his tone, enough to make Emma gulp. What should she say? If she mentioned Dunbarton, the governor might send warships to intercept him.
She did her best to appear undaunted, though her heart raced so fast she could hardly think. “He will not return until he has proved to you that he had no part in Tommy MacIntyre’s murder.”
Albert pulled against her grip, barking and snarling. But Emma held tight; if she let him go, he might end up hurt.
The man’s chuckle was as ugly as it was cynical. “Why do I not believe you?” He grabbed her wrist, but the dog snarled and pushed between them. “Lock her in irons and shoot the mongrel.”
“No!” She dropped to her knees and threw her arms around Albert’s neck. “I’ll go with you willingly if you promise to leave him be.”
Wilcox snorted loudly. “You are in no position to make demands of any sort.”
“Please.” She ran a steady hand over Albert’s coat. “There’s no reason to harm him. He’s only trying to protect me.”
“You said you’d freely surrender?”
“Aye.”
“Tell the dog to stand down,” said Wilcox.
Emma sliced her palm in front of Albert’s face. “Stay.” Once he quietened and sat, she squared her shoulders and held out her wrists.
“Slap a pair of manacles on her. Leave the mangy hound.” Wilcox started for the door. “Dunollie will return, mark me. And when he does, we’ll trap him in his own sinister game.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Emma shivered with the cold, adding to the intensity of her trembles. Huddled in the bow of the boat, she had never been so terrified in her life. They hadn’t even given her a chance to don her cloak. And now Wilcox and his men were taking her back to Fort William in irons. The cold manacles around her wrists hung heavily, the chain between them resting on the floor at her feet.
The men around her went about their duties, sailing the ship northward into Loch Linnhe, not one uttering a word to her. At the governor’s orders, they tacked east until they tossed the sea galley’s ropes to the sentries on the shore.
As they worked to tie the boat to the pier, Wilcox stepped beside her, his stench of sickly perfume now unmistakable. “This ought to be familiar. You are the one who picked the lock on my sally port, are you not?”
Emma would never admit guilt to this man. “If only I were able to accomplish such a feat,” she managed to say, masking the fear from her voice.
“It matters not. Regardless, you will be my bait. Once I have