Amanda Scott (54 page)
Authors: Highland Secrets
The fury Duncan felt toward Breck had threatened more than once to overwhelm him. Because he blamed himself as much as anyone for Ian’s having failed to accept his excellent advice, he had flung himself into a depression afterward that had come near to ending his sanity. He had drunk too much and gamed too much, fought too many demons, and generally had infuriated his father.
He had even fought with his cousin Rory Campbell, Lord Calder, because Rory had insisted on marrying Diana Maclean. Bad enough that he was marrying into the wretched Maclean clan, but Rory had announced he would do so without waiting the full year that Duncan thought appropriate for mourning Ian’s death.
When Rory had said callously that if Campbells were to put off marriage for a full year after every Campbell death, they would never marry at all, Duncan had leapt at him and tried to knock him down. To his humiliation, Rory had just stepped aside and told him he was drunk and to go soak his head.
Thinking about that now, Duncan’s lips twitched with sudden grim humor. They had nearly come to blows more than once, the pair of them, but somehow (doubtless because Rory had better control over his temper than Duncan had over his) they had never fought. Had they done so, he knew the end would have been a near thing, because Rory was nearly of a size with him, but he thought he would have prevailed. He had had more practice, after all, with violence.
Having taken the field during the late uprising, he had proved himself in battle, while Rory had followed in Argyll’s train, spending more time in London than in Scotland. Not that Duncan held that against him. He had come to respect his cousin deeply. He even liked him, but he was glad that Rory was in Perthshire now and not in Argyll. Rory would not approve of what he meant to do about Allan Breck, and he would strongly disapprove of any visit to MacCrichton.
“The lads are ready now, master,” Bannatyne said from the doorway. “The breeze blows from the west.”
“Too bad it’s not from the south,” Duncan said, getting to his feet. He picked up his dirk from the desktop and shoved it into his boot, adjusting the boot top so the weapon did not show too easily. Then, taking a dark-blue wool cloak from the back of a chair where he had tossed it earlier, he flung it over his shoulders, picked up his gloves and hat, and strode past Bannatyne across the hall and outside.
The air felt crisp and cold, and dark clouds were gathering in the north, but the wind, as Bannatyne had said, blew straight from the west. Perhaps the forthcoming storm would miss them, but he knew that he might find himself returning to Dunraven instead of going on to Balcardane after he paid his visit to MacCrichton. Someone would have to bring the boat back, in any event.
The other two men were waiting, ready to set sail the minute he and Bannatyne were aboard. The boat was good sized, a seaworthy craft, requiring a crew of at least two or three. Loch Creran was not wide, but it was six miles long and emptied into the Lynn of Lome near its confluence with Loch Linnhe. Good boats were assets, and several that he had seen sailing the loch qualified more as small ships than as mere sailboats.
They had the loch to themselves, however, when they set out. With the wind coming from west they could not sail straight across, and tacking to the east took time. Watching the far coast, Duncan soon saw with satisfaction that the rest of his men had reached their position. They would move no farther unless he signaled to them, or did not reappear within an hour after entering the castle.
No one challenged them when they approached the wooden dock below the water gate at Shian, but Duncan could see a watchman standing at the corner of the battlements, overlooking the main track to the castle as well as the loch approach.
Duncan exchanged a look with Bannatyne, saying, “Perhaps MacCrichton posts guards as a matter of habit.”
“Aye, sir, we do the same at Balcardane.”
Disembarking, they left two men with the boat and climbed the steep escarpment to the water gate, which remained closed. The watchman, however, had moved nearer. He stood just above them now.
“Ho there,” Duncan shouted. “I want speech with the laird.”
“Who are you?”
“Duncan Campbell, Master of Dunraven. Tell him I request hospitality.”
The man nodded and turned away. Several moments later, the water gate opened, and another man bade them welcome and led them toward the entrance.
Duncan looked around curiously. He counted seven men, none of whom seemed obviously to carry arms. He did not think for a moment that they could not defend themselves, however.
Bannatyne muttered, “Shall I stay here in the courtyard, master?”
“No, we’ll stay together. I don’t want to come out again to find you spitted over a slow fire. The lads can cast off if they must, but you’d be all on your own.”
They followed their guide up the wooden stairway to the entrance, where he pushed open the heavy door without ceremony and went directly up a spiral flight of stone steps, clearly expecting them to follow.
So intent was Duncan upon obtaining a clear picture of the castle layout that he did not instantly pay heed to a masculine voice raised in anger above. However, as they neared the first doorway in the stone wall, he distinctly heard, “… a harsh lesson, my lass, but learn it you will, and right speedily. The sooner you know that you’ve got to do what I say, the better!”
Duncan’s guide had reached the opening, and he stopped there, clearly stunned. Looking back at Duncan, clearly having second thoughts about having brought him there, he looked again into the room.
Just then, Duncan heard cloth tearing and a shriek of terror or fury.
The man above him on the stairs, apparently having made up his mind, turned back toward him, saying urgently, “We’d best go back d—”
He did not finish, for Duncan pushed roughly past him into the great hall, where he saw MacCrichton with one arm around the waist of a fiercely struggling female. Her bare backside faced Duncan, and slim bare legs flashed furiously as she tried to kick her captor, but MacCrichton held her firmly bent over his knee. Thick tawny hair covered her face. Her dress lay in tatters at his feet, and her chemise had bunched up above the muscular arm that held her. In his free hand, raised to strike, MacCrichton held a riding whip. One fiery red line already striped her bottom.
His attention diverted to the doorway, MacCrichton snarled, “Get out!”
Behind Duncan, his guide said anxiously, “He claimed hospitality, laird. Said he wanted speech wi’ ye. Tis Black Duncan Campbell, laird.”
“The devil it is. Well, if you’ve come for the lass, Duncan, you’re too late. She’s a wild piece, but she agreed to marry me and she’s spent a full night here, so I have every right now to tame her as and when I please. Here, lass, stand up and bid a civil good-morning to Black Duncan.”
The girl had gone utterly still, and she did not move until MacCrichton dumped her unceremoniously to the floor. Then, hastily pulling her chemise down to cover her, and pushing her thick hair back from her face, she looked at Duncan.
She was the last person he had expected to see at Shian Towers. Concealing his shock, albeit with difficulty, he said evenly, “Accept my compliments on your marriage, mistress. You have come by your just dessert, I believe.”
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1997 by Lynne Scott-Drennan
cover design by Mimi Bark
978-1-4804-0638-4
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
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New York, NY 10014
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