“Mm-hm. I’m spoken fer. Ye, on the other hand, shouldnae narrow yer choices so soon. The—”
“Graeme!”
The desperation in Dùghlas’s voice turned his own spine to ice. “Christ,” he hissed, turning to look up the road and then sprinting forward to meet the cart horse his brother rode.
Both brothers rode, he amended, as Connell jumped to the ground and ran forward to meet him. “Graeme,” he rasped, sobbing, and threw his arms around Graeme’s waist.
“What’s happened?” he demanded, dividing his attention between Dùghlas and the top of Connell’s head.
“He saw it,” Dùghlas panted, swinging to the ground as Brendan took hold of the pony’s halter. They’d ridden a cart horse bareback.
“Saw what? Duckling, if ye please.” With his three brothers there, his thoughts immediately leaped to Marjorie.Damnation. What the devil was wrong?
Connell lifted his head, his young face pale and streaked with dirty tears. “We were looking fer river stones, and then Ree told me to hide behind the grand boulders by the fast water and nae come oot. And then I heard horses and Uncle Raibeart and Sir Hamish and they said she was Lady Marjorie and some fighting and then they rode off with her. I waited until it was quiet because that’s what she said to do and then I ran so fast to the hoose and found Dùghlas and we had to ride King George withoot a saddle and he didnae like it at all but I held on, anyway.”
Even with the dizzying speed of the words flying about, Graeme caught the vital part. Paulk had Marjorie, and knew who she was. “Are ye certain ye heard Uncle Raibeart?” he asked grimly.
The bairn nodded his head. “I didnae want to, but I did.”
Graeme hugged him again. He would bloody well settle with Raibeart later. “Brendan, get our horses.”
“Aye.” The sixteen-year-old set off at a run.
“I’m sorry I didnae help,” Connell sniffed, backing away to wipe his nose.
“Ye did help, Connell,” Graeme returned, working to keep his attention on this moment and not on what he meant to do next. “If ye hadnae stayed put like Ree asked, I’d nae have anyone to tell me what happened.”
The lad’s shoulders lifted a little. “We need to rescue her.”
Brendan rode up, leading Clootie behind him. “Let’s go, Graeme.”
“Nae,” Graeme said, as firmly and calmly as he could. “I’mgoing after her.”
“Gr—”
“Brendan,” he interrupted, “get yer brothers back home. Send word to Boisil Fox and his brothers and sons that they’re to guard the hoose, get the staff inside, and bar the doors. Ye keep everyone safe. Do ye ken?”
His next oldest brother nodded, light gray eyes as serious as Graeme had ever seen them. “I ken. Duckling, ye ride back with me. Dùghlas, ye’ll have to manage King George again.” He edged closer to Graeme. “Do ye want my rifle?”
Graeme shook his head. “Nae. Ye may need it. I have mine with me.” He swung up on Clootie, and with a last glance at his brothers, set off northwest.
They would be headed for Dunncraigh, and he doubted they’d risk stopping first at Mòriasg, no matter how closely Raibeart had been involved. Connell hadn’t said how many men had been with them, if he even knew, but in his experience Hamish did little without someone else to supply the brute force.
And these wouldn’t be boys uncertain what they were about and unwilling to do any actual damage. A month ago Dunncraigh had all but ordered him to murder Gabriel Forrester. And now they had Marjorie Forrester. If someone—anyone—hurt her, Dunncraighwouldhave a murder on his hands. Just not the one he’d expected.
He would be outnumbered. That didn’t concern him overly much, though—advantage went to the man who was willing to pull the trigger first. For the moment he was a clan Maxwell chieftain, and any men with Paulk would be part of clan Maxwell. That alone could give him the edge he needed.
If worst came to worst, Brendan was old enough to look after his brothers. Without Uncle Raibeart available the lad wouldn’t have an easy task ahead of him, but he could do it. Graeme didn’t plan on dying, but it could happen. As long as Marjorie was safe, the rest was inconsequential.
Graeme topped a hill and pulled up Clootie. His land spread out before him, rough and rocky ridges cutting through glades and valleys of deep green forest, broken by silver-glinting streams and rivers. Marjorie and her kidnappers could be anywhere, but he didn’t imagine they were more than an hour in front of him, if that.
A woman, a Sassenach he’d known for just over a fortnight, had hold of his heart. No, he’d never expected it, but now he wouldn’t trade it for anything. With her by his side he didn’t feel the struggle of trying to stay afloat, of being a parent to his brothers, a landlord to his tenants, a soldier to his clan—and all with barely a pound to his name.
Her wealth could ease that worry, but his focus on that prize had nearly cost him the greater one. Marjorie herself, her warmth and calm and underlying fierceness, easedhimand excited him at the same time. It occurred to him that he’d never had a partner, an equal, someone willing to take on this gargantuan burden with him, someone to share the joy and the pain.
Graeme clenched his jaw. He’d found her through the most unlikely of circumstances, and no damned opportunistic power-hungry coward was going to take her away from him. No matter the price he had to pay to get her back.
A flash of color caught his eye and vanished into the trees again. That glimpse provided him with every bit of information he needed. “Up, Clootie,” he ordered, and sent the gray gelding named after the devil into a dead run.
