The Clan MacDougall Series (48 page)

For days now he had been quietly mulling over in his mind what he would say to Maggy. He needed to convince her, and what remained of her clan, to return to Castle Gregor with him. He prayed that she and her people would be glad for the offer of a safe and permanent home.

It had taken very little effort to convince his chief and the clan council that this small band of people was in serious need of assistance. Findley had appealed to the chief’s strong sense of honor and duty toward the less fortunate, but he had personal reasons for wanting to bring them back. He was quite certain that he had fallen in love with the beautiful mother of five. That or he had lost his mind altogether.

At the moment, he was leaning more toward insanity, for how could a person fall so hopelessly in love with someone after only a few hours together? It had not, by any stretch of the imagination, been a romantic interlude they had shared. Nay, ’twas far from that for most of the time had been spent with Maggy scolding her sons for stealing, for skulking away in the dark of night and terrifying her beyond measure. She had admitted to Findley that day that her biggest fear was the boys had either been kidnapped for ransom or taken as slaves. Either way, she would not have had the means necessary to procure their freedom.

She had apologized repeatedly to Findley and his men for her sons’ stupidity and apparent lack of morals. Between apologizing and scolding her sons, there had been little time for anything even remotely resembling romance. There was just something about the woman, that even as she scolded her sons, he found intriguing. He could not have told anyone what that something was, only that he felt drawn to her.

At some point after leaving the reivers and their beautiful mother, the image of Maggy’s dark auburn hair and bright green eyes began to creep into his thoughts. If he thought about it long enough he would surmise that those thoughts began to creep in approximately one minute after saying good-bye. It was all downhill from there. For some God-forsaken reason he was consumed by her.

Even when he had taken a dirk to his side in a battle against the English in the summer, his thoughts had been of Maggy. As he lay on the bloodied battleground, clinging to life, his last thought before losing consciousness had been of her. He fought death as fiercely as he had fought any battle in his life just so that he might live to see her again.

Findley and his men, Richard, Patrick and Wee William drove the wagons as fast as the rocky terrain would allow. As far as Findley was concerned they couldn’t go fast enough. The longer they rode, the more anxious he became, and he could only pray that Maggy and her people would listen to reason and agree to his offer.

It was early afternoon when they crested the small hill near the River Clyde that Maggy’s clan called home. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Death lingered in the air. He and his men caught the distinct odor and instantly drew their broadswords. As they pulled rein and stopped the horses, their eyes scanned the sight before them. Findley’s heart pounded with fear and dread as he threw on the wagon brake and leapt down from his seat. Destruction and death lay before them.

Nothing remained of the hut where the auld women had at one time slept save for the charred wooden frame and three bodies burned beyond recognition. Bile rose in the back of Findley’s throat as the anger simmered.

Wee William stood beside him, shaking his head while Richard and Patrick searched through the remains.

“I’d say it happened at least two days ago. Maybe three,” Wee William said in a hushed, reverent tone.

Findley could only nod his head as his mind raced and stared at the dead bodies at his feet. He could only pray that they wouldn’t find Maggy or her boys among the dead.

Patrick and Richard walked toward the river and found two more of the auld women lying dead along the bank. Findley and Wee William soon joined them. The final death toll was put at seven. There was no sign of Maggy or her boys anywhere.

It was Richard who finally asked the question that Findley couldn’t. “Where be Maggy and the lads?”

Findley couldn’t respond, his heart wouldn’t allow him to go there, to think of the possibilities of where Maggy and the lads could be. He bent and studied the tracks left in the mud and judged there had been at least ten on horseback. The tracks led in from the east and apparently left in the same direction they had arrived.

“Who ye think coulda done this?” Wee William asked to no one in particular.

Just then, a gust of wind swept down from the hills, scattering bits of dust and leaves. A small scrap of cloth landed on Wee William’s foot. It was as if God Himself had answered the question. Wee William picked up the cloth and studied it closely for a moment. His jaw set as anger filled his eyes for he’d recognize that bit of plaid anywhere. He handed it to Findley for his inspection. It took only a moment for him to come to the same conclusion.

“Buchannans.” A chill slid down his spine at saying the name.

“O
nly sons of whores would kill the auld and leave the bodies for the wolves and scavengers.” It was Wee William’s gravely voice, lined with contempt, that broke through the silence.

Findley McKenna gripped the piece of bloodied plaid until his knuckles turned white. Time seemed to suspend interminably before his heart beat again. ’Twas even longer before he could draw a breath. Rage as hot as a blacksmith’s forge pounded through his veins. His eyes turned to dark slits as he surveyed the death and destruction that surrounded him.

Findley drew his lips into a thin, hard line and fought to speak over the knot that had formed in his throat. “Aye,” he muttered.

While his feelings for Maggy Boyle had been unspoken, his men had well surmised that he had more than a strong affection for the auburn-haired beauty. They had not traveled these many days just to bring supplies and an offer to foster the five young lads she called her sons. Maggy had inexplicably won Findley’s heart.

“Search again,” he ordered his men. While each man was certain a second search would yield the same results as the first, they searched without question. His men would follow him through the bowels of hell if he asked them to.

Findley tore through the blackened tents and the charred remains of Maggy’s hut. He lifted the trestle table and tossed it aside as if it weighed no more than the bloodied fabric clenched between his fingers. With unrestrained rage, he ripped through the carnage in search of her.

As a warrior, Findley had fought in too many battles to number. Never in all the times that he had come close to death, had he felt this kind of fear. It clawed and slashed at his soul, shredding it into inestimable pieces. Please, he prayed, dunna let me find her. No’ here, no’ like this.

“Findley.” The sound of Richard’s voice broke through the madness that was tearing at his mind.

Findley stopped and turned toward his younger brother. Drenched in sweat and with his heart filled with dread, he dared ask the question. “Have ye found her?”

He was was afraid he would not survive beyond the next minute if Richard answered in the affirmative.

“Nay,” Richard answered. “They be not here, Findley.”

“The Buchannans have her.” Wee William was the only one brave enough to put to voice what the rest of them knew without question.

The reality of the situation tore through Findley’s heart with as much force as an enemy sword. Maggy was alive, but she was in the hands of a man he was certain had no soul. More likely than not, the man had imprisoned her for his own purposes. Or worse yet, he was taking her to the slave traders in the high north. He could not shake the image of Maggy being stripped, thrown into chains and put on display to be sold to the man with the most coin.

A pox had wiped out nearly every member of Maggy’s clan. For three years she had managed to hold the small clan together. Maggy, a handful of auld people and five young boys were all that remained of a once proud and growing clan. While she had birthed only one of the five boys who called her mum, she loved them all with a fierceness and maturity that belied her young age.

She had survived all the hard and lean years only to be taken by a coldblooded killer.

Findley studied the faces of the three men who had taken this journey with him. He hadn’t planned on finding the auld dead and Maggy and her boys missing. Nor had he planned for battle. The Buchannan clan’s numbers had been rapidly increasing of late and latest estimates put them at well over a hundred. Logic dictated the four of them could not lay siege to more than a hundred men. His heart however, did not give a damn about what logic might have to say on the matter.

He turned his attention to the bit of plaid still clenched in his hand. Its crimson, green and goldenrod colors were now soaked with the blood of innocents. He took a slow breath in before stuffing the cloth into the folds of his tunic.

“Unhitch the wagons. We be goin’ after Maggy and her boys.”

His voice was as cold as the steel blade of a broadsword and just as deadly. It warned each of the men who surrounded him that there would be no discussion on the matter. He turned and headed toward the wagons. His younger brother Richard followed after him.

“Findley,” Richard said, “do no’ let yer heart cloud yer good judgment.” If any other man had spoken those words to Findley, he would have gutted him without any thought to the matter.

“Maggy and the boys are out there somewhere, Richard,” Findley tossed over his shoulder. “With or without ye, I’ll get them back.”

“I never said ye’d be doin’ it without me, brother,” Richard told him as they approached one of the wagons. “I simply be askin’ ye to think through the matter for a moment. We’ll be needin’ the supplies on these wagons, Findley.” He made no attempt to help his older brother who was angrily working the chains and tethers of the harnesses.

“We’ll travel faster without them!” Findley was angry. Any patience he may have owned was left in the rubble of what remained of Maggy’s home.

“Aye, we could,” Richard answered as he rubbed a hand across his bearded face. “Renfrew be but a day’s ride from here, with the wagons. We can be there in time for the midday meal on the morrow. The Buchannan keep be at least a sennight from here.”

Findley stopped abruptly and looked at his brother curiously. “And what be yer point?”

“I say we take the wagons to Renfrew. Trade them in for fresh horses and purchase the aid of a few men. Then we head for the Buchannan keep.”

Findley blinked, as he ran the idea through his mind. He did not want to waste precious time trading wagons or trying to purchase the fealty of other men. His only concern was to get to Maggy. Who knew what harm might already have been done to her, or what might yet come.

“Think of it brother,” Richard went on. “There be only four of us. While yer thirst for revenge may be strong at the moment, and there be not another man I’d want on the fields of battle with me, we canna go against a hundred men with just the four of us. Let us go to Renfrew, sell the wagons, buy a few men, men good with a sword. We can send a messenger back to Dunshire and beg Angus for more help.”

His brother was right, as much as he hated admitting to it. Wee William and Patrick were now standing with them and by the solemn expressions they wore on their faces, they appeared to agree with the idea.

Hatred and anger had seized control of his heart, which made thinking clearly next to impossible. He knew Richard’s idea made good sense. No matter how much bloodlust ran through Findley’s veins, nor how badly his heart burned with wanting to rescue Maggy, they did need more men to go against the Buchannan clan.

“To Renfrew then,” Findley said through clenched teeth as he began to reattach the harness. “But the first time it appears the wagons slow us, I’ll not think twice of leaving you to them.”

They had ridden until long after the sun had set. With no moon to help guide them, it was far too risky to proceed through the pitch-black night pulling heavy wagons.

Findley slept restlessly, unable to clear his mind of the worry over where Maggy might be and what she might be going through. While she was a strong woman who had managed to keep her small clan together, it was an altogether different matter to be held as a prisoner or slave. He swore by all that was holy, truthful and right that he would kill any man who brought her harm.

He tried to make sense of why the Buchannan had attacked Maggy’s home. Aye, Malcolm Buchannan was as tetched as they came. By anyone’s standards the man was insane. His reputation was the thing ghost stories were made of and that reputation had cast a pall across all of Scotland.

Findley had never met the man but he did know a few who had. If the current stories floating around the Highlands were true, Malcolm Buchannan never acted unless there was something to be gained from it.

What could he possibly gain from Maggy Boyle?

He rose before the first light of day, rolling from under the wagon where he had tossed and turned most of the night. With a heavy heart and racing mind he grabbed water from the back of the wagon and splashed it across his face and neck. His trews and tunic were filthy and travel worn, but that was of no import at the time. He doubted Maggy would give one whit what he might look like as long as he was able to save her from the Buchannans.