Alexander MacKinnon – in the improbably hope that she might elicit their future aid. Her earlier escape attempt had failed miserably because she’d had no allies to assist her.
“We didna think tae see any meat afore we got to Castle Maoil,” Hamish remarked as he jabbed his dirk into a slab of sizzling boar meat and turned it ove r.
“And where exactly is Castle Maoil?” she conversationally inquired, her captor having yet to inform her of their final destination.
All four men peered at Yvette, clearly surprised that she was unaware of where they were headed.
Robbie MacKinney cleared his throat. “’Tis on the Isle of Skye,” he informed her.
“Sweet Mary!” Yvette unthinkingly blurted, stunned. “But that is on the other side of Scotland!” Even if she somehow managed to escape, she’d never find her way back to the Earl of Angus’ stronghold in Glencova.
“ And a more lovely isle ye’ll never hope tae see,” Hamish boasted proudly. “’Tis our own piece of heaven given tae the MacKinnon Clan by the Good Lord himself.”
Several of the others made similar boasts, Yvette dully nodding her head, her thoughts in a jumble. The fact that Iain had traveled the whole of Scotland to abduct her sent a chill down her spine. A bold, daring plot, it bespoke of an intense hatred; the likes of which she’d never before encountered.
By all that is holy, what did my father do to Iain MacKinnon to make him hate so fervently?
As if she’d conjured him out of thin air, Iain suddenly appeared at Yvette’s side. With a proprietary arrogance that she found insufferable, he seated himself next to her on the log, his outer thigh and well-muscled arm bumping against her right side, the brute clearly asserting his dominance over her.
Arriving in Iain’s wake, Diarmid politely bowed his head before asking permission to seat himself on the other side of her. With a nod, Yvette gave her consent.
“Christ above!” Iain growled, an ill-tempere d frown on his face. “Ye’d think she was the bloody queen of Scotland.”
“Well, she deserves better than what ye’ve given her, that’s for certain.”
Hearing the surly exchange, Hamish furtively glanced at the two contentious cousins. Frowning, the red-bearded giant uncorked a flask and handed it to Iain. “Why d’ye think that bastard Sibbald MacDougall is prowling so far from his ancestral lands?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.
Before Iain could answer the question, one of the MacKinneys – Yvette had already forgotten who was who – angrily blurted, “MacDougall is spying for King Edward! I heard it said that he and the Lord of the Lorne went to London where they both kissed Longshanks’ arse and swore their undying allegiance to him.”
“Aye, I heard the same,” Hamish seconded.
Shocked to hear that the infamous MacDougall Clan were English sympathize rs, Yvette’s ire instantly escalated. Because they were Loyalists, Sibbald and his men would surely have come to her rescue.
“You told me that Sibbald MacDougall was naught but an outlaw who would rape and murder me without qualm,” she hissed at Iain.
“Aye, so he would,” her captor retorted as he reached for the whisky flask. “The fact that ye’re an English noblewoman would no’ matter to Sibbald. He would care only that he could slake his lust on ye.”
Which is all you care about , as well! Yvette nearly blurted.
“Ye should count yerself blessed that Sibbald MacDougall didna get a hold of ye,” Hamish said as he again speared one of th e slabs of meat with his dirk. “For he is no’ a man like the MacKinnon or the rest of us, mind ye. Sibbald is the devil’s spawn with cloven hooves instead of feet, beady red eyes, and a thick pelt of fur all over his body.”
“What’s more, I ’ve heard it said that he drinks blood instead of whisky,” one of the MacKinneys added, punctuating his ridiculous claim with a theatrical shudder worthy of a professional
“We didna think tae see any meat afore we got to Castle Maoil,” Hamish remarked as he jabbed his dirk into a slab of sizzling boar meat and turned it ove r.
“And where exactly is Castle Maoil?” she conversationally inquired, her captor having yet to inform her of their final destination.
All four men peered at Yvette, clearly surprised that she was unaware of where they were headed.
Robbie MacKinney cleared his throat. “’Tis on the Isle of Skye,” he informed her.
“Sweet Mary!” Yvette unthinkingly blurted, stunned. “But that is on the other side of Scotland!” Even if she somehow managed to escape, she’d never find her way back to the Earl of Angus’ stronghold in Glencova.
“ And a more lovely isle ye’ll never hope tae see,” Hamish boasted proudly. “’Tis our own piece of heaven given tae the MacKinnon Clan by the Good Lord himself.”
Several of the others made similar boasts, Yvette dully nodding her head, her thoughts in a jumble. The fact that Iain had traveled the whole of Scotland to abduct her sent a chill down her spine. A bold, daring plot, it bespoke of an intense hatred; the likes of which she’d never before encountered.
By all that is holy, what did my father do to Iain MacKinnon to make him hate so fervently?
As if she’d conjured him out of thin air, Iain suddenly appeared at Yvette’s side. With a proprietary arrogance that she found insufferable, he seated himself next to her on the log, his outer thigh and well-muscled arm bumping against her right side, the brute clearly asserting his dominance over her.
Arriving in Iain’s wake, Diarmid politely bowed his head before asking permission to seat himself on the other side of her. With a nod, Yvette gave her consent.
“Christ above!” Iain growled, an ill-tempere d frown on his face. “Ye’d think she was the bloody queen of Scotland.”
“Well, she deserves better than what ye’ve given her, that’s for certain.”
Hearing the surly exchange, Hamish furtively glanced at the two contentious cousins. Frowning, the red-bearded giant uncorked a flask and handed it to Iain. “Why d’ye think that bastard Sibbald MacDougall is prowling so far from his ancestral lands?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.
Before Iain could answer the question, one of the MacKinneys – Yvette had already forgotten who was who – angrily blurted, “MacDougall is spying for King Edward! I heard it said that he and the Lord of the Lorne went to London where they both kissed Longshanks’ arse and swore their undying allegiance to him.”
“Aye, I heard the same,” Hamish seconded.
Shocked to hear that the infamous MacDougall Clan were English sympathize rs, Yvette’s ire instantly escalated. Because they were Loyalists, Sibbald and his men would surely have come to her rescue.
“You told me that Sibbald MacDougall was naught but an outlaw who would rape and murder me without qualm,” she hissed at Iain.
“Aye, so he would,” her captor retorted as he reached for the whisky flask. “The fact that ye’re an English noblewoman would no’ matter to Sibbald. He would care only that he could slake his lust on ye.”
Which is all you care about , as well! Yvette nearly blurted.
“Ye should count yerself blessed that Sibbald MacDougall didna get a hold of ye,” Hamish said as he again speared one of th e slabs of meat with his dirk. “For he is no’ a man like the MacKinnon or the rest of us, mind ye. Sibbald is the devil’s spawn with cloven hooves instead of feet, beady red eyes, and a thick pelt of fur all over his body.”
“What’s more, I ’ve heard it said that he drinks blood instead of whisky,” one of the MacKinneys added, punctuating his ridiculous claim with a theatrical shudder worthy of a professional
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