“I didna ken I could love someone as fiercely as I love Saoirse. Every breath hurts while we’re apart. It feels like a part of me is withering every minute I dinna ken where she is.” Magnus felt his own eyes growing misty. He hadn’t cried since Siùsan left to marry when he was two-and-ten. He’d had one saint’s day without her, and he’d sobbed in his chamber with only Seamus to console him. He inhaled a calming breath before releasing Alex.
They saddled their horses while the others gathered their belongings and readied their mounts, too. They were riding east within ten minutes. While those ten minutes had flown by, the next seven hours ticked by at a snail’s pace. They cantered when they could, but in the dark, it was best that they remained at a trot. They had to water the horses every few hours, and Magnus knew it was wise, but he didn’t want to stop.
At sunrise, Mòr dismounted and Óg went to stand beside him. The elder Magnus ran his eyes over the land, finding the trail easily. He counted the sets of hoofprints and glanced at his father before looking at Óg.
“There are at least fifteen of them, along with the four sets that must belong to Saoirse, Wiley, Kirk, and Ric. Whoever this is, is determined to reach their destination without losing Saoirse or the others. Four sets seem to shuffle while the others are clean prints. The depth of the indentations tells me they were walking. I think they tied Saoirse’s horse with the other three.”
“Then mayhap we can catch them if they’re only at a walk.”
“Mayhap, Óg. But they had a four-hour head start. Even if we galloped the entire way, it’s unlikely we will.” Mòr followed the trail with his horse beside him. He studied the evidence the riders left behind. “Óg!”
Mòr squatted and picked up the severed rope. He looked around, but he saw nothing else.
“What is it?” Óg came to stand beside Mòr again. He took the rope his mentor passed him. “This must have been someone’s bindings. At least one of them got their hands free.”
“That’s ma guess.” Mòr turned back to the others. “Keep yer eyes open for any more rope. It’ll tell us which way they’ve gone without me having to get down to search the trail. And it’ll tell us how many of them freed their hands.”
“Do ye think they got away?” Óg asked hopefully.
“I dinna ken,” Mòr answered honestly. He and Óg remounted their horses, and the group pressed on. They found three more pieces of rope, and they felt more assured that the quartet wasn’t entirely defenseless. They continued until the trail veered north. Óg maneuvered his horse next to Laird Macrae’s.
“They went to yer home. Why?” Óg met the man’s gaze, his boring into the laird. He didn’t blink while he challenged the older man. Laird Macrae tried to shrug, but he couldn’t move enough to make it the dismissive gesture he’d attempted. Unlike Harold and Stewart’s assumption that merely binding their captives wrists to their saddles would be enough, none of the more seasoned warriors were so naïve.
Not only were Lairds Macrae, Donald, and Mackintosh’s wrists bound and tied to their saddles, rope squeezed their arms to their ribs, and their captors tied their thighs to their stirrups’ leather straps. They couldn’t even pick their own noses if they wanted to. And unlike Harold and Stewart’s disregard for dirks hidden beneath plaids, their captors made the lairds strip off their plaids and lift their leines to reveal an arsenal of hidden weapons. Thormud strung together their boots and hung them from his saddlebags.
“Silence is nae an answer, Artair,” Liam called. “I’ve kenned ye since ye were suckling at yer mama’s teat. I can read ye like a monk reads the Bible. Ye ken why ma granddaughter, grandson, and the Hartleys are headed to yer keep. Yer mama would be beside herself to ken ye’re a part of Kyla’s grandchildren’s abduction. Ye ken they were close. Ma wife was at yer mama’s bedside when she died.”
“That doesnae mean I give a shite aboot ye or yer family. Ye’re getting what ye all deserve.”
“What we deserve?” Seamus rode at the opposite end of the line of prisoners from Artair Macrae. He leaned forward to see past the Mackintosh and the Donald. “We’re supposed to be allies.”
“Nay, we arenae. We’re the Mathesons’ allies. We arenae yers. I dinna give a shite aboot ye, except to say, ye’re getting what ye deserve.”
“And just what is that?” Óg demanded.
“A lifetime of misery. It’s just a shame ye didna have the good graces to die on that field.”
Óg stared at Artair. He was getting a sense of what felt off. He was certain the man played a larger role in what transpired to cause the battle than he’d revealed. When they stopped to water the horses, Óg drew Liam and Alex aside.
“Artair didna just answer Matheson’s request for help. Whatever is afoot involves him beyond being an ally.”
“I get the same sense.” Alex leaned back to look around his father to where the captives sat upon their horses while the animals drank. They could pish themselves for all he cared.
“What’s made him want us to be miserable? None of us has disagreed with his clan in ages. They’ve only been at odds with the Rosses because they’re allied with the Mathesons, and their trouble with the Rosses came from yer trouble with them.” Liam had mulled over several scenarios as they rode, but none explained the Macrae’s sudden animosity. Kyla and Margaret Macrae had become close friends over the years. When Margaret fell ill at a Highland Gathering, it was Kyla who’d tended to her until she died.
“Whatever his reason, it’s obvious we need to head to his keep. And I dinna think the Mackintosh or the Donald ken what’s going on. They appear like they wish to distance themselves from him.” Magnus had observed both lairds’ attempts to steer their horses away from Artair’s. They wished to give him a wide berth rather than be made guiltier by association. “I dinna think we’ll ken aught more until we find Saoirse and the others.”
Liam ordered everyone back to their horses, and they were soon underway again. They had an hour’s ride left. It couldn’t go fast enough.
* * *
Saoirse watched Louisa Matheson cross the Macraes’ bailey as she hid behind Wiley. She couldn’t hear what the woman said to Harold, but neither of them appeared pleased as they looked in her direction. Louisa glowered at her, so Saoirse assumed Harold informed her she and Magnus married. Louisa stalked toward her and spat at her feet.
“He kept ma dowry, then married ye.” Louisa waited for Saoirse to react, but the latter’s expression remained impassive. “Ye’re welcome to him. He abused me.”
“And ye’re a liar.” Saoirse’s voice was clear, even though it wasn’t loud. Plenty of people froze, staring at the women in horror. Saoirse sensed Louisa wasn’t a welcome guest, and people had already learned to tread lightly around her.
“What did ye say?”
