She began to cry, and the earl comforted her.
“How many men were there?” MacPherson asked.
She shook her head. “From ten to twenty I think.”
“Long, golden hair.” Jones rubbed the sides of his chin with his thumb and index. “Do you know anyone who fits that description?”
“No,” the earl cried out and turned and yanked at his hair. “We will never find her.”
“I can track them,” MacPherson announced and turned to leave. “I have wasted enough time.”
Jones glanced at the earl to see what he was going to do, and then took off after him. “You are in no condition to hunt for anyone.”
“I will mend on the way.”
“I will have to save your life again,” Jones argued.
“As I recall,” Tristan said succinctly, “I killed as many of those as ye did.”
Jones laughed at him. “The blow to your head still affects you.”
“I am coming with you!” the earl called out, catching up.
MacPherson turned and called to Mary. She smiled gratefully and hurried toward them.
Jones and the earl had their horses. Mary rode with Dumfries while MacPherson scouted outside the gate for tracks. Finding them, he hurried to get his horse. He returned a short while later and following the tracks of fifteen horses riding in a group, he led them north along the river Nith.
The sky was overcast. The air was thick with the smell of rain, though nothing had fallen yet.
Jones knew that when it rained, they would lose the tracks. Everyone else knew it, too, so they rode hard, not stopping or slowing even to leave Mary at one of the villages they passed. She wouldn’t stay behind anyway.
It wasn’t long though before MacPherson insisted they were being followed.
They circled around, leaving the earl and Mary within a stand of trees. The earl insisted he could fight but they wanted someone to stay with Mary.
MacPherson promised he could fight, but Jones heard him swear an oath when he saw six mounted men closing in from the south.
Damnation, Jones swore with him, when one of the bastards called out that if they wanted to see the earl’s daughter alive again, they should hand over the earl.
Things happened quickly after that, but one thing that Jones knew he’d never forget was the sound of MacPherson’s voice and the set of his gaze on their enemies. “They have her, or they know who does.”
“Aye,” Jones answered.
“Let’s keep two alive. In case one doesna talk.”
Jones was about to tell him he would take three and leave one to the Highlander when MacPherson reached into his belt with one hand and his boot with the other and pulled two blades free. He threw both before Jones had time to blink. Two riders went down with small hilts protruding from their necks.
MacPherson didn’t wait for Jones to start fighting but ripped his sword from its sheath and charged forward.
The first of the four who were left swung his sword at the wounded Highlander and lost an arm for his trouble. MacPherson circled back around and with one mighty swing, separated the man’s head from his shoulders.
Jones sped into the fray, unwilling to be left out. There were three left. The wounded Highlander wouldn’t leave him one to kill if he didn’t hurry.
Jones looked off to see where MacPherson was now. He found him bearing down on another assailant and then fighting him for a moment or two. Jones wanted to watch, to marvel at the swift, precise and brutal swings MacPherson used to bring him down, but there were two more who were about to get away.
MacPherson didn’t look to be a merciful fellow so before he chased down and killed the last two, Jones went after them.
He should have known that a man who killed for a living knew ways to make living worse than death. It was only a matter of time before the men talked.
Chapter Eighteen
They could no longer see or smell the smoke. Instead, a storm scented the air and chilled Rose’s blood. They’d gone into the trees for shelter and Rose found herself looking up while she and the captain were being tethered to the same tree.
Where was Tristan? The sun would be going down soon. She thought he would have found her by now. She believed that the only thing that would keep him from her was death. Was he dead?
How long before she was?
Neill was not only the evilest fiend in Scotland and likely England, but he was also mad to think her uncle had anything—no, everything to do with all the horrors she suffered. She didn’t know what he gained from making up such a tale and she didn’t care. She didn’t believe him.
Her father had sent everyone away and kept anyone new from entering her life since she was fourteen. He’d locked her behind walls to keep her safe.
And all the while ’twas her uncle—who had visited the castle twice a year and knew she was alive from the beginning? No. It couldn’t be.
If Neill spoke the truth, she’d been hidden away for nothing. Six years of looking at the walls, longing to leave them, but afraid of who was out there. A monster that breathed fire.
She shook her head and clenched her jaw, keeping what Neill told her to herself.
She wanted to tell the captain, but he had done nothing but cry out and attack whoever was closest to him. He’d managed to sit up and smash his head into the head of the man on whose lap he rested. He was caught before he could flee on the horse and beaten. But as soon as another opportunity to hurt one of them had arisen, he seized it, biting part
