Rosston’s men descended on them like a swarm of bees, and Duncan accepted being shoved out of the way as they cut their chief free and dragged him from the saddle. Duncan had had to tie Rosston’s hands around the horse’s neck to keep him from falling off.
A minute later, Rosston’s earsplitting cry cut through the hum. The whiskey they were pouring on his shoulder seemed to have jolted him out of whatever rest he’d been getting, and one of the men was threading a hideously long needle. Stomach rising, Duncan turned to get on with his duties. He needed to deliver Archie to the agreed spot, which as best as Duncan could calculate was still an hour away.
He tried to push the picture of Abby, abandoned and if not actually pregnant then as vulnerable as a woman who was, standing by a slaughtered English soldier out of his head. She had a given him an order. He would do it.
He adjusted Archie’s plaid, which had become tangled in the process of transporting Rosston, and checked the hiding place in Archie’s sock.
Duncan froze. His finger found nothing in the closely knit wool. He checked the other sock, in case he’d misremembered the side, but there was nothing in either of them. The silk and its message were gone.
The snugness of the hidden pocket and the light weight of the silk, made it impossible for him to believe the message had fallen out. He would have liked to believe Rosston had stolen it for a purpose Duncan could not imagine, but the truth was painfully obvious: Abby had taken it and intended to have the soldiers find it on her.
He pushed through the circle of clansmen.
“Watch yerself,” one said. “We’re working on him.”
“I need to talk to him,” Duncan said. “Alone.”
Rosston, who was half-awake, waved his men off. The man with the needle gave Duncan a sour look, laid his work on Rosston’s half-stitched shoulder, and rose. “’Twould be good to get him finished before he passes out again, ye ken?”
“I ken.”
The moment the men were out of earshot, Duncan knelt down beside the makeshift surgery space, which evidently was the cleanest of the blankets the men had with them. Rosston had lost a lot of blood and his face showed it. The gaping hole in his shoulder had been replaced with a curved line of ragged, bloody Xs.
“The plans are gone.”
Rosston groaned. “Christ, Abby.”
“Why would she take it?” Duncan demanded, hoping Rosston had a different idea.
“Because she was sure to get searched.”
“Dammit! She ordered me to deliver the dead man—forced me to swear to it. Was that only to ensure I left her there on her own?”
“And to get me to a surgeon.” Rosston turned his head in the direction they’d come. “Oh, Abby, ye headstrong girl.”
“Where would they take her? I mean, if they searched her and found the note?”
Rosston licked his lips. “Outside a burned out castle just over the border. ’Tis the army’s northern headquarters. Follow the vale till the firth. You’ll see the wall.”
“But I took an oath to her, as head of the clan. I am pledged to do as she says. Tell me, Rosston, must I heed her command to deliver the body? She may very well have a plan she has not shared with me that my arrival would destroy. Do I do as she says or as I think?”
Rosston closed his eyes, and for a moment Duncan thought he had slipped into unconsciousness again. Then the lips fluttered open. “In this case, as you might say, bugger the clan.”
Duncan jumped to his feet.
“Wait.”
Duncan stopped.
“I owe you my life,” Rosston said.
“I was glad to help.”
Rosston snorted but the motion made him wince. “You weren’t. And I wouldna have been glad to help you.” He shifted uncomfortably. His cheeks had already begun to shine with fever. “But as grateful as I am, I dinna intend to let you have her.”
“Abby is not a woman one ‘lets’ do anything, ye ken, certainly not you or I.”
“Ye saved my life, and I willna harm you. But I want your word ye will leave her alone.”
“You’re wasting your breath,” Duncan said, impatient. “If she wants me, she’ll have me.” He stood.
“Damn you.” Rosston grabbed his arm. “She’s mine.”
“Ye have no power to possess or bequeath,” Duncan said, pulling himself free. “She is not a soup tureen or a crate of gold. If you would just realize that, you blistering fool, you might actually have a chance with her.”
An unsettling confection of surprise and satisfaction appeared in Rosston’s glazed eyes and he smiled. “Could it be ye dinna know what transpired between us last night?”
The words cut Duncan like a broadsword. Every particle of his being longed to know what Rosston dangled before him, but somewhere inside his chest a tiny ember of his trust in Abby flickered.
“Go to hell.” Duncan turned for the horse.
“She negotiated the terms of our marriage,” Rosston called and caused a number of men’s heads to turn, and Duncan hesitated. “Do ye not want to hear the ones that apply to you?”