“Yes.”
He took off his shabby fur mantle, and laid it around her shoulders. Its smell was awful, and as it was already wet it provided little real warmth, but Fiona couldn’t help but be touched by Crannog’s gesture. She saw, as he bent near her, that he couldn’t be more than twenty years old.
He’s only a boy! she thought. Aloud she said quietly, “Thank you.”
He nodded, and without his mantle she could see just how painfully thin he was; his shoulders were knobby and his Adam’s apple huge in the scrawny column of his throat. Here was someone considerably thinner than herself, but she doubted very much that he was anywhere near as well fed.
Empty, empty, hollow, hollow, little Sheila had said.
The castle and the stables and the gardens had been thoroughly searched and his wife, apparently, was missing. Alasdair stood in the Great Hall, frowning. Annoying and perplexing Fiona might be, but she wasn’t flighty, or one to play pranks. He was wondering uneasily if there was a connection between the Sutherlainns and Fiona’s mysterious disappearance, when Cook approached him, and said, twisting her hands in her apron:
“Laird, it’s come to me, ’twas yesterday that the mistress mentioned she was to ride out today to Dame Margery with some herbs.”
The words were barely out of her mouth before Alasdair was gone from the Hall, off to the stables where he had a half-dozen men saddle their horses along with his own. Twenty minutes later, he stood just inside Dame Margery’s cottage, having woken her and little Sheila from their beds.
The old lady was baffled, alarmed, and turned to Sheila, who, barefoot and in her nightgown, stood sleepily rubbing her eyes.
“What know you of this?” she said urgently to her granddaughter. “You told me you saw the mistress in the woods, but nothing else.”
“You saw the mistress, lass?” put in Alasdair quickly. “When?”
“Oh, this afternoon, laird, I was looking for kindling for Granny.”
“What happened then?”
“The men took her away with them.”
The little girl was calm, vague, so casual in her speech that Alasdair had to keep himself from what felt like literally exploding. He’d been exasperated many times prior in his life, but he now knew, with soul-shaking certainty, that this moment was the absolute topper.
Sharply, from between clenched teeth, he said, “What men?” just as old Dame Margery exclaimed in horror:
“You never said a word of this!”
“Oh, Granny, when I saw those lemon biscuits I forgot all about it. Aren’t they so good? I wish we could have them every day.”
Patience, he told himself sternly. You mustn’t frighten the child. “What men did you see, little Sheila?”
She looked up at him (at least one eye did, the other seemed to be directed at a stoneware crock in which, he suspected, biscuits were stored). “I didn’t know them, laird, but one of them called me a witch, which is a terrible lie. They had some of our cattle, and they also stole our lady and her horse.”
“Can you tell me which way they went, lass?”
She nodded. “Oh yes, laird, they’re following the northwest trail, but they’re not going very fast, and if you ride hard you’ll find them in about an hour and a half. But be careful, because the rain has made the trail very slippery. Although the rain will stop soon.”
Now the lass was all about sharing useful information. Hours had passed since Fiona had been taken—long, treacherous hours in which anything might happen. That they were going northwest confirmed his suspicion that it was the Sutherlainn clan they were dealing with, led by a man of whom Alasdair knew nothing: a lack of information which made him very, very uncomfortable.
As he and his men began riding as rapidly as they dared along a trail which was, as Sheila predicted, dangerously slippery, Alasdair thought of Fiona, alone, vulnerable, unprotected, and he felt the cold hand of fear take hold of his heart. If the Sutherlainns so much as hurt one hair of her head, he told himself grimly, he would wreak such vengeance upon them that the entire clan would wish it had never seen the light of day.
Chapter 9
All the other men had fallen asleep in their dirty blankets, but next to Fiona, Crannog Sutherlainn remained awake, his own filthy blanket draped around him and his thin face drawn, gloomy, as he stared ahead, lost in his own thoughts.
“Laird,” said Fiona quietly. He started, and whipped his head toward her.
“What?” he whispered back.
“Stealing my husband’s cattle wasn’t a wise idea.”
She watched various expressions flit across his countenance: defensiveness, fear, anguish, then resignation. Finally, he nodded, and hung his head.