But somebody had cut the cinch.
The question was...
Who?
And was it intended for Ranald... or someone else?
Never had such unease and mistrust run rampant through his clan. It seemed in the short time since Malcom’s abduction, the glue that held them bound was beginning to weaken. Mayhap David of Scotland would have his way, after all. He intended that the Highlands would fall behind him, and those who would not should fall by the wayside.
Iain refused to comply. Be damned if he was going to stand about and watch while David handed all of Scotland to his Sassenach minions. And be damned if he was going to allow the English bastards to lay the yoke upon his people. He wasn’t about to hand over his son’s birthright to be trampled upon by English rule. The Highlands were their lands, no matter that they were bitter and cold in the winters, or too rugged and wild in the summers. It was their land, and by God, if Iain had any say over the matter, it would be their land until the last MacKinnon chieftain knelt before Heaven’s throne.
“Aye?” Lagan challenged Broc. “Ye watched her every moment? So, then, tell us... is that why she was able to swim away from us and steal our goddamned horses?”
“One horse,” Broc argued with a frown for Dougal, and one for Lagan.
Iain met Broc’s gaze, his own eyes narrowed in question. Broc’s gaze skidded away, his face reddening under so much scrutiny.
“Answer to it, Broc,” Iain directed. “Did you, or did you not, watch her as you claim?”
“Aye, laird,” Broc confessed. “I did. I watched her every moment as I said.”
“Then he must be scheming wi’ her!” Lagan declared furiously. “Why would he watch her and let her go unless he was?”
Iain had a suspicion as to why, but he wanted to hear it from Broc’s own lips. His gaze upon Broc was unrelenting, and the youth seemed to sense it, for he didn’t dare to meet Iain’s eyes. “Broc? What say you to that?”
“I didna think ye really wanted her, laird,” he confessed, peering up from the ground at long last.
“Neither did she seem to wish to stay. And I dinna like her for the way she seemed to mock us.” His mouth twisted into an embarrassed grimace. “I didna believe she should come wi’ us, and I thought ye just didna hae the heart to send her away.”
“So ye thought to do me a service and help her on her way?”
Broc nodded.
“D’ ye no’ think I could make such a decision on my own, lad?” Iain asked him.
“Aye,” Broc answered.
“Christ and bedamned, what ails the lot o’ ye?” Iain asked them angrily. “You bring to mind a company of old maids, bickering like ye do amongst yourselves!”
“Somethin’s been amiss since we came into this Sassenach land, Iain,” Angus proposed. “First poor Ranald, now this.”
“And I wager ‘tis all her doin’!” Dougal asserted, casting a menacing glance in Page’s direction.
Iain shook his head. “Something’s been amiss since the verra beginning,” he countered. “Ye dinna remember the reason we came into this Sassenach land to begin wi’. It wasna reivin’ or wenchin’ that brought us here. Someone took my bluidy son, remember?” His hands went to his hips. “Nay.” He cast a glance in Page’s direction, and then returned it to the small group of men standing before him.
Not all of his men were aware of the situation: some were idling away the time, waiting for the cavalcade to begin once again. Iain’s gaze scanned the area, watching the small groups at their discourse and respite. “I dinna think she had anythin’ to do wi’ Ranald’s death,” he asserted.
“And ye dinna think ’twas her da?” Kermichil asked, his lips pursing in deliberation.
“Nay. We’ve no’ been followed,” Iain answered with certainty. “I thought so at first, but nay. I’ve no notion who got to Ranald, but ’twas no’ her da, and she dinna do it,” he assured them. “Someone did. But Ranald, ye recall, was slain by an arrow through the breast. Even were she skilled with the bow, she’s had no access to such a weapon, and she was watched besides—by me!” he interjected, lest there be any doubt. “Nay, ’twas someone else.”
Both Broc and Angus nodded agreement.
“What d’ye think, then, Iain?” asked Lagan. “If ‘twas no’ her da...”
“Then it must be brigands!” Kerwyn interposed.
“Or one o’ us,” Broc suggested, though he seemed loath to put forth such a notion. His gaze scanned the men present, waiting, it seemed, for them to point the finger at him once more.