Velvet glared at Alanna as they came abreast of the woman. “Where is your daughter?” she demanded of her.
“With Jean Lawrie, not that it’s your business.”
“You’re leaving her?”
“She’s better off in Broc Ailien with Jean,” said Alanna. “My husband’s an outlaw, or perhaps you didn’t know that. ’Tis hardly the proper life for the Earl of BrocCairn’s daughter, is it?”
“You’re a cold bitch,” said Velvet evenly. “When I return to BrocCairn, I’m going to take Sibby and raise her myself. I’ll see she never even knows you exist!”
Suddenly Alanna found herself very discomfited by the situation and, with a toss of her head, said, “I’ll come to see Sibby whenever it suits me, madame.”
“If you ever come nearDun Brocagain, I’ll set the dogs on you, Alanna Wythe.”
“Cease yer bickering,” snarled Ian Grant. “We’ve miles to go before we meet up wi’ Ranald Torc again, and I’ll not waste the daylight hours listening to the pair of ye squabbling like two barnyard hens over a cock.”
With surprising speed, Velvet lashed out at him with her riding crop. “Don’t you even speak to me, you little bastard!” she shouted at him.
Stunned, Ian Grant ran his hand down the weal she had raised on his handsome face and was surprised to find that the side of his face by his left eye was bloodied. Anger poured through him. The bitch had marked him!
Velvet saw his anger, and a slow smile touched her lips. Her voice was low and even as she spoke. “Lay a hand on me, Ian, and you’re a dead man where you stand. You know what Alex would do to you if you touched me, don’t you?”
Several of Ranald Torc’s men had accompanied Ian, and now the leader of the group leaned forward and said, “The earl will nae pay ye for damaged goods, Ian. Let it be.”
Frustrated and furious, Ian Grant kicked his mount into a trot, and they were off. They did not meet up with Ranald Torc and the main body of his outlaws until close to evening. His band had successfully stolen the BrocCairn cattle and had driven them around the mountains on a deserted track. They were far enough from BrocCairn to discourage pursuit from the few men that had been left there, most having gone with their earl toHuntley.
Ranald Torc could not take the chance of being seen, and so they camped out in a meadow where the cattle could rest and graze the night away. Two small campfires sprang up, and a cow was butchered and roasted over the open flame, to be served with oatcakes that the men kept in their pouches and washed down with water from a nearby stream or whiskey from their personal flasks. Ranald Torc did his best to see that his two prisoners were comfortable, for Ian was still angry and would not go near Velvet and Pansy.
Alanna had passed on what had happened between them, and Ranald chuckled richly. “She’s the badger’s bitch all right,” he said. “She’ll breed up hell-raising sons and daughters for BrocCairn.”
“You sound as if you like Alex,” said Alanna, somewhat confused.
“I do,” came the outlaw’s reply. “He’s a good man in a fight and a good lord to his people. I’ve nae quarrel wi’ Gordon of BrocCairn.”
“But you stole his cattle!” Alanna said.
“Stealing a man’s cattle doesna mean ye dinna like him,” said Ranald. “Cattle stealing is an old Highland tradition, Alanna. Ye’ve much to learn, lassie, but ye’ll find me a good teacher.” He rose to his full height. “I’ve got to see that Lady Gordon and her woman are comfortable.” Leaving Alanna to await his return, Ranald Torc walked over to where Velvet was seated and squatted down beside her. “I’ve given orders that ye not be disturbed, madame, and, believe me, none of my men will disobey me. I regret I canna offer ye more comfortable accommodations. There’s a bit of a nip in the air tonight. Will ye be warm enough?”
“We’ve our plaids to wrap about us,” replied Velvet. She was not afraid of this giant who was really not much taller than her own father. She was used to big men.
“Can I get ye anything before ye sleep?”
Velvet chuckled. “My husband,” she said, and Ranald Torc grinned at her.
“Ye’re nae afraid,” he said. “Good! We’ll nae hurt yer ladyship.”
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“South to sell the cattle, and then to Edinburgh. Has Ian nae spoken wi’ ye?”
“Keep that little turd away from me!” Velvet exploded. “I swear if I get the chance I’ll slit his throat with his own dagger! I’ll not speak with him. You tell me.”
He nodded, understanding her feelings. She was a Gordon of BrocCairn, and Ian Grant had been disloyal to the Gordons in the worst way: stealing from his brother-in-law, deserting his Gordon wife and his sons, attempting to betray Scotland’s greatest nobleman as Judas had once betrayed his master. Ranald knew his cousin was no prize. Aye, he understood Velvet’s anger and desire for revenge. “Tomorrow,” he said, “two of my men will deliver a message toHuntleyfrom Ian saying that ye’re being held in his custody; the ransom being Lord Bothwell’s person. Lord Bothwell will turn himself over to Ian Grant in Edinburgh at an arranged location. When Ian has given up his prisoner to the crown and received his reward, then ye and yer woman will be free to return to yer home atDun Broc.”
“And how much of the reward will you share?” she asked him scornfully.
“I’d nae betray Francis Stewart-Hepburn,” said Ranald Torc. “He’s naught to me or mine.”
“Then why are you involved in this?” said Velvet.
