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  The man turned, gave him a wary look, then moved ahead. They walked for a long while, then the man stopped. Nab climbed a hill and signaled Rory to move next to him.

  He looked down. Shadows materialized beneath them. Cattle. Many of them. A fire was barely visible under a shelter of some kind.

  “Maclean cattle,” the man next to him muttered. “There were none here three days ago.”

  Rory did not ask how he knew. Apparently his kinsmen kept an eye on Campbell properties.

  He peered through the mist that had started to fall. He could barely make out three shapes. “You said there were four men. I see only three.”

  “Two near at the shelter. One straight across. Another to the left of us.”

  “I will take the one closest to us,” Rory said, “then the one to the far side. Move close to the two near the fire but do not act unless they see one of us. Wait until you hear the hoot of an owl. That means I have taken down the two.” He paused, then added, “I do not want anyone killed unless you have no choice.”

  He did not give Nab an opportunity to protest, though Rory sensed the man intended to do just that.

  Rory moved swiftly ahead, his shoes making no noise in the gentle but incessant patter of rain. He skirted around until he was in back of the first man, then he stepped forward and put his left arm around the man’s neck, the other hand over the man’s mouth and dragged him down. Before the Campbell had time to react, Rory hit him sharply with the heavy hilt of his dirk, then bound his captive with strips from his own clothes.

  Then he moved stealthily behind the second man, who sat on a rock.

  He threw a stone, and when the guard turned, Rory struck him on the head and caught his body as he fell. He quickly bound him as he had bound the first man.

  He glanced toward the flickering light of a fire, which just barely flamed. He saw Nab’s large figure in the shadow.

  Rory moved swiftly between trees until he was near the shelter, made a soft sound, like the hoot of an owl. As he threw another stone in the opposite direction, two men moved from the makeshift shelter of limbs and brush. Nab took one, and Rory lunged toward the other. Stealth no longer mattered.

  In seconds, Rory had his man bound. Nab was still struggling with his. Both men—his and the Campbell—had daggers. Rory stepped behind the Campbell and grabbed him behind the neck. In a moment, he, too, was bound.

  Nab looked at him indignantly. “I could have taken him.”

  “Aye, and blood would have been shed.”

  “’Tis a natural thing to shed Campbell blood.”

  “If we want them to exchange the favor,” Rory said dryly. “There has been enough bloodshed. We take back that which belongs to us. We need do no more.”

  “Except to avenge our people.”

  “Do you want more to die?” Rory asked.

  The man stared at him through the rain. Faces were barely visible.

  Nab finally nodded. “I will fetch the others to take the cattle.”

  “I will wait with these guards in case anyone comes.”

  Rory watched his companion disappear into the rain, then he checked the bonds of the Campbell prisoners before squatting before the fire. He’d barely warmed himself when Malcolm and the others appeared, herded the cattle in front of them, and started back to their own property.

  Rory watched them leave, then loosened the bonds of one of the prisoners. It would still take the man hours to free himself but it was no longer impossible. No Campbell would die this night from exposure.

  Felicia waited until well past midnight.

  The Cameron escort had arrived late that afternoon. They planned to leave with Janet at daybreak. Felicia’s escort to Edinburgh was to arrive in ten days.

  Felicia instructed the staff to serve their best wine to their visitors, while she avoided as much contact with them as possible.

  As she had hoped, most retired early, having drunk copiously of wine usually reserved only for their chiefs. Felicia had been uncommonly generous.

  She hadn’t told Janet what she planned for later in the evening.

  Instead, she told Janet she needed sleep, went to her own chamber, and stayed awake until the castle had stilled. When she felt confident that most were abed, she took the candle from her bedside and crept down the corridor and the stone steps to the great hall where the Camerons slept.

  No one stirred. She opened the great door and slipped outside, hurrying to the stables. The grooms, knowing the castle gate had been closed, should be abed as well.

  The night was very dark. Clouds eclipsed any light from stars and moon. Moisture was in the air. Rain would fall the next day, possibly in the next few hours. A cold wind blew, molding her cloak against her body and blowing her hair free of the bonnet she wore. Her hand shielded the flame from the candle to keep it from going out.

  She relished the feel of the sharp, cold, wet chill. Her prayers had been answered. Almost.

  She could assist those prayers.

  She went into the tack room. The candle flickered from a breeze blowing through the barn doors. Her heart nearly stopped. It couldn’t go out. Not now.

  The flame stabilized. She carefully placed the candle-holder on a ledge, then went to the saddles belonging to the Cameron clansmen. She slipped a dagger from her boot and quickly sawed halfway through a dozen girths from underneath. Hopefully, no one would detect the cuts until it was too late. Falls. Confusion. A chance for her to escape those protecting her.

  She worked with quiet efficiency and buried her guilt. They were good horsemen. A simple fall would not hurt them.

  And she would need all the diversion she could contrive.

  Finished, she crept back to her big feather bed. Tonight would be the last time she would sink into its comfort.

  Felicia slept restlessly f6r only a few hours and before dawn. She went to the window and thanked God when she saw heavy rain falling.

  Janet would be expected to wear protective clothing.

  In an hour or less, the Cameron escort would be prepared to leave.

  She lit a candle from the huge fireplace where a few embers still burned from the great pieces of wood that had filled it last eve. She placed several additional pieces of wood inside, then waited until the chamber warmed.

  She dressed hastily before her maid came in. A boy’s clothes first, clothes filched from the trunks of her cousin’s younger days. Then a chemise and a plain underdress and overdress of her own. She tucked her hair beneath a dark cap and stared at herself in the mirror.

  She and Janet both had blue eyes, although hers were darker; hopefully the difference would not be noticed in the gloom of dawn. Most of her face was shielded by one of Janet’s wool plaids. The cap and cloak would cover her unruly red curls.

  She planned to be late, to join the departing riders after most were already mounted.

  Janet knocked and entered, a tray in hand. “I told your maid that you were ill and I would bring you something to eat,” she said.

  Felicia went to her friend and took the tray, put it down on a table, then clasped Janet’s hands. “Thank you. I will see that no one blames you. A sleeping potion. Take it when I leave. Everyone will believe I gave it to you.”

  Janet’s eyes met hers.

  “Felicia, are you quite determined to do this?” Janet’s voice broke with worry.

  “I am,” Felicia said.

  “If they discover who you are, they will bring you back. Your uncle will be very angry.”

  “He cannot do anything more to me than what he has already done,” Felicia said. “If only I can get to London …”

  “But how?”

  “I’ll travel as a boy to London. I have my mother’s jewels. I can sell them if necessary. If I can find Jamie, I think he will help me.”

  “But you are a woman.”

  And gently born women did not travel alone. Many terrible things could happen, which was why she intended to pose as a lad. But she knew her fate if she rem
ained in Scotland.

  Her silence prompted another question from Janet. “How will you lose the escorts?”

  “I have an idea or two,” Felicia replied, once more feeling a stab of guilt at not telling her friend that she had already taken some action to make escape easier. The less Janet knew, the safer she would be. Her friend did not lie well.

  Neither did she. But now her life and future were at risk, and desperation made possible actions that had been unthinkable before.

  “Then what?” Janet asked.

  “There are many caves in the area,” Felicia replied. “Jamie used to take me exploring. He said I should know where to hide if I were ever caught outside the gates.” If she could reach them, she could hide for several days, then travel as a lad to London, to Jamie. He would find a way to assist her, and in London he could do it without anyone knowing.

  She realized it was not a particularly clever plan. In fact, it was not even a plan, just a desperate, headlong escape.

  “Jamie will help you,” Janet assured her. Her face softened as she mentioned Jamie’s name. “He cares for you,” she said. “He feels you are the only one in this family who has truly loved him.”

  Felicia was startled by the observation. Jamie seldom expressed his feelings. She knew that there was little affection between him and his father.

  In the back of her mind were many questions and fears she would not admit to Janet. Could she ask Jamie to risk his future, even his life to help her? The only possible way she could ask for his assistance was if she could do it in a way that no one would ever know his connection with her disappearance.

  Janet helped her pull her long red hair into a cap so that not a single tendril escaped. Then she assisted her with the cloak and plaid that wrapped around most of her face.

  Felicia went to the window. “They are mounted and waiting.” She went over to Janet and put her arms around her in a hug. “I will never forget you for this. Thank you.”

  “Just be safe. Find a way to let me know you are.”

  “I will. God keep you.”

  “And you.”

  Felicia tried to still the trembling in her hands. She was leaving everything she knew for an uncertain future. If she were discovered, her uncle would keep her captive until the wedding. He most probably would do more.

  She swallowed the bile in her throat.

  She was alone. So very alone.

  She hurried down the stone steps to the great hall, then out the door. Ten mounted men waited for her.

  The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle, but a light fog enveloped the distant hills. The cold temperatures would make the day miserable for all of them. The men were obviously anxious to get under way.

  One soldier, obviously the leader, gave his reins to a mounted man and helped her mount. She nodded her thanks as she swung up on the saddle. Thank God both she and Janet were good riders. And she knew Janet’s white mare. Somehow, she vowed silently, she would get the well-mannered horse back to her friend.

  “My lady,” the soldier said. “We will make the journey as comfortable as possible.”

  She nodded again.

  The first deception had succeeded. Perhaps the mist and fog would assist her escape. She prayed that both held.

  She held her breath as they departed through the gates. Another small success.

  As if in answer to her prayer, the fog deepened, obscuring everything but the rider directly ahead and directly behind. If it would last only a few more hours.

  She prayed harder.

  Janet’s maid rode just behind her, bouncing up and down like a sack of potatoes, and close behind her rode two men. The others rode in front, the leader often looking back to see whether she was still with them.

  Despite the slice in the girths, she knew they would not part without strain. She needed to increase the pace and the pressure on the girths. She looked around. No one was looking at her.

  The trail widened. The fog was still thick. This was her chance!

  She dug her heels into the sides of the mare. The mare bolted, running past the forward member of the guard. She screamed for help, then held on for dear life. She heard the shouts of her escort, the pound of hooves behind her. The mare was frantic now, and Felicia did nothing to curb her. A horseman approached close to her side, reaching for her reins when he cried out and she saw him tumble from the saddle.

  Another horseman drew close. She glanced back, screamed as if in terror, then he, too, fell. Shouts and curses followed her as her mare ran into another thick patch of fog.

  She worked the reins, managed to regain control but slowed the pace only slightly. The shouts continued behind her. She noticed an opening to the left and abruptly guided the mare into it and dismounted. The mare shuddered, and she ran her hand down her neck to calm her.

  The human noises faded as she walked swiftly. She was not sure where she was. She would worry about that later. She wanted to put distance between the escort and herself. But first she had to calm the horse and make sure the mare did not stumble into some hole.

  She left the faint trail and moved into the forest The going was much slower now. The fog confused her sense of direction. She stopped frequently to listen for voices or the sound of horses.

  Minutes passed. She hurried her steps, praying she was going in the right direction.

  Her feet sank into wet ground. Her skirts were heavy and laden with moisture. Still, her only concern was reaching the hills and caves. She could hide there until they stopped searching the area.

  A hand suddenly clasped her arm, another stifling the scream that rose in her throat. A piece of cloth was expertly tied around her mouth, and she felt herself being hoisted onto a horse.

  Fear spiked inside her as a body rose behind her. Thick arms imprisoned her and grasped the reins of a horse far larger than the mare she’d been leading.

  The Camerons?

  But they wouldn’t treat their lady in such a way. Nor would they gag her if they had discovered her deceit. Her body necessarily leaned against what seemed an enormous man.

  “Ye will no’ be harmed,” came a whisper in her ear.

  Then without any additional words from the man, the horse plunged back onto a trail, and she was aware only of speed and strength.

  She had escaped.

  But to what?

  Chapter 3

  “Where in the devil is Archibald?”

  Rory faced Douglas in the room that served them both as an office.

  Douglas raised his eyes upward, as if appealing to a higher being. “I canna say, my lord.”

  “Can not or will not?”

  “Archibald goes his own way.” Douglas avoided answering the question.

  “Aye, and so do too many on this property,” Rory said without trying to disguise his displeasure. “I do not think my father tolerated such disrespect.”

  “I do no’ think Archibald meant any disrespect,” Douglas said. “He has always had the clan’s interest at heart.”

  His gaze didn’t meet Rory’s, and that was rare. Douglas was the most forthright man Rory knew, particularly in the Scottish highlands, which too often bred duplicitous scoundrels.

  Rory was getting a very bad feeling.

  “I want to make peace with the Campbells,” he warned.

  “You made that clear,” Douglas said. “But they burned some of our crofts to the north. If we do not retaliate beyond reclaiming our cattle, they will continue their burning and stealing.”

  “I plan to meet with the Campbell in Edinburgh. A truce would help both clans.”

  “’Tis a fine dream, but I fear an impossible one. We have been fighting near a hundred years, ever since—”

  “Then it is time to end it. There has been enough pain and death. Both the Campbells and Macleans are losing cattle and men. Even power. An alliance would gain us both.”

  “And put the curse to rest,” Douglas added.

  Rory glared at him. God’s blood, he hated the very ment
ion of that damned curse.

  He told himself he was a modern man. He did not believe in curses. Many women died in childbirth. Many lost their child as well. And his second wife? Fever had swept through Leith, the seaport near Edinburgh. His wife was one of many who died.

  Bloody bad luck. Nothing more.

  Still, the pain was always in him like the tip of a poisoned spear. He lived with loneliness. With fear. With memories.

  Maggie walking among the heather, her eyes lit with laughter and love and the pure joy of living.

  Maggie giggling as she told him they would have a child. A son. She was quite convinced of it.

  Maggie as she clutched his hand and tried gallantly to stifle screams when the baby wouldn’t come and she bled to death.

  Maggie who had been his first love, who had stolen his heart and never disappointed. She had thought otherwise. Her last words were, “I am sorry, so sorry … your son …”

  And then she stopped breathing.

  The agony was as fresh now as it had been then. Just as it was for Anne who had been an innocent, who had loved him even as he had not been able to return that love until it was too late.

  “Rory?”

  He looked back at Douglas.

  “You canna mourn forever. You have a duty to the clan.”

  “I will hear no more of it. Patrick will return. He will provide an heir. I will not.”

  He strode away, his heart like a rock inside him. He would not marry. He could not. He did not believe in a curse, but he did believe he was a Jonah to anyone who loved him. It had been the sins of his past, not a century-old curse that haunted him.

  Damn this place. Tragedy and death stalked every corridor. He hated every foot of it. He hated the endless and futile feuds. The victims were never the men who instigated the violence, but the crofters who wanted only to grow enough crops to see them through the next year.

  How many had been burned out, their homes destroyed, their crops spoiled, their animals taken? How many babies would die this year?

  He knew overtures to the Campbells and the Scottish king would dismay his clan, perhaps alienate them. He was chief by consent. He could well be displaced.

  But by whom?