Chapter Seven

It took him a while of pacing, a swim in the water, and sitting and staring at the moonlight until Alasdair concluded what he needed to do. He had to tell the lass the truth of what he knew about her situation, though, undoubtedly, it would increase her resistance to being returned home. But he didn't feel there was a choice. To withhold the information from her meant making himself a liar, and he'd not do that for any amount of coin.

He sat upon the rock for a long spell after making his decision, and he tried to sort out how to explain things to her so she could see that though she'd be wed, it would surely be a better situation than she could have ever hoped for otherwise. Or mayhap it would be that her brother would decide she was not required to wed Laird Campbell after all.

He did not know, and he could not allow the uncertainty to sway his decision. He had his clan to think about. She was a stranger. She was not his responsibility, and she would be fine. Nay, better than fine. She would be a great laird's wife, and if nae that, she would be the sister of a great laird, with a belly full of food daily, a warm home that wasn't crumbling at her feet, and an army of warriors to protect her. That was more than he could give to his own children if he didn't return her home.

The choice was made. It was not a bad one. It was not dishonorable. He was not delivering her to death or ravishment. He was delivering her to a pampered life. He jerked up, irritated that he was still sitting and debating it when he should be resting for the journey that would come early on the morrow. He was agitated that she'd managed, without even trying, to make him feel guilty about what he had to do and to make him feel as if he was trading a part of his honor to do it.

He strode back toward camp but stopped halfway there, the guilt pressing so heavily upon him that he knew there was something else he needed to do. He craned his head back and stared up at the full moon. An unexpected memory of Mariot when she'd been nearly ready to birth their children came to him. They'd lain in the woods one night, and she'd told him she hoped their children would inherit his ability to track, lest they ever need to find each other; his skill with bow and arrow, lest they ever need to defend themselves; and his honesty, so their souls would stay pure and they'd all meet again one day.

Her words echoed in his head, and he could have sworn he heard her voice on the wind. Tell her the truth. Tell her the truth.

He inhaled a long, steady breath and looked toward the path that led to camp, led to her. He would tell Margaret that her brother intended her to wed. He didn't feel right keeping the truth from her, whether it was his business or not. The reassertion of the decision settled the disquiet in him.

He picked up his pace, eager to unload his secret, but when he entered camp and saw only Calan sitting by the dying fire, worry seized him. He glanced toward the makeshift shelter he'd made for Margaret, but he couldn't tell whether she was inside or not. He stopped in front of Calan, who was closer to him than Margaret's shelter, and he glanced down at his friend. "Please tell me the lass is inside her shelter, and ye did nae let her talk ye into letting her go off alone to wash, relieve herself, or some other excuse to escape us."

Calan yawned as he looked up at Alasdair. "I'm nae a clot-heid. She's in her shelter, but she will nae be trying to escape us," he said, grinning now and holding a wine skin out to Alasdair. "Sit, have a drink, and relax."

He ignored the outstretched wine skin and Calan's words. Instead, he strode to Margaret's shelter, intent on seeing for himself that she was inside. The need to know was nearly overwhelming, and he was certain it was because if she did escape them and he could not find her again, this chance to aid his family would be lost. He parted the hanging plaids on the side of the shelter and glanced inside. It was so dark he could only make out her outline at first, but the steady rhythm of her breathing reached him immediately, and as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light within the shelter, her legs came into view.

Curiosity slid his gaze to her feet first. There, in perfect view, was her foot that was missing a toe. Not that he had needed more proof that she was Margaret Stewart, but if he had, her it was. Next, he brought his gaze up to her legs. They were bared, and as he inched his gaze up the long, slender shape of them to the rounded curve of her hip where her skirts were bunched, and the dip of her small waist, and further still to the swell of her breasts hidden beneath the rough material of her gown, searing desire gripped him. He stepped back, let the plaids fall back into place, and stood there a moment to give himself time to let his lust cool. Why he hungered after this woman now, he could not explain, nor did it matter. It was an emotion he could not, would not, act upon.

He turned on his heel and strode back to Calan. He sat opposite of where Calan now lay on his plaid by the fire and took up the half-full wine skin, tilted it back, and drained the remaining contents. "How long has she been asleep?"

"I kinnae say," Calan replied in a tone made sluggish with weariness. "I did nae watch her fall asleep, but she went to her shelter after we had a nice little chat."

Alasdair swiped a hand across his mouth, set down the wine skin, and stared at his friend, who had a pleased look on his face. That look made Alasdair uneasy. Calan had a knack for stirring trouble, though he never meant to. "What was the talk about?"

Calan propped himself up, rummaged through a travel bag beside him on the ground, and produced another wine skin.

"Calan," Alasdair said, his patience waning.

"I've nae ever seen ye so eager to speak of a lass except Mariot."

Alasdair stiffened, feeling almost as if he had somehow betrayed his wife. Then he shrugged off the ridiculous emotion. "I'm nae eager to ken anything about Margaret beyond that she is still in my possession."

"'Tis nae what yer eyes said."

Alasdair frowned. "I dunnae have any notion of what ye speak, and besides that, eyes dunnae talk."

"Sure, they do. Ladies' eyes often say, ‘I'm interested, please kiss me' or ‘I'm irritated.' And yer eyes said, ‘I desire ye.'"

"I certainly dunnae desire ye," Alasdair said.

Calan scowled. "Ye ken exactly what I'm referring to. Ye want the lass."

"I want her as any man would want a beautiful lass," Alasdair snapped.

"Except ye're nae any man. Ye're a man who has been in mourning for six long years, and ye told me yerself afore we started on this journey that ye'd nae been interested in a lass in any way since Mariot's death."

Alasdair couldn't deny those words, and the inability to do so created a deafening silence, so he snatched the wine skin from Calan's hand and drained the contents.

"Calan, just tell me what ye said to Margaret," Alasdair demanded.

"I told her she should be grateful to ye and happy because he were delivering her to be wed to a great laird."

Alasdair groaned. "Calan, God's blood."

"She was thrilled."

"Calan!" Alasdair said on another groan, as he half stood, certain that if he looked in on Margaret again, she'd be gone, though he had a clear view of her shelter from where he'd been sitting and no movement had come from it.

"I tell ye, she was happy."

Alasdair glared down at his numbskull of a friend. "Have ye forgotten about all the offers of marriage Benedict told us she'd turned down?"

"Nay, but those offers were nae from a great laird. This offer pleases her."

Alasdair could feel his frown deepen. "I dunnae sense that Margaret is the sort of woman to have a need to wed a great laird."

"Well, that shows ye how little ye ken of women. They all want to wed great lairds. Why, even ye have someone who wants to wed ye, and ye're nae a great laird; ye're just a laird."

Sometimes talking to Calan could make Alasdair tired. The man could speak circles around most people. "I think I should be offended," Alasdair said, sitting once more, but this time, he kicked his legs out in front of him to get more comfortable.

"Ye should nae. Ye are a ‘great laird' in every sense. And ye have prevailed and found the coin needed for our clan, but lasses often see greatness in wealth, and though ye be rich in honor, wit, and looks, most lasses prefer their wealth in cold, hard coin."

"As Mariot was the only lass I ever really kenned, I dunnae have the knowledge to draw from to ken if ye're right or wrong."

"Trust me," Calan said, tugging his plaid up over his legs, scooting into a half-lying position, and crossing his arms over his chest. "I've intimately kenned enough lasses in my life to tell ye with certainty that I'm correct. Lasses like Mariot are a rare species. Lasses who choose a man based on things other than riches are few and far between, and Margaret is nae such a lass. Her voice dripped delight when I told her we were delivering her to wed a great laird."

"Well, then," Alasdair said, aware that the information he'd just gleaned should relieve him, but it didn't. He had an odd sense of disappointment about the discovery, which made little sense. "I suppose we can rest easy this night, then."

"Aye," Calan agreed and shut his eyes. "Good thing, too, because I'm as weary from our travels as the winter is long."

Alasdair was also, but long after Calan's steady snoring filled the silence, he remained awake with his attention trained on Margaret's shelter. He found himself tense for a long time, certain that Calan was likely wrong about her and that at any moment, the plaids hanging over her shelter would rustle and she'd try to slip out into the night.

But the plaids didn't rustle and she didn't stir, and his tension that she would gave way to a new worry, disappointment that she hadn't. The realization bothered him greatly, but it also allowed him to close his eyes and steal some of the sleep he so desperately needed.

Something buzzing in his ear awoke him. It wasn't a slow drag from deep sleep but a hard yank into full alertness. His eyelids opened with a snap to bright daylight. He blinked, grabbed for the sword still sheathed at his hip, and scrambled to his feet, turning in a full circle before he remembered that he was in the woods with Calan and Margaret Stewart.

A glance at the fully-risen sun in the sky told him he'd slept far too long. A look down to the ground showed Calan still asleep with his mouth agape. Alasdair nudged him with his foot as he looked toward Margaret's shelter. He let out a breath, seeing the plaids were still in place, but when moved his gaze away from her shelter to where their horses had been tied, he found his destrier still tethered, but Calan's was pacing back and forth, dragging the rope that had been triple knotted around the tree.

"God's blood!" Alasdair swore so loud that Calan popped full upright to his feet in one breath.

"What?" he asked, looking around with the dazed look of someone still clutched by sleep.

"Ye and yer loose tongue and my own damned foolishness," he bit out, striding toward Margaret's shelter, but he knew in his gut he'd find her gone.

"What?" Calan called behind him.

Alasdair didn't answer. Instead, he threw back the plaids to reveal the empty space and his temper exploded, along with fear for the lass. He swung toward Calan while sweeping a hand toward the shelter behind him. "'Tis empty, ye clot-heid," he replied, striding to his destrier and working to untether it.

Calan appeared beside him a moment later, grabbing at the reins of his own horse. "How did Torian get—"

"I'll tell ye how," Alasdair interrupted, mounting his beast and scowling at Calan, who was mounting his. Once Calan was settled on his horse and looking at Alasdair, he let his friend have it. "She tried to take him. He likely bucked her, and if we find her injured, so help me God, I'll beat ye within an inch of yer own life."

"She would nae—" Calan started, but Alasdair was in no mood to listen to more of Calan's supposed words of wisdom. The man was a clot-heid, and so was Alasdair for taking advice from a warrior known for wenching, whether he was his closest friend or not. All Calan knew of women was how to talk them into bed.

"She did," Alasdair growled. "Ye were wrong about her and what she wants," he said, as misplaced pleasure slid through him. But that did him no good. In fact, it made things a great deal more difficult because she'd clearly lied to Calan so he would not watch her closely, allowing her to escape. And it had worked, but what Margaret did not know, could not have known, was that Calan's destrier didn't tolerate any rider but Calan. The beast would let you mount, but he'd buck you off eventually. It seemed almost a trick to prove a point. Alasdair's horse would not even let another rider on, so if she'd tried Maximillian first, she'd likely gotten bitten for her efforts.

He glanced toward the dirt and grass, searching for the way she had gone, and he found it immediately. Hoofprints outlined in the dirt and grass led east, away from the camp and back toward the Boat at Garten Inn. He gave Maximillian the signal to gallop, Calan and Torian following close behind, and Alasdair shook his head at their foolishness. As they raced back the way they'd come the day before, images of finding her thrown and injured on the trail flashed in his head, and then a worse possibility occurred to him. She could be dead.

She could have fallen from Calan's horse and hit her head or twisted her neck in such a way that killed her. His heart pounded viciously with the possibility, and ice coursed through his veins. He urged Maximillian faster and told himself that the black fear descending over him was for his clan, but the words did not ring true. There was something else. He couldn't name it, but it didn't matter in that moment.

He was about to take the trail to the right, the one they'd leisurely cantered down yesterday, but he pulled up on the reins and brought his horse to a stop at a branch that looked freshly broken. He scanned the ground around them, looking for signs as his da had taught him so many years before, as his da had before him. Tracking ran through Alasdair's veins nearly as thick as his blood.

Dread hardened in his chest as he dismounted and kneeled to run his fingers over the first set of horse hooves, then a second, and then a set of footprints. Tiny feet. Female feet. Feet encased in the poorest excuse for shoes that he'd ever seen. He then traced a finger over another set of footprints, a much larger set, a man's.

His breath caught. Margaret had indeed taken Torian, but then someone had taken her.

"What have ye found?" Calan's voice came from above Alasdair.

"Someone has taken her," he said. Uttering the words aloud tightened his chest further and made his heart beat faster.

"Another mercenary?"

"Possibly," Alasdair said, mounting his horse.

"Can ye see the direction they took?" Calan asked.

"I dunnae need to. They'll be taking her to her brother as fast as they can to get the reward."

"Then let's go. We need to find them so we get the coin," Calan said.

Alasdair was more concerned about Margaret's welfare than the coin, but he'd keep that little bit of truth to himself.