Page 55 of Rebellion's Fire

Eua was not satisfied at all. She slipped out the gates behind Henry’s men and sent word out among her own people to find the lady.

Chapter Fifteen

Christian came tostaring at leather and fur and heaving ground full of stones and mud and grass. Something jolted her rhythmically. Her head and her jaw ached, and she was freezing. Memory flooded her. Fire and a stranger’s sudden violence. Someone had captured her. Again. And they weren’t as kind as Adam MacHeth had been.

But this wasn’t right. No one did anything here without MacHeth permission. Had they suddenly withdrawn their protection? Had William committed some unforgivable crime without her knowledge? Had they fired the castle and then taken her when they realized neither she nor William had died?

Would Adam really do that to her? Somehow, it was easier to blame Donald, whom she didn’t know. Or the mysterious Lady of Ross, whose tentacles stretched right across the province. Despite her supposed gratitude to Christian for saving her son’s life.

She tried to lift her head, and the world went sick and dizzy. She must have let out some kind of involuntary groan, for her captor patted her shoulder, not unkindly.

“There, girl,” he said in English. “Awake now, are you? We’re far enough away, so I’ll let you down now for a moment until you feel better.”

The bumping stopped. Whatever had been digging into her side—her captor’s knee, perhaps—vanished. Hands took hold of her waist and tugged, and she was dragged backward off the horse until her feet hit the rough ground. Her head swam alarmingly before it began to clear.

Still dark. Open country, surrounded by low hills. It might have been familiar. Right now, she couldn’t tell. Her captor was a stocky man with a neat beard. Perhaps in his forties or early fifties. He wore a fur-trimmed cloak. He could have stolen that, of course, but something about him told her he was no brigand.

She became aware that the gloved hands on her waist seemed to be pushing her toward the ground, and in sudden panic, she slapped at them, trying to twist away.

The hands tightened. “Don’t be so skittish, lass,” her captor said irritably. “Sit until your head clears. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She glared at him. “You hit me!”

“Aye. Well, you’d have screamed if I’d let you.”

Unarguable. She let it go, even allowed herself to be eased down to sit on the tussock. He threw a blanket over her shoulders, and she clutched it around her with gratitude. She couldn’t escape if she froze to death.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want with me? Are you one of the MacHeths?”

“My name is Fergus. I am the king of Galloway and afriendof the MacHeths. And I want you for my son’s wife.”

*

It wasn’t hardfor Sigurd to catch up with the lady and her abductor. Once he’d persuaded his best childhood friend to fetch Adam with all speed, he ran in the same direction as the abductor and soon picked up his trail. It sometimes involved knocking on doors in the middle of the night, which didn’t make him popular but did mean that within a couple of hours, he had them in sight.

After the first rush of escape from the environs of Tirebeck, his quarry had slowed, perhaps to save the strength of his horse, which allowed Sigurd, on foot, to catch up. Besides, because the miscreant was riding and it was dark, he was forced to follow the well-beaten tracks, although he seemed to know where he was going—skirting the forested land south toward the Great Glen to rejoin his men, Sigurd guessed.

As if he remembered the way. If this was truly Fergus of Galloway, he’d been in Ross before, apparently, for Earl Malcolm’s marriage.

Sigurd’s task was impossible. By the morning, if everyone rode flat out, Adam could have sent men to help, but Sigurd rather thought he was expected to rescue the lady tonight in order to keep both her person and her reputation safe. All without harming Fergus of Galloway, if that was truly who had taken her.

Sigurd groaned inwardly. He was a shepherd. He wasn’t up to this kind of work. For the moment, all he could do was keep them in view without being observed.

He had no idea why Fergus would take Cairistiona of Tirebeck, but at the first hint of further violence, whoever the abductor was, Sigurd would have to intervene. In fact, while she was still slung over the saddle like a sack of grain, he wasn’t sure he shouldn’t intervene at once to make certain her injury wasn’t severe.

His blood boiled in fury when he remembered the man striking her. But if this was Fergus of Galloway himself, Sigurd was by no means sure he stood a chance in any fight with such a seasoned warrior. Ambush was his only hope. Although somehow, Adam would expect him to accomplish this without harming his ally.

And then he’d have to get her away to safety—quickly. All on his own, since there was no way Adam could send help before morning.

He was anxiously making and discarding increasingly ridiculous plans when he became aware that his quarry had halted close to a thin ribbon of water that glinted in the moonlight. Sigurd crept silently over the spongy, wet ground into the trees at the forest’s edge.

The man had dismounted and now heaved the lady off the horse, too. Sigurd closed his fingers over the dagger he’d taken to carrying, but the man seemed to handle her gently enough, lowering her to a sitting position, covering her with a blanket, giving her his flask to drink from.

Sigurd allowed himself to relax just a little. This, surely, was the place and the time for his ambush. If only he could think how to do it without actually killing the abductor, just in case he was the Lord of Galloway…

A breath, a soft thud behind him, gave him an instant’s warning. He spun around, dagger in hand, and found his wrist clamped in an iron grip.

“Don’t.” Adam MacHeth’s soft voice had never been more welcome.

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