“How can you know that?” asked Isabail. “They’ve not made any such threats.”
“You need only to look at the dark face on that one”—she pointed to the towering shape of the leader as he unsaddled the horses—“to know that we are doomed.”
Isabail’s stomach knotted. Muirne’s assessment had merit. Everything about the man was terrifying, from the daunting width of his shoulders to the grim set of his chiseled jaw. And her maid was correct—the scowl on his face did not bode well. But to admit the bend of her thoughts to Muirne would stir the maid’s fears.
“The only sane reason for them to accost a noblewoman is to ransom her,” she said firmly. “They will not harm us for fear of losing their reward.”
“That may protect you, my lady, but it’ll no protect me,” muttered Muirne. “I’ll no see my Fearghus again. I can feel it in my bones.”
“You are spying a badger where there is only a skunk,” chided Isabail. “The possibility of rescue yet remains. We are still on Grant land.”
Muirne frowned. “How can you be certain? We’ve journeyed several hours beyond sight of the castle.”
Isabail nodded toward the standing stone in the distance. It was too dark to see the Pictish symbols engraved on its surface, but the shape was very familiar. “I recognize that stone. We are but a short distance from the bothy my brother used as a respite stop during lengthier hunts.”
Her maid’s face lit up. “Och! We are saved. We can escape there and await the earl’s men.”
“Nay,” Isabail said sharply. “I will not risk the wrath of these men by attempting an escape. Our best option is simply to wait. They will ransom us soon enough.”
Her harsh tone drew the attention of one of the reivers—the heavy-set fellow with the wiry dark beard. He stopped brushing the horses for a moment and stared at them. Neither woman dared to speak another word until he resumed his task.
“See?” hissed Isabail. “They watch us too closely. Escape is not possible.”
Muirne nodded and sat silent for a time, chewing on her bread and cheese. Although morn was surely only an hour or two away, the reivers laid bedrolls near the fire and offered two of them to the women. Isabail claimed her spot with trepidation. Passing a night under the stars without a tent overhead was disturbing enough, but in the presence of three dangerous men... Impossible. Especially with their leader staring at her across the campfire. The flickers of the firelight added bleak shadows to an already stern countenance. His expression left her with the distinct impression that he resented her, though heaven only knew why. She’d seen him for the first time just two days ago, in the orchard. At the time, unaware that he was a villain and a cad, she had silently admired his physical form. Few men of her acquaintance sported such a blatantly muscular body, and he possessed a rather handsome visage for a heathen brute—the sort of sharply masculine features a woman does not soon forget.
He stood suddenly, and Isabail’s breath caught in her chest. By God, he was huge. Dark and powerful, a veritable thunderstorm of a man. He tossed back one side of his fur cloak, revealing a long, lethal sword strapped to his side. Beneath the cloak, she spied a leather jerkin atop a dark lèine and rough leather boots that hugged his calves. His clothing was common enough, but there was something decidedly uncommon about the man.
Perhaps it was the intensity of his glacial blue stare—neither of the other two held her gaze for more than a glance. Or perhaps it was the way he held himself, shoulders loose but firm, like he was a direct descendant of Kenneth MacAlpin himself. Lord of all he surveyed.
He glared at her and drew his sword.
Muirne shrieked, and Isabail’s heart skipped a beat.
But the brute did not advance. With his gaze still locked on Isabail, he returned to his seat before the fire and began to clean his weapon.
It took long moments for Isabail’s heart to resume its regular rhythm. Not one word had been exchanged, but she had felt the weight of his blame as surely as if he’d unleashed a furious diatribe. In his mind, it would seem, she was the cause of his troubles.
Perhaps Muirne was right. Perhaps he had no intention of ransoming her. Perhaps escape was a wiser option after all.
Isabail dove beneath the blankets provided by his men and lay on her side with her back to the fire. The bedroll provided little comfort—the frozen ground dug into her hip and shoulder, and the fire only warmed one side of her body. Her nose and fingers were chilled, but rolling to the other side was not an option. Her nape already tingled under the cold gaze of her captor. Facing him would be unbearable.
“The women are slowing us down,” one of the men muttered. “At this pace, it’ll take another full day to reach Dunstoras.”
Isabail froze.Dunstoras?
“That assumes the earl’s men don’t catch us first,” retorted another.
“You worry for naught,” said their leader crisply. “The earl’s men are a league behind us. They think we’re headed south. We’ll lose them when we turn west and descend into Strath Nethy.”
Nausea rolled in Isabail’s belly. Dunstoras was home to the MacCurrans—the clan whose chief had robbed the king and murdered her brother. The same chief who had escaped Lochurkie’s dungeon and absconded to parts unknown. If the man seated across the fire was Aiden MacCurran, she was in far more dire straits than she had thought. A murderous traitor to the Crown would hardly follow the unwritten rules of hostage taking.
She lay stiff and silent, unable to sleep.
MacCurran deserved to pay for his crimes. John had been a fine man and a good earl—far more noble and worthy than her father had been. If only she could escape, she could ensure MacCurran was brought to justice. From the standing stone, she could find her way to the hunt bothy with ease—she and John had stopped there a dozen times over the years.
The challenge was getting away from MacCurran and his men. It might be possible for one of the women to sneak away, but two? Unlikely. Yet she could hardly leave Muirne behind. No, if an escape was to be made, it would be both of them or neither of them.
Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, Isabail reviewed her options—discarding most ideas as foolhardy. Eventually, she settled on one. She waited until MacCurran and the other guard had bedded for the night and uneven snores were rising into the dark sky. Then she nudged Muirne.
