Page 40 of Laird Of Her Heart

“Seriously. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“I told you we should have listened to Declan and gagged her,” Harry muttered.

“The laird said to be gentle with her.”

“I doona think he meant it. He was glowering at the time.”

“He’s glowered a lot…since she came along.” Ewan shot her a dark look over his shoulder. He slapped the reins and the cart lurched forward.

Maggie’s stomach lurched too. She groaned. “Can you at least give me something to eat?” Maybe that would settle the bile churning in her belly.

Harry blew out a sigh and pulled an oatcake from his sporran, handing it to her without a word. She took it and nibbled at it and tried to be grateful. Honestly. It could be worse. Couldn’t it?

She tried to look on the bright side. She had managed to delay Dominic’s departure, possibly saved him from MacPherson’s perfidy. She hadn’t been hanged. That was always a positive. And it was a lovely day for a cart ride through Scotland. Folks at home would have paid big bucks for something like this. Probably.

“Where are we going?” she asked. She hoped they were following the men to Urquhart, but she doubted it.

Ewan confirmed her suspicions. “We’re going back to Castle Dar.”

Yes. What she’d expected. But when Harry leaned back and shot her a malicious grin and added, “And you, wee lass, are heading for the dungeon,” she was surprised indeed.

All of a sudden, the day was not so very fine after all.

* * *

They rode fast and hard, though Dominic took a care with their horses, making sure to rest and water them regularly. They made good time, but he knew they would miss the meeting. There was no way they could make it. If only there were a ferry across the loch. But there was not, and Loch Ness was large and deep. They had to ride through Glen Mor to the west, then north to Lochend, and then back down to Kilmore on the west bank.

Evening was falling by the time they caught sight of the fluttering banners of the encampment, far in the distance. When there was such a gathering of clans, the influx was often too great for a castle to accommodate, so they made camp in the surrounding fields. These reunions were infrequent, as they all lived far from each other, so most stayed for days. There were usually games of skill, much drinking and excellent food. A fair-like atmosphere prevailed.

Dominic was gratified to see that everyone had not left; perhaps he could still meet with MacPherson.

If nothing else, he was more than ready to rest his bones, have a warm meal and a stiff drink.

But as they came closer, something felt off. He slowed his mount.

“What is it?” Declan asked.

Dominic glanced at the sky, to the wheeling birds. He scanned the camp for movement. There was none.

“Do you see anyone?”

Declan frowned. “Nae.”

No men. No women. No songs or laughter wafted to them on the wind, as they should. Only the caws of those birds.

He glanced at his men, and as one, they drew their swords. They rode closer to the camp, splitting into two to circle at a distance. Ten large tents. No fires. No horses. Nothing.

Dominic shot a glance at the castle, about a league away on the banks of the river. The castle itself was held by John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, a contender for the Scottish crown, but Comyn was rarely in residence here. The castle, too, seemed eerily deserted.

He lifted a leg and slipped from his saddle. “Shall we investigate?”

His men nodded and followed suit. But not one of them spoke.

They crept into the camp, moving slowly and silently, checking each tent as they passed. Oddly enough, they were all deserted. The first sign they had that something was awry, was a boot.

Declan’s brow darkened as he bent to pick it up. He issued an eep and tossed it away, rearing back in revulsion.

“What is it?” Dominic asked.