The Laird of Blackloch (Highland Rogue #2)

Chapter 28

Kinloch, Loch Rannoch

The following morning…

M alcolm slowed his exhausted horse as the rising sun cast pale rays through the mist enveloping the tiny village of Kinloch and the dark loch.

The dragoon barracks wasn’t hard to find. The two-story thatched stone dwelling—more a house than anything resembling a decent base for troops—lay in the deep shadow of a looming granite hill.

Malcolm dismounted inside the yard with care, holding onto his horse’s saddle for a moment as bile rose in his gorge and a wave of dizziness washed over him. Thanks to his cursed runaway bride, his head pounded with the steady beat of a battle drum.

The vicious blow Sarah had struck had rendered him unconscious for a good half-hour. With the help of Reverend Lennox, he’d returned to Taymoor Castle to regroup. But between his aching head, and the writhing anger in his gut, he’d eventually given up on sleep and had decided to surrender to the overwhelming urge to wreak bloody vengeance on Alexander MacIvor. And to reclaim Sarah. As much as he despised the bitch, he needed her money.

The light-headedness passed and when Malcolm looked up it was to discover a pair of young, red-coated dragoons eyeing him with suspicion from the shelter of a covered portico. It probably didn’t help he carried a sheathed sword at his waist. If he removed his greatcoat, they’d also see he carried a brace of pistols at his back. After the Rebellion, weapons had been proscribed in the Highlands, but because he was a nobleman loyal to the King, the ban had never really applied to him.

One of the lads greeted him as he approached. “Good morning, sir. May we be of assistance?”

“Aye.” Malcolm wasn’t fooled by the soldier’s cordial tone. Not when both men had tightened their grips on their muskets. “And it’s ‘my lord’ as far as you are concerned.” He removed his tricorn hat, and after tucking it beneath one arm, pulled off his gloves and slapped them against the palm of his hand. “I want to speak with your commander. Tell him the Earl of Tay is here.”

“Of course, Lord Tay.” The taller, slightly older soldier—a Sassenach judging by his accent—gave a deferential bow. “Follow me.”

Malcolm was ushered through the entry hall to a small but scrupulously neat office; a bright fire burning in the grate illuminated the gold-embossed print on the spines of the books in a pair of bookcases and a brass candelabrum on the matching desk of polished oak. He winced and clenched his fist when he spied the candlestick.

The soldier—a corporal—invited him to take a seat in the brown leather wingchair in front of the desk before disappearing. Within a few minutes, a connecting door at the back of the room opened and the dragoon captain emerged.

Finally, someone who would be some use to him.

Malcolm rose as the athletic-looking captain greeted him.

“Lord Tay, good morning to you. I’m Captain Hamilton. You’ve journeyed a fair way to see me. What can I do for you?” He indicated they should both take seats, so Malcolm reclaimed the wingchair whilst Captain Hamilton took the straight-backed Jacobean chair behind his desk.

Malcolm flicked a piece of non-existent lint off the braided cuff of his greatcoat. “I rather think it’s a case of what we can do for each other.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his silver snuffbox. “Would you care for some?”

Beneath his perfectly dusted periwig, the captain raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, but no. Let me tell you something about myself, Lord Tay. I am not fond of snuff or beating about the bush. Perhaps you could speak plainly.”

Malcolm bristled at the Englishman’s condescending tone. The arrogance of the man! Nevertheless, he put away his snuff case and got straight to the point. He really wasn’t in the mood to practice false civility either. “Alexander Price of Blackloch Castle is not who he says he is. He’s really Alexander MacIvor, a wanted Jacobite. He fought in the Forty-five, as did his late father, Baron Rannoch. I want you to arrest him for treason.”

Captain Hamilton’s expression did not change. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, my lord,” he said coolly. “I’ve seen Mr. Price’s papers and everything is in order. The man I know is above reproach. By all local accounts, Alexander MacIvor perished in the great fire at Blackloch Castle over ten years ago. I’ve also heard his mother, Lady Rannoch, his younger sister, Anne MacIvor, his fiancée , Lady Margaret Stewart, and a good many of the castle’s servants and defenseless crofters’ families around Loch Rannoch were murdered...by you and your men.” The captain cocked an eyebrow again. “So I think I know everything I need to.”

Malcolm leapt to his feet and planted his fists on the table. “Why you puffed-up toad-eater. What’s MacIvor paying you? I’ll have you stripped of your rank for this. Court-martialed.”

Captain Hamilton also rose and looked down his nose at him. “I rather think you won’t. Do you really want everyone to know what you did, my lord ?”

Malcolm’s face was hot and his head felt like someone was pounding it with a hammer. “I was within my rights.”

“Yes. Quite. Some indecent souls might believe that. But many won’t. How old was young Anne MacIvor again?”

“Fuck you,” snapped Malcolm.

“Not today.” Hamilton’s gaze shifted to the door. “Corporal Jones will see you out. I trust your journey back to Taymoor Castle will be a pleasant one.”

Malcolm remounted his horse and spurred the beast into a gallop, heading toward the bridge over the Tummel River. But it wasn’t Taymoor Castle he was bound for.

It was Blackloch.