Nan lay at the feet of the bruiser she had heard Barclay speaking to in the estate office. A thin stream of blood trickled from her cut lip, while Baby Andrew screamed in the crook of her arm.
The other girls huddled around Lily, who gathered them protectively in her arms.
“Silence that infant!” Barclay’s irritated order cut through the din. Nan pressed Andrew to her shoulder, trying to soothe him between her own quiet sobs.
Lily tried to reason with him. “Master Barclay, you can’t really mean to hurt the wee bairn.”
Lily’s plea fell on deaf ears. “Please listen carefully. I do not for one minute believe you know nothing about Lady Rossburn’s whereabouts.” He glared at everyone impartially. “Either I leave here with her or with the child.”
“Put her down first.” Diantha stood up, praying that Barclay had enough sanity left not to harm the child anyway. He would kill her, but she could not risk a child’s life.
She wilted with relief when the aristocrat put the gun back into its saddle holster and signaled Lily to fetch the toddler from his arms. The old woman did, careful to avoid contact with his person. Ignoring her, he eyed Diantha with a hint of admiration.
“I could have sworn you had no way out of that cottage. I know MacLeish isn’t bright, but this is ridiculous.” His servant stirred but said nothing. “If I recall correctly, there is a back gate that I cannot see at all from here. Why didn’t you escape while you had the chance?”
“If you truly could not have found me, would you have threatened to kill that child?”
“Of course.” A malicious smile curled his lips. “It smoked you right out, didn’t it.”
At Nan’s renewed sobs, a look of disgust crossed his face. “Stop that wailing, you wretched female. I would have done you a favor by removing a mouth for you to feed.” He looked pointedly at Diantha. “I remind you that I still have a loaded gun and several targets.”
“I’m coming, don’t hurt any of them.” She hurried around to the gate and stepped into the front garden.
“MacLeish, bind her hands.” None too gently, the man tied her hands in front of her with strips of braided leather. She flinched as they bit into her flesh. The man’s sour odor assailed her nostrils as he lifted her into Barclay’s waiting arms.
“I fear MacLeish doesn’t bathe as often as he should.” He rounded his horse toward the road while his servant climbed onto his mount.
She twisted to glare at him contemptuously. “It’s hard to tell which of you smells worse.”
Long fingers tangled in her hair and yanked her head back at a painful angle. “Loaded gun and targets, stupid girl. And at least I don’t smell of the shop.”
His motions confused his horse, who fidgeted back to face the cottage. “Damnation, I nearly forgot! MacLeish, your neckcloth.” He took the sweat-stained cloth handed to him by his henchman and wrapped it around her head, effectively blinding her. In the instant before the stinking ragcovered her eyes and nose, she found herself looking into Lily’s terrified face.
Run and hide. She barely had time to mouth the words before they galloped down the lane.
She tried to account for the time and distance they covered, but blindfolded, she had no point of reference. From the way in which the warmth of the sun moved across her head and torso, she guessed they switched directions several times. The pounding of the hoofs beneath her changed as well, from thudding on turf or dirt to crunching on gravel.
The sound of running water and splashing hooves stayed with them for a time, and she tried to remember the streams she’d seen marked on the estate maps in the library. She did not succeed in guessing their direction, but the exercise helped her push back her fear.
She asked once about Kieran, but Barclay only laughed softly. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
A cold chill ran down her spine at the thought that her husband might already be dead. She bit her lip, hard, to keep from crying out.
At last they halted. Leather creaked and then rushing footsteps approached. MacLeish’s already familiar odor filled her nostrils as he lifted her down. She turned her face to one side to keep from gagging. She staggered a few steps, but righted herself as quickly as possible, wanting to avoid the touch of either man.
Someone grabbed her arm anyway and dragged her forward. By the smell, or lack of it, she gathered it was Barclay. The level footing felt springyunder her feet. Then she stumbled painfully over something hard.
Barclay’s voice sounded in her ear as her feet found purchase on another level surface. “I beg your pardon, I did not think that threshold so high.” He might have been standing in the drawing room at Duncarie. Her mind barely grasped that she stood on another level surface before the rag was jerked off her head and she could see. Blinking a few times, she looked around.
She, Barclay, and MacLeish stood in the ruins of a small croft. Incongruous splashes of sunshine entered through large holes in the disintegrating thatched roof and landed on the walls and pounded dirt floor. A couple of baskets near the smoke-stained fireplace held some cooking utensils and dishes. Others containing food indicated that they used this place with some regularity, as did a rickety table.
With a flourish, Kieran’s cousin upended a crate and indicated that she should sit down on it. “Welcome.”
Diantha ignored him. “Where is my husband?”
Barclay cleared his throat. “About that.” Terrified he would say Kieran was dead, a wave of faintness nearly overwhelmed her. “I was wondering if you would care to listen to a proposition.”
She mastered her pounding heart. “I don’t have the strength to fight you off and win, but rest assured I will resist you.”
