Page 47 of Sinful Scot
The executioner stomped toward Rhys.
“Find Maggie. The woman who was with me,” Rhys quickly said to Dermot. “Promise me.”
“Aye, I vow it,” his uncle answered with vehemence as the rope grew tighter on Rhys’s neck.
“Protect her,” he managed to say as the executioner moved to shove him over the hole where he would hang. The crowds chant of “Hang him! Hang him!” had grown to a thunderous proportion. Rhys could not even hear his own words. He tensed, and an image of Maggie filled his mind, her eyes dancing with laugher, a smile on her beautiful face.
“Halt!” a deep, powerful voice bellowed.
The crowd in front of Rhys exploded with protest, but it parted as four men on horseback rode through the center of the crowd all the way up to the gallows.
“In the name of Scotland, what is the meaning of this?” one of the men on horseback exploded.
“That’s our laird, yer grandfather,” Dermot said, relief clear in his words. “Beside him is Lord Bruce. It looks like today will nae be yer day to die, either.”
It didn’t take long for the MacKinnish to demand the guard release Dermot, and it was Dermot who convinced his father—Rhys’s grandfather—to have Rhys released, too. As he was being freed, he stared in shock when Lord Bruce’s son, the future king of Scotland, rode into the courtyard with a group of other boys, calling to his grandfather. Young Bruce couldn’t be any more than twelve years old. Bruce the elder turned his attention to his grandson and friends, and Rhys’s grandfather moved his horse closer to Dermot while Dermot mounted his horse, which had been brought from the stable. After another moment of activity, where a horse was called for from the nearby stables, Rhys mounted it with thanks.
The MacKinnish gave Dermot an expectant look. “I want a full explanation of what trouble ye have come to and why ye wish me to ride home instead of Kinghorn to retrieve Grace. I—” The man stopped talking and turned the full force of his steely gaze on Rhys. Rhys stared back, feeling how surreal the entire situation was.
“Who did ye say this was, Son?” Rhys’s grandfather asked Dermot, never taking his probing gaze from Rhys. No way could Rhys think of this man as his grandfather. Not yet. Maybe never. Hell, he didn’t know. If he ever got back to his time, he might have to reconsider therapy.
Dermot gave Rhys a quick warning look while clapping a hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “He’s a McCaim, Father. His wife is a friend of Shona’s from Court.”
“If ye trust him, ’tis good enough for me.” That sense of surrealness grew. He was standing here in another time talking to his mother’s father—his grandfather. It didn’t seem possible. Yet, it was.
“Where are ye going?” Before Dermot could answer that, MacKinnish slashed his hand through the air. “Might I at least expect ye to stay out of trouble?” MacKinnish growled, sweeping his attention between Rhys and Dermot. Rhys had to bite his cheek not to smile that his grandfather had scolded him like a child without even knowing who he was. The man was surly, but his love for his family seemed obvious. Dermot and Rhys both nodded to which MacKinnish snorted. “A damn foolish hope,” he finally said to Dermot. “I’m away with Bruce but for one month and reunited with ye less than a day, and last night ye tell me that Shona is home from Court when she ought not to be, Grace has nae come home from Court, though she was apparently supposed to, and then this morning when I return from a meeting with Bruce to ride to Kinghorn with ye, expecting to find ye awaiting me to depart as we planned, I find ye about to be hung by the side of a man they thought the Devil’s hand!” He glared at both of them. “And but a breath ago, ye say that Grace is nae at Kinghorn as ye said before.”
Dermot shook his head. “She rode out to look for Shona, but Shona is home, so ye should go home. Grace should be there by now.”
MacKinnish snorted loudly.
Though there was a part of Rhys that wanted to seize this moment with his grandfather, a much larger part of him was starting to yell at him to hurry up. Maggie needed him. “I need to depart,” Rhys said, hoping he’d chosen the right words. “My wife has been taken by a man named Baron Bellecote, and—”
“Taken?” MacKinnish scowled at Dermot. “By Baron John Bellecote?”
Rhys didn’t know the man’s first name, but apparently Dermot did because he nodded.
“Why did ye nae say so?” Rhys’s grandfather demanded of Dermot.
“Ye have nae allowed me to barely speak,” he replied.
MacKinnish’s eyebrows dipped together. “Do ye need men to ride with ye, Dermot?”
Rhys was shocked when Dermot shook his head. “Nay. Baron Bellecote rides only with three men.” He looked to Rhys. “We can easily manage them.”
“Of course ye can,” Rhys’s grandfather replied. “I trained ye well. Once ye are finished with the baron, make haste home. The family needs to have a gathering and speak of the future now that King Alexander is dead.”
Hell yes, they did, but Rhys kept his mouth shut as the realization that he’d soon be seeing his mom, if all went well, sank in.Five years.He’d not seen her in five long years. His chest constricted.
They said a quick farewell after Rhys and Dermot were fully armed, and MacKinnish and his man rode off toward Castle Hightower. Dermot turned them toward Liddesdale, which apparently was where Baron Bellecote’s home was. The hard, fast riding out of town did not lend itself to any talking, which was fine with Rhys. All he could think of was Maggie. Was she okay? Would he reach her before the baron ravished her or forced her to marry him? Rhys couldn’t allow his mind to linger on either possibility. He’d never been a violent man, the boxing ring didn’t count, but the thought of either thing occurring made him want to murder the baron.
He and Dermot rode at a jarring pace through the morning and into the afternoon. It wasn’t until later in the day when they reached a high, narrow ridge that they needed to slow way down. Dermot rode in front of Rhys on the mountain pass, letting the horses set the pace so they didn’t slip. To the right was a towering wall of stone, and to the left was a steep drop to certain death. Impatience flared, but he knew the slower pace was necessary.
“How long does this wind up the mountain?” he gritted out.
Dermot called back over his shoulder, “It will be awhile, so settle in.”
“What if the baron is not even heading to his home?” Rhys asked, starting to second-guess their decision to come this way.
