Page 80 of The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

Then he heard Sorcha gasp, a sound that mingled surprise and concern. She passed her hands over the fire, through the smoke, in a pattern only she would recognize, her voice rising in a chant in a language that he had never heard before.

Moments later, she whirled to face him, her raven hair swirling about her like a cloak of night. “Fergus MacTavish has her, and his men are tak’ng her tae his stronghold in the northeast. Ye willnae catch the riders who stole her, fer they are swift as the wind. But ride hard with a handful o’ yer most trusted, and ye may be able tae reclaim her.”

She moved toward the fire again, casting in herbs, watching the smoke. “I will cast the spells tae give ye fair passage, and tae cloud his mind and keep him from killing her. Even at this distance, I can do that much, but nae more.”

“Then ‘twill be enough.”

“Aye. And a price I have fer ye. If all goes well, and ye bring yer lady home, then ye will offer yer life tae me blade, in payment for the two I have given ye this night.”

Alistair blinked. “Two?”

Sorcha smiled, the expression sharp as a blade caressed by the winter wind. “Yer lady’s illness is nae matter of ill-cooked food or too much smoke, nor any ailment caused by the season’s change. She carries yer child, Laird MacDuff, new formed but strong. She will ken soon, if she doesnae already, the precious life she bears.”

A child. His child. “We…”

“I ken.” She shook her head at him. “Stop wasting time, or ye may nae be able tae save them.” She lifted her chin and held his gaze. “Yer oath, tae pay what is demanded.”

Alistair felt his stomach churning, but he nodded. “Ye have me word.”

“Then ye will have me power flying afore ye.” Sorcha tossed the armband back to him, then pointed at the path. “Go, Laird MacDuff, and pray, if ye truly love this lass, that the next time I see ye, ‘tis with a dagger tae yer heart.”

As if a dagger to the heart would hurt any more than knowing that Niamh was in the hands of Fergus MacTavish. “Aye.”

There was nothing more to be said, though he made a note to ensure that one of the older, braver castle women should bring her a basket of smoked meat, wines and baked goods, as an offering of gratitude from the clan.

Alistair turned and left. As soon as his foot fell upon the path, he began to run, heedless of the risk of falling.

Niamh was in the hands of Fergus MacTavish, and Alistair was determined that she’d bear the captivity for not one breath longer than she had to.

Let Sorcha take his life. He’d expected death ever since she’d cursed him. As long as Niamh and the bairn - their child - came home safe and unharmed, then he couldn’t care less.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Niamh had no idea how long they traveled, or how far. When she regained consciousness, it was to discover that her captors had bound her hands and tied a sturdy blindfold about her face. She was blind, and even sound was muted by the thick cloth.

She’d originally awoken to find herself slung over the withers of a horse, like a carry-sack. However, the motion had made her nauseous, and she promptly vomited on the man who held her. Since then, she’d been tied into a saddle, more or less upright, while the horses raced on toward an unseen destination.

Once or twice, they stopped to rest their horses and drink. Niamh was tempted to spit the water they offered her in their faces, but she knew that would only lead her to being thirsty, and she didn’t want to risk that. The same was true of the food. The bland travel rations made her stomach churn, but she forced herself to keep it down. With no idea what the men who’d taken her captive wanted from her, she dared not waste any chance to eat or drink. She needed to keep her strength.

There was no opportunity for escape now, but there might be later. She had to be as ready as she could be for that moment.

Eventually, the sound of the hoofbeats changed. They were no longer traveling over untamed moors, but on a road. A short time later, the sound changed again, and she realized they were riding across stone. The sound echoed oddly as well.

It sounds like a courtyard.

If it was a courtyard, then there was a good chance they’d arrived at their destination, wherever that was.

Two of the men all but dragged her from the saddle. She was shoved roughly forward, stubbing her toes on stairs as she was hauled into a building - a keep or a castle - and down a dim hall.

Words were spoken, then she was dragged in another direction and down another set of stairs, longer this time. A door creaked open, and she was shoved forward. She stumbled a bit and fell to her knees. A rough hand locked a shackle around one of her ankles, then the blindfold was yanked away.

Niamh blinked in the dim light. She was, as she’d guessed, in a cell. By the smell of it and the look of the moldering straw in one corner, it hadn’t been tended to in a very long time.

A single torch provided light, but that was enough for her to see the face of the man who stood before her.

He was tall, easily a match for Alistair in height, with dark hair cut short around a lean, almost snake-like face. A scar cut across his jaw, and another through the eyebrow on the other side. His thin mouth was twisted in a sneer, his dark eyes cruel and proud.

She might have guessed who he was even without his torc of rank, simply by the look in his eyes and the words he spoke. “So, ye are the little slip who has captured Alistair MacDuff’s attention, are ye?” He bent and grabbed her chin in a bruising grip. “Nae much, but then, when one marries for gold and alliances, I suppose one tak’s what one can get.”