Page 15 of Highlander’s Devious Ally

Lyall bowed. “I thought after our last encounter you might have been less than happy to see me, M'Laird.” His tone was ironic and mistrusting.

Jock flapped his hand. “Pfft!” he said dismissively. “A storm in a teacup, for which I apologize. Let us go and have some of my best whisky, and you can tell me what you came about. I am always glad to help a neighbor.”

Lyall said nothing as he followed Jock into his study. Jock poured out a glass of whisky but Lyall refused politely. “Thank you, Laird McCauley, but I am not here to socialize with you.” His voice was calm and even.

“Then why are you here?” Jock asked silkily. “Or need I ask? Could it have something to do with my betrothed, the delightful Mistress Galloway?” He looked at Lyall keenly.

“She is no longer your betrothed,” Lyall replied. “She is mine.”

Despite himself, Jock was shocked. Looking back, he could see why he had angered and upset her so much, but he had thought that there must be something he could do to win his way back into her good graces. He believed that he might win Ailith back by abasing himself and apologizing profusely, or even by buying her gifts, but he was no match for Lyall Stevenson. He was tall, strong, handsome, and wealthy, and as well as all that he commanded respect in an effortless way, while he, Jock, did not.

Jock recovered quickly, but not fast enough to hide the expression of surprise and anger that passed momentarily over his face, and which Lyall picked up instantly.

“Since she has spent the last two nights in your castle I should hope so!” said Jock scathingly, then realized that he had said the wrong thing.

“I see you are well informed!” Lyall laughed, apparently unconcerned. “I thought you had a spy on me! Tall, dark fellow? Face like a skull? Name of Fergus Brown? He is not half as clever as he thinks he is, and neither are you, M'Laird McCauley. I spotted him the first day you set him on me, and I have seen him half a dozen times since.”

Jock shrugged in apparent nonchalance. “Then you know that he saw Ailie entering and leaving your castle? If she is now your betrothed, and she stayed two nights at your home, am I to assume you are now lovers?”

“You are to assume NOTHING!” Lyall roared, slapping the flat of his hand on the table next to him and having the satisfaction of seeing Jock jump with fright. “Not that it concerns you in the slightest, but Ailie is as untouched as she was the day I met her, and she will be so till we are married.”

“Why did you come here?” Jock asked, his voice quivering slightly. “I can have a dozen men in this room at my command as soon as I snap my fingers.”

Lyall shrugged. “And I could slit your throat just as quickly,” he growled, drawing out a razor-sharp dagger with an edge that glinted in the daylight. For a moment he contemplated sticking its point underneath his enemy’s chin just to watch him squirm, but he dismissed the thought as childish, but tempting. “If you harm me, or Ailith, or Fenella, you may regard it as a declaration of war between our two houses, and my garrison is much bigger and better armed than yours, Laird McCauley.”

Jock was mesmerized by the dagger for a minute, then he looked up at Lyall again and realized that his threat had not been an idle one. Lyall’s eyes were as cold as granite. “Have you said all you came to say, Laird Stevenson?” he asked, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice.

“No,” Lyall answered, glowering at Jock from under his brows. He had sheathed the dagger, but kept his hand on the hilt ready for an instant strike. “I want to see your spy.”

Jock immediately called a maidservant to fetch Fergus, and a few moments later he appeared, his gaunt face looking even more corpse-like than ever. He bowed to Lyall, who bowed back out of habit, nothing more.

Lyall knew that no one could help the face that they had been given by God, but he could hardly bear to look at Fergus’s cadaverous features.

“Good day, M'Laird,” the man said politely. “I trust you are well?”

“Always well, thank you,” Lyall replied sharply. “I trust that you are too, since you seem to be deriving much satisfaction from following me around all day, and I have noticed that MY betrothed Ailith has not escaped your attention either.” He laughed inwardly as he looked at Fergus’s lantern jaw dropping.

“You are not very good at your job, my man, which is just as well, because it ends now. Right this minute. And if I see you again near any of my family I WILL KILL YOU. Do you understand?” he said the last words with heavy emphasis and waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. “DO YOU?” he roared.

“Yes, M'Laird,” the man replied fearfully.

“Good.” Lyall put on his cloak and bowed a farewell. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said politely, then he strode out of the castle.

The moment he was gone, Fergus and Jock smiled at each other, and Jock sighed with satisfaction. His terror in front of Lyall had been real—the Laird was a very intimidating man—but he knew something the Laird did not.

“Shall we begin?” Jock asked lightly, still smiling. He poured a tot of whisky for each of them. “Sláinte! To success!”

“Sláinte!” Fergus replied, his dark eyes burning. He could not wait to see Lyall again. Things would be very different then.

9

Kidnapped

Fergus had been busy. He had watched Ailith enter Lyall’s castle the night before, and had seen her coming out in the morning. He had watched them ride away with the soldiers and had seen the strength of the guard around her house, and when he reported back to Jock he was gleeful.

“I think we can do better than six!” he replied scathingly. “Call Findlay to me please.”

Findlay shambled in, smiling as usual. He gave a clumsy bow.