Duncan hadn’t had to go all the way to Bridgewater’s castle to find the colonel, nor even very far into the Debatable Lands. The tent in the distance topped by snapping red- and yellow-tailed pennants and surrounded by dozens of alert redcoats was the field headquarters of some army grandee. Even a number-crunching desk jockey could tell that.
Terms of a marriage contract.
He snorted. With effort, he banished the emotion simmering inside him, clouding his thinking. Cold-blooded calculation was what he needed. The time to talk would come later, if indeed he and Abby would ever talk again.
He looked through the spyglass he had stolen along with a fresh plaid and a sword from the saddlebag of one of Rosston’s men. Oh, yes, Duncan could reive with the best of them—and she would soon know he could plunder and pillage too. Too bad her definition of a worthy man didn’t include either of those qualities. Was she there? That was the question at present.
The tent flap opened, and he caught a glimpse of her white bonnet. “Oh, aye, a bonny liar you are,” he said, feeling spikes of anger-laced adrenaline. “Let’s see if you do spurned lover equally as well.”
The tent flap opened again, and this time a tall, broad-shouldered officer with blond hair and an air of elegance stepped from the tent. He closed the flap with deliberate care, stepped away from the opening, and gestured to one of his men.
The man stepped closer. Duncan couldn’t quite figure out why the exchange seemed odd until he realized the men weren’t talking. Everything being communicated was being done by hand gestures and head nods.
They know, he thought, as the spikes turn to fear. That had to be why they were avoiding talking. Despite Abby’s confidence in her disguise, someone must have recognized her. And they didn’t want her to know they knew.
He had to get to her.
Think, Duncan. Think before you hare off. Slowly, an idea took form. Jealousy has many uses. He reached for his sporran.
A moment later, he began toward the tent at a full run. Halfway there, he was met by a wall of redcoats.
“Put down your sword, Ginger,” one called, advancing on him, musket drawn. The other men surrounded him slowly.
“Is she in there?” Duncan bellowed, thrusting the sword into the ground.
“Watch out, boys. We could light a fire with the flames in those eyes. Is he drunk too?”
“I’ve got no issue with you!”
“Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind while I’m stuffing my boot up your arse.”
Duncan had no escape. “I saw her there! Bring her to me!”
The first man exchanged glances with another. “Who, laddie? Did ye happen to lose yer wife?”
“My wife?” Duncan spat. “Not bloody likely. That’s the chieftess of Clan Kerr, and I want her. Now.”