“Don’t be aneejit. That man with the ornament is Sir Thomas, one of the duke of Cumberland’s knights. He will not care that ye are a lass. He will kill ye.”
Abby’s shoulders slumped, and she stopped fighting.Butcher Cumberland, that was what the duke would be called in history books. If the man who had her device was one of his knights, then he, too, was a sadistic butcher working to rid the land of Scotland of all his enemies.
Iain must have noticed her give in, because he took his hand off her again. She sat up and wiped the side of her face,first with her hand and then with part of the skirt she hoped wasn’t also sodden with mud.
The one Iain called Thomas mounted his horse and called the men to follow him. Some on horses and the rest walking, they headed toward the other end of the moor.
“I need it,” Abby said, nearly choking on a lump in her throat. She didn’t even try to stop the hot tears falling down her cheeks. She was never going to see home, never going to see Garrett, Max, Izzy, or Bree again.
She dropped her head into her fabric-covered hands and sobbed her heart out.
After a minute, Iain scooped her up into his arms and held her close to his chest. “Shh, lass. All will be well.”
He stroked her head, trailing his fingers along her braid. “All will be well.”
In another time and place, Abby would have enjoyed his ministrations, his every touch, his voice. His strong arms comforted her, and his voice was so gentle, she almost believed that all would be well, but she had to be realistic. She was stuck in eighteenth-century Scotland.
Abby wept quietly at the loss of her family.
“I will get it back for ye,” Iain soothed.
She sniffled noisily but kept her head pressed to his chest, strangely drawn to the beat of his heart, loud and strong, in her ear.
Iain patted her on her back, and Abby pushed away. She couldn’t get too comfortable in the man’s arms. She had to keep her distance. There was no way she could get close to an eighteenth-century Scotsman. The very idea was just too ludicrous.
But did she hear him right? She wiped her wet face on her skirt and looked up at him, almost afraid to ask. She sniffed. “Did you say you would get my, um . . . treasure back?”
***
Sir Thomas and a small regiment scoured the moor for the Laird MacLaren. “I saw him fall.” He rounded on his man. “You didn’t kill him. He has survived.”
“I was certain he was dead, my lord. Someone must have taken his body or, if he was alive, helped him from the field.”
Thomas glared at the ground as if it had swallowed MacLaren to stop him from finding him. “You were always a step ahead, but in this, you will not evade me, MacLaren.”
A soldier called out, “Sir.”
“What is it?”
“We found something.”
Thomas’s pulse warmed at the thought it was Iain. He had to be certain the man was dead once and for all. He sloshed through the mud. “What?”
The soldier handed Thomas a white trinket. He turned it around in his hand. “Mayhap this belongs to MacLaren. Mayhap I will return it to his sister.”
He smiled at the thought of Maeve thanking him for the trinket. She was a beauty, and he oft thought about her on cold lonely nights.
Thomas pushed the egg into his coat and mounted his horse. A messenger galloped onto the other side of the moor.
“Follow!” he ordered his men.
His men, some on foot, some on horseback, followed Thomas to the approaching messenger.
Pulling his horse up alongside Thomas’s mount, the messenger handed him a missive. “From Lord Cumberland, my lord.”
Thomas read the letter. He and his troops were to go to Aberdeen immediately. He turned and gazed at the place where MacLaren fell.Aberdeen can wait until I have found MacLaren dead or have killed him for certainty.
He gave the messenger a sharp nod of his head, and understanding, the man galloped back the way he had come. Thomas scrunched up the missive and poked it into his pocket along with the stone egg. He turned his horse north. “We ride to Inverell.”
