The Highlander's Lost Lady Read online

  But she was brave, his Fiona. And she was stalwart. Tonight had made up for a lot of what she’d suffered.

  It was a start. In fact, it was a damn good start.

  They had another long day of travel ahead, and he was lethargic with the remnants of pleasure. Right now, he could wait to find solutions to their problems. He’d worry about the future when the future arrived.

  So he didn’t say anything but good night when his wife settled with her back against his chest. He cuddled her close and buried his nose in the tangled silvery hair that smelled so evocatively of Fiona. When he crashed into a dreamless sleep, a contented smile curved his lips.

  Chapter 29

  “Have a look,” Diarmid said, passing Fiona the pocket spyglass.

  They were hidden in a grove of trees on a rise overlooking a rundown house that showed failed ambitions of becoming a castle. The tower over the gatehouse was crumbling, matching the unmistakable signs of neglect he’d noted across the rest of the estate. The boundary walls were also in disrepair. It had been a simple matter to sneak onto the grounds of Trahair House unobserved.

  That had worried him, still did. Even five minutes in Allan Grant’s company had persuaded him the man might be a stone-hearted bastard, but he was a clever, stone-hearted bastard. He wouldn’t make it easy for Fiona to get onto the property where he held Christina and spy out the situation. In fact, he’d be lying in wait to seize her back under his control.

  But so far, Diarmid hadn’t seen Allan or Thomas—or a wee lassie of Christina’s age. He hadn’t seen much of anything, if truth be told. At this time of year, the estate should be bustling with preparations for the harvest, but the fields lay fallow, and the few people who appeared didn‘t seem too bothered with anything like work. Trahair was a poor place.

  “You don’t think she’s here, do you?” Fiona said flatly, lowering the spyglass.

  “There’s nae sign of her. There’s nae sign they’re preparing to fend off a rescue attempt. There’s nae sign of Allan or Thomas.” He caught bitter disappointment on her face. “I’m sorry, lassie.”

  He reached for her hand and squeezed it. After three days of hard travel, she looked exhausted. Diarmid wasn’t feeling too sprightly himself. It was difficult to sleep when his wife lay chastely in his arms and he was hard and aching for her.

  They’d arrived at each inn late, eaten a quick dinner, then tumbled into bed for a couple of hours before they hit the road again at sunrise. It was a punishing schedule, and he hadn’t had the heart to press his wife to make love to him when her tension increased with every mile they covered toward Inverness.

  Now with a trust that made his heart skip a beat, she curled her fingers about his. “Perhaps it looks easy to break in because it’s a trap.”

  “Perhaps.”

  She looked across at him. “You still think we should approach them directly?”

  “Aye. Your circumstances have changed. You’re now Lady Intertavey. The Grants nae longer have any claim on you. Nor are ye destitute and alone anymore.”

  Her lips twisted with the ironic humor he now recognized as her defense against the onslaught of crippling pain. “What an unflattering description.”

  He squeezed her fingers again. “Shall we say you’re still brave and determined?”

  “Determined anyway.” She frowned. “If we turn up at the front door, we’ll show our hand.”

  “It’s the only way to discover the lay of the land. If there was a village where we could ask for information, the way the Grants did at Invertavey, it would be different, but nobody here seems to set foot more than a stone’s throw from the house. Certainly nobody does a lick of work.”

  Diarmid didn’t try to hide his disgust. He hated to see a property left to fall into ruin.

  Fiona pulled free of his hold and squared her shoulders. “In that case, let’s proceed,” she said, passing back the spyglass.

  ***

  As Fergus’s traveling coach rolled across the weedy gravel in front of Trahair House, no grooms ran out to hold the horses. No footmen opened the house’s main door and stood to attention to welcome visitors. Up close, the neglect was even more apparent than it had been when Fiona had looked through the small telescope.

  Her heart shrank as she contemplated what lay ahead. She still wasn’t convinced confronting the Grants was wise. At Bancavan, she’d learned that subterfuge was the only way to outsmart her kinsmen. She reminded herself that she now had Diarmid on her side. His description of her former self as poor and friendless might chafe, but she couldn’t argue with its accuracy.

  Beneath her misgivings lurked burgeoning anticipation at the prospect of seeing her daughter at last. She assumed Allan received regular news of Christina from his cousins, but he’d never shared a word of it with her.

  He’d always enjoyed tormenting Fiona. They both knew that he’d never cowed her rebellious spirit, however docile she might pretend to be.

  From where he sat opposite her, Diarmid took her hand. “Courage, lassie.”

  She’d come to rely on her husband’s quiet, steady support. Since their wedding night, he hadn’t claimed her body. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Circumstances hadn’t encouraged further pleasurable interludes. The inns had been rough, and their halts had been short. Eating and sleeping were the focus.

  Each time they stopped, Diarmid was all business, more like the benevolent autocrat of Invertavey than her passionate lover. And she’d been so tired, not to mention taut as a violin string. Her mind was all on getting her child out of the Grants’ clutches.

  Now she turned to him. “Diarmid, kiss me.”

  In the dim interior of the carriage, she caught the startled flash of his eyes. She couldn’t blame him for his surprise. Over the last frantic days, an inevitable physical distance had grown up between them.

  Leaning in, he pressed his lips to hers. It was over almost before it had begun. Then he reached across to open the door. “Let’s see what we can discover.”

  He stepped out and extended his hand to help her down. Disappointment at the curtailed kiss stirred in her belly, even as she reminded herself today was all about Christina. She’d hoped for one of those deep, passionate kisses that had punctuated their lovemaking after their wedding. A kiss like that would distract her from her fears. Instead, all he’d done was remind her that once Christina was safe, she still needed to negotiate the terms of their marriage.

  As she emerged from the coach, her eyes searched the façade of the house. Was Christina at a window, wondering who arrived? Did her daughter sense that her mother had come to take her away?

  Not that Fiona imagined it would be so simple. She knew Allan Grant better than that.

  At least she looked ready to take on her clansman as an equal. The collar of pearls circled her neck, and her beautiful dark blue gown was the height of fashion, thanks to Sandra. One of the maids at the inn in Inverness had arranged her hair in an elaborate style. When she’d looked in the mirror, she’d hardly recognized Ian Grant’s downtrodden widow, or the ragged waif who had washed up on Diarmid’s beach.

  “The moment they see ye, they’ll ken things have changed,” Diarmid said with an encouraging smile. He was thinking along the same lines she was. That happened with surprising frequency, she’d noticed. “Ye look bonny. More to the point, ye look like a rich man’s wife.”

  Fiona made herself smile back, although Diarmid’s rueful gaze told her she wasn’t nearly as skilled as he was at masking her trepidation. She took in how elegant he looked in his borrowed clothes. “The rich man looks rather impressive himself.”

  “Thank ye.” He drew her toward the crumbling stone stairs that led up to a closed oak door. “Good luck.”

  She straightened and plastered a haughty expression on her face. Diarmid might know she was on edge, but to her enemies, she meant to present an appearance of confidence and power.

  They climbed the steps while behind them, Fergus’s coachman
kept the horses quiet. Diarmid lifted the large iron knocker. The hollow crash echoed the terrified bang of her heart. She tightened her hold on Diarmid’s hand and braced for what was to happen.

  At first, nothing did happen. The door seemed to take an inordinately long time to creak ajar.

  “Aye?” The person hiding in the shadows was a woman, but that was all Fiona could tell about her.

  “Is the master at home?” Diarmid asked in an imperious tone Fiona had never heard him use before.

  “Aye.” The door remained open a mere crack.

  “Kindly inform Mr. Grant that Diarmid Mactavish and Lady Invertavey wish to see him.”

  “He’s awfu’ busy.”

  “Nonetheless, pass on the message.”

  “Aye.”

  When the woman moved neither to open nor shut the door, Diarmid reached out and pushed it wider. “Is this Highland hospitality, to leave guests standing on the front step?”

  Fiona found yet another reason to be grateful to her husband. His cool, commanding manner had them over the threshold and standing in a dusty hall without a stick of furniture to relieve the bleak emptiness. The elderly woman who let them in regarded them with a sullen wariness that made Fiona’s stomach knot in familiar dismay. The servants at Bancavan had worn that exact expression. Although unlike this shabby house, Bancavan was run with sparse but military efficiency.

  “Ye show nae courtesy to your kinswoman,” Diarmid said.

  “Kinswoman?” The woman’s eyes rounded as they settled on Fiona. “Ye said Mactavish.”

  With everything else going on, Fiona had forgotten the feud. No wonder they received such a meager welcome.

  “Aye,” Diarmid said sternly. “But my wife is a Grant. Or she was until we married. Ye have her daughter Christina here. We’d like to see the lassie.”

  The woman’s expression closed against them. “You’d better talk to the laird.”

  “Is Christina in the house?” Fiona asked, unable to help herself. “Is she well?”

  The flash of pity in the woman’s glance sent a ripple of foreboding down Fiona’s spine. “Please wait here.”

  “Diarmid…” Fiona whispered, her fingers turning into claws on his arm.

  “Whisht, lass. We’ve got further than I thought we would. Dinna give up hope yet.”

  Settle down, Fiona.

  He was right. She was on the verge of panicking, and that would do no good at all. She stiffened her backbone and sucked in a deep breath to soothe rioting nerves.

  The woman was only absent a few minutes. When she returned, her expression was unreadable. “This way, if ye please.”

  They left the hall and followed a corridor to a closed door. The maid opened it. “Fiona Grant and her man, sir.”

  The fellow behind the desk was old and decrepit, and as he limped forward, Fiona smelled whisky and stale sweat. William, Laird of Trahair, was pudgy and gray-faced, but beneath the fat, she could make out the familiar Grant features.

  “Allan said you’d turn up, and I was to watch for ye, Fiona.” He didn’t offer his hand, and he spoke with blatant contempt. “Och, I never thought to hear a Grant had sunk to marrying a Mactavish. That is if ye are married. Thomas seemed to think ye are betrothed to him.”

  Fiona didn’t falter, although she’d been nervous about this encounter with her daughter’s jailer. Last time she’d seen this man, she’d been hysterical, fighting to prevent Christina falling into his clutches. Now she realized he was yet another satellite of Allan Grant’s, impotent away from his cousin’s reach.

  “Good afternoon, William,” she said coldly. “I’d thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  “Would ye indeed, ye wee besom? And ye whoring yersel’ around the Highlands. Worse than harlotry. You’re sleeping in a Mactavish’s bed.”

  Diarmid stepped up to the man until he towered over him. “Ye will apologize to my wife, sir.”

  “I willnae.” Bleary eyes stared up at him. “I heard about the trollop carrying on with ye.”

  “I hesitate to strike a man in his own house, but I will if ye dinna withdraw that remark.”

  “Aye, aye, nae need for that. I meant nothing by it.” Fiona watched William cringe away from the threat. “I beg your pardon, Fiona.”

  She’d met him several times at family weddings and christenings. She’d never liked him. “Is Allan here?”

  He looked shifty. “No.”

  “But he has been here?” Diarmid asked.

  “Aye, why no’? He’s my cousin.”

  “I want to see Christina,” Fiona said.

  William retreated behind his desk, clearly relieved to put a barrier between him and Diarmid who still conveyed a belligerent air. “Och, ye cannae.”

  “My wife is the girl’s mother,” Diarmid snapped. “She has a right to see her bairn.”

  For the first time, a smug smile creased William’s pasty face. Fiona knew what he was going to say before he said it.

  “That’s all braw and bonny, but the brat’s gone back to Bancavan. Allan was here a few days ago and took her.” He shot Diarmid an assessing glance. “And he left ye a message, Mactavish. He said if ye want the lassie, come to Bancavan and see how well ye fare. He also said if Fiona sees sense and returns to where she belongs, he’s willing to let bygones be bygones.”

  “Did he indeed?” Diarmid said in a grim voice. “I’m assuming this forgiveness involves appropriate punishment, followed by a quick wedding to Thomas.”

  William shrugged. “If it’s true that she married ye, she cannae marry Thomas. Unless of course something happens to ye.” He didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction at that prospect. “If you’ll take my advice, laddie, you’ll steer clear of Bancavan. Swine by the name of Mactavish dinnae receive much of a welcome in the Grant family keep.”

  “Och, I’ll keep that in mind,” Diarmid said sarcastically.

  Disappointment at the news of Christina’s absence left Fiona staggering. She’d been keyed up to see her daughter, whatever the outcome of today’s negotiations.

  “How was Christina when she left?” she asked, abandoning pride.

  William’s glance was hostile, but he answered readily enough. “When Allan promised that she’d see her mam, she went willing. Glad to see the back of her, if truth be told. The brat’s been nothing but trouble. Tried to run away. Blockheaded idea. Where the devil would she go? As pudding-brained as her mother. I hope Allan intends to teach her better manners, before she weds my lad in a couple of years.”

  “She’ll never…” Fiona caught Diarmid’s eye and swallowed the rest of her denial. There was little point fighting with William. At best, he was Allan’s cat’s paw. He had no influence over the result of this particular game.

  “In that case, we’ll take our leave,” Diarmid said.

  “Aye, get out of my house, you stinking Mactavish, and take your stinking wife with ye. I’m glad to be shot of ye.”

  With drunken violence, he rang the bell. The woman who had let them in appeared so swiftly, it was clear she’d been listening at the door.

  Diarmid took Fiona’s hand, but she hardly noticed. The poison in the air here took her back to the years at Bancavan. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. The idea of her daughter in this spiteful drunkard’s custody made her stomach heave. Blindly she let Diarmid lead her back to the hall, then through the open door.

  As the maid turned to go, Fiona struggled to speak. “Christina was well and unharmed last you saw her?”

  The woman kept going. For a moment, Fiona thought she wasn’t going to answer. Only as she reached the corridor did she mutter without turning around. “Aye, she was.”

  “Thank God,” Fiona said, knees sagging with relief.

  “But Allan was in a gey evil mood when he was here.” As the woman looked over her shoulder, her eyes were sharp. “I wouldnae like a bairn of mine in his care.”

  A choked sound of distress escaped Fiona, and she stumbled. “Do you mean…�
�

  But the woman had gone.

  Fiona felt like vomiting. From bitter experience, she knew what Allan was like when he was displeased. Poor, poor Christina.

  “Sweetheart, dinna give up hope.” The deep voice seemed to come from a different universe. “We’ll get her back, I swear.”

  “We’ve come so far for nothing,” she whispered, as Diarmid pressed her close to his side. Her mind told her he was warm and strong, but her despairing heart felt only an icy cold. “I can’t believe it.”

  Carefully he helped her down to their coach. He said something to the driver before he handed her inside the cabin. Fiona hardly noticed or cared. Blackness enveloped her. Christina was lost to them.

  “We’ll never get her out of Bancavan,” she forced through a throat as tight as a knot. “It’s a fortress. Anyone called Mactavish will get a dirk in his ribs the minute he sets foot in the glen.” She slumped on the seat and stared sightlessly ahead. “It’s hopeless.”

  “We’re no’ beaten yet.” Diarmid sat next to her and put his arm around her. “Chin up, Fiona. This is only the first step.”

  “I told you.” As the coach lurched into movement, Fiona turned to the man she’d married. She was too stricken to cry. “You’ll never break into Bancavan. If you try, it means a death sentence.”

  She’d come back to herself enough to notice that he looked determined, not defeated. That impressive jaw was square and stubborn. “The solution is easy to see. We have to get Allan and Christina away from Bancavan.”

  “He’s not a fool. He’ll never release her.”

  “Whisht, lassie.” She didn’t resist as Diarmid drew her head down to rest on his broad shoulder. “We’ll find a way.”

  If only she could believe him. But as they drove away from Trahair House, a premonition of inevitable failure crushed her heart.

  Chapter 30

  Trahair House lay in an isolated glen twenty miles from Inverness, so it was late by the time Fiona and Diarmid returned to their inn. Not finding Christina at Trahair had been a blow, but Fiona couldn’t give up. Her daughter’s safety and happiness were worth any sacrifice. By the time the carriage rolled into the inn yard, she felt capable of sitting up and facing what came now. She smoothed her hair and straightened her skirts.