So then, Constantine’s heart rejoiced, she had come this way, for certain.
Without wasting any time, he started out again, traveling around the forest without stopping, until he came to the abandoned ruins of Inverlochy Castle. Would she stop here on her way to his house? Was Hugh traveling with her?
“Well then!” a man’s voice called out on the road just outside the castle. “Look who it is!”
Constantine turned and set his eyes on Alistar MacRae. He was searching for Ismay.
“Has yer search led ye here?”
“It has,” MacRae confessed with a smile. “The wench would come running to the shelter of a castle—even an empty one.”
Constantine disagreed. He should thank MacRae, for he was reminded that Ismay would never trust the chief of any castle. He recalled how much persuading it took to get her to go to Tor with him. She hadn’t stopped here.
“I thought ye were returnin’ to Beauly?” Constantine asked him.
“I received word that my Ismay was seen farther south. What brings ye here, Lochiel?”
He knew who Constantine was. That meant he’d asked about him. “My steward robbed me while I was away fightin’. I’m told he was seen in Inverlochy.”
MacRae frowned. “He deserves fifty lashes fer robbing ye. ’Tis what I will give my betrothed.”
Constantine stared at him long enough to make the Beauly chief tremble in his plaid. “Should I deliver her to ye if I find her first?”
“I would be in yer debt,” MacRae managed. “Remember, ye will know her by her fiery hair. Careful she doesna bewitch ye with her tresses. I myself had to cut them off, before I lost the ability of mygood senses.”
“Ye cut off her hair?” Constantine asked him in a low, steady voice as memories of her autumn-hued hair falling over her eyes or pinned up with bonnie pearl clips.
But by social standards, short hair for women was their shame. Constantine would kick out anyone’s teeth who dared shame Ismay, starting with this worm.
Constantine would deal with him before he crossed into Ben Nevis territory.
“As any man has the right to do to his betrothed.”
She was not his betrothed. Not as long as Constantine lived. He smiled, controlling himself—just barely—to keep his hands off MacRae’s throat.
“Though…” MacRae looked off and away, as if he was remembering her.… “it didna stop her from flicking her viperous tongue.”
Constantine fought the urge to smile, proud of her and her viperous tongue.
Where are ye headin’ now?” Constantine asked him, eager to follow him until he had him in a secluded area.
“South.”
“Well then,” Constantine turned his horse toward the open gate.
But after an hour of following MacRae southwest, he caught up with him again.
“Lochiel.” MacRae looked sincerely startled to see him.
Constantine dismounted, then walked around his horse and yanked MacRae out of his saddle. “Ismay is nae longer anythin’ to ye. Do ye understand? Ye cut off her hair. Ye were so cruel to her that runnin’ into a world completely unknown to her was better than stayin’ with ye. And here ye are chasin’ her still, as if she were an animal. I’m goin’ to end it all fer good. I’m goin’ to repay ye fer everythin’.”
His fist cracking MacRae’s jaw was satisfying. But it wasn’t enough. Clutching MacRae’s plaid with one fist, he slammed the otherinto flesh and bone over and over until MacRae was barely recognizable.
When he was done, he leaned down, his lips close to MacRae’s ear. “If ye ever go near her again I will kill ye. I vow it.”
He left the chief of Beauly bleeding in the dirt and started on the road back home toward Ben Nevis.
“Aye, I saw him,” confessed a red-cheeked patron at the Trapped Deer tavern. He grinned at the merk in Constantine’s hand. “But they dinna take lads, so I’m guessin’ he was a she.”
