Chapter 6

Through the still-driving rain, Rob scanned the few portions he could see of the high, rocky slope beyond the woods. Several times he caught sight of movement between the trees, but he could not tell exactly what it was that he was seeing.

Nearing the edge of the woodland, he saw brief movement again, near the pass where he had spied Dougal days before. Fear surged through him at that memory, but he forced it back into the recesses of his mind. He would do no one any good by leaping to conclusions before he had gleaned a reliable fact or two.

When he emerged from the trees and Scáthach stepped ahead of him, he saw that despite the rain, fur on the scruff of her neck had bristled, making her tension clear to the man who had trained her. He murmured, "Doucely, lass, doucely."

Her perked ears twitched in response, but she kept close instead of ranging yards ahead, as usual. Although such behavior suggested that she anticipated danger, he knew she was likely only sensing and mimicking his state of mind.

Two figures came into view on the steep, boulder-strewn slope, two-thirds of the way to the pass. One, clearly female, walked just ahead of the other.

Recognizing Lady Muriella easily, Rob reached to be sure his sword was secure in its sheath, and the sheath secure on its baldric. He did not want to lose it while scrambling up the slope, although he knew that the other two were too near the pass for him to catch up with them before they reached it.

"Doucely, Scá," he said again as he increased his pace. He had nearly come out barefoot, as he had that morning, for he often walked so in sunshine or rain and had assumed that he would be following the lass on damp, spongy ground. At the last minute, finding his boots beside the oiled skins, he had decided to wear them.

Grateful for the decision now, since raw leather would grip wet, slick granite better than bare feet would, he moved as fast as the rugged terrain allowed.

The next time he looked up, he saw that Muriella had fallen.

Growling low in his throat at the sight, Rob murmured, "I shall owe Dougal something special for letting that happen."

Scáthach growled, too, and eyed Rob tensely.

Although he understood the dog's uneasiness, he said, "Nay, lass. I'd be glad to see you put an end to that villain. But he'd likely see you coming, and I fear he'd be too skillful with his dirk for your safety or hers. He could injure or kill you both before I could catch up with you, so we'll keep them in sight and seek a better chance to take him down."

Aware that he was just thinking aloud, Rob lengthened his stride, giving thanks for the oiled skin as well as the boots. Not only was the rain still pelting down, but if he had to follow them far, he'd be camping that night under oilskin.

Her ladyship was standing again. Mayhap she would have the sense to limp or do something else to slow them down.

As the thought occurred to him, he saw Dougal pick her up as if she weighed nowt and sling her over a shoulder.

Being picked up and flipped over onto Dougal's shoulder knocked the wind out of Murie but did not seem to affect Dougal at all. She tried to kick him, but the devilish man pinned her cloak-covered knees to his chest with one steely forearm. Then, using his other hand to steady himself as they went, he strode up the treacherous path with more speed than she thought could possibly be safe.

At least he had taken the awful gag from her mouth after she had fallen, so she could breathe more easily, and the rain was no longer stinging her face.

To think that Iwanted to see that wretched pass, she reminded herself, trying not to watch the rocks slipping downward each time he took a step upward. When that thought ended, the image of Robert MacAulay filled her mind's eye, frowning as heavily as he had when she had lied to him. Her memory shifted abruptly to the truth, that he had not frowned at all then. His expression and demeanor had remained as stoic as usual. So why did she feel now as if he had frowned?

And why was she able to picture that frown so easily?

The answer was not far to seek. She had sensed anger in the man at the time. But, having focused on his face, expecting him to frown, she had ignored what she was sensing. She had simply allowed herself to feel relieved that he was calm.

To divert her thoughts from MacAulay, she raised her head from Dougal's back and observed the slope below. However, so strong was MacAulay in her mind that she imagined she saw him following them through the downpour. Boulders obstructed the phantomlike image then, making her certain she had imagined it.

Even so, and despite lacking strength enough to keep her head up for long with Dougal bouncing her as he picked a path amid wet bounders on wet granite, she raised it as soon as they moved into the open and she could see the slope again.

Seeing Scáthach trotting ahead of him told her that it really was MacAulay. Oh, why did he not order the fleet wolf-dog to kill Dougal?

The voice of common sense—one that, admittedly, she rarely heeded—suggested that Dougal might be wholly willing and able to kill the dog.

She continued to hope that MacAulay would catch up with them. Hard as it was to keep her head up enough to track his progress, she kept trying to do so until Dougal smacked her hard enough on the backside, even through two skirts and her cloak, to make her cry out.

"Stop wriggling," he snapped, "or I'll skelp ye good to make ye mind me."

"Do your worst," she retorted. "It won't help you, because someone is following us. When he catches you, you will be the one who is sorry."

To her shock, he chuckled, patted her backside again, and said, "Sakes, lass, d'ye think I've failed to plan for such?"

A chill swept through her. "What have you done?"

But Dougal just chuckled again, a fiendish sound if ever she had heard one. Only then did she wonder why they had not met any of her father's watchers.

Rob saw that Dougal had reached the pass and disappeared amid the huge boulders there. But Rob, too, was making rapid progress and still had a good chance to catch them, especially since Dougal was carrying her ladyship.

The continuing rain was irritating, and the steepness of the slope took its toll on Rob, but the danger to Muriella and the plain fact that he bore at least some responsibility for her predicament spurred him on.

Reaching the crest of the slope, where its steepness eased at last, he could easily discern the way they had to have gone. Sheer, rocky walls and high cliffs flanked the uneven, boulder-strewn declivity that evidently served as the pass.

It looked as if someone had rolled boulders off those walls to block the way, though. Certainly no army could invade Tùr Meiloach by this route.

"Trail, Scáthach," he said. The dog's nose went down, up, then to ground again. Her ability unimpeded by the rain, she trotted confidently, following a mixed but unmistakable scent of humans that revealed the most common route to her.

As he followed, Rob's thoughts drifted back to Andrew's defenses and the guards who had stopped him at the south pass that first evening. In truth, both times he had taken that route to Tùr Meiloach, watchers had guarded it closely.

So where were Andrew's watchers today? He had seen no one keeping guard and doubted that Andrew's men would dare use rain as an excuse for shirking their duty. Also, although Andrew had said that his watchers let lone intruders pass but watched them carefully, no one had stopped Dougal on Monday or today, despite his having had a screaming, doubtless struggling Lady Muriella in tow.

Frowning, Rob ignored a flow of images depicting what Dougal might do to her and considered instead what he might have done to Andrew's guards.

None of it eased his concern.

As he stopped, he spoke softly to halt Scáthach. Then, untying and doffing his oilskin, he shifted his baldric to draw his sword. Putting the baldric back where it belonged, he held the oilskin in place with his free hand and went on.

Making his way through the rubble-strewn pass with Scáthach moving confidently before him, he walked more rapidly than he would have on his own and soon was close enough to the east end of the pass to see the snowcapped peak of Ben Lomond looming into the sodden, gray northeastern sky.

The loch of that name soon came into sight below, its long, narrow northern tip all that he could see. The greater part, miles south of him, widened into an eventual five-mile expanse at its outflowing end. Without the rain, he knew he would likely see where the widening began. Mag had said the place lay twelve miles north of Inch Galbraith, his father's island seat in the wider part of the loch. A few miles north of where Rob stood lay Arrochar and its Tarbet, a narrow neck of land that was flat enough for men to drag their boats from Loch Lomond to the upper end of the Loch of the Long Boats and the other way around.

From Arrochar's Tarbet to the north end of Loch Lomond, Mag had said, was yet another seven miles. The loch's west shore from Galbraith's land northward was all MacFarlan land.

Pausing when the path began to slope downward toward the loch, Rob saw his quarry below but much farther down the path than he had anticipated.

Neither Lady Muriella nor Dougal was walking now. Evidently, Dougal had left a horse waiting, and not the usual small but surefooted Highland garron. Instead, the bay was large enough to carry them both with apparent ease.

Since Rob was as sure as he could be that her ladyship would not have mounted such a horse unaided, let alone with dispatch, he surmised that Dougal had put her on the horse, ordered her to sit astride, and then mounted behind her. They were moving rapidly down a track that, by comparison to the pass itself or the rough track on Andrew's side, looked rubble free. Realizing that he'd be unlikely to catch them before they reached Arrochar, Rob thought he might do better to—

Scáthach growled.

Whirling, casting the oilskin like a whip ahead of him as he did, Rob saw a longsword blade descending toward his head and—just beyond it—a flash of movement that he recognized as Scáthach leaping at something or someone.

"I wish you would not hold me so tightly," Muriella said. "I don't like it."

"Be quiet unless ye want me to gag ye again," Dougal said. "Had I known what a bletherer ye are, I'd ha' thought twice afore abducting ye."

"Then I wish you had known," she said with feeling. "If you want me to be quiet, then tell me what sort of traps you laid for my father's watchers and whoever is following us now. Whatever you contrived, I doubt it will succeed."

"Och, but it will," he said with the same awful confidence he had shown before. "Whoever followed us earlier is not following us now."

She knew that was true, because after he had put her on his horse, she had taken a look backward whenever the path curved. To her regret, she saw no one.

"You simply cannot see him in this rain," she said, striving to sound as confident as Dougal had. "I'll wager you don't know who he is, either."

"I don't care who he is. My lads will see to him."

So he had posted armed guards to shield his escape.

Somewhat daunted by that realization, she said nonetheless firmly, "You should care who it is. My good-brothers say that Master Robert MacAulay is one of the finest warriors they know. And you must know that Sir Ian Colquhoun and Sir Magnus Mòr Galbraith-MacFarlan are two of the finest knights in all of Scotland."

"They think they are," he muttered.

She recalled then that he did know them both, and better than he might have liked. So she said sweetly and with a fervent hope that neither Mag nor Ian would ever hear what she had said, "I do not know about such things, for no female can. But, if I recall aright, they said MacAulay is a much finer warrior and much more skilled with a sword and a dirk than either one of them is."

He made a strange groaning sound in his throat.

"What was that you said?" she asked innocently. "I did not quite hear you."

"I said nowt. Now, hold your tongue."

If MacAulay was somehow still following them, Murie decided, she had to do whatever she could to divert Dougal's attention. Accordingly, she said, "Ian said that MacAulay once defeated six opponents all by himself."

"Blethers."

"I know, but Ian did say that," Murie said lightly. "In troth, I did not believe him at the time. But then Mag said that he had seen MacAulay take on four or five men, so I do think now that Ian's six might well be possible."

Dougal fell silent then, which was eminently satisfactory to her, especially if he was worrying about MacAulay.

He looked back up the hill behind them, though, and that would not do.

She tried another topic. "You do seem to like abducting young women, which I think is a most dishonorable trait in a man. In troth, though, you have not been a successful abductor, have you? I know of at least two who outwitted—"

"Devil take ye," he swore. "It were bad enough that ye made up that bletherish tale, calling me Donal Blackheart and reciting it at God kens how many ceilidhs. But, by God, I'll soon teach ye the wisdom to hold your tongue!"

Murie shut her eyes, wincing in horror of what she might have unleashed.

Focusing on the sword slashing down toward his head, Rob leaped sideways and, with one hand, brought his own sword up so fast and hard that it crashed against the other one and wrenched it from his opponent's grip. As it flew with a clatter into the rocks, Rob gripped his own sword's hilt with both hands and whipped the flat of its blade back hard against the side of his opponent's head.

The man lost his footing on the treacherous ground, fell, and cracked his head against a boulder.

Scáthach's man was also down and still, blood still oozing from a wound in his neck, the dirk he had wielded lying some distance away. The dog stood guard over him with every muscle and sense alert.

Scarcely had Rob noted these facts than, with a shout of fury, a third swordsman appeared from behind a boulder, accompanied by a fourth.

"Weapon!" Rob bellowed when he saw the fourth man move toward Scáthach. The dog was too agile and quick to let a swordsman hurt her, and she would now do all that she could to keep the villain occupied.

With the well-sharpened point of his own blade and without ceremony, Rob dispatched the nearest man and then whirled to confront the one still standing.

That chap, suddenly finding himself between the darting, growling dog and a highly skilled swordsman, turned tail from both and ran.

Catching him easily, Rob jerked him back and around.

The man flung down his sword and cried, "I yield, sir. Prithee, I yield!"

Since none of the four attackers had tried to aid Lady Muriella, Rob deduced that this one, like the others, was Dougal's minion.

A sweeping look at the three on the ground, unmoving, told Rob they were dead, and he felt no remorse. To attack a man from behind was a dishonorable act for any warrior. They had brought death on themselves.

"Prithee, sir," the live one cried. "We did nobbut what we was told tae do."

Keeping the man's right arm in an iron grip, Rob said, "You and these others take your orders from Dougal MacPharlain, aye?"

"Aye, sir. Though, we all of us answer tae Pharlain in the end."

"Did you see the lady with Dougal?"

"Aye, sure, though, in troth, sir, I… I ha' me doots she'd be a lady." The man was shaking, either from fear or from cold.

Rob did not care which it was. "Do you not know who she is?"

The man shrugged. "She were comely enough. So, 'tis likely, she be a lass Dougal wants. He takes his pleasures where he finds 'em, and we all ken fine that Pharlain keeps a spy or two at Tùr Meiloach. Mayhap she'd be one o' them."

"Was she not struggling to escape from Dougal?"

The man hesitated.

Hardening his tone, Rob said, "Was she not?"

Visibly swallowing, the other nodded. "Aye, but if a chappie values his hide, he doesna put hisself betwixt Dougal and his lassies—or nowt else, come tae that."

Rob's hands itched to smack the man. He held his fire, though, aware that the person he really wanted to punish was riding farther away by the minute.

Therefore, he said grimly, "That lady is Andrew Dubh MacFarlan's youngest daughter, the lady Muriella. Dougal abducted her by force. Since it is the second time he has taken one of Andrew's daughters, I mean to teach him better manners, but I will leave you to bury your friends if you can figure out how to do that."

"Aye, I'll bury 'em," the other said on a note of relief. "I'll dig wi' me dirk."

"You will not, for I mean to dispose of your weapons over the first cliff I come to," Rob said. "You can dig your friends' graves with your hands, or you can go back to Pharlain and Dougal and tell them where they lie, or…"

He paused, eyeing the man's ashen face thoughtfully.

"Prithee, m'lord, I canna tell Pharlain or Dougal we failed. They'd order me flogged for no being dead m'self. Sakes, I'd liefer niver go back there at all."

"Then I'll offer you one more choice," Rob said. "Go through yonder pass to Andrew Dubh's tower and tell him all that happened here. Then yield to him."

"But them what go to Tùr Meiloach do never be seen again," the man cried. "Rockslides claim them if bogs or vicious birds and beasts dinna get 'em first."

"But true MacFarlans are safe at Tùr Meiloach, because its land provides sanctuary for them," Rob said gently. "Men say that, too, do they not?"

"Aye, but I ha' long served Pharlain. Andrew Dubh would be more like tae hang me than gi' me sanctuary."

"I have heard that Andrew welcomes any MacFarlan who swears fealty to him. Sithee, though, I'm told he can tell if the swearing is heartfelt or not," Rob warned, seeing no reason to add the fact that he disbelieved that part himself.

"If I say it, I'll mean it," his erstwhile assailant said morosely. "In troth, I've nae choice. But likewise, I've nae wife nor bairn at Arrochar tae miss me. I'll go."

"Good, but tell me one more thing before you do. Were there not watchers up here—Andrew's watchers?"

The man tensed again but said, "Aye, there were, but Dougal said tae render them harmless. So them lads ye just killed, they killed them all and said that, by Pharlain's reckoning, that were the only way they'd stay harmless."

"You had nowt to do with their deaths?"

"No tae say ‘nowt,' sir," the man said wretchedly. "I watched tae be sure nae one else interfered."

"I'll not hold you responsible for that, but go quickly before I change my mind," Rob said. "Tell Andrew Dubh that I'll make sure Dougal and her ladyship are truly heading for Arrochar and will report back to him as quick as I can."

"They'll be going tae Arrochar, aye," the man said. "Dougal were a-cursing the rain when we got here. He'll be gey wroth with it by now."

Nodding but unwilling to trust the man completely, Rob followed him long enough to be sure he continued west through the pass. Then, calling Scáthach to heel, he made his way back as fast as he could to where the four had attacked him.

Returning his sword to its baldric and the sheath that protected its sharp end and tip, he collected the other men's weapons and hid them well off the path.

Being soaked through and no longer planning to spend the night out, he left his oiled skin where it lay, to retrieve later, and took a minute to slick his hair back from his forehead and retie it at his nape. Then, pulling his wet wool cap on again for added warmth, he set out, cautiously traversing the steep, wet slope of talus and scree beneath the precipitous ridge that extended northward from the pass.

Scáthach moved in his wake with graceful ease, either unaware that she was soaked to the skin and traversing a dangerous slope or indifferent to both facts.

The two riders below had reached the Lomondside path. Rob had no fear that they might see him or Scáthach, although he could see them, because looking downward kept the rain from pelting his face as he watched them. Looking up through the downpour, as they would have to do to see him, would be much harder.

He let his thoughts dwell briefly on an image of the rain drowning Dougal if he looked up long enough, but focused on keeping them in sight. That the route Rob had chosen was a more dangerous one than theirs did not trouble him one whit.

Firmly gagged again and grateful that Dougal had done no worse, Murie tried to imagine how she could escape. For the first time in her life, though, her imagination failed to provide mental relief from the reality of her situation. She tried to focus on what she had heard described in folk tales or otherwise about people escaping from dreadful danger. Instead, images of Robert MacAulay failing to fight off dozens of attackers filled her mind's eye.

In every one of them, he fell quickly and lay where his attackers left him.

With tears welling in her eyes, she remembered her strange dream, when he had flung Dougal into the clouds, and wondered if that might mean she shared some of Lina's prophetic abilities. That hope soon died, though. If she shared the gift of prophecy, would not the images that had just come to her be the prophetic ones?

If they were not, how would she know the difference?

Considering that you were wanting to murder the man just hours ago, a mean voice in her head whispered…

What it might have whispered next, she did not know, because she shut her ears to it in much the same way that earlier she had shut her eyes to Dougal's anger. She would not, must not, think of MacAulay being dead. Reminding herself that Mag and Ian had said that Rob was a fine warrior, albeit no finer than either of them, Murie let herself hope that MacAulay was at least skilled enough to fight off any man stupid enough to serve Dougal.

Not that she cared so much about Robert MacAulay, she told herself firmly. He had tried to follow her and must have had thoughts, at least, about rescuing her. For doing even that much, one was obliged to be grateful enough to pray that he was alive. Because, if he was dead, no one would know what had become of her.

Fortunately, her cloak and the heat of Dougal's body against her back and legs kept most of her warm, but she had been hungry for a long time now. The aroma of the steam emanating from MacAulay's cauldron had merely teased her senses before. Now she could hear and feel her stomach growling. She had missed her midday meal, and with the supper hour drawing nearer each minute…

"I ken fine that ye're hungry, lass," Dougal said as if he were hearing her thoughts, or her stomach. "My lads and I ate the food we brought with us at midday, so I've nowt to give ye, but we'll reach Arrochar by suppertime, and we'll be near enough to hear the bell ring even if we're a bit late."

She would have liked to say that she would eat no food he provided. But, since she could not talk, she made no reply. Her stomach rumbled again, though.

The rest of their ride was uneventful, and tedious. Although she kept hoping that someone would rescue her, no one did, but she realized that she was a little curious about Arrochar. After all, it had been her parents' home until her sister Andrena was born, and Murie had never clapped eyes on the place.

Darkness descended, and the rain continued, so at first all she saw were pinpricks of light that shimmered in the rain. She was soaked to the skin by then, her hair dripping even under her hood. But she kept warm enough until Dougal drew rein before a small stone outbuilding and dismounted.

"I'll help ye down, lass," he said. But she had already leaned forward, thrown her right leg over the horse's rump, and splashed to the ground.

Dougal caught her by an arm as if he feared she might try to run, but she was grateful, because she had trouble just standing. She felt tired and weak but retained spirit enough to tell herself that she was not afraid of Dougal.

Then he took her to the stone building, which was no more than a shed. Removing her gag, he pulled the door open to reveal the darkness within and shoved her inside.

Stumbling over her skirts on the uneven dirt floor, Murie nearly fell. The door slammed shut, and she heard a heavy bar fall into place on the other side.

"May God rot your black heart and soul and see you underground for this, Dougal MacPharlain," she muttered into the unknown, terrifying blackness. "If He does not, I swear that when I get out of here, I will."

Although cursing him did make her feel better for a moment, it was sheer bravado.

The one place a fertile imagination is a dreadful affliction is in a small, pitch-dark, doubtless spider-filled shed with its walls rapidly closing in on one.