Chapter Nineteen

It was still dark. Aisla had opened her eyes a few times, roused out of her whirling, disorderly sleep, but each time she saw a black wall of nothingness. She could smell the minerals on the air, taste the silt on her parched tongue. Each time, she intended to move her legs and arms, but they felt solid and unwieldy. Her skull pounded like it’d been clubbed with a hammer, bright spots obscuring her vision and making her queasy. And then her eyes would drift shut again, though for how long she didn’t know.

How long had she been at the bottom of this shaft?

Long enough for her throat to burn from wanting a cool drench of water, her tongue feeling swollen and dry in her mouth. Her head still ached, as did her ribs and stomach, but she felt the pain changing from acute to something dull and throbbing. She’d broken through some rotted boards, and fallen. Slipped and tumbled, really. It hadn’t been a straight drop down, more like a slide. Her backside was rubbed raw, and everything ached. Bones could undoubtedly be broken, which only pushed her faint pulse into a faster clip.

Dougal. The blasted rotter.

Oh, God, he’d shot Fenella. Aisla could only pray that the wound had not been fatal, but it would be a stretch to assume that she would be in any condition to go for help.

She glanced around in the shadowy gloom of her prison, lit only from the meager light filtering down from above. Was this one of the cairngorm tunnels that hadn’t yielded any topaz? The tunnel smelled musty and unused, not even the scent of oil from lamps remaining behind. Her fear ratcheted a notch. Was there a reason it had been sealed? She couldn’t see in the darkness beyond where she’d landed, but the pitch black felt oppressive. Were there other tunnels that she could not see? Other holes that went deeper? She didn’t dare move for fear of falling further. The darkness pressed in on her, and she tried to calm the panic beating in her breast.

Someone would come, wouldn’t they? They had to.

When her brain faintly recalled what Fenella had remarked upon earlier, that it was a Sunday, and no miners were about, Aisla let her eyelids collapse once again. She’d be lucky if anyone discovered she was missing. Even Dougal, who would have seen her fall, had left her behind, likely to save his own skin. She hoped the dagger wound turned septic, the cowardly bastard. She heaved a sob, but her eyes stayed dry. How much longer could she last like this? Each time she broke out from the odd cushion of sleep, she felt weaker. Thirstier. It wouldn’t be long before she didn’t wake up at all.

Aisla shook off the idea, even giving her head a small toss. It fired off a shock of blinding agony, but she didn’t care. Feeling pain meant she was alive. It was what she needed. Clarity. Stubborn will. She had to stay awake; the next time she opened her eyes again she would only be weaker.

Have ye any idea how lovely ye are?

She gasped a breath of silty, stifled air as Niall’s voice whispered in her ear. It wasn’t him, she knew. No one was here with her. She didn’t even know why she was thinking of him of all people—he’d told her to leave, after all. But lying here alone and near death, Niall was the only thing she could think of. His rumbling laugh. Those blue, blue Maclaren eyes. The feel of his arms about her…the strength of his body lodged deep within hers.

She was his. She’d always been his.

The thought that she could well die without seeing him again or without telling him the truth of what she felt filled her with grief. But she wasn’t dead yet. Aye, she would fight. She’d fight now, whatever it took.

Dunnae give up, lass.

It was just her own imagination, but the voice was so clear and close, and Aisla knew it was exactly what he would have said to her right then. He’d want her to fight. To claw her way to freedom, even if it took every ounce of her fast-seeping strength.

He hadn’t ever let anything defeat him. Not the loss of his hand, when he’d been but a boy. Not the loss of her, either. He’d come to Paris, wanting to bring her home. And when he’d returned to Scotland alone, he’d rebuilt his life.

It must have felt like clawing his way to freedom, too.

Aisla forced her eyes open and pushed up onto her elbows with a strained groan. She was already sweating from the effort, her heart racing, when she heard Niall’s voice again, calling her name.

“I’m here, my love,” she whispered, scratching the words out of her throat. She couldn’t let it end this way.

She waited for her pulse to slow before trying to sit up fully. It hurt, but at least the pain was real. Swinging her arm out to feel for purchase, she felt it connect with the nearest wall. Aisla groped around, and realized the wall curved down to her right and left, straight to what looked like another gaping hole. Her mind etched a mental picture of where she sat, on a narrow ledge in some kind of narrow well, and her panic soared.

Was there even a way out, except for up? She would have to climb, but she doubted she had the strength. Already her breathing was labored, her lungs constricting painfully with every shallow breath. White spots converged on her vision again, making her eyelids feel heavy.

Sleep would bring ease. Maybe if she just closed her eyes again…

But then she heard Niall’s voice calling her name once again. Only this time it didn’t sound as close. It sounded distant, behind the rush of blood in her ears. Like it wasn’t coming from her own head at all. Her drooping eyes snapped open.

“Aisla, can ye hear me, lass? I’m here.”

No, that wasn’t just her imagination. It was her husband.

She drew in a strangled breath of relief, and immediately choked on a few particles of dust and dirt clogged in her throat, straining to see upward. Shadows moved through the thin beam of light. Her palms dug into the hard earth where she sat, her eyes watering at last. Niall. He’d come for her.

“Niall!” she tried to shout back, but her voice was still scratchy and dry and all that came out was a pathetic croak.

He was here, or was her brain playing tricks on her? The light seemed strange. There one minute, and gone the next. Her brain felt fuzzy, uncooperative.

“Niall!” she cried, but again, her throat felt like a dried husk.

Just as her elbow collapsed out from underneath her, Aisla thought she saw a flicker of light. It brightened the rough, pitted wall beside her for an instant, and then started dimming. Retreating. Aisla tried to call out once more, but it was nothing but air.

All fight gone, her heavy eyelids crashed down, and the darkness pulled her under.

…

Niall paced the length of the bedchamber at Maclaren, fury filling him. The thought of Dougal Buchanan was like a hot beacon. He took pleasure in itemizing the ways he would make the bastard bleed for what he’d done—for the woman he’d killed, and the one he’d left to die.

His gaze returned to his unconscious wife lying in the middle of the bed. Aisla had not yet awakened, even though the family doctor had come and gone, every inch of her wounds checked and scrupulously cleaned. The blood on her person had been mostly superficial, from the deep scratches on her palms and elbows. Miraculously, she had not sustained any broken bones, though she’d scraped her chin and cheeks raw, and the flesh of her shoulders, back, and behind was one large angry-looking bruise.

“When will she awaken?” he’d asked Doctor Stewart.

“’Tis hard to say, m’laird. There’s a sizeable welt on the back of her head, and head injuries are notoriously difficult to predict. I’m afraid we will just have to wait and see.” He’d patted Niall’s shoulder, having known him since he was a boy. “She’s young and healthy, lad. Have faith.”

But faith was in meager supply.

Every time he looked over to her narrow frame, his gut folded in on itself. She’d come so close to dying. His men had lowered him down into the shaft, whereupon he’d retrieved her. It was by some miracle that she’d tumbled onto a protruding guide beam made of timber that had been built to stabilize the tunnel. If it hadn’t been there, she would have fallen to her death. Perhaps not even found.

Niall could not categorize the rush of emotion that had filled him when he’d clasped her limp but alive body to his, and by the time they’d arrived back at Maclaren, his mother and Hamish had had to pry her out of his arms. He had not left her side in the past hour.

The chamber door creaked open, and Ronan strode in, not stopping until he’d enfolded his brother into a bear hug. “How is the lass?”

Niall choked back sudden tears. “Alive.”

“That’s good.”

“It’s no’ as easy as that,” he ground out. “She hasnae awakened. Nae broken bones, but she hit her head hard. She might no’ awaken. Ever.” His voice broke on the last word.

“She will,” Ronan said, and took a deep breath as if he had more to say. Niall motioned for him to continue. “The Campbell laird is here, and ’tis best if ye heard what he has to say for yerself.”

Niall’s jaw tightened. “Did they take Makenna?”

“Nae.” He shook his head. “But I will find her, dunnae fash. I have trackers on her trail. Will ye come?”

Niall spared Aisla one last lingering glance before following his brother out into the connecting sitting room where his mother sat with several of the women of Maclaren and Tarbendale in tearful vigil. He sucked in a ragged breath and met the duchess’s red-rimmed eyes. She had always loved Aisla from the moment she’d met her at Sorcha and Brandt’s wedding, and she’d been devastated to learn of the estrangement. On more than one occasion, she’d admonished Niall to go after his wife and bring her home, her disappointment obvious when he didn’t. He’d failed her, too.

“Will ye sit with her?” he rasped in a hoarse voice. “So she will see a friendly face if she awakens?”

“Of course, my darling.”

He didn’t say any more, but traced Ronan’s steps to the hall where the Campbell laird was waiting. To Niall’s surprise, the older man was alone and without weapons. Ronan’s soldiers, however, stood guard at the entrance.

“Laird Campbell,” Niall greeted the man, clasping his proffered hand.

“Please, call me Gregor. How fares yer lady?” the laird asked.

“Alive.” He gave the same answer he’d given Ronan, though with much less emotion. Even in his state, showing any weakness to another clan leader wasn’t wise, especially one as wily as Gregor Campbell. “Tell me why yer men took my sister.”

Gregor’s face went ruddy with outrage. “We didnae take Lady Makenna.”

“And the attacks on my mines?” Niall asked, watching him closely. “We found a strip of Campbell tartan after a deliberate collapse. Lives were lost.”

“None of my clan would do such a thing, I swear it to ye. I want an alliance with Maclaren, but no’ one built on deceit and treachery. Ye have my word.”

“Then tell me about Buchanan.”

He met Niall’s eyes, his shrewd brown gaze hiding nothing. “Dougal Buchanan approached me to court my daughter a year ago. She begged me to consider it. Little did I ken that he’d been wooing her in secret for months before coming to my doorstep. But the Buchanan clan is well known, and he claimed his father was interested in an alliance with Clan Campbell.” Gregor blew out a breath. “He also claimed to have childhood ties to Lady Aisla. He said that he could mend the rift between the Maclarens and the Campbells by getting the lady to champion a match with my eldest.”

Niall’s gaze slid to his older brother whose lips had hardened into a flat line at the mention of marriage. It was nearly comical how opposed he was to the idea. In normal circumstances, Niall would have ribbed him ruthlessly. “And ye believed him when Ronan himself had told ye nae?”

“Aye. He was very convincing. And my Rose was taken with his charm. I had nothing to lose. Either way, I would gain an alliance, with the Buchanans or the Maclarens.”

Niall shook his head slowly. “But that’s no’ what he planned. He killed one of my clan, a woman. Shot her in the stomach. Before she died, she said that he had baited her for information about Tarbendale, my sister, and my wife. He was behind the accidents on my lands, and it’s clear now that he planted Campbell colors so it would look like ye were behind it. He wants to cause a feud, and I suspect he’s using my sister to do it.”

“Laird Maclaren,” a breathless voice called as one of Ronan’s men, a wiry soldier named Auley, raced into the hall. “We’ve tracked them to the south border of Maclaren lands where they’ve made camp for the night in a ravine.”

Ronan stood so quickly his chair flew back. “And my sister?”

“Alive and kicking.”

The words brought heavy sighs of relief from both of them. Makenna would not have gone quietly. “Gather the rest of the men. We leave immediately.” Ronan glanced at Niall with a sympathetic look. “If ye wish to stay, I’ll understand.”

Niall scowled. “The only man laying a finger on Dougal Buchanan is me.”

It didn’t take long to assemble the small but fierce company that included the Campbell laird, who had a few questions of his own for Dougal Buchanan, Ronan and a handful of his strongest men, Hamish, Julien, and Niall. He wasn’t too thrilled about the presence of the Frenchman, but the man had proven himself earlier and seemed oddly adamant about finding Makenna.

Under cover of the quickly falling darkness, they followed Auley’s trail to where he’d left Buchanan’s men, and they surrounded the small encampment where a small fire glowed. Niall felt ice enter his veins and a strange sense of calm at the sight of Makenna, tied and gagged next to a tree. Ignoring Ronan’s cautionary look, he unsheathed his claymore and walked as boldly as he pleased into the center of the camp. The look of surprise on Dougal’s face as he leaped to his feet was almost worth it.

“Ye have something of mine, Buchanan.”

The man’s lips peeled away from his teeth in a grimace as he reached for the pistol at his hip, but a quick shout from Ronan and his men stayed his hand. Buchanan’s gaze landed on each of the warriors closing in, his eyes widening at the sight of Laird Campbell in the ranks, and then he shrugged carelessly, even though he could see they outnumbered his men three to one. He held Niall’s stare while his men were disarmed, and Makenna retrieved and untied.

“Are ye hurt? Did any of them touch ye?” Ronan asked. She shook her head. It didn’t miss either brother’s notice that she went straight to Leclerc, allowing him to gather her into an embrace that under normal circumstances would have earned him a thrashing. “Take her back to Maclaren,” Ronan said. “Some of my men will go with ye.”

After they had gone and Makenna was safely out of reach, Niall strode forward until he was nearly nose to nose with the man who had murdered Fenella and nearly killed Aisla. He was barely containing the rage that burned through him.

Buchanan grinned as if sensing his desire to slit his throat then and there. “I left someaught of yers in a shaft. Did ye find her yet?”

“The fact that she’s alive is the only reason I didnae put a bullet in yer head.” Something crazed flickered across the man’s face, a mix of desperation and jealous loathing. “Aye, she’s alive, Buchanan, and ye left her to die, like the coward ye are.”

“Why did ye do it?” That question came from Laird Campbell. “Seduce my Rose if ye wanted Laird Tarbendale’s woman.”

Dougal’s jaw cinched shut as if he wasn’t going to answer, and then a sigh hissed from his lips. “My father threatened to disown me if I didnae get back the alliance I had lost. He blamed me.” His gaze snapped to Niall. “When it was ye to blame for eloping with what was no’ yers to take. She was never meant for ye. She was mine.”

“Ye have an alliance,” Laird Campbell yelled. “With Rose.”

Dougal sneered at him. “The Buchanans will never align with the Campbells. My father has nae need of ye. The betrothal was all for show, though yer daughter was a lovely distraction. All I wanted was what was stolen from me.”

“I’ll kill ye.” But Ronan laid a palm on the older man’s shoulder, restraining him, and for that Niall was grateful. Dougal Buchanan was his.

“I didnae steal anything that didnae wish to be stolen,” Niall said. “And any contract ye had with the Mad Montgomery was ended after his death. Aisla chose me.”

“Did she now?” Dougal’s malicious glare flicked to the leather-covered stump of Niall’s left hand. “Look at ye…a useless, sodding cripple. Nae wonder she ran off to Paris, and came back to cuckold ye in yer own house. Ye’ll never be man enough for her. For any woman.”

Ronan started forward with a snarl, but Niall stayed him with a look that said this was his fight. Tamping down his roiling emotions, he lifted the hilt of his claymore. “Then why no’ fight me to see who is the better man? Prove yer prowess in battle. Ye against me.”

The man laughed. “One on one? With a sword?”

“Aye.”

“To the death?”

Niall nodded. “Ye may try.”

The men cleared a circle, and soon the two of them were facing off. Niall knew Dougal was strong, and a capable swordsman. He also knew the man would not fight fair. They tested each other with a few clashes of steel, and then the battle began in earnest as Dougal sent a two-handed strike toward Niall’s torso. He vaulted out of the way, but the tip of the claymore still tore through his shirt and barely missed his skin.

“How’s yer hand?” Dougal jeered. “Shall I cut off that one, too, so ye have a matching set?”

“Aye, I’m one-handed,” Niall said. “Yer two still willnae save ye.”

Sweat dampened his temple as Niall hefted his sword in one hand again. He swung down, twisting his body as he did, but Dougal deflected the strike with a twist of his own. He was quick for a big man, and fit. Niall had honed his strength from hours of outdoor labor, but his lungs were already burning to take in air after several bone-shaking clashes. Swinging the claymore overhead, he lunged forward and they met in another shower of sparks. Niall dodged as the blade came toward his cheek, rolling sideways and countering with a slashing upward movement.

It forced Dougal to retreat, though it didn’t stop his mouth from joining the fray. “Had enough, cripple?”

The man was good, Niall noted, but he was also predictable. Sword-fighting was a little like playing cards. Men did things that gave away either their thoughts or their next move. Niall hadn’t really been fighting Dougal before. He’d been learning him. He smiled.

“What are ye grinning for?” Buchanan snarled. “Ye’re losing.”

Niall didn’t answer, but arched a mocking eyebrow as if to dispute the statement. It had the intended effect. With a roar, Dougal charged with deadly intent. Niall stood his ground, shifting at the last moment to land a well-placed blow down his opponent’s shoulder. Dougal screamed a foul curse as blood soaked his shirt. He gripped his shoulder with one hand as more blood poured from the wound. Niall blinked. His sword strike had been a slice not a gouge. Dougal should not be bleeding so copiously…unless he’d been injured earlier.

By Aisla’s dagger.

His grin widened. “I made that dagger she threw at ye, ye ken,” he said, pride in his voice. “She should have put it in yer bloody eye.”

Dougal howled with rage and came at him again, but Niall ducked easily and deflected the blow, before landing another swipe to the man’s stomach, making him drop to his knees. It was the turning point. He had the advantage.

But suddenly Niall felt tired. He wanted to go back home to Aisla. Nothing else mattered but her, not even vengeance. He wanted to hold her in his arms, see her open those beautiful copper-colored eyes. Tell her how much he loved her. Beg for her forgiveness every day if he had to.

He held the point of his claymore to Dougal’s throat. “Yield,” he said. “Before I change my mind.”

“Never.”

Niall pressed the blade downward, watching as the point of it dented the man’s skin. It would be so easy to lean into it, to finish it then and there. But he pulled back. “Ye willnae be that lucky. A hero’s death by the blade is no’ for ye. Ye’ll be hanged for yer crimes, Dougal Buchanan.”

Niall turned away, and was only alerted to movement by Ronan’s shout. It was by sheer luck that he angled sideways, the dirk, aimed at his back, whistling through the air, its deadly blade clipping the lobe of his ear. Niall dropped to one knee and thrust his claymore up and back, feeling it slide home through bone and muscle. He turned to see Dougal standing there in astonishment, his sword raised above his head and ready to strike, Niall’s claymore lodged in his dishonorable chest.

He fell backward with a thump. Quite dead.