But as he met that calm, understanding gaze, he had a nasty suspicion that his yen for the bonny deceiver was no secret. Shame spiced the uncomfortable mixture of emotions roiling in his gut.
“Ye forget there’s a bairn.”
“I knew she’d given birth.”
“Ye never told me.”
“She
was my patient. She has the right to her privacy. There was also a mark on her finger that hinted she once wore a wedding ring.”
Diarmid scowled. “And ye never told me that either?”
“There were bruises, too.”
“Of course there were blasted bruises. She’d just been through a shipwreck.”
John shook his head. “These were older, from what I could tell.”
Queasiness set up home in his stomach. The thought of anyone lifting a hand to that graceful girl made him want to vomit. “Oh, hell.”
“So you’re going after them?”
Impatience tightened Diarmid’s lips. He was taking on a world of trouble, and God knew where it would all end up. In a mess the size of bloody Scotland, he could already predict with grim certainty.
He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Bleak resolution weighted his voice as he responded. “Aye, I’m going after them.”
Chapter 9
Diarmid crept along the shadowy upstairs corridor at the Thistle Inn. The hostelry was three hours north of Invertavey, and he’d spent the whole ride wondering if he was about to make a huge fool of himself.
He still wasn’t convinced he should be here, but once John told him—too blasted late—about Mrs. Grant being beaten, all choice was gone. The idea of someone striking that girl made him blind with rage. And he was accounted the most even-tempered of men. If he’d known about the violence before the Grants turned up on his doorstep, they’d have received a very different reception.
So far, his luck had held. The evening had stayed bonny, and Sigurn had made braw speed along the narrow road. Rose Hulme, the landlord’s wife, had been born a Mactavish, so she’d asked no awkward questions when he expressed an interest in a party of two older gentlemen and a younger lady stopping overnight on their way north.
His luck had held there, too. The Grants were famously parsimonious with their blunt, but on this occasion they’d decided to pay for a room. Even if only one for all three of them.
Diarmid had arrived at the Thistle about an hour after his quarry did. Why should they rush? They had no reason to fear pursuit, or to imagine that the man who had so easily handed the lassie over now intended to take her back.
Back to where, God alone knew.
He’d waited in the kitchens, praying that the Grants would be hungry enough to pay for a meal and that they’d leave Mrs. Grant upstairs alone. He relied on them wanting to deprive her of any opportunity to appeal for help in the taproom. It was a frail enough hope, and not the end of the world if it didn’t come to pass. If he didn’t catch the girl alone here, he’d track her further north. Somewhere on the road, he’d see his chance to steal her away. When Rose told him the two Grant brothers had come downstairs to eat, Diarmid had asked her to delay them as long as possible.
The Grants’ room was at the end of the building, only a few steps from the servants’ stairs. When he tried the door, it was locked. Fortunately Rose had given him a key.
He hoped to hell Mrs. Grant didn’t scream when he barged in on her.
He hoped to hell she was alone.
He hoped to hell she hadn’t changed her mind about wanting to break away from her family.
When he opened the door, the room was shadowy with late summer light. This far north at this time of year, it never got completely dark.
At first, Diarmid wondered if the room was empty. Then he heard a muffled whimper from the corner.
When he located the girl tethered to the bed like an animal, the anger that had sustained him this far spiked. The Grants were lucky they were downstairs, because at that instant, he was ready to do murder.
Hands shaking with rage, he strode forward and ripped the gag away from her mouth. “Mrs. Grant, are ye all right?”