Page 73 of Sweet Home Highlander
Overtaken by dread, Niall stormed toward the study door and into the corridor just as a scream rent the air. He, and Leclerc behind him, broke into a sprint, turning down the steps and toward the ruckus below. In the foyer, a handful of maids surrounded a man, his shirt stained with blood, and in his arms, a limp and bleeding Fenella.
Niall’s feet stuck to the bottom step as the man, one of his sheep-farming tenants, saw him. “My laird! I found her crawling across my field. She’s been shot.”
“Put her down there,” Niall ordered, gesturing to a long bench. The farmer did as he was told, lowering Fenella to the wooden seat.
Makenna was missing. Fenella had been shot. Where the devil was Aisla?
“Niall.” He heard Fenella’s low rasp even through the pounding panic in his ears. He went to her, kneeling at her side. Blood. It was everywhere, dampening her tartan and her ashen skin.
“Fenella, what happened?” he asked, taking her hand, slick with her own blood, and holding it tightly. She would not live. One look at the wound, in the center of her stomach, assured him of that.
“’Tis my fault,” she wheezed. “I’m so sorry, Niall.”
“Nonsense, nothing is yer fault, lass,” he whispered. “But ye must tell me what’s happened. Where is Aisla? And Makenna, do ye ken what’s happened to them?”
Fenella rolled her head to and fro. “’Twas Dougal. I didnae ken…he wants to destroy ye and everything ye’ve built.”
“Where?” Leclerc asked.
She coughed, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth. “The mine…he went after Lady Aisla…”
Cold, hard terror silenced the rapid beat of his heart, his uneven breathing. Dougal had Aisla.
“I wronged ye, Niall,” Fenella whimpered, her eyes watery with tears. “I wanted the two of ye apart. I lied about yer wife to make ye jealous when ye were first married, and the past few weeks as well, with the Frenchman. ’Twas wrong of me. I’m so sorry.”
Niall couldn’t dredge up a lick of anger, not right then. Fenella was confessing her sins on her deathbed, and he knew he could do no more than listen.
“Perhaps, lass, but ye’ve done right by her and me now, ye ken. Ye fought hard to come back here, to tell us what’s happened, and I thank ye, Fenella, for that.”
She closed her eyes, tears rolling down her temples, and grimaced. It was a painful wound, no doubt, and she must have struggled at least a mile or more before the farmer had found her. Whatever she’d done in the past to drive him and Aisla apart, he’d sort it out later. He’d be angry about it later. When her grip loosened, and went light, Niall knew it was over. Her grimace smoothed out, and he felt a surge of grief. But there was no time for it right then.
“Take care of her,” he said to the weeping maids, then turned to the solemn farmer, drenched in Fenella’s drying blood. “Go to Maclaren and inform Ronan what ye’ve just heard.”
The man bobbed his head, but Leclerc cut in. “He’s not at Maclaren. I went to him before coming here. He’s the one who sent me to you. I believe he intends to pay a visit to the Campbell.”
Good. Knowing Ronan and his warriors were already on the move gave him a little comfort, though not nearly enough. Niall tried to remain calm as he supplied himself with a long rifle and pistol, and plenty of shot and powder while Leclerc secured two horses. The two started out toward the mine without exchanging a single word. They maintained a fierce gallop, all the while Niall’s mind crashed and roiled with images of what could be happening to Aisla at that moment.
Had she and Makenna been captured by Dougal or the Campbells? It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination, especially after recent tensions and Ronan’s refusal to marry one of the Campbell’s daughters. Surely, Laird Campbell wouldn’t do something as barbaric as stealing a Maclaren lady. Then again, if the Campbell wished for some kind of leverage to force an alliance, an abduction would be the way to do it. Some old Scottish ways still ran rampant through the clans. The thought filled him with mind-numbing dread.
Leclerc and a handful of other men rode behind Niall, the sounds of pounding hooves a thunder in his ears. Ahead, another foursome of riders, led by Hamish, cleared some trees and came toward them, joining their pack without so much as a question. Word must have spread, fast as fire, Niall guessed. And here his friend was, ready to help.
“Take yer men to the loch!” Niall shouted to Hamish. “We’re to the quarry!”
With an answering shout, his friend wove to the left, taking his men with him. If Dougal had taken Aisla, he could have taken her anywhere by now. But the mine was the first, logical place to look. And Fenella had said they’d been there.
Niall spurred his horse to climb the forested path, his mind refusing to leap ahead to what he might find at the quarry. What if she’d put up a fight against Dougal? God, what if he’d shot her as well? He took small comfort in the fact that the man clearly desired Aisla, and perhaps, she might still be alive.
With a burst of speed and anger, and not a little bit of fear, Niall broke through the trees and came onto the ridge. His eyes immediately found the stone mining shafts, and just as he expected, saw the place was abandoned. Sundays were always that way.
“M’laird!” He heard a man’s shout through his own pounding pulse. Niall twisted in his saddle and followed the direction of one farmer’s outstretched arm, pointing to a pool of browning blood soaked into a patch of grass.
“Fenella was shot here,” he said, though needlessly.
Niall inspected the area from his saddle, hope dimming that he would find anything of use. But then he saw a glint of light near a pile of discarded rock and rubble.
He jumped from his saddle and went to it, crouching with his breath caught in his throat. His fingers brushed the topaz hilt of Aisla’s dagger, the blade stained red. Her blood, or Dougal’s? He picked it up, knowing in his soul that she would have defended herself. She would have hit her target, without a doubt, and perhaps it had given her a chance to get away.
He stood, wiping and pocketing the dagger.
