The Clan MacDougall Series (49 page)

Trying to push thoughts of Maggy from his mind was as easy as pushing a boulder up a mountain. He took the bit of plaid from his tunic and stared at it for a long time. He could only pray that the blood that soaked it did not belong to Maggy or any of her boys. As he stood in the dawn of early morning, running his thumb over the small bit of fabric, his emotions ran from despair to anger and back again. He had to find her. No matter what had happened to her, no matter what tortures Malcolm Buchannan might thrust upon her, Findley knew that he would spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to her.

Most people, he thought, would not understand the guilt that battered at his heart, the guilt that often kept him awake at night. Just as he had let his family down years ago, he had let Maggy and her family down as well. He had done it by not arriving sooner. He had let them all down by not being there to defend them against the Buchannans.

Irritably, he tucked the plaid back into his shirt and looked toward the horizon. Maggy was out there, somewhere, and God only knew what was happening to her now.

Anger would be his catalyst for moving forward, revenge the thing that kept him from falling apart altogether. He would not rest until he found her.

One by one his men began to wake. After breaking their fast over bannocks and dried beef they headed toward Renfrew just as the sun began to break. The beautiful morning with its purple and azure sky was in direct contrast to the bleakness lying heavy in his heart. Findley doubted he would ever enjoy another sunrise until he had Maggy safely in his arms.

Had they not been low on coin, he would have deserted the wagons the day before and set out on horseback. The battle taking place between what his heart said—leave the wagons and ride fast—and what his mind said—he needed more men than he currently had at his disposal—was causing his head to throb incessantly.

They traveled in silence and as fast as the rough terrain would allow. They’d ridden for only a few hours when a wheel on one of the wagons became lodged between two large rocks. An hour of daylight was lost when they had to unhitch horses from the other wagons to help dislodge it. Findley set forth with a burst of heated blasphemies, growing angrier with each wasted moment that passed. His men quickly caught on to his foul mood and left him alone with it.

Later in the morning, Patrick asked for a brief respite to stretch his legs and empty his bladder. Findley unhappily agreed to the small rest.

As he stood behind a tree answering nature’s call, Patrick heard a slight rustling of leaves coming from his left. He pretended not to hear it as he strained his ears to listen. He was certain neither Findley nor Wee William had followed him in to the woods.

As he laced up his trews, he began to whistle softly while surreptitiously scanning the woods. He heard the faint sound again. Whoever was hiding nearby was doing a terrible job at being quiet.

Patrick feigned a yawn, stretched his arms out wide and began to walk in the direction of the noise. He had taken but a few short steps when he heard the blood curdling sound of a battle cry, which was quickly followed by something quite hard hitting him in the side of his head!

He let out a loud curse as stars began to explode in front of his eyes and an intense jolt of pain shot down the side of his head to his elbow. Momentarily stunned, Patrick reached for his dirk and through a dizzying amount of pain he began to look around for the person who had hit him. His vision had blurred and before he could get a good grip on the situation at hand he heard a voice yell out, “Go to hell ye dirty bastard!”

Patrick couldn’t have sworn to it at that moment, what with his ringing ears, blurred vision, and the goose egg throbbing on his temple, but he thought the voice sounded rather young.

He whirled around toward the source of the voice only to be hit in the chest with another stone, this one the size of a chicken egg. Before he knew it, all manner of rocks were being thrown his way and a litany of curses and blasphemies were being shouted at him. In a matter of moments he was besieged and felled to the ground by stones and rocks and was quickly surrounded by a band of lads who began kicking at him while they cursed.

“Bloody Buchannan!” the smallest of the lads shouted as he landed a kick to the side of Patrick’s stomach.

Another boy, not much older than the first, spat at him and yelled, “Ya can burn in hell ye whoreson!” The boy evidently felt it quite necessary then to kick Patrick in his ribs.

The largest of the four boys had a look of anger that Patrick had seen before only in the eyes of a warrior. The lad held a rather ominous-looking rock, a small boulder really, in both his hands and had raised it over his head, fully prepared to send it crashing into Patrick’s skull.

Funny, but Patrick had always thought that he would die on the battlefield in some fiery, brave, final act of heroism. He’d never imagined himself being pummeled to death with rocks thrown by a group of small boys.

Just as the lad was ready to send his small boulder crashing down, a much larger hand swooped in and grabbed it from behind whilst another grabbed the back of his tunic and jerked him violently away from Patrick. As the lad let loose with curses, more men and hands appeared and began pulling the boys off Patrick.

“Filthy rotten Buchannans!” The boys were cursing and screaming in protest.

Wee William’s voice boomed through the forest, sending birds to flight and other animals scurrying to safety. “Settle yer arses down now, ye heathens!” he shouted.

Flailing arms and legs stopped mid flail, mouths hung open, and all eyes turned to the giant before them. Patrick was certain that had he been any one of those boys at whom Wee William had just yelled, more likely than not he would have pissed his pants.

“Weel have no more of it, ye beasties!” William added for good measure, giving each of the boys an angry glare as he tossed the large rock over his shoulder. It landed with a dull thud on the ground behind him.

Apparently there was not much on this earth that frightened the oldest of the boys for he returned Wee William’s glare with one of his own. “Shove it up yer arse ye filthy dog of a Buchannan scum!”

Patrick had known Wee William for most of his life and never in all that time had he ever seen the man blink when an insult had been hurled his way. But Wee William did just that.

Truth be told, what had surprised William the most was that he had never met someone who had not been intimidated by his size or the mere sound of his deep, gravelly voice. It threw him completely off guard, but only for a fleeting moment.

“Haud yer wheest ye little shite! I be no more a Buchannan than ye are!” William’s response seemed to surprise the boy into a momentary bout of silence. The lad began to look about at the men before him. He could not hide his relief when he recognized Richard and Findley.

“Aye,” Findley said when he saw the flicker of recognition in the lad’s eyes. Findley was holding a young boy under one arm and another by the scruff of his tunic. “’Tis me, Findley, and me brother Richard. Ye remember us, don’t ye lads?”

The lad’s jaw set to stone as he nodded his head. “Aye.” His face was awash with distrust and anger.

“Might I ask why ye felt the need to attack me man, Patrick, here?” Findley asked as he eyed each of the boys. Patrick lay still on the ground trying to catch his breath. The boy Findley held under his arm began to wriggle as he spoke. “We thought ye was Buchannans.”

Findley rolled his eyes. “Apparently.”

“And we hate them dirty bastards!” The boy wriggled again, fighting to be set free. Findley adjusted the lad and squeezed him tighter.

“Settle down, ye hellion!” he warned. He recognized the boy as Maggy’s youngest, Liam. “Elst I’ll let Wee William skelp ye!”

The boy lifted his head, took one look at Wee William’s angry glare and settled down immediately. He may have felt brave enough to pelt a man to death with rocks, but he wasn’t stupid. The giant standing just a few feet away, holding his oldest brother up with one hand as if he were showing the group a large fish he’d just caught, could easily kill him with one blow. Liam decided it best not to chance raising the man’s ire.

Findley and his men gave the boys a moment to settle themselves down before loosening their grasps and freeing them. Wee William disgustedly shoved the oldest boy to the center of the group, clearly not happy with the lad’s stubbornness.

An overwhelming sense of relief had washed over Findley the moment he had seen the boys, even if they had been pelting Patrick with rocks. At least they were alive! Now if the same could be said of Maggy, his heart might begin to beat again.

“Where be yer mum?” Findley asked as he extended a hand and pulled Patrick to his feet. Findley would have sworn the knot on Patrick’s head was growing with each throb of his pulse.

Patrick shook his head, took a deep breath and turned to look at the boys. “Can I skelp these little hellions, Findley?” he asked with another shake of his head. He looked determined to do just that, with or without Findley’s permission.

“Nay,” Findley answered. “No’ till we find out where Maggy is.” He glowered at the boys. “I’ll ask you again. Where be yer mum?”

Each boy clamped his mouth shut and shook his head, refusing to divulge Maggy’s whereabouts. Findley’s nostrils flared as he took in another deep breath in an attempt to ward off the strong urge to throttle each of their scrawny necks.

He studied each of them more closely and noticed they had lost weight since the last time he’d seen them. Their clothes were torn and frayed at the edges. The oldest appeared to be wearing clothes made for someone twice his size. The sleeves of the boy’s tunic had been rolled up several times, yet they still fell to his wrists. Only two of the boys were blessed with a pair of boots.

He imagined it had been some time since any of them had bathed or eaten a good meal. Terrified yet determined eyes, lined with dark circles, stared back at him.

“Lads, we’re here to help and we need to know where yer mum is.” Findley spoke in an even tone and tried to hide his worry.

“Go to hell,” the oldest boy said. “Ye can skin me, poke me eyes with sticks, and pull me fingernails off! I ain’t tellin’ ye nothin’! Ye canna have her!” The fierceness in his eyes promised each of the men standing before him that he meant exactly what he said.

Wee William took one broad step, grabbed the lad by his dirty tunic and lifted him off the ground. He held the boy close to his own face. “Let’s test that theory!” Wee William seethed.

Not a flinch, not even a flash of fear could be seen in the lad’s face. Findley and his men were stunned. Apparently, Wee William had finally met his match, and it was in a lad half his height and a fraction of his weight. The lad was going to make one hell of a warrior someday. That is if he could ever get his temper under control. It was his fearlessness that caused Findley concern. A man without fear would often make reckless decisions.

As Wee William threatened the oldest lad, the youngest, Liam, rushed toward Wee William and kicked him in the leg. Wee William batted the child away with his free hand as if he were nothing more than a pesky gnat. He kept his eyes locked on the lad before him.

“Put me brother down!” Liam yelled as Richard swooped in and pulled him away from Wee William.

Findley had reached the limit of his patience. “I have had enough!” he boomed. “We’re here to help, you fools!”

All eyes turned to him as he continued, his voice laced with anger and frustration. “We ken the Buchannans attacked yer camp. ’Tis why we’re here! We hate the bloody bastards as much as you do! And I swear, if you do no’ tell me where yer mum is right this very moment, I’ll skelp each and every one of ye!” He paused long enough to take a breath.

“Now, do ye wanna leave yer mum with no children and break her heart and risk the chance of the Buchannans findin’ her, or do ye want to do the intelligent thing and tell us where the bloody hell she is so that we can help?”

The boys looked to each other, silently searching for direction and approval. The boy who appeared to be nearest in size and age to the eldest finally spoke. “Do ye promise ye’ll no’ harm her?” There was much worry and distrust in the lad’s bright blue eyes.

It dawned on Findley that he knew all too well what the lads were going through. He had been just ten and one when his family was murdered. Their deaths had taken a hard toll on Findley and it was many years before he could learn to trust anyone again.

It had been but a few days since the Buchannans had raided the lads’ home and it was not going to be easy to convince them that Findley and his men could be trusted. Findley was asking them to put their faith in a nearly complete stranger.

He let out a long, heavy breath and began to chew on the inside of his cheek. “Lads,” he searched for the right words. “I ken ye be afeared ye canna trust us and I canna blame ye fer it.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he put a hand on his hip. “Yer just wantin’ to protect yer mum and ’tis verra noble. A good warrior protects his family to his own death. Ye be doin’ the right thing.” He would have done the very same thing had he been in their shoes.

Pride flickered momentarily in the eyes of the oldest boy, but only for the briefest of moments before it was replaced with a look of suspicion. He stared at Findley for a long while, searching for any sign that he was being disingenuous. He then turned to Wee William. “Can I talk to me brothers fer a moment?” he asked.

Gone from his face was the hatred and repugnance. Replacing it was a look of solemnity far beyond his years. He should be enjoying his youth. Instead, he had been thrust into the role of a man, a leader and protector.

Wee William nodded thoughtfully and set the boy down. The four boys huddled together and spoke in hushed tones for quite some time. Occasionally, one of them would look up at Wee William as if he were trying to size him up, before drawing back into the conversation.

Findley and his men came together, giving the boys the time and space they needed.

“Do ye think Maggy is well?” Richard whispered as he dusted dirt from the legs of his trews.