“Truly, I dinna ken. I received a missive from Murdoch that he suspected the Rosses would attack ye, and that ye couldnae get word to me. He said ye needed us.”
Duncan Matheson’s brow furrowed. “Nay, ye didna. Ma father received a missive from ye saying ye kenned the Rosses would ride to the Sutherlands to gather men before riding on the Mackenzies.”
“Nay. I have the missive in ma chamber at Crannog.” Laird Mackintosh tried to shake his head, but Lachlan still held too tightly.
“What of ye?” Magnus pointed his sword at Laird Macrae.
“Murdoch called upon us, same as he did the Mackintoshes and Donalds. He said the Rosses and Roses threatened to besiege ye.”
Something about Laird John Macrae’s claim rang false with Magnus, but he didn’t know why. He turned toward Laird Donald, who stood with Seamus’s sword tip now pressing below his left ribcage. “What say ye?”
“It was as Macrae said. The missive from Murdoch said the Rosses threatened ye.”
“But ye all ken that I’ve been in talks with Monty to end the feud.” Magnus glanced at Monty.
“But it hadnae progressed. We believed Murdoch because it sounded reasonable.”
“Then why’d ye attack us?” Magnus demanded. “That makes nay sense.”
“It still doesnae matter who sent which missive, Óg, or whether it makes sense. I doubt ye will find yer wife alive.” Duncan Matheson smirked as he locked gazes with Magnus.
“If ye have done naught to her, then how do ye ken?”
“I saw her riding away with only three men. Mayhap others saw that too and decided she was an easy target.”
“Where’s yer other brother, Duncan?” Liam had accounted for every member of the four lairds’ families, except for Murdoch’s fourth son. Duncan grinned and shrugged.
“We search Crannog, then we burn it,” Magnus declared. “If ma wife isnae there, I will kill every woman in yer clan until I get mine back.”
Before that day, no one would have believed Magnus’s threat. The Sinclairs had trained him, and they didn’t harm women. They didn’t use them as pawns or even in false threats. But the rage that radiated from Magnus left no one in doubt that he wasn’t truly a Sinclair. He would wage his vendetta with whatever means he had, and that included taking from the Mathesons what he was certain they took from him. His woman.
* * *
Saoirse feared falling from her horse's back and breaking her neck as they rode with only the moon as their guide. They could do nothing more than a walk with four horses’ bridles tied together, but they progressed east and away from where she believed Crannog lay. She didn’t know to where they headed, but it was the middle of the night. Before they left the clearing near the trees, a rider arrived from the battlefield. He informed them all that the fight still raged. She didn’t know how long a fight usually lasted until she whispered her question to Ric. His answer disheartened her.
Hours. It would be hours before Magnus realized she hadn’t reached safety. Her captors knew that and used it to their advantage. They had a head start, but they refused to risk losing it, so they forced man and beast to continue traveling. It was summer, so it was late before the sun set despite them arriving at the Field of Two Descents during the early evening. It was likely well past midnight as they continued eastward.
“Lady Saoirse will break her neck if we don’t stop.” Ric voiced her fear as he called out to their chief captor. “At least let her ride with me. She won’t do you any good as a prisoner or bait if she’d dead.”
Harold grumbled, but he called a halt to their procession. He signaled for one of his men to unfasten Saoirse from her saddle. The warrior helped her down and walked her to Ric’s horse. Ric leaned back and raised his arms as best he could. He watched Harold, who wasn’t looking at them. The warrior lifted Saoirse up, and she ducked her head beneath Ric’s arm as she came to sit in front of him. When they were underway again, Ric whispered to Saoirse.
“Your hands aren’t bound to the saddle. Can you get your dirk?”
“How’d ye ken I still have one?” They’d taken the one from her other boot, and they had the one they pried out of the man she killed. It still hadn’t registered with her how blithely she took the warrior’s life. She’d known she sacrificed one of her blades, but she knew they would have eventually taken it from her, anyway. She’d wanted to ensure the men didn’t think she was incapable of defending herself, and she couldn’t ignore the threat to Wiley. She made certain they would think twice before attacking her personally.
She hadn’t resisted when a warrior took the second dirk, but when his hand wrapped around her calf, she kicked upward. Her boot connected with the underside of the man’s chin and snapped his head back. She’d stomped her boot into his face. After that, none of the men tried to stick their hand under her skirts. She still had the one strapped to the outside of her thigh. She inched her skirts up. The dark shielded her from anyone seeing what she did. With no stirrup for her foot, she drew up her leg until she could reach under the material and pull thesgian dubhloose.
“Go slowly, but cut my hands free,” Ric instructed. Saoirse hesitated, afraid she was more likely to slit his wrists than free him. But she knew they had few chances for freedom if they didn’t escape before they reached their still unknown destination. She was cautious, but she worked steadily until Ric’s wrists sprang loose. “Give it to me and hold the reins.”
Ric worked with more surety, but just as much caution. Once he had her hands free, he appeared to shift in his saddle to get more comfortable, but he passed the blade to Kirk as his horse sidestepped at his movement. Saoirse watched from the corner of her eye as Kirk did the same thing, freeing his hands, then passing the blade to Wiley. Her cousin held onto the blade for at least an hour before they passed it along, and she returned it to her thigh sheath. All of them rode in the same position as they had before they cut their bindings. In the dark, no one could tell what they’d done. There remained one dire problem. They now had free use of their hands, but their captors kept their horses tied together. Saoirse didn’t know how they would fix that.
“Ye would have us run the horses into the ground,” Wiley mused. “Even if ye dinna care aboot ours, yers will fare the same. There’s a loch up there. Let us water them.”
“Nay.” Harold didn’t look back.
“Dinna say I didna warn ye when yer horse drops from beneath ye.” Wiley looked at his compatriots and shrugged. Each of them suggested it at least twice, but the horses were moving at a walk now, so Harold refused to oblige each time. When he finally relented, it was still dark. He refused to allow any of them to dismount, which suited them because no one noticed the rope was missing from their wrists. The horses drank, and the men stretched, but Saoirse and the three Clan Sinclair warriors remained atop their horses for the entire night.
“We’re nearing Dingwall,” Wiley whispered. “That’s Macrae territory.”
