Cottage in the Mist Read online

  "And how long ago was that?"

  William glanced up at the sun. "Too long, I'm afraid. They'll have made good time. I heard horses. I'm sorry, Bram. I've failed you. And worse, I failed Lily."

  "What's done is done," Iain said. "What matters now is that we take action to get her back."

  "Unless I miss my guess, they'll be headed for Malcolm and Dunbrae," Ranald interjected.

  "That's only about an hour's ride from here," Alec confirmed.

  "Then what the hell are we waiting for?" Bram asked, already signaling for his horse. "The bastards have my wife. We haven't a moment to spare."

  "You realize we'll be riding into a trap," Iain said. "Malcolm will be expecting you to try and rescue her."

  "Aye, that I do." Bram clenched his fists. "I can't ask you to risk your lives for me and mine. Not like this. But you have to understand I canna sit back and let my uncle threaten my wife. Even if it means my death."

  "We ride with you." Ranald's tone brooked no argument. Behind him, Bram could see the Mackintoshes already beginning to ready themselves for battle. "Iain just wants you to be aware of the facts."

  "Even if your uncle knows for certain that you'll come," Alec added, "he canna be sure that Iain's men will follow you. And he definitely willna believe that mine will ride with you as well." At that, he too signaled his men to ready themselves.

  Bram's heart threatened to leave his chest and despite his anguish and fear, he felt humbled. These men—his family and Lily's—were willing to risk everything on their behalf. Lily was right; despite all that they'd lost between them, they'd found not only new family but friends as well.

  Bram took the reins of the horse Dougan brought him, swinging up into the saddle as the others mounted around him. He turned his mare to the northeast. Toward Dunbrae. To his wife—to Lily. And as he rode from the clearing, Bram prayed that he wasn't too late.

  *****

  Lily awoke to the pungent smell of sweat and urine. Combined with the wracking pain in her head, the odor had her stomach churning. Her eyes flickered open and she gingerly touched her head, her fingers coming away sticky with blood. For a moment, memory failed and then she remembered.

  Frazier.

  She jerked upright, her stomach revolting with the sharp motion, but fear was a stronger motivator and she scooted across what appeared to be a straw-covered floor until her back was firmly against the room's stone wall. A fire flickered in the grate on the opposite wall, pale sunlight streaming in through two narrow oblong windows. Lit torches sat in bronze sconces at equal distances around the room, the fire doing little to alleviate the chamber's gloom.

  A large wooden door stood partially open. She shifted slightly so that she could better see the room beyond. A great room possibly. She could see tables. And what looked to be a large group of men. There were platters of meat and pitchers of ale. Conversation rang out, punctuated with bursts of laughter.

  At least someone was having a good time.

  Gritting her teeth against the pain in her head and using the stone wall for leverage, she managed to push to her feet, the room spinning with the effort. She stood for a moment breathing in and out until the whirling subsided. Inching along the wall, using it to maintain her balance, she made her way over to the door and cautiously peered outside.

  She'd been right; it was a great hall. The floor was littered with reeds and rushes and other things she'd just as soon not identify. Torchlight barely illuminated the giant room. The small windows were all shuttered for warmth or protection—or both. A great fireplace dominated the room, half of a tree trunk burning inside the yawning cavity. And like the room she'd awakened in, this one smelled of dirty bodies. The sights and smells served as a rude reminder that she was far from the world of modern conveniences. Seemed people here couldn't even be bothered to find a bathroom.

  Unless she missed her guess, this had to be Dunbrae. She shivered, forgetting about creature comforts. Frazier had said he'd take her to Malcolm. And it appeared he'd succeeded. Fortunately, they'd not bothered with a guard. But then again, maybe they hadn't needed to. The room she was standing in held only the one door. And the only escape from the great hall appeared to be a large door in the opposite wall, that and an adjacent staircase going up.

  Still, she couldn't just stand here waiting to be discovered. If the only way out was across the great hall, then she'd just have to figure out a way to get there. She scanned the men in the room. They were sitting in clusters. Most of them armed. And all of them eating and drinking. Twenty, maybe thirty altogether. Not exactly great odds.

  Moving amongst the men were several women. Like the men, they seemed to be in a jovial mood, refilling a glass here or a platter there. She watched as a man pulled a woman holding a platter down for a bawdy kiss and a pinch on the rear. The woman offered no resistance, but she soon pulled free and moved on to serve another, a smile on her lips.

  Lily fought a wave of dizziness, pressing her hands against the cool stone wall until the vertigo passed. Her head was pounding, but she knew she hadn't the luxury of waiting until she felt more stable. Frazier would come for her sooner rather than later. She scanned the room for her captor, relieved to see no sign of him. Nor was there anyone sitting at the main dais. Surely if Malcolm Macgillivray were present he'd be holding court at the table befitting his position as laird.

  Which meant that just maybe, if she was lucky, she could make her way around the edge of the room to the doorway. It was a long shot, but it beat the heck out of staying here and meekly awaiting her fate. Removing her plaid from her shoulders, she wrapped it around her waist, fashioning it into a long skirt, using the broach to secure it in place. Then she reached up and pulled the ribbon from her hair, shaking it free of its braid. With her dark curls hanging around her face and shoulders, her hair would effectively screen her face as long as she kept her head down.

  Sucking in a fortifying breath, she stepped into the great room, grabbing a pitcher from the nearest table. Hopefully they'd mistake her for a serving girl. At least long enough to get her through the door and out of the room.

  She strode forward, head tipped toward the floor, heart hammering. She'd made it about halfway when suddenly a thick arm snaked around her waist. "Ach, and what have we here?" a deep voice asked, pulling her to an abrupt halt.

  She risked a glance from beneath the veil of her hair. Whoever he was, he was huge. With a crooked scar that bisected his face, his hair was oily and he smelled so rank her stomach recoiled in rebellion again.

  His lips parted in a feral smile, yellowed teeth bright against his dark beard. "Aren't ye a bonny lass? I've no' seen you afore. I'm thinking the laird has been hiding you away."

  He had no idea.

  She gave him what she hoped was a careless shrug, and lifted her pitcher as she tried to pull herself free. But the man was having none of it. "Ah, come on then, lassie, give us a kiss." He pulled her closer and she fought the urge to gag. It was hard to stay under the radar when one threw up all over a man.

  "Please, sir, I've others to serve." She sounded ridiculous, but it was that or bean the bastard with her pitcher, which most likely would only raise his ire and draw unwanted attention. She be damned if she'd let him touch her any more than he already had.

  "Dinna be coy with me," he growled. "Yer only purpose for being here is to please us. I heard it from the laird himself."

  For a moment, she thought he knew who she was, and then with horror she realized he thought she was a whore.

  His big hands tightened on her waist, jerking her to him. If she wanted to be free, she'd have to give the man a kiss. Holding her breath, she gave him a peck and then tried to pull away again, but he was having none of it, his beady eyes filling with undisguised lust. "I'll wager ye can do a wee bit better than that." His hand slid lower, his fingers kneading her bottom, pressing her against his erection.

  She struggled, lifting the pitcher, thinking only of making him stop. But as if he'd read her m
ind, he reached up and plucked it away, tossing it onto the table. Then he pushed her against the wall beneath an alcove, shadows swallowing them from view.

  She fought him openly now, but he was twice as big as she was and every bit as determined. His putrid breath assaulted her as he leaned closer, holding her captive with his body, his hands pushing up her makeshift skirt. His fingers reached the brooch holding it closed and he froze, looking down at the small salient cat.

  "Mother o' God," the man growled. "Yer no' one of the laird's women. Yer the Comyn. The one that Frazier brought."

  She thought for a moment that he was going to push her aside, and even though she didn't relish the idea of losing her freedom, captivity seemed better than what this man was offering. But she'd misinterpreted his reaction. Instead of pushing her away, he grabbed her more forcefully.

  "I've a mind to show ye what we think of yer kind. But first I'll bury myself so deep, I'll tear you apart." He shoved her over onto a table, ripping at her plaid.

  Bile filled her throat, fear turning to panic. He was going to rape her. Right here in front of all these people. And no one was going to do anything to stop him. Enraged, she struck out at him, kicking and biting and struggling for all she was worth. But he was a big man, and he straddled her, holding her firmly in place.

  "Now then, I'll show you what a real man feels like."

  Tears gathered and she closed her eyes.

  "What in God's name do you think you're doing, Tormond? Get your hands off the wench. She's no' for you."

  The man released her with a curse. "Mayhap when you've finished with her I'll have a go." With a last lascivious glance at her, he turned his back and walked away.

  Lily sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes as her gaze collided with the man who'd rescued her. Not exactly a savior—more likely a trade of one devil for another. Although not as big as the man who'd attacked her, he was tall, and relatively clean. But it was his eyes that gave away his identity, their cool icy blue currently devoid of any emotion as he assessed her.

  Despite her disheveled state, she stuck out her chin. "Malcolm Macgillivray, I assume." Behind him Frazier stood, eyes bulging, looking very much like the toad he truly was.

  Malcolm dipped his head. "At your service, my lady. I understand felicitations are in order."

  She frowned, certain that she'd heard his voice before, but unable to place where or how.

  "Your marriage," he prompted, a flash of anger lighting his eyes. "My nephew is a lucky man."

  "Right. Lucky," she responded, her own anger coming to the fore. "I find that rich coming from you. First you kill his father, then you take his home. And now his wife. What, may I ask, has my husband ever done to you to deserve all of this?"

  His lips curled into a sneer. "He had the misfortune to be born to the wrong father."

  "But the right mother?" She knew she should watch her mouth, but she couldn't seem to help herself. If possible, Frazier's eyes had gone even wider. She pulled her focus back to Malcolm. "The one who had the audacity to choose your brother over you?"

  His hand flashed out, striking her before she had time to realize what he was about. She lurched backward, the edge of the table saving her from a fall. "You've the tongue of a shrew."

  "And you've the manners of a swine," she retorted, wiping away the blood that trickled from her mouth.

  His gaze slid slowly from her head to her toes, lingering on her hips and breasts. "Believe me when I say that it will be a pleasure to bring you to heel," Malcolm said, his sneer bordering on lechery now. "But first I need to deal with your husband. And what better bait than his lady love?"

  CHAPTER 31

  "SO HOW DO YOU WANT to handle this?" Iain asked as he and Bram knelt with Ranald, Fergus and Jeff in the woods near the back wall at Dunbrae. Clouds had obscured the sun, leaving the day cold and gray. Tree branches arched over their heads, rattling in the wind. Just ahead of them, Dunbrae's stone tower gleamed eerily silver in the faded light.

  Bram forced himself to focus on the task at hand, but his heart remained centered on the tower and the woman conceivably locked inside. Alec's man Dougan had found tracks indicating that the men who'd taken Lily had indeed come this way. He prayed that whatever his uncle's plans, Lily was still alive.

  Knowing they couldn't be more than an hour behind, they'd pushed their horses to the limits. But now faced with the enormity of all that had happened here—his father's death, his clan's demise and his wife's kidnapping—Bram's rage knew no boundaries. He'd make his uncle pay if it was the last thing he did.

  "If you're going to help Lily," Ranald said, "you canna give in to your anger."

  "Ranald's right," Iain agreed, laying a hand on Bram's shoulder. "You'll need a clear head if we're to make this work."

  They'd agreed that Alec and the bulk of their forces would attack the tower head on, pulling Malcolm's men into the battle and giving Bram and company the opportunity to sneak through the back gate. It was a risk, since Frazier knew about the entrance, but Bram was betting that he hadn't had time to secure it properly. Now they were simply waiting for a signal that Alec and the rest of the men had engaged.

  "My head is clear." Bram closed his fingers around the hilt of his claymore as he answered his cousin. "All I ask is that you leave my uncle to me."

  Ranald exchanged a glance with Iain.

  "What?" Bram snapped, his gaze moving between the two of them, his patience wearing thin.

  Iain sighed. "Only that your attention is better spent on rescuing your wife. 'Tis a far better thing than obsessing about vengeance."

  "But Malcolm has to pay for what he's done to me and mine," Bram growled.

  "Aye, that he does," Ranald agreed. "But Iain's right, Lily's safety is far more important."

  "Don't you think I know that?" His words were spoken through clenched teeth. "I would ne'er do anything that would put her in danger. But that doesn't mean I canna be the one to take my uncle down."

  Iain held up a hand. "I'm just saying you need to be sure you don't let your anger get in the way."

  "And how was it with you and Davidson when he had your wife?" Bram asked, his anger now directed at his cousin. "Did you just ask him to let her go all nice and polite like?"

  "Nay. I strung him up and killed him. And if I could have done it a dozen times more, I would have, believe me. So I know what you're feeling. But I also know what could be happening in there." A dark shadow of memory crossed his face. "And if in an effort to hurt you, Malcolm has hurt Lily, then she's going to need you more than you need revenge."

  Fear threatened his resolution and he shook his head to banish it. "I'll deal with what we find when we find it. But unless I say otherwise, Malcolm is mine."

  "Fine," Iain said. "Have it your way. I'm only here to help."

  As quickly as it came Bram's anger at his cousin vanished. This wasn't Iain's fault. Any of it. "I know. I dinna mean to snap."

  "Under the circumstances, 'tis to be expected," Iain replied.

  "Listen," Jeff called, cocking his head toward the front of the tower.

  Above the rustling of leaves, the blood curdling cries of battle sounded. Horses screaming. Men charging. Metal clanging against metal.

  "Alec has begun the attack," Fergus noted. "Best we get on with it then. Use his sacrifice to good end."

  Bram nodded and motioned their little band forward. He led the way across the uneven ground between the edge of the forest and the tower's wall. As with the other side, the gate here was also obscured by vegetation. Using both hands, he pulled it out of the way and then pulled on the rusted handle of the iron gate.

  It refused to budge, and for a moment he feared Frazier had remembered the entrance and locked the gate. But then Ranald added his strength to Bram's and the gate screeched wildly and swung open. They stood for a moment at the opening in the wall, waiting to see if the noise had alarmed Malcolm's men, but it seemed that the din of battle had obscured the sound.

&nb
sp; Bram rushed through the gate and came to an abrupt stop. The great front portcullis hung drunkenly from one chain, the wood splintered and broken. Alec had made good on his promise to breach the walls, but even as Bram felt a surge of triumph he was stabbed with pain. Dunbrae was his home—had been his home.

  But unless they won the day it would be true no longer.

  The inner bailey was full of fighting men, the smell of blood and battle filling the yard. Light flickered amongst them, almost as if it were following in their wake. Bram moved forward, claymore raised, dodging a thrust here, a parry there. Ranald and Iain had spread out to flank him, Jeff and Fergus taking up the rear. They moved like a wedge, cutting through the fighting men as they edged around to the front of the tower.

  It was only when they had gained the front courtyard that Bram realized what the flickering was. Fire. The tower was on fire. It raced up the wooden steps that led to the door. And he could see more flames thrusting out of the windows, black smoke spiraling into the windswept sky. To his left he could see Alec and Dougan, the two men fighting together, handily taking out all who dared to challenge them.

  With a nod to his cousins, Bram ran up the steps, but was stopped by one of the tower's guards. The man raised his claymore, his eyes narrowed as the deadly blade began its descent. Bram pivoted, and then swung his own weapon. The man fell, only to be replaced by another. Bram lunged, cutting the man across the arm that held his weapon. Behind Bram, on the stairs, Ranald fought a second man. Iain, still in the courtyard, fought alongside Jeff and Fergus as they held off others.

  With a twist and a parry, Bram drew the man off and then made quick work of him, stepping over his body as he and Ranald, with the others on their heels, took the last of the stairs, dashing through the opening of the tower, through the hallway and into the great hall. A place meant for comfort, it offered only danger now. It too was full of flame, and lined with enemies.

  Bram's heart screamed at him to hurry. If he did not then that which was most precious to him would be lost. For a moment it felt as if he'd lived this moment before, but he pushed the thought aside as he surged into the fray, moving toward the stairway at the far end of the room, fear urging him onward. He had to get to Lily.