Page 30 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander (Falling for Highland Villains #4)

CHAPTER 30

“Murdoch, thank goodness!” Aileen cried, running across the main courtyard to greet her son as he rode through the gates.

Murdoch frowned, feeling as if he had lived through this moment before. “Dinnae tell me she’s gone chasin’ after another dog,” he grumbled, arching an eyebrow. “Or the same dog?”

Mairie and Tara hurried after Aileen, barely managing to skid to a stop in front of the stallion. His eyes narrowed as he noted the puppy in Tara’s arms and the pale, worried expressions on the women’s faces.

A moment later, Lennox was there too, his face so ashen that he looked like he might keel over at any given moment.

“What’s happened?” Murdoch demanded to know, unease shivering down his spine.

Lennox took a half step forward, bowing his head. “It’s Her Ladyship. She’s… gone, M’Laird.” His voice hitched. “She told me she was goin’ to the village, and I asked her to wait for an hour or two ‘til I could escort her. She said she couldnae wait but promised she’d take someone with her. I let her have her way, but she hasnae returned.”

The winter sun was sinking below the horizon, and though the hour was not particularly late, the roads were not safe for anyone to walk alone in the dark. They were covered with snow and ice, and it was easy to get lost even for those who knew the terrain well.

Cecilia did not know the terrain at all.

“Who went with her?” Murdoch took a steadying breath, vowing to lose his temper after she had been found.

Lennox and the three women exchanged a look, but it was Mairie who answered.

“It appears that nay one went with her. The servants said she’d tried to find us, but we were all out, wanderin’ beyond the castle walls.” She dabbed her eye with her sleeve.

Dread sank like a stone in Murdoch’s stomach. “Did anyone see her leave?”

“Nay, M’Laird,” Tara replied. “But… I told her about the servants’ entrance. If she wanted to leave unseen, she’d have used it.”

This is all me fault.

Murdoch knew it deep down, as keenly as he knew his own name. He had chosen to make himself scarce that day. He had chosen to avoid her. He had chosen to take some time to gather his thoughts instead of going to reassure her.

As far as he could tell, there were two possibilities: she had gone to the village and had gotten lost on the way back, or she had decided that she no longer wished to be near him, abandoning her title and the castle altogether.

“Gather our best men,” he ordered Lennox. “We search the villages, we search the roads, we search the castle, we search everywhere for her. Nay one rests until she is found. Am I understood?”

Lennox bowed his head. “Aye, M’Laird. I already have the men ready.”

“Then follow me out,” Murdoch growled. “We dinnae have a moment to lose.”

With the dark came the bitterest cold, and if she was lost out there—whether deliberately or not—he would not be able to live with himself if she perished.

If the villagers had been scared of their Laird before, they were positively terrified of him now. Murdoch and his men had torn through every village and hamlet and croft within walking distance from the castle, demanding answers with force and intimidation.

But no one seemed to know where Cecilia had gone. No one had seen a woman who matched her description, and those who were lucky enough to attend the wedding celebrations insisted that they would have remembered if they had seen her.

That was until they made their way back to Castle Moore beneath a clear night sky and twinkling stars.

As they passed through the nearest village to the castle, the shutters and doors closed against Murdoch and his vanguard of soldiers, frightened eyes peering out from behind drapes, a cloaked figure burst out of a small wooden hut.

“M’Laird!” a scared voice called as the figure stumbled forward and bowed their hooded head.

Murdoch slowed his horse, glaring down at the individual. “Yer next words had better be that ye ken where me wife is, else ye’ll wish ye hadnae spoken at all.”

The figure pulled back the hood, revealing the pale and wide-eyed face of a woman. She was perhaps thirty or so, with a smudge of something on cold-reddened cheeks.

“I wasnae in the village when ye came through before,” she said in earnest. “I was in the woods, where I keep me stone oven.”

Murdoch’s expression did not change, nor did he speak, letting her continue.

“I saw yer wife,” the woman said, at last. “She bought tarts from me stall at the market this mornin’. I didnae ken who she was, and I dinnae think she wanted anyone to ken, but a man approached her. Addressed her as Lady Moore.”

An ember of hope encased in a shell of black fear pressed down on Murdoch’s chest as he smoothed the edges of his sharp tone. “What man?”

“I dinnae ken him, M’Laird,” the woman replied. “But she seemed to ken him.”

“Did she have anythin’ with her?” Murdoch had no choice but to ask, to figure out if Cecilia had fled from him or if this was another matter entirely.

The baker nodded. “She had two carvings wrapped in some kind of hemp or burlap. I couldnae tell ye what they were exactly, but she was holdin’ them close, like they were precious. I think they were… gifts.”

Carvings? Gifts?

It did not sound like Cecilia had been running from him, nor did it sound like she had simply gotten lost on the way back to the castle.

“This man. Describe him.”

The baker did her best. “Somewhat tall. Quite thin, with hunched shoulders. Short gray hair and… blue eyes, I think. She didnae seem afraid of him. He told her they should go back to the castle, and she went with him.” She hesitated. “But they didnae take the road. I saw him take her through the cottages over there and into the woods.”

“Thank ye,” Murdoch growled, urging his horse into a lope, following the same route that the baker had pointed to.

By lantern light, he rode with his men through the woodland, instructing them to fan out and search for tracks in the underbrush. There was still some old snow and ice on the ground, which should have been able to hold on to footprints, but he was leaving nothing to chance. If there was a broken twig, he wanted to know about it. If there was a clump of briar out of place, he wanted to hear it.

Where are ye, lass? Who did ye wander off with?

The description had not been as useful as he had hoped, his mind struggling to conjure such an image, but he would find out the man’s identity soon enough. He would not rest until he did. Until he had Cecilia safely back in his arms.

“M’Laird!” Lennox shouted some twenty minutes later.

He banged his dirk against the side of his lantern, guiding Murdoch to the sound.

But as Murdoch followed the sound, a wave of unease washed over him like an itchy blanket. He knew where he was. He knew the place where Lennox crouched beside his horse, inspecting something on the ground. He knew it because he had brought Cecilia to that very spot on the night she got lost chasing Dipper.

“What is it?” Murdoch asked, coming to a halt.

Lennox lifted something from the ground, and Murdoch’s heart lurched, bracing for the worst. “It appears to be… a very ugly, very annoyed toad, M’Laird. A wood carvin’.” He pointed up the faint path that wended between the trees. “There’s another up there, though I couldnae tell ye what it’s supposed to be. A donkey, maybe.”

Gifts…

Murdoch knew, in an instant, that they were the objects that Cecilia had been carrying. She had been here, and she had been in a situation that forced her to drop those precious presents. The man who had led her away, claiming to want to return her to the castle, had done something to her.

“Search the cabin over there,” Murdoch snarled, eyes fixed on that vague path. “I’ll keep lookin’.”

Lennox bowed his head. “Aye, M’Laird.”

“Someone has her, Lennox,” Murdoch said, his voice as deadly as a blade. “Someone has taken what’s mine.”

“I hope ye’re nae fond of havin’ yer head attached to yer neck,” Cecilia hissed, her wrists raw from trying to free herself from her shackles.

George sat beside the fireplace in a cabin she did not recognize, a fair walk from the one where she had spent her first night with Murdoch. It was rudimentary, and the cold wind blew in through the gaps in the walls, making her teeth chatter. George had bound her onto a table, far enough away from the fire that she would not feel its warmth.

“I wouldnae taunt me if I were ye,” he replied grimly, a bruise blooming across his nose where she had managed to headbutt him.

It had not made a difference to her fate, but it had given her a small dose of satisfaction to at least fight him a little. It continued to give her satisfaction, seeing him in pain.

“Why nae?” she scoffed, staring up at the ceiling, where a spider was spinning a new web. “If ye’re goin’ to kill me, I can say what I like. Och, and ye should ken that Tara will never be Lady Moore, nay matter what ye do to me.”

“And why is that?” George asked, taking the bait.

She smiled to herself. “Because if there’s one thing that Murdoch can trust in, it’s me stubbornness. He kens I wouldnae give up, just as he kens I am nae cowardly enough to simply leave. If I did want to get away from the castle, I’d tell him first. I’d tell him all the reasons I’m leavin’ and never comin’ back, and I’d make sure he kenned it was his fault.”

George shifted uncomfortably on the crate he was using as a chair, staring into the fire as if he might find answers in the flames. Cecilia could practically hear the concerns ticking around in his mind, moving toward the clang of truthful revelation.

George did not know her, but he probably knew her well enough to understand that she was not lying.

“Did ye really think this would work?” she continued, straining against her shackles once more. “All ye’ll achieve is yer death, sooner than ye probably anticipated. Tara will be devastated, hearin’ that ye were killed while kidnappin’ and threatenin’ her friend, and the rest of the council will think ye a terrible fool for riskin’ so much for nothin’.”

“Shut up!” George snapped, grabbing the poker by the hearth and jabbing it into the fire. “Shut up, or I’ll burn ye!”

Cecilia laughed. “Things really arenae goin’ as ye planned, are they?” She turned her head to stare at him. “Yer desperation is showin’. But, ye ken, ye could just take me back to Castle Moore before ye’ve done somethin’ ye cannae undo. I’ll tell Murdoch ye were escortin’ me back when we got lost, or we were set upon by brigands. Ye dinnae need to lose yer head if ye just free me and return me now.”

“Shut up!” George roared, wrenching the poker out of the fire and stalking over to her.

A tremor of fear ran through her. She had hoped she was getting through to him, changing his mind, making him see that this was all a colossal mistake that would not end well. But one could not reason with a madman, and she had clearly pushed him too far in the wrong direction.

“I swear, if ye dinnae shut yer mouth, I’ll—” George froze, the poker raised above his head, the end of it bright red with singeing heat.

“Ye’ll what, George?” a deep voice rumbled from behind Cecilia as all the color drained from his face. “Aye, that’s what I thought. Cecilia, ye should close yer eyes. Ye’re nae goin’ to want to see what’s about to happen.”