My Highland Love: Highland Lords Series (8 page)

"She's not dead," the deep voice said.

Fingers ran along her spine.

"She hasna' broken her back. She'll
live."

Arms slid beneath her, then lifted her from
the ground and pressed her against a warm body. She opened her
eyes, but her blurry vision made out only the wall of flesh her
face was shoved against.

"Leave her," said the other. "If we bring her
back damaged, it'll be our heads."

"Toss the saddle over the mountain." The
speaker shifted her in his arms. Pain splintered through her back
"Round up the gelding," the man said, "and throw Greig's body over
his back. Damn the MacGregor dog who killed him. If he wasn't
already dead, I would kill him myself."

Shock reverberated through Elise. Young
Allister was dead?

* * * *

As Marcus approached the village stables, he
glimpsed movement through the open door. He yanked aside his
steward Harris as a rider burst from the stables. The youth riding
the horse seemed not to notice he had forced them from his path and
galloped toward the village.

"Youth," Marcus muttered, and entered the
stables. "I want Gaelan's, Logan's, Sloan's, and Neal's places
finished by summer's end." He strode along the line of stalls.

Harris made notations in his notebook. "We
can have them patched by month's end."

"Patch Sloan's," Marcus said. "The others,
replace."

"That'll take 'til Fall, and we will need
materials."

"Order what you need from Edinburgh. In the
meantime, get started on the minor repairs for the other cottages.
I want you back in Ashlund by month's end. I don't plan on
returning for"—he thought of Elise in his bed, her hands on
him—"for some time." Marcus halted at the stall that housed the
horse he wanted to examine. "Gerald," he murmured to the gelding,
who stood, head hanging over the stall door. Marcus rubbed Gerald's
nose while he unlatched the door and stepped inside. "Getting along
in years, are you, lad? Harris," Marcus called.

Harris entered the stall.

"What do you think?" Marcus ran a hand down
the horse's leg. "He stumbled last week."

Harris squatted and looked closely at
Gerald's knee. "A might knobby." Harris stood and walked around the
horse, feeling belly and rump as he went. "His coat is dull
and"—the steward came around to the horse's head again—"his head is
hanging low."

"Aye," Marcus agreed. "We'll need two more
plow horses then. Alen could last another season, but we will use
him for delivery. Don't order from MacFie. I have another seller in
mind. Belgian draft horses."

"Aye," Harris replied.

Marcus went around the rump of the horse. "Go
yourself. There's a Russian Trotter I want you to look at. You can
order the supplies while in Edinburgh."

"What are ye saying?" A shout from outside
the stall intruded upon their conversation.

Marcus recognized the stable master's
voice.

"Where did they go?" Brady demanded.

"Mary didna' g-go with Elise," Craig, the
stable boy, stammered.

Marcus stilled.

"Bloody fool," Brady shot back. "You didn't
wonder why she wanted the mare?"

Marcus cursed and started for the door.

"W-why should I wonder?" the boy stuttered.
"You let Mary use your horse before. How could I know you changed
your mind?"

"Christ," Brady's voice was hoarse.
"MacGregor will whip us both."

Marcus lunged from the stall and Craig went
pale. Brady glanced over his shoulder and his eyes widened.

Marcus strode toward them. "Hold," he
commanded when it looked as if they would bolt.

"I had no notion—" Brady began, but Marcus
raised a hand.

He grabbed Craig by the collar, nearly
lifting him from the ground. "What happened?"

"Th-they came a-a-and g-go—"

"Pull yourself together," Marcus snapped.

Craig swallowed. "M-Mary and Elise came and
s-saddled Brady's mare. I didn't know they were not supposed t-to
take her."

"Nay?" He gave the boy a hard shake. "How
long ago did she leave?"

Craig hesitated, and Marcus said, "It is
nearly three now. How long?"

"This morning. Mayhap eight."

"You helped them saddle the mare?" Marcus
snapped.

"No! I heard them saddle the horse." He
hesitated.

Marcus's lips tightened. "Sleeping?"

Craig dropped his gaze.

"What did they say?" Marcus demanded.

"Elise was g-going to Michael's."

Marcus shoved Craig from him. "Saddle
Alexis."

"That devil?" Harris blurted.

"Alexis," Marcus repeated. "I will take even
the devil's help."

Ten minutes later, Marcus galloped out of the
stables. He left the path as soon as he found a reasonable place to
drive the stallion down the steep hills, cutting off more than half
the time Elise would have taken to reach Michael's. The resolve he
had made to whip her to within an inch of her life died when he
reached the cottage to discover she hadn't been there.

"I'll come with ye to find her," Michael
said. He turned and started toward the corner containing his
bed.

Marcus glanced at Michael's leg. The splint
was gone. "There's no time to saddle your horse."

"There is," the older man said, his voice
firm. "It will take but three minutes."

Marcus started to argue, but Michael strode
the last two paces to his bed, saying, "We can waste time arguing
if you like, but I'm going." He snatched up the coat lying on the
chest at the foot of the bed and turned to Marcus. "Go on ahead. I
can follow. Dalton will give Alexis a run for his money." He gave
Marcus a hard look. "If there is trouble, you'll be needing all the
help you can get." He strode past Marcus and out the door.

Cursing, Marcus followed. Three minutes
later, they rode.

Marcus yanked Alexis up short and leapt to
the ground when he at last sighted Elise's tracks. "They went down
here." He squatted, examining where the mare had lost her footing
on the mountainside.

"Aye." Michael dismounted.

"The mare threw Elise." Marcus motioned at
the wide swath of crushed ground dented from the mare's
landing.

He rose, moving slowly forward, ignoring the
tracks he knew had to be Campbells as his gaze scanned the ground.
He squatted again and carefully ran a finger over a smattering of
dried blood on a rock. Marcus looked onto the turf churned up where
riders had pulled up hard and fast alongside the place Elise had
fallen. He traced the tracks with his fingers, noting the change in
weight when they had dismounted.

"If she were dead, they would have left her,"
Michael said.

"Or they could have kept the body as a
bargaining tool. Where is the saddle? It fell off." Marcus scanned
the surroundings but found no sign of the saddle.

"They probably threw it down the mountainside
or took it," Michael said.

Marcus stood. Had he not taken the shortcut,
he would have noticed the tracks forty minutes ago. "Fetch Johnson
from Brahan Seer. He's our finest tracker. I'll follow the
tracks."

Marcus grasped his horse's pommel, then froze
at the sound of a low moan. "Did you hear," he began, but Michael
was already starting down the hill at a near run.

"Michael," Marcus shouted. The fool would
break his leg again, or worse.

Marcus raced after the old man and reached
him just as a body came into sight beyond the nearest fir tree.
Marcus's heart thudded in the instant before his mind registered
that it wasn't Elise but a man. Allister, he realized. The young
man's father had recently died and Allister had taken over the land
his father had tilled.

Marcus dropped to one knee beside him.
Allister stared up, eyes dark with pain.

"What happened, lad?" Marcus asked.

He licked his lips, then rasped,
"Campbells."

Fear knifed through Marcus. "Elise?" he
asked.

"Fell from her horse," Allister managed.

"There was no body, MacGregor," Michael
reminded him. "Allister is alive, so is she."

Marcus nodded and forced calm as he made a
quick assessment of Allister's injuries. His arm had been gashed
and a bruise had begun to form on his forehead, but no blood gushed
from any part of his body.

"Can you move?" Marcus asked.

"My leg… broken," he said.

Marcus nodded. "Hurts like the devil, I
wager."

Allister winced with what looked like
laughter at the obvious understatement.

"Can you manage until help arrives?" he
asked.

A steely glint lit the young man's eyes.
"Leave me a pistol and any Campbell that comes near will die."

"That's the spirit," Marcus said.

"I got one."

"What?"

"My dirk," the boy said.

"You did well." Marcus rose. "Michael will
leave you his weapon. If I overtake the bastards, I plan to use my
pistol."

Marcus hurried back up the hill with Michael
close behind.

Marcus mounted his horse. "You'll reach
Brahan Seer in ten minutes. I doubt any Campbells stayed behind,
but leave the boy your knife as well." Michael nodded. Marcus gave
the stallion a kick, and the beast lunged forward.

"MacGregor!" Michael shouted.

Marcus brought Alexis around in a sharp
turn.

"Dinna' do anything foolish. We'll be no more
than an hour behind. If—when—you find the lass, wait for us."

"Make it forty minutes," Marcus said, and dug
his heels into the belly of his horse.

* * * *

Elise blinked. The darkness around her gave
way to formless shadows that shifted before her eyes. She jostled
and groaned at the pain that spiked in all directions through her
body.

"Awake, eh?" The male voice crashed through
her head like a wave against a cliff.

She lay in the arms of the speaker, her back
against a muscular chest. A distant memory hovered. "Mar—" her
voice cracked. Then in a half whisper, "Marcus?"

He grunted. She went rigid. This wasn't
Marcus.

Elise closed her eyes, forced back the queasy
upheaval of her stomach, then opened her eyes again. All before her
looked as if she were looking through a fog. She squinted at the
blurring shadows. Slowly, images formed, and she realized she was
staring down at the moving ground. They were riding—her mind
registered the horse's rhythm beneath them. The horse's rhythm. She
had been riding—hard. The crystal-clear memory of the mare bearing
down on her when she'd been thrown caused her to shudder.

Then she remembered Allister.

Tears sprang to her eyes. The young man had
died because of her. His mother—Elise choked back a sob and a wave
of dizziness wrenched her stomach. She forced her breathing to
slow. At last, the nausea subsided and she shifted. Pain lanced
through her head, but she squinted at the blur that had come into
view on her right until the figure of a man riding came into focus.
He stared unabashedly.

Elise ignored the tremor his stare elicited
and looked past him, skyward, where dim points of light showed
through thin, grey clouds. She shifted again and found herself
staring up at the jut of a square jaw. Above that, the bluish hue
of moonbeams filtered through clouds. The pain relaxed to a dull
throb and her stomach settled. The clouds parted and the moon
blazed in her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut, but registered
its position and estimated the time as just past midnight.

"There's been no sign of MacGregor," her
captor said.

Marcus would have expected her to be at
supper tonight. He might not notice her absence, but Allister's
mother would notice his.

"The horses need rest," the other man said.
"They're spent."

"We stop up ahead," the man who held her
said. "Leave them saddled and tether them."

A few minutes later, they halted. Elise's
captor handed her down to the man who had stared at her. He pressed
her close to his chest. The hand wrapped around her legs slipped
beneath her skirt. She thrashed. Hot spikes of pain fingered out
through her body. His hand rubbed her outer thigh. She gave a weak
scream. He laughed, lowering his head toward her mouth.

"Rory!" her original keeper shouted, and took
her into his arms.

Elise fought tears as he turned and her heart
lurched when she caught sight of several more riders dismounting.
She kicked and slammed a fist down onto her captor's chest.

"Cease," he growled. "Fighting will do ye no
good."

She yielded, too spent to do anything else.
He strode to a cluster of medium-sized rocks, then set her down
against the rocks and returned to his horse. Rory approached,
horse's reins in hand. Elise tensed. Their gazes remained locked
until he disappeared from view behind her. Another man followed,
then the next and the next, and she realized the horses were being
tethered near where she lay.

Her keeper approached carrying a tartan and a
small pouch. He stopped beside her, shook out the tartan, and
squatted, settling the blanket over her. He regarded her. "We left
MacGregor land long ago. You are in Campbell territory and wouldn't
have a chance in hell in these hills. You cannot see, but 'tis
barren country. Nothing for miles."

"Why—" she stopped, seeing the implacable set
of his jaw.

He reached into the pouch and produced a
biscuit. He handed it to her. Elise took the food and watched him
stride to where his comrades sat huddled on smaller rocks. She
looked at the biscuit, then sniffed it. To her surprise, she
detected no mold. A small nibble and her stomach rumbled. She
pulled her knees up and reached for her foot. She unlaced one boot,
took it off, then did the same with the other. She arranged the
boots beside her and took another bite of the biscuit, while edging
herself into a more prone position. She took another, larger
bite.

"We should bind her hands." Rory's voice
abruptly broke the silence.