Page 74 of Sweet Home Highlander
“Look around!” he shouted to the other men, his own panic barely contained. “Check for anything on the ground, any marks. If she was here, she couldnae have gone far.”
Obediently, the men spread out. Niall exhaled and tried to calm himself, but it was an impossible task. His sister was missing, too, though he hadn’t yet allowed himself to think about her. Or Fenella. No, he had to stay focused on Aisla. Hiswife.
“Over here!”
He ran to join some of his men stooping near the mouth of one of the tower houses—and froze. A small powder keg lay on its side, and looked to be empty. Nearby, a line of fuse lay on the ground. It ran straight into the tower house.
“Careful, lads,” Niall said, his heart pounding. Dougal had been setting an explosion in the tunnels, but it looked as though his plan had been cut short. Because of Aisla?
“Look for a blood trail,” Niall said. “Aisla might have wounded him.”
The men scattered out again while a few carefully followed the fuse line into the tower house.
His eyes scoured the mining shafts and huts scattered over the ridge. Would she have tried to make it back to Maclaren on foot? Or Tarben Castle?
“Laird!”
The shout gave him a twin burst of hope and fear. He charged in the direction of the voice, and found three of his men crowded around the opening of one of the abandoned mines. The stone tower house was squat and crumbling, and it had been years since it had been in use.
“The boards over the shaft are gone,” a man said as soon as Niall arrived. “It looks like someone broke through.”
He shouldered by the men and peered down the shaft. In the low light, he saw a swath of blue far below. Aisla had been wearing a blue riding habit earlier.
“Dear God in heaven,” he murmured, and then to the men behind him, “Someone get me a rope.”
Chapter Nineteen
It was still dark. Aisla had opened her eyes a few times, roused out of her whirling, disorderly sleep, but each time she saw a black wall of nothingness. She could smell the minerals on the air, taste the silt on her parched tongue. Each time, she intended to move her legs and arms, but they felt solid and unwieldy. Her skull pounded like it’d been clubbed with a hammer, bright spots obscuring her vision and making her queasy. And then her eyes would drift shut again, though for how long she didn’t know.
How long had she been at the bottom of this shaft?
Long enough for her throat to burn from wanting a cool drench of water, her tongue feeling swollen and dry in her mouth. Her head still ached, as did her ribs and stomach, but she felt the pain changing from acute to something dull and throbbing. She’d broken through some rotted boards, and fallen. Slipped and tumbled, really. It hadn’t been a straight drop down, more like a slide. Her backside was rubbed raw, and everything ached. Bones could undoubtedly be broken, which only pushed her faint pulse into a faster clip.
Dougal. The blasted rotter.
Oh, God, he’d shot Fenella. Aisla could only pray that the wound had not been fatal, but it would be a stretch to assume that she would be in any condition to go for help.
She glanced around in the shadowy gloom of her prison, lit only from the meager light filtering down from above. Was this one of the cairngorm tunnels that hadn’t yielded any topaz? The tunnel smelled musty and unused, not even the scent of oil from lamps remaining behind. Her fear ratcheted a notch. Was there a reason it had been sealed? She couldn’t see in the darkness beyond where she’d landed, but the pitch black felt oppressive. Were there other tunnels that she could not see? Other holes that went deeper? She didn’t dare move for fear of falling further. The darkness pressed in on her, and she tried to calm the panic beating in her breast.
Someone would come, wouldn’t they? They had to.
When her brain faintly recalled what Fenella had remarked upon earlier, that it was a Sunday, and no miners were about, Aisla let her eyelids collapse once again. She’d be lucky if anyone discovered she was missing. Even Dougal, who would have seen her fall, had left her behind, likely to save his own skin. She hoped the dagger wound turned septic, the cowardly bastard. She heaved a sob, but her eyes stayed dry. How much longer could she last like this? Each time she broke out from the odd cushion of sleep, she felt weaker. Thirstier. It wouldn’t be long before she didn’t wake up at all.
Aisla shook off the idea, even giving her head a small toss. It fired off a shock of blinding agony, but she didn’t care. Feeling pain meant she was alive. It was what she needed. Clarity. Stubborn will. She had to stay awake; the next time she opened her eyes again she would only be weaker.
Have ye any idea how lovely ye are?
She gasped a breath of silty, stifled air as Niall’s voice whispered in her ear. It wasn’t him, she knew. No one was here with her. She didn’t even know why she was thinking of him of all people—he’d told her to leave, after all. But lying here alone and near death, Niall was theonlything she could think of. His rumbling laugh. Those blue, blue Maclaren eyes. The feel of his arms about her…the strength of his body lodged deep within hers.
She was his. She’d always been his.
The thought that she could well die without seeing him again or without telling him the truth of what she felt filled her with grief. But she wasn’t dead yet. Aye, she would fight. She’d fight now, whatever it took.
Dunnae give up, lass.
It was just her own imagination, but the voice was so clear and close, and Aisla knew it was exactly what he would have said to her right then. He’d want her to fight. To claw her way to freedom, even if it took every ounce of her fast-seeping strength.
He hadn’t ever let anything defeat him. Not the loss of his hand, when he’d been but a boy. Not the loss of her, either. He’d come to Paris, wanting to bring her home. And when he’d returned to Scotland alone, he’d rebuilt his life.
