Chapter Eighteen

A chunk of topaz crumbled beneath the sharp carving tool for the third time, and Niall swore loudly, nearing throwing both gem and tool against the wall. Normally, carving the smaller pieces of cairngorm calmed him. Being able to focus on something so small and detailed took all of his concentration. However today, he simply could not focus. And not just because he’d sent his faithless wife on her way, though that contributed to a large portion of it. No, he couldn’t focus because every other moment his mind flipped wildly between memories of the last night, when he and Aisla had come together in such honest passion and lust, and then of that morning, when he’d found her and Leclerc at the folly.

How could she have left him to meet another man? The idea of it made him senseless with rage. He could not have gone back to sleep after he’d returned to Maclaren. No, instead, he’d ridden west to MacLeod and woken a sleepy Hamish for a bruising round of fisticuffs. Niall had wanted to be knocked unconscious so he wouldn’t have to pay attention to the void yawning inside of him and threatening to swallow him whole.

Always one to oblige, Hamish had given him a pounding.

“Is it the lass?” he’d asked.

Niall had been forced to smash him in the jaw for that one. “Nae,” he’d hissed, dodging the weight of Hamish’s hammer-like fists.

“Ye’re too spitting mad for it to be anything else.” A low, hard jab caught Niall square in the stomach, making him nearly lose his footing. “And it’s too bloody early.”

“She’s leaving Scotland.”

Hamish had laughed. “Came to her senses, aye? Always thought she was too good for the likes of ye.”

The taunt had met its mark. She’d always been too good for him, clearly. So good that she’d sought satisfaction elsewhere. Or maybe all she’d wanted to do was win the wager. Get him into her bed and then call the victory. Hell, if that were the case, she’d well and truly bested him. He hadn’t even known he’d been the one being seduced. Pride and anger reared up within him, making him see red. “Shut yer gob and fight, ye sack of shite.”

And Niall had fought with a vengeance then, like a possessed man, so much so that Hamish had yielded after several punishing bouts, his eyes wide with disbelief that Niall still wanted more. Even Hamish’s considerable pugilistic skills hadn’t been enough to flatten the demons surging to life in his brain…tormenting him, laughing at him. He ached, but they hadn’t felt a damned thing.

After riding back to the keep, Niall had tried to throw his energies into working in his carving studio, but clearly, that had also failed, leaving one other option. Walking into his study, he reached into the drawer of his desk for the bottle of whisky that was usually there, forgetting that he’d thrown it into the fireplace. He hadn’t bothered to replace it. He sank into the chair behind the desk and kneaded his head.

The castle had been quiet when he arrived home, and he’d been grateful Fenella had not been waiting for his return, eager to gloat about Aisla. He didn’t want to speak of her, not ever again. Had she even left yet? Would he know if she did? Taking all her light with her?

Enough, Niall. It’s over.

The pain roiled anew in his gut, and he nearly doubled over from the force of it. Niall doubted his body could go another round with Hamish, but if that was what it took, he would brave it. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, then scrubbed a restless hand through his hair. Perhaps a swim in the loch would take the edge off. A long swim, clear to the other side. And back.

“Laird,” a footman said. “There’s a gentleman here to see ye.”

Niall’s eyes narrowed. A gentleman? “Show him in.”

It took everything within him to not jump the expanse of his desk like a wild animal and lay the man who entered flat on his arse. As it was, he rose, his fingers nearly cracking the solid mahogany edge of the desk. “Ye risk a lot coming here, Leclerc,” he snarled in warning before prowling to the other side of the desk.

“Makenna is missing.”

About to blister the man for his familiar address, Niall halted in his tracks. “What do ye mean she’s missing?”

Leclerc didn’t appear any more put together than he did earlier, at the folly, and now a hint of frenzied panic lit his eyes. “She takes early morning rides, and the stableboy at Maclaren just informed me that her mount returned on its own to the keep.”

A drip of unease slipped into Niall then. “She’s a competent horsewoman, but the animal still could have thrown her. I’ll get a group of men together and set out.”

Leclerc raised a hand to stay him. “There is more. I spoke to Pauline, Aisla’s maid. She said your housekeeper visited Aisla’s bedchamber this morning and said some concerning things.”

Niall nearly growled. “I dunnae wish to discuss her with ye. Thank ye for yer concern over my sister, but ye can take yer leave now.”

“Don’t be a stubborn fool.” The Frenchman had the nerve to stalk toward him, his mouth tightening into a scowl. “What your housekeeper said may involve Lady Makenna.”

Niall forced himself to calm, and listen. If only for Makenna’s sake. He folded his arms across his chest and nodded curtly for the man to continue.

“Apparently, the lady has had…relations with Dougal Buchanan, and during that time, shared information with him. About Aisla and Makenna among other things.”

Fenella and Dougal? Niall hadn’t even known the two were acquainted. His ears started to ring, his body on alert as his mind turned over the things the Frenchman was saying.

“Ye think he has something to do with Makenna’s horse coming back alone?” he asked.

Leclerc nodded, his lips a grim line. “As you’ve said, she’s a competent horsewoman. Either she’s taken an innocent fall or something more sinister is at play here.”

A sudden thought all but stopped Niall’s pulse. “Where is Aisla?”

“I don’t know, Pauline said she went to find you.” Leclerc swore under his breath. “You haven’t seen her?”

Overtaken by dread, Niall stormed toward the study door and into the corridor just as a scream rent the air. He, and Leclerc behind him, broke into a sprint, turning down the steps and toward the ruckus below. In the foyer, a handful of maids surrounded a man, his shirt stained with blood, and in his arms, a limp and bleeding Fenella.

Niall’s feet stuck to the bottom step as the man, one of his sheep-farming tenants, saw him. “My laird! I found her crawling across my field. She’s been shot.”

“Put her down there,” Niall ordered, gesturing to a long bench. The farmer did as he was told, lowering Fenella to the wooden seat.

Makenna was missing. Fenella had been shot. Where the devil was Aisla?

“Niall.” He heard Fenella’s low rasp even through the pounding panic in his ears. He went to her, kneeling at her side. Blood. It was everywhere, dampening her tartan and her ashen skin.

“Fenella, what happened?” he asked, taking her hand, slick with her own blood, and holding it tightly. She would not live. One look at the wound, in the center of her stomach, assured him of that.

“’Tis my fault,” she wheezed. “I’m so sorry, Niall.”

“Nonsense, nothing is yer fault, lass,” he whispered. “But ye must tell me what’s happened. Where is Aisla? And Makenna, do ye ken what’s happened to them?”

Fenella rolled her head to and fro. “’Twas Dougal. I didnae ken…he wants to destroy ye and everything ye’ve built.”

“Where?” Leclerc asked.

She coughed, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth. “The mine…he went after Lady Aisla…”

Cold, hard terror silenced the rapid beat of his heart, his uneven breathing. Dougal had Aisla.

“I wronged ye, Niall,” Fenella whimpered, her eyes watery with tears. “I wanted the two of ye apart. I lied about yer wife to make ye jealous when ye were first married, and the past few weeks as well, with the Frenchman. ’Twas wrong of me. I’m so sorry.”

Niall couldn’t dredge up a lick of anger, not right then. Fenella was confessing her sins on her deathbed, and he knew he could do no more than listen.

“Perhaps, lass, but ye’ve done right by her and me now, ye ken. Ye fought hard to come back here, to tell us what’s happened, and I thank ye, Fenella, for that.”

She closed her eyes, tears rolling down her temples, and grimaced. It was a painful wound, no doubt, and she must have struggled at least a mile or more before the farmer had found her. Whatever she’d done in the past to drive him and Aisla apart, he’d sort it out later. He’d be angry about it later. When her grip loosened, and went light, Niall knew it was over. Her grimace smoothed out, and he felt a surge of grief. But there was no time for it right then.

“Take care of her,” he said to the weeping maids, then turned to the solemn farmer, drenched in Fenella’s drying blood. “Go to Maclaren and inform Ronan what ye’ve just heard.”

The man bobbed his head, but Leclerc cut in. “He’s not at Maclaren. I went to him before coming here. He’s the one who sent me to you. I believe he intends to pay a visit to the Campbell.”

Good. Knowing Ronan and his warriors were already on the move gave him a little comfort, though not nearly enough. Niall tried to remain calm as he supplied himself with a long rifle and pistol, and plenty of shot and powder while Leclerc secured two horses. The two started out toward the mine without exchanging a single word. They maintained a fierce gallop, all the while Niall’s mind crashed and roiled with images of what could be happening to Aisla at that moment.

Had she and Makenna been captured by Dougal or the Campbells? It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination, especially after recent tensions and Ronan’s refusal to marry one of the Campbell’s daughters. Surely, Laird Campbell wouldn’t do something as barbaric as stealing a Maclaren lady. Then again, if the Campbell wished for some kind of leverage to force an alliance, an abduction would be the way to do it. Some old Scottish ways still ran rampant through the clans. The thought filled him with mind-numbing dread.

Leclerc and a handful of other men rode behind Niall, the sounds of pounding hooves a thunder in his ears. Ahead, another foursome of riders, led by Hamish, cleared some trees and came toward them, joining their pack without so much as a question. Word must have spread, fast as fire, Niall guessed. And here his friend was, ready to help.

“Take yer men to the loch!” Niall shouted to Hamish. “We’re to the quarry!”

With an answering shout, his friend wove to the left, taking his men with him. If Dougal had taken Aisla, he could have taken her anywhere by now. But the mine was the first, logical place to look. And Fenella had said they’d been there.

Niall spurred his horse to climb the forested path, his mind refusing to leap ahead to what he might find at the quarry. What if she’d put up a fight against Dougal? God, what if he’d shot her as well? He took small comfort in the fact that the man clearly desired Aisla, and perhaps, she might still be alive.

With a burst of speed and anger, and not a little bit of fear, Niall broke through the trees and came onto the ridge. His eyes immediately found the stone mining shafts, and just as he expected, saw the place was abandoned. Sundays were always that way.

“M’laird!” He heard a man’s shout through his own pounding pulse. Niall twisted in his saddle and followed the direction of one farmer’s outstretched arm, pointing to a pool of browning blood soaked into a patch of grass.

“Fenella was shot here,” he said, though needlessly.

Niall inspected the area from his saddle, hope dimming that he would find anything of use. But then he saw a glint of light near a pile of discarded rock and rubble.

He jumped from his saddle and went to it, crouching with his breath caught in his throat. His fingers brushed the topaz hilt of Aisla’s dagger, the blade stained red. Her blood, or Dougal’s? He picked it up, knowing in his soul that she would have defended herself. She would have hit her target, without a doubt, and perhaps it had given her a chance to get away.

He stood, wiping and pocketing the dagger.

“Look around!” he shouted to the other men, his own panic barely contained. “Check for anything on the ground, any marks. If she was here, she couldnae have gone far.”

Obediently, the men spread out. Niall exhaled and tried to calm himself, but it was an impossible task. His sister was missing, too, though he hadn’t yet allowed himself to think about her. Or Fenella. No, he had to stay focused on Aisla. His wife.

“Over here!”

He ran to join some of his men stooping near the mouth of one of the tower houses—and froze. A small powder keg lay on its side, and looked to be empty. Nearby, a line of fuse lay on the ground. It ran straight into the tower house.

“Careful, lads,” Niall said, his heart pounding. Dougal had been setting an explosion in the tunnels, but it looked as though his plan had been cut short. Because of Aisla?

“Look for a blood trail,” Niall said. “Aisla might have wounded him.”

The men scattered out again while a few carefully followed the fuse line into the tower house.

His eyes scoured the mining shafts and huts scattered over the ridge. Would she have tried to make it back to Maclaren on foot? Or Tarben Castle?

“Laird!”

The shout gave him a twin burst of hope and fear. He charged in the direction of the voice, and found three of his men crowded around the opening of one of the abandoned mines. The stone tower house was squat and crumbling, and it had been years since it had been in use.

“The boards over the shaft are gone,” a man said as soon as Niall arrived. “It looks like someone broke through.”

He shouldered by the men and peered down the shaft. In the low light, he saw a swath of blue far below. Aisla had been wearing a blue riding habit earlier.

“Dear God in heaven,” he murmured, and then to the men behind him, “Someone get me a rope.”