Brodie turned suddenly as if listening to someone, and then frowned and nodded. Starting to pace the length of the tent, he said, “Aye. O’ course ye’re right. Finding an opportunity to cause a death that might look accidental could take a while, and we canno’ live out here in a tent forever.”
She felt Father Machar move behind her and glanced over her shoulder to see that he was staring at Brodie with confusion.
“Aye, dove, again ye’re right. It very well might be better to poison the food at Buchanan, or the water, with something that could appear to be the result o’ bad meat, or something o’ that ilk. But what?” he asked, and then scowled irritably. “What do ye mean ye do no’ ken? Why suggest it if ye’ve no idea what to use to do it?”
“Who is he talking to?” Father Machar whispered with bewilderment.
“I think his dead wife,” Dwyn whispered back. That was what she’d concluded the last time he’d started talking to someone who wasn’t there. It was while he’d been trying to rape her. Apparently, his wife had been giving him pointers, or urging him on anyway. It was the only reason he hadn’t managed the task before her dogs had got to them and attacked. He’d stopped briefly to shout at the empty sky overhead, telling someone that she’d always been a bloody nag, which was why he’d never managed to plant a bairn in her belly. He’d then bellowed out that if she’d been more pleasant to be around, he never would have choked her to death. He’d started foaming at the mouth at that point too. The man was mad.
“Damn woman! Ye’re as useless dead as ye were alive. Killing ye was the smartest thing I ever did!” Brodie snarled with frustration.
“Oh dear,” Father Machar breathed behind her and Dwyn supposed it was at the realization that the man had killed his wife.
“Oh, leave off, woman!” Brodie barked suddenly. “I shall have to think on this. There must be someone in the area who kens about such things. I will find out.”
He didn’t even look toward Dwyn and Father Machar then, but simply stormed out of the tent.
“Lady Buchanan?” Father Machar murmured, his voice shaky.
“Aye, Father?” Dwyn asked, returning to trying to undo his bindings.
“I do believe ye may be correct. Laird Brodie is quite mad.”
“Aye, Father,” Dwyn breathed, and then sighed with exasperation and started to scoot away from him.
“What are ye doing, lass?” he asked, craning his neck around to try to see her.
“I am going to try to get me hands in front o’ me,” she muttered, and then shifted up to her knees and slid her bound hands under her butt and then forward as she dropped back so that they rested in front of her bottom beneath her upper thighs. Dwyn then shifted her feet so that her bottom was on the floor and her knees were raised with her feet planted on the ground. Pressing her chest as tight to the raised tops of her legs as she could, she squeezed her feet back to press against her butt and slid her hands under her feet until she could push them in front of her feet. It was a bit tight thanks to her overlarge chest, but she managed it, and expelled a relieved breath when her wrists were now in front of her and she could relax.
“My,” Father Machar breathed. “That was clever. Do ye think I could do it?”
Dwyn glanced toward the aging prelate and smiled faintly. “Ye can try if ye like, Father, but hopefully I’ll be able to get free now and then will free you too.”
She turned her attention to the ropes around her wrists, picking out which cord to start with and then raised her wrists to her mouth, bit into the cord and began to tug. Dwyn was aware that Father Machar had pushed himself to his knees and was trying to do what she had done, but didn’t look over to see how he was making out. Instead, she concentrated on her ropes. It occurred to her halfway through that she could have simply untied the priest and let him untie her, but she was so close to being done by that point that there seemed little sense in stopping to do it now.
“There,” Dwyn said with relief as the rope dropped from her wrists. Shifting her attention to her ankles, she quickly undid those and then turned to Father Machar and blinked in surprise.
“My,” she said, biting her tongue to keep from laughing. The priest had managed to get his hands under his behind, but then had toppled over. He was now rolling and flopping about on the ground like a landed fish, but in a fetal position. Shaking her head, she blew out her breath and crawled to him. “Let me help ye, Father.”
“Is that—?”
“The MacGregor,” Geordie said when Dwyn’s father hesitated. “Aye.”
“Is this good, or bad?” Baron Innes asked with concern, his wide eyes moving over the large army behind the giant, fair-haired warrior who waited just across the small river that marked the border between the Buchanan and MacGregor properties.
“Well, since they’re no’ attacking, I’d say good,” Geordie said dryly, and then turned to signal the men to stay, before turning back and urging his horse forward. He wasn’t surprised when Aulay kept pace with him. The fact that Dwyn’s father did as well though did surprise him. He knew the man was no’ a warrior, but it seemed he was willing to become one for his daughter. It raised his opinion of the man.
“Buchanan,” the MacGregor greeted, his eyes on Aulay when their horses carried them out of the shallow river and onto dry land before the man.
“MacGregor,” Aulay responded, his face as expressionless as the other man’s.
Conn MacGregor turned his gaze to Geordie then. “I summoned me men to come help ye reclaim yer bride. Had I kenned Brodie was up to no good, I’d have refused him sanctuary on our lands.”
Geordie relaxed in the saddle, relieved the MacGregors wouldn’t be a problem. “We appreciate it.”
“Aye, we do,” Laird Innes said quietly. “Thank ye.”
“This is me wife’s father, Baron James Innes.” Geordie introduced the two men.
“Innes,” MacGregor greeted him with a nod, and then cracked a smile and said, “Ye’ve made a fine match fer yer daughter. She’s in good hands . . . Or will be once we get her back.”
“Aye,” Dwyn’s father said. “I’m coming to see that.”
The MacGregor nodded, and then turned back to Geordie and Aulay to say, “Brodie’s camp is in a small valley no’ far from here. The sides are lined with trees. I’m thinking with the men we have between us—” his gaze skated over the large army on the Buchanan side of the river “—we can surround the valley and just ride down in on the bastard and demand yer woman back, and then kill Brodie and his men or no’ as ye like.”
When Laird Innes started to speak, and then hesitated, Geordie turned to him in question. “What is it, m’laird?”
“I just worry that Brodie will kill Dwyn for spite if he realizes he is surrounded and has no way out. The man is . . . no’ quite right in the head.”
“Dwyn said there was something wrong with him as well,” Geordie said with a frown. “What makes ye both think he’s no’ right in the head?”
“He gets so excited when he’s angry that he actually foams at the mouth,” Innes said with a grimace, and then reluctantly, as if he feared they wouldn’t believe him, he added, “And he talks to his dead wife as if the woman is standing beside him.”