Sins of the Highlander by Connie Mason Page A

the direction Lachlan pointed.
    “We followed the watercourse for several miles, looking for a place he might have crossed over, but there was no sign of them. It was as if they’d vanished.” Drummond shook his head and made the sign against evil. “I’m not a man given to fancies, but if ye told me they were swallowed up into the hollow hills, I’d believe ye.”
    “Ye’d best hope not,” Stewart said, leaning on the pommel of his showy saddle. “If we canna find my daughter, our accord is off. All of it.”
    There was too much riding on his alliance with the Stewart clan for Lachlan to let it fall apart. “Now, see here—”
    “No. You see. I’ll no’ make an ally of a man who canna even defend his bride at the altar.”
    “Your men were there, as well as mine. Why didna one of ye stop the MacLaren?” Lachlan said. “For the same reason I didna. There were women and children about, and none of us were armed. There was nothing to be done but let the madman get away, and well ye know it.”
    The older man shook with suppressed rage. “I’m no’ talking about what happened at the kirk. Why didna ye post guards outside? Or ride patrols through your woods?” He turned an accusing eye on Lachlan. “Most importantly, why did ye no’ settle this matter with Mad Rob before he dragged my Elspeth into your quarrel?”
    “What would ye have had me do?” Lachlan urged his horse forward, hoping a change of scene would change the topic. He heard Stewart’s horse follow him down the slope.
    “What he wanted. All the man asked was satisfaction,” Stewart said. “Ye should have met him in single combat afore it came to this.”
    “Aye, that would have been grand. First, the lady dies in my keeping, and then I kill her husband.” Lachlan slanted an assessing gaze at the other man. Obviously, the Stewart had been listening to his wife whine all night and needed to purge her words from his head. A man would have followed the logic of the situation through to its unhappy conclusion. “Ye’re no’ thinking clearly, Stewart.”
    “I’m thinking ye’re afraid to face the MacLaren.”
    “A man with a clear conscience fears nothing.” Lachlan glared at his bride’s father. “If ye were any other man, I’d kill ye for the insult.”
    “Ach, well, dinna stand on ceremony. Whenever ye feel man enough to try it—”
    “Whist, man. Do ye hear yourself? What would your daughter say if she saw us at each other’s throats like a pair of rabid hounds?” Lachlan turned his horse’s head south once he reached the base of the hill. “It will no’ help Elspeth if we…”
    A spot of color caught his eye, near an outcropping of dark granite. It was far too late in the season for any blooms.
    “The bride wore a rosy-colored bodice, did she no’?” Lachlan asked. He’d noticed, because the swell of Elspeth’s breasts had pinked to almost the same hue when she caught him looking at them during the interrupted ceremony.
    “Aye,” her father said morosely. “With a deep wine skirt. Velvet, Morag said. It was one of Elspeth’s court dresses. The best she had. I mind when she first…”
    Even though Alistair Stewart droned on, Lachlan had stopped listening. He urged his horse up the incline, switching its flanks with a short crop to speed it along. When he reached the rocks, he dismounted and picked the patch of silk off the gorse bush. He rubbed it between his fingers. A tight, fine weave in a luxurious cloth.
    Definitely part of his bride’s dress.
    But it hadn’t been there when he and his men had thundered past. He’d stake his holding on it. The MacLaren must have holed up someplace and doubled back on them.
    He looked north, narrowing his eyes. Another little swatch of cloth waved on the heather.
    Clever girl. Perhaps she did deserve to be the mother of his children, after all.
    Of course, if she quickened too soon in their marriage, the brat might be MacLaren’s spawn. There was no doubt in