Page 22 of Warrior of the Highlands (Highlands #3)

But the room was quiet. Her trepidation turned to annoyance.

Was the woman still abed? She’d drank like a man, then spent the entirety of the next day in her room.

Was she planning on lazing away yet another one?

The attitude spoke to a certain entitlement that was new to her.

Death and death alone would keep Jean in her bed for the day.

Shaking her head, she strode in, wondering what the woman’s background was, that she considered the daily running of her own life—not to mention such a simple consideration as appearing for a meal—as something beneath her.

But the bed was empty.

She was gone. It was hard to imagine that she’d risen earlier than Jean that day. And even if she had, surely someone would have noted her appearance.

Confused, she wandered back into the hallway.

“What has your lovely features in such a muddle, and on such a fine morning?”

She turned to see Scrymgeour walking toward her.

The man had such a pleasant countenance, always with a gentle smile and an easy manner.

Even his large size felt welcoming. Rather than implying sloth, the fullness at his waist spoke to a jovial nature and a love of life that was reassuring to Jean.

The sight of him brought an instant swell of relief.

“I . . . yes, Lord Scrymgeour, perhaps you can be of assistance.”

“Och, please, Jean.” Taking her elbow, he patted her arm. “I’ve told you time and again. You must please call me John.”

She felt her cheeks redden, and cursed her pale skin. Casting her eyes down, she replied, “Yes, of course, John.”

“Now you must tell me, how may I be of service?”

“She . . . Haley, she’s gone.” She nodded to the open doorway. “I came to fetch her for the morning meal, and she’s not here.”

“Well, surely you just missed each other?”

“No, I’d have seen her. She doesn’t seem the sort to rise with the dawn.” Jean hadn’t intended her comment to have such sass, and Scrymgeour’s answering grin embarrassed her.

“Well, then.” He steered them down the hall, and the steady feel of his arm in hers warmed her. She tried not to wonder at the strangely calming effect he seemed to have on her. “Surely your brother will have some notion.”

They reached MacColla’s door too quickly. Scrymgeour lifted his hand to knock, and her arm felt cool where his hand had been.

“Come,” MacColla called brusquely.

Scrymgeour opened the door, and Jean instinctively froze.

The sight of her older brother never ceased to startle her.

He’d yet to don his plaid, and he stood at his wash-basin in just his linen shirt.

Though it reached almost to his knees, it revealed the thick muscle of his legs and chest in a way that his plaid, wrapped about his waist and tossed over his shoulder, did not.

Jean braced. Though she had never once suffered his temper, she’d watched warily through their childhood as others had. Alasdair’s great good humor blackened into fury, as sudden and mercurial as a Highland storm.

“You’ve not come to choke me again, is it?” He dashed the water from his face and gave a low laugh. The smile in his eyes was directed at his sister. “You forget, it’s our brother Gillespie who likes your vile potions, not me.”

She briefly returned her brother’s smile. Like a great bear he was, and God help those who’d tempt his wrath.

“Your sister bears news of our . . . guest,” Scrymgeour told MacColla.

Jean looked up at Scrymgeour, gathering strength. Though he’d let go her elbow, he still stood close by her side. She missed being in the care of a man. It felt good to remember how it was to have one speak for her at the most trying of times.

She looked back at MacColla. A strange look pinched his eyes, and Jean wondered if she wasn’t seeing something protective flicker in her brother’s gaze.

“Aye,” she said. “Her bed is cold. I’d swear she’s been gone since before dawn.”

“What?” MacColla’s face grew dark.

She felt Scrymgeour put his hand at the small of her back. Jean appreciated the gallant gesture, but she knew Alasdair would rather injure his own self than bring harm to his sister.

“Och,” he growled, stalking to his bedside to retrieve his plaid. He remembered their time together in the kitchen. Haley’s peculiar warnings of Ireland had unsettled him. “I knew something was amiss. Did she run away?”

Jean only shrugged mutely.

He shook his head impatiently. His sister would have no idea what had become of the woman. “Aye, of course you’d not know.” He hastily wound the fabric about his waist. “What game does she play at?” he wondered aloud.

MacColla looked up at Scrymgeour. “Come, let’s see her room then.”

“Aye, perhaps there’s some clue.”

He stormed into the hallway, Scrymgeour’s words at his back.

It was dim. There was light enough that the torches weren’t lit, yet the sun had not yet reached high enough in the sky to burn off the night’s cold shadows.

The gray stone was cool under MacColla’s bare feet.

Scowling, he noted the stairway at the end of the corridor.

Her room was just far enough away, just close enough to the stairs, that she could’ve escaped silently.

Who is she? MacColla tried to tamp down the anger he felt surging through his veins. Where could she have gone?

He’d been taken in by those pretty gray eyes. Had he missed some ulterior motive? She’d asked so many questions about James, had such unnerving insights about the king, about Ireland. What could her purpose be? Why trick him so, only to skulk away in the night?

He strode into her room and paced a quick circle around it. “Is anything missing, then?”

“I . . .” Jean hesitated.

“Not that I can see,” Scrymgeour interjected. “There’s naught much for the taking.”

MacColla walked to the bedside and tore back the sheets as if he might reveal her hiding there. He tossed aside one pillow and another, and then grew utterly still. A chill ran up his back, dread filling his gut like ice.

He leaned down slowly and placed his hand on her pillow. Right beside a bloody handprint. A man-sized bloody handprint.

“God help her,” he whispered.

“What?” Jean found her voice. “Alasdair, what is it?”

“The lass didn’t run.” He looked up at his sister, then to Scrymgeour. “She was taken.”

Jean’s mouth opened and shut wordlessly. She knew better than any of them what that meant.

“Campbell?” Scrymgeour asked.

“Who but?” MacColla’s hand went to the back of his neck. An automatic gesture, reaching for the claymore that was usually strapped between his shoulders. His hand met only air, and he was instantly on his guard.

He’d not let Haley be taken by Campbell’s dogs. The urge to find, to kill, to destroy the Campbell erupted anew, enraging him. Invigorating him.

“The man goes too far.” Their feud was a crucible, boiling his craving for vengeance to unprecedented fury. MacColla would be damned if he’d see another of his people taken by Campbell.

Especially this woman. This woman who had been badly injured before. He’d not see Haley injured again.

“I must find her,” he growled. “I leave at once. I’ll track them. Find them.”

“Aye,” Scrymgeour said gravely. “I’ll keep Jean with me.”

Something flashed in MacColla’s eyes as he looked from Scrymgeour to his sister. Some complicated internal calculus, a question asked and answered.

“Take her south,” he responded finally. “To safety. My family waits for us in Kintyre. Take her for me, Scrymgeour.”

“I will.” Scrymgeour didn’t appear to think then, simply reached his hand to rest protectively at the small of her back. “Leave, now,” he said. “And I’ll keep Jean safe in my care.”