Chapter Fourteen

He had gone. Once the truth of that penetrated Mara’s shock, devastation took her to her knees again. She sank down onto one of the rugs they had shared in their makeshift prison, like a woman slain.

No one so much as glanced at her; life in the cave went on. Men bustled around, and Archibald came back into the cave to sit upon his rough throne. The bright sunlight continued to stream in, and only the sound of hoofbeats beyond the cave mouth marked Ramsay’s departure.

Mara wondered if she’d ever be out in that warm sunlight again or if she would die in this damp, cold place once they battered her to pieces.

He said he would return.

She wondered when her horror and torment would begin. Did Archibald mean to take her first? Kneeling there with her fingers covering her face, she shuddered. And when he finished would he pass her to the rest of his men? Either way she would not—could not—survive long.

Ramsay swore he would rescue me. Mara’s whole heart strained toward that promise and her belief in the man behind it. But how? He was himself a prisoner and destined for the noose or the block. Yet she could live a while longer if she placed her faith in him.

She pressed her eyes shut, and a vision of Diarmad Ramsay arose in her mind: his handsome, haughty face, his mobile, clever mouth, the regal nose she loved to admire, and those eyes, so often full to brimming with his thoughts be they courageous, impatient, or flaming with desire. She must hold to that image, as to a glimmer of light in darkness, and let it sustain her through the ordeal to come.

For he had said he would return for her. She had no idea how, yet she did believe. And that meant when he came she had still to be alive.

And waiting.

****

“Where are you taking me?” Diarmad struggled to keep his assumed accent in place while seeking to discipline his emotions. Leaving Mara MacIvor in the hands of those villains and walking from the cave hurt like a physical wound. Nine parts of his attention and all his heart lay back there with her. But for her sake he could not afford to make a mistake.

“Just you let me worry about that, sire,” MacNeal replied.

Diarmad narrowed his eyes against the shock of bright daylight after the thick gloom of the cave. The day—one of those that sometimes graced the Highlands in spring with clear, blue skies and sweet air—could not be bonnier. He gazed about and furtively tried to ascertain his location. He and Mara had been traveling north by northwest when they stumbled upon the lochan. He thought Archibald’s men had taken them southwest from there. Some distance west of Inverness, then.

He eyed his companions, a party of four. MacNeal led the way, an inscrutable look on his face. The other three ranged around Diarmad, one to the rear and one at either hand, all heavily armed. He had no weapon.

If he had, he might attempt a fight—throw himself at the man on his right, startle the other horses, and begin a fray. His anger over what could be happening even now back in the cave, his grief at leaving Mara, pressed him to it. If he’d had so much as a skean dhu…

Likely he would get but one chance to surprise them; he dared not waste it.

Sickness roiled in his gut. He thought of the look in Mara MacIvor’s eyes when he left her: wide, haunted, full of fear and another emotion that had stopped his breath.

By God, he had never known a woman with such a courageous heart. Her spirit rode with him yet, both a comfort and a torment.

He cared so much for her.

That thought surprised him even as he acknowledged it. How had it happened, and when? He did not agree with her way of thinking or her foolish loyalties. Moreover, he’d believed his heart irrevocably if hopelessly entrusted to Una’s keeping—mysterious, unattainable Una, with her fall of ebony hair and the secrets in her eyes. She never would disclose the truth of how she felt about Cainnech…and him.

He would not find out now, never behold the hills of home, and likely not gaze into Una’s beautiful face.

Strange how that thought caused no twinge, while his heart strained back toward the woman he had just left. He must survive, if only to succor her.

That would be his battle cry.

****

“A word, sire.”

They had stopped for a brief rest, their first since leaving Archibald’s cave early that morning. Diarmad, on his own feet at last, prepared himself for action and weighed his chances. One of Archibald’s men tended the horses near the stream. The two others appeared to stand guard. MacNeal, that unreadable look still on his face, approached Diarmad softly.

Clinging hard to his role, Diarmad turned his face away. “I do not engage in conversation with traitors. That is what you are. In turning me over to the Crown, you engage in the highest form of treason.”

“Well, now, Your Highness, that is a matter of opinion. According to many, the treason lies all on your side—inciting a rebellion against your king.”

Diarmad glared at the man, letting his anger show; it did not take much effort. “My father is your rightful King, as any true Scotsman would affirm.”

MacNeal stepped closer still, so near Diarmad could smell the sweat on his clothes. “Happen I agree with you.”

That caught Diarmad’s attention. What was this? A glimmer of hope?

He closed his lip, assumed a royal stance, and waited.

“But a man has to survive, see,” MacNeal went on. A strange, troubled expression came to his face. “Long ago, when first I left home, sire, I would ha’ followed you without hesitation. I am sure my former clansmen stood strong and fell bravely on the field in your service.”

“But you are not in my service now. Instead you would deliver me into chains. You disgrace those who birthed you.”

MacNeal did not so much as blink. “As I say, sire, a man maun get by in this harsh world. I ha’ worked my way up to Archibald’s second-in-command. The thing is—”

“Yes?”

“I would like to be first in command.” MacNeal leaned still closer and lowered his voice. “Does that offer you made to Archibald still stand?”

“Eh?” Surprise nearly made Diarmad forget his role.

“The island, sire, and the fleet o’ ships. Would you offer all that to me?”

For one brief instant, a terrible surge of combined shock and hope rendered Diarmad mute. The answer to prayer was this. And Charles Edward would no doubt think such allegiance his due. Diarmad struggled hastily to reassume that persona and gave a lofty nod.

“I would—and I do so offer it to you, MacNeal. As soon as I am free, I will get my father’s writ upon it. You shall be a lord of the isles, and no one will be able to gainsay you.”

MacNeal’s eyes blazed with desire.

“But,” Diarmad pressed quickly, “we must go back and rescue my wee guide. It is a matter of honor with me. I do not leave behind those who serve me.” Except all those on Culloden’s bloody field, torn and broken—including one Chief of Clan Ramsay with his stubborn, loyal heart.

MacNeal gaped at him. “Impossible! We are already clean away. And ’tis but the four of us against Archibald’s lot.”

“Five, if you will arm me. We rescue her, MacNeal, or there will be no deal between us.”

MacNeal’s eyes narrowed. “Servant is she, or your royal doxie?”

Diarmad decided to appeal to the man on a level he could understand. “A little of both. But it is my honor at stake, MacNeal, as I have said. I would no sooner abandon her than this promise I make to you.” Intently he said, “You wish me to keep my word in that, do you not?”

“Aye, but, well, sire, she will no doubt be hard-used by now anyway, and no good to you.”

Diarmad’s heart plummeted. “Do you suppose that villain Archibald will have had her already?”

“Maybe. He will take her first, but when he is good and ready. These days the old stoat maun work up to it.”

“We must turn back at once, then, and ride hard. If you want your reward.”

Pure greed gazed at Diarmad from MacNeal’s eyes. “I do.”

“Good man. Can you persuade your companions?”

“I chose them wi’ just this idea in mind. If I offer them a share, I believe they will come along.”

“Then let us move at once. And by God, give me a sword!”