* * *
Fending off dragoons on an island those bastards weren’t familiar with was a little harder than Brogan anticipated. The arseholes were fast. A lot faster than they should have been. Inhumanly fast, like demons.
He and his men considered splitting up, but determined if they were finally caught, seven against two dozen was better odds than a few of them. They’d been riding their horses hard for two hours now and hid in the craggy rocks on the eastern coast to give them all a rest. Old Man Storr was what the villagers had called this place when they’d come weeks before. They were nowhere near Kilbride, which was on the southern part of the isle. And they didn’t want to try to find refuge at Dunvegan, drawing wrathful attention to the MacLeods.
Brogan cursed for the thousandth time, wishing he could send up a message that would somehow magically find its way to Fiona to let her know they were all right but were going to be later than expected.
As it turned out, they were much much later.
By the time they made it to Kilbride, the passengers on the prince’s boat had departed. Brogan and his men followed Milla’s footprints in the sand above the tide and into the marshy ground, and then made their way toward Mongstat House where Lady Margaret MacDonald greeted them. She told them she’d offered the prince and his entourage refreshment the day before but that they’d all departed for Kingsburgh House near Portree—and closer to Old Man Storr—for the night.
Brogan grimaced, frustrated at being behind.
“Can I offer ye some refreshment before ye go?” Lady Margaret said. “I know your wife was verra eager to see ye, and I’m sure ye’re verra eager to see her in turn.”
“Aye, I am. Perhaps some refreshment for the road?”
“And a change of horses?”
“Aye, please.”
The men were exhausted, but at least their horses didn’t have to be.
By the time he and his men made it to Kingsburgh House, once more they’d missed the party who had apparently headed out for Portree with the prince now changed from his women’s garb into male clothes. What he would have given to see the man crossing Skye on foot in a dress. A sight to bring back in memory when this horrible nightmare was over, one at which they could laugh.
When they got to Portree, they were able to trace the prince to a tavern where he and Fiona and the rest of the entourage had an ale and a meal, but missed them once more. Brogan slammed his hand down on the bar, feeling anger and frustration burning their way through him. They were always one step behind, and it was starting to remind him mightily of the time on the road when he felt like he’d been chasing the Phantom Fiona was meant to be.
Was she doing this on purpose? Had she decided to be rid of him and so kept them moving one step ahead?
Of course he knew this was not true. The prince was in danger, and they were running from the dragoons as much as he and his men had been the days preceding, but that didn’t make her absence hurt any less.
“Did they say where they were headed?” Brogan asked.
The barkeep narrowed his eyes but answered anyway. “The ferry to Raasay Isle.”
“How many ferries a day?”
“Two. One in the morn and one in the evening.”
“Damn,” Brogan growled. “We’ve missed them for the night.”
“I’m afraid so.”
He slammed his hand down again.
The barkeep frowned at Brogan’s fist, then asked, “Can I get ye a drink?”
Brogan grunted the affirmative. “Whisky.”
Just as he was tossing back his spirits, a prickle raised the hair on the back of his neck. He turned quickly, fearing the barrel of a dragoon’s pistol, but his gaze alighted on Fiona.
His mouth fell open at the sight of her grinning at him like she’d just caught him at something naughty. Never had he seen a more beautiful sight. Her face was fresh washed, and the freckles on the bridge of her nose and cheeks were more prominent than ever. There was a curve to her pink lips that was teasing, and a delicately arched red brow above a violet eye challenged him. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and never let go.
“Well, if it is no’ my wayward husband,” she said with clear mocking in her tone.
A slow grin curled his lips. “And my temptress of a wife.”
Fiona let out a light laugh and patted him over the heart. “In the flesh.”
Then Brogan frowned, realizing that if she was there in front of him, she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. “Why did ye no’ go with the prince on the ferry? I told ye to stay with him.”
“Oh hush, sir. Dinna get all grouchy with me. I had a few messages to deliver and a missing husband to find. Besides, we shall meet them in the morning.”
“Ye never stopped moving. I’ve been chasing ye for days.”
She shook her head, leaning next to him at the bar. “There was no other way. He canna stay in one place more than a few hours. A night is pushing it.”
“Too many dragoons?”
“Aye. And enough starving people willing to take some coin to point in the right direction.” She side-eyed the patrons of the tavern.
“People are losing hope.” The words were grim but necessary.
“Aye.”
Brogan passed her his refilled dram, and she sipped, wrinkling her nose.
“Have I ever told ye how adorable ye are?” he asked.
She raised a brow at him. “Are ye calling me a bairn, Grant?”
Brogan chuckled. “I’d no’ want to kiss a bairn. I can promise ye that.”
She grinned, her eyes sparking mischief. “So ye want to kiss me.”
“Every day since the moment I met ye.” The confession had his chest squeezing. Too long he’d held a grudge about those damn letters on her bed. An hour, a minute was too long; why had he let it go on for weeks?
“Even this past month?”
He frowned slightly, knowing he deserved to be chastened. “Aye. Even this past month.”
“Do ye want to talk about it?”
“No’ really.”
“We probably should.” Her fingers danced over his knuckles, then threaded between his. “Ye grew distant the moment ye saw my letter from Aes. But ye didna notice that the other letters were from Annie, Jenny, my siblings. Even one from my mother. I was rereading letters from those I care about, no’ those I pine for.”
Brogan’s gut clenched. What an arse he’d been to make such a stupid assumption. “I’m sorry.”