Page 88 of When the Laird Conquers

It was the scent of ether, and she knew she did not have long until it took hold.

“I am sorry,” Samson whispered. “You really left us no choice.”

Her flailing slowed against her will, her arms suddenly leaden, her knees buckling as her head swam and her eyes rolled back. She was aware of Samson catching her, her feet scuffing on the floor as he maneuvered her through a door, and then… there was nothing.

34

Gordon’s nerves bristled as he stepped into the din and chaos of the Great Hall. He had never liked gatherings, and he liked this one even less, for the threat of Edwin still loomed over him. If that bastard was going to strike, it would be tonight.

He had already gone out to speak to the guards countless times, which had given him an excuse not to mingle with his guests. Thus far, there was no sign of Edwin.

“Has Agnes come down yet?” he asked Keith while his gaze flitted to the nearby clock.

It was nine o’clock. She should have appeared by now.

Keith nodded toward the hall doors, a cup of wine in hand. “She was talkin’ to some lad. Left about twenty minutes ago.”

“What?” Gordon leveled a hard stare at him. “What lad? Where did they go?”

Keith shrugged. “I daenae ken, me Laird, but she didnae seem to be in any trouble. She followed him like she kent him.”

“How old was he?”

Keith puffed out a thoughtful breath. “Hard to say. A little younger than her, maybe?” He grinned. “Why, are ye jealous?”

Gordon ignored him, his mind racing. From what Agnes had told him, Edwin was a much older gentleman, nearing fifty. She had also said he looked younger than his years, but no fifty-year-old man could resemble a man more than half that age.

It’s nae Edwin. Or else he would’ve been spotted.

“She seemed calm and content,” Keith added, his tone more serious. “There’s nothin’ to worry about. Our men willnae let that English weasel in. He cannae get to her.”

But the fine hairs on the back of Gordon’s neck refused to stand down, a chill of gooseflesh prickling his forearms. Maybe he was worrying over nothing, but he would not be able to shake his unease until his wife was back in the Great Hall, standing at his side.

“I need to find her,” he said, and promptly walked out the doors he had just come through.

Keith followed at a run, abandoning his cup of wine and wearing the look of a man who was worried he had made a mistake.

They had not made it more than ten paces into the hallway when a feminine voice called out, “Laird Buchlann?”

He whirled around to see the vaguely familiar figure of Emma Anderson, the Lady of Clan MacLellan, walking toward him. A rather short and plump woman with fiery red hair and blue eyes, no one would have expected an English accent to come out of her rather local appearance.

“Have ye seen me wife?” he asked abruptly.

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Your wife? No, but I have been dying to. Is she nervous? Does she need someone to coax her down from her chambers? I remember my first cèilidh. It can be rather intense at first, but⁠—”

“What did ye stop me for?” Gordon interrupted.

Emma gave him a rather sour look, clearly unimpressed by his curtness. “A gentleman gave me this. Told me to pass it on to you.” She handed over a folded piece of paper.

“What gentleman?” Gordon asked as he opened the note.

Emma shrugged. “I didn’t think to ask for his name. He was a charming fellow. I just happened to bump into him on my way back from my room.”

Gordon was only half listening as his eyes scanned the short note, his anger bubbling up, tinged with the icy chill of fear. A fear he had not felt in a very long time.

It said: The baby for your wife. Bring the child, and no harm will come to Lady Agnes. Look for our beacon.

“Where?” Gordon rasped. “Where did ye bump into him?”