“No.” Something inside Mila snapped. Robbie was right: how could she give up Teague without a fight? Shame and disgust with herself filled her, then a cold, calculating fury took hold. “Where is Calder?”
“I dinna ken, mistress.”
“Find him. Now.” She dried her face on her sleeve and sucked in a deep breath. “And get Robbie back in here. There is work to do.”
Chapter Fifteen
Teague stared downat the shackles on his wrists. At least the bastards had kept their word. Or it seemed they had, as near as he could tell. He had remained standing until Éirich was out of sight before claiming a corner of the cage as his own. Ever since he’d kept an eye on the sky. No sign of fire anywhere in the mountains. That knowledge gave him what little peace there was to be found. Neither his people nor his dearest love had been burned out.
His back against the bars and his arse hitting the boards with every rut, he drew up his knees, propped his arms atop them, and closed his eyes. A grave error, closing his eyes. His precious Mila’s tear-stained face filled his vision. God forgive him for causing her such agony. His own suffering he could bear. Her suffering tore out his heart.
“A trial is our only hope,” Laird Drummond said. “We are of noble blood. The Scottish peerage. They will treat us with the respect we deserve.”
Teague couldn’t resist laughing in the man’s face. “Aye, m’lord. I see how well they have treated ye so far.”
“This is yer fault,” Bellingham shot at him. “If not for yer damnable meeting, Walpole would have captured none of us. First, ye say keep a low profile for a bit, and then ye call a meeting. Damned fool!”
Teague cut his eyes over at the man where he sat rubbing a bruised swelling on his head. This was the second time Bellingham had accused him of such, when it was he who’d sent the message that a meeting must be held. Had they all been duped by one of Walpole’s agents? Walked right into a trap? And did this cowardly idiot not realize the guards would overhear and report every word they said?
“I called the meeting to discuss war against the Campbells. Not the king. If ye didna feel my personal grievance warranted yer attention, ye should nay have attended.”
“I need a drink,” Devon said. Holding his head, he moaned. “Surely they willna treat us too harshly on this journey. At least some ale or some such spirit will be given to us?”
Teague tipped his cocked hat forward over his eyes and bowed his head. It would be better if all conversation between them stopped. In his current frame of mind, he could not guarantee he would not strangle one or all of them with his chains.
Instead, he replayed his last words to Calder:keep her safe even if it means taking her away by sea. Whether to France, Spain, or as far as the East Indies, he cared not. As long as she was safe. The clan would take care of Grandmother, and she would understand. The beloved, sly one had neither the strength nor the inclination to leave Éirich. She had told him many times she wished to die there. The rest of the clan could take refuge deeper in the mountains. The MacDonalds had risen from the ashes once. They would rise again.
The wagon lurched to a stop. He lifted his head and waited. Either their mounts needed rest or this was where they planned to kill them. Two of the soldiers, grinning like demons about to feast on their bones, unlocked the cage and opened the gate.
“You three to the back.” The larger of the duo directed the lairds with the tip of his sword.
“I demand to know yer intentions, sir!” Drummond stepped forward.
The other man, stouter than the first but not as tall, rammed the dull end of his spear hard into the laird’s gut and doubled him over. “To the back, Scottish dog. Next time I use the sharp end. Understand?”
Teague rose to his feet as the other three joined him at the rear of the cage.
The stout Sassenach pointed at him with the spear. “You. MacDonald. Come forward.”
The short chain between the iron cuffs around Teague’s ankles permitted nothing but shuffling. He took his time. If the bloody bastards wanted to kill him, he would make them wait.
They glared at him, fully aware of his stalling. But they didn’t react, leaving him to wonder why.
When he reached the end of the wagon, he smiled down at them. “Gentlemen?”
Both returned a smirk before yanking him to the ground. “The Duke of Argyll is in the mood for a bit of sport before fall and winter are upon us,” said one. “Sir Walpole agreed to his request.”
Acting as though the shackles caused him to flounder, Teague maneuvered into a crouch, then sprang upward and wrapped the chains between his wrists around the neck of the man with the sword. The one with the spear lifted the weapon and aimed it at Laird Drummond.
Teague laughed. “Kill him. I never liked the bastard, anyway.”
Then a vicious punch to his kidneys took him to his knees. “Stupid Scot. Forget about the rest of us?” came from behind him.
“As I said,” stressed the man with the spear, “your favorite Campbell, the Duke of Argyll, requested a special hunt when Walpole told him of your plot against his clan.” He grinned at his partner still rubbing his throat. “Them Campbells are a right cruel bunch, but you have to admire them.” He jabbed the spear toward the three lairds huddled together at the back of the cart. “There be a fine tree just across Hadrian’s Wall waiting for those three.” He granted Teague a spiteful grin. “You, my fine, lying chieftain, get to be the Campbells’ next trophy. Wonder if they will hang your hide on their walls?”
“Enough talk,” said the man who had administered the kidney punch. “We shall send a messenger to notify the Campbells that their prey has been loosed from the cage.”
Teague eyed them all, then held up his wrists. “A fair gamekeeper doesna hobble the animal before releasing it.”
