The shorter of the three, with brown hair shot with gray, stepped forward.
“Mistress Blair Gordon?” His voice rumbled, filling the chambers much like he and his men. She nodded weakly. “Och, then ye are to come with us. We have a horse ready for ye. Can ye ride?”
Another weak nod.
He waved his fingers at her. “Then, hurry.”
Against her better judgment, she rose and approached the man and his outstretched hand. What other option did she have? If she said nay, they’d as soon toss her over a horse and ride off with her anyway. This way would be easier on her bones.
As she reached the door, she noticed one man, younger and taller than the man who spoke, held a square, crimson-stained box in his hand. She knew what that cursed box contained — the remains of her husband. Had they found it back the house she shared with Mungo? What did these MacDonalds desire with it? If they were taking that box, then they were surely taking everything in their house. Mungo must have laid his hands on something they wanted.
The man grabbed her upper arm in a surprisingly light grip, as if he were escorting her to acieldihand not a gaol, as he led her away from her present prison. Her heart raced in her chest so hard she believed it was going to explode.
“Where are we going?” she asked, not expecting an answer.
“To Glenachulish. Forgive me.” The man bowed low. “I’m Laird Seamus MacDonald, Chieftain of Clan MacDonald of Glenachulish, son of Laird Alasdair MacDonald of Glen Coe and kin to Glengarry. We’ve had word that your husband was murdered by the Campbells as a traitor, and we dinna wish ye to befall a similar fate. We’ve come to collect ye and bring ye under the protection of the MacDonalds.”
So the MacDonalds had reached her first, as Lamont promised, and were taking her. Was she to spend more time imprisoned? Would they throw her into their dungeons as punishment for her husband’s supposed associations with the Campbells? Did they think she too was a traitor, or did the MacDonalds have another reason to retrieve her? From how the men glared at her, especially the one holding the box, she assumed that the gaol was her cursed future.
Asking her about her husband’s actions wouldn’t do them any good. Her husband told her nothing and hid everything. Imprisoning her was a waste of their time.
What use did she serve to cause the MacDonalds to ride across the glen to retrieve her?
CHAPTER FOUR
Reade wasn’t sure whatto expect of the Gordon widow, but the woman his father escorted out of the dilapidated manse was not it.
Truthfully, despite what his father had intimated, Reade had thought the widow would be older, even elderly, with a hard face and deceptive eyes.
He wasn’t prepared for the soft, striking young woman who followed his father outside. He was stricken silent at her presence.
The well-formed, copper-haired lass with wide blue eyes full of shock and nerves, a sprinkle of cinnamon across her nose, and wringing hands caught Reade off-guard, and despite his intentions, his eyes were riveted to her. She shivered under the thin blue dress – she wore only a threadbare plaid as protection against the chilly, damp air — and she threw the edge over her head like a hood to combat the cold. But whether she shivered from the chill or from her current state of being escorted by the MacDonalds, Reade couldn’t guess. His father’s men were enough to send shivers of fear down their enemy’s spines, why not that of a young lass, too?
Of course, Reade’s hawk-eyed father noted his surprise, and his lips curled into a knowing grin. Reade couldn’t tear his eyes away from the lass who his father helped onto a pale brown palfrey. Then he attached a small pack to her saddle – her meager belongings. He glanced back at the house where MacDonald men tore each room apart, down to removing the stones in the floor in search of that blasted letter. A whole house, and this was this all she had? This one pack? Her complete lack of anything – a decent plaid, belongings, a home, struck an odd, under-used chord in Reade’s heart.
His eyes roved over her slight form once more.
