“You’re jesting, I hope,” Stevens returned. “The only thing worse than being sacked immediately for this would be what will happen when His Grace discovers that we knew about it and didn’t notify him. I’d rather be unemployed than arrested.”
“That will only happen if we don’t find her, which we will.” She reached out to seize his hand, squeezing it. “We must.”
Stevens grunted, his precise black hair only a little dented by his coachman’s hat. “We’ll stay the night. If we’ve learned nothing by morning, we’ll… reassess our plans.”
Hortensia withdrew her hand. A lady’s touch, when rarely given, could have a very potent effect, indeed. “Thank you, Stevens. Fetch Wolstanton, and we’ll divide our efforts appropriately.”
Once he’d left the table, Hortensia took another drink of her long-cold tea. The barmaid really needed to bring around a fresh pot of hot water. The lack of civility and attention to detail she’d found thus far in the Highlands could prove to be very problematic—especially when she had a rescue to perform, and a very limited amount of time in which to do it.
Chapter Three
By the time Graeme left the sitting room and pulled the door shut behind him, every servant in the house had gathered at the head of the hallway to whisper and mutter among themselves. Even if he’d wanted to keep his captive a secret, it was far too late to do so now. The best he could hope for was to keep the household from gabbing about it outside these doors.
“Nae a soul’s to speak to her, and she’s nae to leave that room,” he ordered, pushing his way though the half-dozen men and one woman—the manor’s formidable cook, Morag Woring. “Cowen, set Boisil and his lads outside until we can get a spare room upstairs ready and the windows nailed shut.”
“Aye, M’laird.”
His brothers sat close together on the sofa in the front room, though at this point he wasn’t certain whether it was a show of united defiance or an attempt to hide how nervous they were. He hoped it was the latter.
For some reason he hadn’t expected the woman beneath the sack to have black hair. Why that mattered he had no idea, but it felt significant. As did the bright blue eyes, and the way he’d wondered whether the color would deepen to sapphire in the sunlight. Graeme blew out his breath. The parts of her didn’t matter. All thatdidmatter was that the whole of her was in his house, and that she was there against her own will.
He dropped into the chair opposite his brothers. “What did I do wrong in raising ye,” he asked, “that ye reckoned kidnapping a lass would solve yer troubles?”
“It’s nae justourtroubles,” Brendan returned. “If the Maxwell turns against ye, we’ll all be in fer it. And ye’re so bloody stubborn ye’d risk all of us, Connell too, to yer damned pride.”
“The Maxwell barely remembers we exist,” Graeme retorted. “I reckon he visited every clan chieftain between Lattimer and Dunncraigh to vent his spleen about how much he hates Lattimer and how grateful he’d be if someone else saw to the problem fer him. It’s nae pride; it’s ignoring someaught that’ll be trouble fer us.”
“But we’re Lattimer’s neighbor,” Dùghlas put in, always the most logical of the three. “Dunncraigh expects us—ye—to do someaught. Otherwise he wouldnae have bothered coming by here at all. He’s nae more stomach fer ye than ye do fer him.”
“What he might expect and what he’ll receive are two very different things, lads.”
“Why? She’s here! All ye have to do is send word to Dunncraigh and tell him so. We’ve solved yer troubles fer ye,bràthair.”
Graeme contemplated Brendan for a long moment. Sixteen. When the devil had that happened? And why had he only noticed when Brendan began kidnapping delicate-looking young Englishwomen? “Fer the sake of argument,” he returned slowly, “let’s say I do just that. What do ye reckon happens next?”
“The duke sends someone to fetch her, uses her to purchase Lattimer from the Sassenach, and clan Maxwell unites again. Andwedid it, so we get the Maxwell’s gratitude and a sackful of blunt.”
“Uses her how?” Graeme pressed. “Ye’re leaving oot some details.”
Brendan folded his arms across his chest. “That will be fer Dunncraigh to decide, and has naught to do with us.”
“Are ye certain of that? Becauseyetook her away from safety.” Sitting back despite the fact that he’d never felt more alert, Graeme stretched out his legs. “I dunnae ken if ye’ve noticed,bràthair,but the Maxwell prefers other men dirty their hands so he can avoid trouble. What if he asksmeto ransom Lady Marjorie Forrester to her brother? Dunncraigh may get Lattimer, but I reckon I’ll get prison. Or a hanging.”
Connell’s eyes widened. “They wouldnae! The Maxwell asked us to help him, so it’s his fault.”
“The Maxwell asked us to hurt a man who, from what I can tell, inherited some property and is working to improve it. I found his request selfish. But nae, he didnae ask ye to kidnap anyone.”
“He would have, if he’d known Lattimer’s sister would be aboot.”
That was likely true. “Say he did, then,” he agreed. “And say Lattimer, being a bloody English soldier, tells Dunncraigh to go fling himself into the loch. And then Dunncraigh asks us to get rid of the lass before Lattimer can track her here. Would ye shoot her, Brendan? Cutting her throat would be quieter, of course.”
His youngest brother sniffed. “She was going to help me rescue Mouser’s kittens from the haystack. Ye cannae murder her fer that, Brendan.”
“So I should be like ye, Graeme, and do naught while we watch our property rot away?” The sixteen-year-old stomped to his feet. “Idid someaught, and it wasnae just fixing old plows or pulling sheep oot of ravines.” Pushing open the door, Brendan slammed it closed behind him.
“What are we going to do, Graeme?” Connell asked, still teary-eyed. “I dunnae want ye to hang.”
“I dunnae want that, either. Go up and change oot of yer wet clothes, and stay away from the back sitting room while I figure oot this mess.”
