Page 50 of Abducted By the Highlander
“Don’t ye know?” Fergus gave him a calculating look, and ice gripped Hugh’s gut. Fergus knew exactly who Roisin was. But maybe he was mistaken. It took every shred of self-control for him not to react. Instead, he shrugged.
“Know what?”
“She’s one of the MacDonalds of Sgur Castle. Her sister is wed to William Campbell.”
Contempt dripped from every word, but Fergus’s response jarred in Hugh’s brain. William was a wealthy laird to be sure, but it was Alasdair who had the close connection to the earl. He’d been certain that, had Roisin been targeted because of her relatives, it was becauseher other sister was married to the earl’s half-brother.
It stood to reason that if Fergus knew of William, he had to know Lady Freyja was wed to Alasdair. It didn’t make sense. But he would discover the reason.
“And who is William Campbell?”
“William Campbell,” Fergus said with undisguised loathing in his voice, “is the pox-ridden turd who murdered my half-brother, Alan MacGregor. I’ll see justice done if it’s the last thing I do.”
Christ, no. Hugh finished his ale to give him a moment’s reprieve so he didn’t need to hold Fergus’s glare, but inside he was reeling.
Alan MacGregor was the man who had infiltrated William’s inner circle more than two years ago and had tried to murder him by pushing him overboard during a storm. And then, after William had wed Lady Isolde, Alan had set his sights on her.
His heart thundered in his ears at the realization that the danger against Roisin had magnified a thousandfold. It had never been merely a kidnap attempt by Fergus to exchange a valuable hostage for specific demands.
It was personal.
“Alan,” said Darragh, his single eye boring into Hugh as though he were about to impart a great revelation, “was the true laird of Creagdoun Castle.”
More than four years ago Torcall MacGregor, Alan’s father, had rebelled against the earl and in the battle that followed, the earl had killed him and claimed his castle and lands. He had then bequeathed it all to William in recognition of his loyalty to Clan Campbell.
Hugh needed to say something. The last thing he could afford was to raise their suspicions when, for whatever reason, they seemed to trust him enough to share such information in the first place.
“And Creagdoun should now be yers?” He eyed Fergus.
“No. Torcall wasn’t my father. But no way in hell should Creagdoun be infested by Campbells.”
“Does Creagdoun not mean anything to ye, then?” Darragh said.
“What?” Hugh shot him a sharp glare, his defenses on full alert. Were the jaws of the trap finally snapping around him and he had failed to notice?
“Never mind.” For a bizarre reason, the older man appeared to be dryly amused. What in the name of God was going on? “Ye should be glad to know the lady will continue to be under yer protection when we arrive at Fergus’s camp. I’m certain ye’ll make the best of it.”
Fergus stood. “I’ll take my leave and see ye in a week or so. I’ll be watching out for ye.”
Darragh also stood and the two men grasped arms. After a piercing glance in Hugh’s direction, Fergus left the tavern and Darragh turned to him. “We’d best be making our way back to camp if we want to be in time for supper.”
They walked outside, and as they unhitched their horses, his head throbbed with what he knew had to be done.
Whatever Darragh might say about Hugh being responsible for Roisin’s safety, the truth was that the moment she stepped foot in Fergus’s camp, she would be in mortal danger.
There was no choice anymore. As if there ever had been. He needed to send a message to the earl, confirming the time and location where he could ensure Roisin was safely returned to her kin.
Chapter Nineteen
Arm-in-arm with Grear,Roisin watched Hugh ride away with Darragh and Fergus and a thread of unease twisted through her.
Be careful.
The warning reverberated around her mind like a distant heartbeat, and she could only hope that, somehow, Hugh would understand the need to be on his guard. Ecne whined and nudged her ankle, and she crouched to give him another hug, as she silently berated herself.
Hugh was a warrior. He knew how to take care of himself without her fretting over his safety. But it didn’t stop the knot of unease from tightening in her chest. She didn’t trust either Darragh or Fergus. Why had they wanted Hugh to accompany them into town?
Grear crouched next to her. “Ye must get out of these wet things, milady.” Anxiety threaded through her voice and Roisin took her hand. To be sure, her clothes were wet through, and even Hugh’s spare shirt, that he had insisted she wear beneath her gown, was now damp as it clung to her skin, but Grear was just as soaked as she.
