He wished that damned bastard Scotsman who had taken Elizabet would put her in her place, rape her unruly little arse, and then slit her throat and leave her body for them to find.
Then he could leave Scotia in peace.
CHAPTER 17
Having come directly from Colin’s home to Montgomerie’s, Broc watched from the shelter of the small, partially constructed chapel, waiting for the manor to still.
The chapel was likely a donation to Gavin’s ministry, and it was a generous gesture on Meghan’s part, though Broc knew without doubt that Colin would curse her for it. Neither Leith nor Colin encouraged their youngest brother’s sermonizing, and unless Piers had a taste for self-torture—and Broc didn’t think so—he wouldn’t appreciate it either.
The chapel was nearly completed. It lacked part of the roof and a door, but the interior had been scrubbed clean and prepared for John’s funeral. His body lay resting upon a bier behind the altar. He would have been buried already, but Broc was certain that out of respect for Elizabet they were hoping to find her in time to lay him properly to rest.
But they couldn’t wait much longer.
Guilt pricked at him, though he resolutely set it aside, focusing on the task at hand.
Donning a robe he found near the altar, he left the chapel and made his way to the stables. It was Gavin’srobe, he decided, as he adjusted its length over his limbs as Gavin was far shorter than he, and the gown fell only to midcalf. Still, its hood covered his face well enough, and that was all he was concerned with at the moment.
He didn’t wish to find himself face to face with Tomas or either of his other two lackeys. As yet, no one seemed to know it was Broc they were searching for—save mayhap Colin—but he was certain the Englishmen would recognize him if they spied him again.
Casting one last glance over his shoulder at the little building, he admired its modest architecture and wondered what Elizabet would look like on her wedding day with her hair let down and a circlet of flowers atop her head.
It was obvious she was accustomed to finer things than Broc possessed. Still, he liked to think he could make her happy if he tried—if she would have him.
It was the first time in his life that he’d ever considered binding himself to a woman. He had nothing to his name, no manor, no clan of his own, no wealth. All he had was his heart and his body and a small house with scarce a single luxury to his name—a bed, a chair, a table, and a blanket. Everything he’d ever earned he’d given to others, for his needs were simple and few. He found himself wanting. What would a woman like Elizabet desire of a man like him?
She was beautiful and saucy and intelligent—and he wondered what she was doing right now. He worried she would wander away, worried that someone would catch him and that she would be alone without anyone to help her. If he feared being found out, it wasn’t for himself. It was for her—and for the honor of the MacKinnon clan.
But first things first: Broc was convinced, after her revelations to him, that it was Tomas who wanted her dead. What he didn’t know was whether Tomas wasacting alone or whether he had the aid of the other two men.
He couldn’t allow himself to be caught. And he damned well couldn’t allow that hound to remain in their possession. Colin’s suggestion had been ingenious, and Broc had little doubt the animal could find its mistress, given the opportunity. But he wasn’t going to give it the opportunity.
Elizabet would be more than pleased to see her four-legged friend again. He just needed to steal the animal from the stables without anyone catching him—a task easier said than done.
He heard voices inside the stables. Keeping to the shadows, he peered within, trying to find the occupants. Whispers, low and intimate, reached his ears, but he couldn’t make out the persons speaking. There was a giggle, then—very feminine—and a lower, huskier response—lovers?
They must have placed a guard, but Broc couldn’t see the man. Mayhap he had an affectionate visitor and they were ensconced in one of the stalls? In any case, it wasn’t any of his affair. All he cared about was the dog. Slipping silently within, he walked lightly, trying not to alert the stable’s other occupants.
The voices grew louder the further he went, and he determined they were within the last stall, where a single lantern hung high upon a post. Ignoring their lovers’ banter, he checked each stall, moving as swiftly as he was able without disturbing them.
As Colin promised, he found the hound tied to a stake within the third stall he checked. On either side of him, the steeds stamped their hooves and snorted uneasily. Wincing at their protests, he opened the stall, startling the sleeping hound to its feet.
Broc flung back his hood at once, letting the animal see him. Its ears flew back, as though in startle, but it remained quiet, watching him. Broc thought mayhap itrecognized him, and his assumption proved correct. He extended his hand, kneeling, and the hound took a step toward him, sniffing his palm. He praised the mongrel silently, reaching out to pat its neck. The animal relaxed, shuddering, as Broc stroked it. It began to sniff his legs, finding the napkin he’d secured beneath his belt, and then nosing Broc’s clothes, likely sensing its mistress. It whined softly, peering up at him, cocking its head as though in question.
Broc stilled, but the animal only whined louder. He held his breath, hoping the lovers hadn’t heard.
“Damned mongrel!” the man exclaimed. Broc stifled a groan. “I should go check on him,.”
“Nayyy,” the lover wailed in protest. And she must have held him fast, because Broc didn’t hear the lad rise.
“I fed the stupid animal already,” her lover reasoned. “I cannot imagine what it could want.”
“’Tis a silly mutt,” the girl declared, her voice turning coy, “and if you leave me like this, I’m going to whine even louder!”
Her lover laughed, obviously amused. “I do like it when you whimper,” he assured her.
Broc rolled his eyes.
The two of them giggled together and evidently returned to their pleasures, because Broc heard no one approach. He thought he heard them smacking their lips together and tried not to think about Elizabet—what it would be like to kiss her again. She had the softest-looking lips, perfectly formed.
