Page 117 of A Rogue in Firelight
Somewhat later, she woke, noticing that the rocking motion of the carriage had stopped. Strathniven already? Rousing herself, gathering her shawl, she felt the vehicle lurch as the driver dismounted and came around to open the door.
“Miss,” he said, “out now.” Before she could answer, he reached in to grab her. Shocked, she pulled away, and saw another man standing behind the driver.
“I do not understand—”
“Out. Now!” The driver grabbed for her again. Standing, she exited, trembling.
“What is this? Where are we?” She looked around. In the darkness, she did not see Strathniven House—just a wide stretch of bleak, dark moorland, hills to one side, a gleam of water elsewhere.
“Come along. And dinna try to get away.” The bearded man clutched at her then, pulling her toward him, while the second man looped a rope around her hands. Roughly shoved, she fell to her knees in mucky grass, unable to stop herself with her hands tied.
As they took her arms to haul her to her feet, she took a breath, lifted her head, and screamed with all the fervor she could muster, hearing the sound travel over moor and water before a brutish hand clapped over her mouth.
The driver grabbed her shawl and she heard a ripping sound. Then a wad of cloth was forcibly tied around her jaw, gagging her.
“Now she will be quiet,” he growled. “We should hae done that first. Come along. ’Tisna far to walk. I wouldna drag a wee lassie aboot, see, but it canna be helped. Come.”
She could not form words, could only concentrate on walking forward, keeping her balance, breathing, as they pulled her between them along the edge of the water toward the tower in the distance.
Looking around, she saw a small island in the water, and glancing further, began to recognize where they were walking. They were walking beside the narrow stretch of Loch Brae, where the fairy isle sat in the middle. Ahead of them, yards away, she saw the massive ruin of a tower—the ancient ruin that she had wanted to visit.
Nearby would be the birch grove where a fast-flowing burn cut through moor and meadow, where she and Ronan had fished. They had met Pitlinnie near the meadowland. And he had lent her the use of his carriage that evening.
Not so kindly as she had thought. She had been naïve to trust him. But why would he lure her deliberately?
Then she knew. He meant to use her to lure and harm Ronan.
“What was that?”Donal halted his horse and looked at Ronan. “Did you hear it?”
“Aye.” Ronan stopped too, looking about. The sound, oddly familiar, sent a chill down his back.
“Fox, most like. They can shriek something fierce.” Donal gathered the reins.
“Huh,” Ronan agreed, but instinct told him otherwise. That was no fox. He looked around in the darkness. “I saw a coach heading that way not long ago. Odd.”
“I saw too, but dozens of coaches left Duncraig tonight. It would be one of those just heading home.”
“But this one took drover’s track in that direction. There are no houses or villages that way, and it is too dark for a carriage to take such a rough track.” The uneasy feeling plunged through him again. He stopped, and Donal did the same.
“What is it?” the lad asked.
“That way lies the Lealtie Burn and Loch Brae, and a crumbling old ruin. Nothing else for miles. It is a bit late for fishing, but not too late for free traders to be about.”
“They might go that way, but it is not the best route through this part of the glen.”
“I saw Pitlinnie and his lot come this way one evening, and I wondered why for that very reason. The only thing out here is—” Quick as a falling star, he knew.
“What?” Donal asked.
“The old broch tower. Have you been there recently?”
“Not since I was a boy. Too dangerous. The walls are near to collapsing. No one goes there. But—” He whistled. “No one goes there.”
“Exactly. I wonder if we might find our whisky there. Come on!”
As he rode, he searched in the moonlight for any trace that would tell him a vehicle had come this way. He stopped once or twice, noting wheel marks, and then saw footprints and mashed grasses. Those subtle marks led eastward toward the loch.
Something compelled him this way, a strong pull in gut and heart. If Pitlinnie and his men intended to hide a quantity of whisky in casks and kegs, the deserted old broch would be ideal. Why had he not thought of it before? Logic simply said the place was ruinous, useless. But that might not be the case.
