Pride of the Clan Read Free Page A

was no warmth in his words.
    Margaret closed her eyes tight shut as his husky voice wafted into her ears, melting her rigid spine. She blinked them open quickly when a peculiar twinge caused muscles in a private place to clench. She had a lunatic urge to stretch like a contented cat.
    As the Highlander moved to the other side of the wagon she lost sight of him and came dangerously close to shrieking with exasperation.
    “Who are ye, and what is yer business here?” he asked. Her belly lurched. His tone had gone from suspicious to belligerent. She suddenly wished she hadn’t thrown off the blanket, but didn’t dare try to retrieve it.
    “I am Sir David Ogilvie, bound for Blair Castle.”
    Her uncle’s steady and calm voice had her believing for a moment her father had joined them.
    The sound of metal hissing on metal caught her unawares. Someone had drawn a sword.
    “A conspirator,” another voice yelled.
    Rumbling grunts echoed in the mob of men only yards away.
    Her aunt raised her head and they frowned at each other, neither understanding what was going on. Margaret dug her fingernails into the wood of the wagon.
    “Put up yer broadsword, Logan,” her devil commanded, a hint of amused disdain in his voice. “Do these auld men look like assassins?”
    “Why else would they be headed for Blair Castle?” Logan asked.
    Margaret peeked again under the edge of the canvas as the warrior inched his horse closer to Davey. Her uncle’s gelding shied nervously. “Indeed. What have ye in the wagon?”
    “Ye have yet to reveal yer identity, sir,” her uncle replied. Edythe stopped whimpering. She too must have heard the note of fear in her husband’s voice as he struggled to control his horse.
    “I am Rheade Donnachaidh Starkey Robertson, brother of Tannoch, chief of Clan Robertson of Dunalastair, direct descendants of the first King Duncan,” the Highlander replied, his proud words startling into flight the winged creatures that had begun to settle in Margaret’s belly. “I am charged with the apprehension of the regicides who murdered King James Stewart.”
    The butterflies metamorphosed into a hissing adder coiled around her innards.
    “The King is dead?” Davey exclaimed, making the sign of his Savior across his body.
    Joss lurched to his feet and wailed like a wolf baying at the moon, his arms rigid at his sides. Shaon tried unsuccessfully to calm him. The carthorse grew nervous and pulled the wagon forward. Margaret attempted to stand but lost her balance and fell against her aunt who let out a loud shriek.
    Someone regained control of the horse, bringing the wagon to a halt.
    “Ye have passengers,” Rheade Robertson said, his voice once again edged with annoyance. “Show yourselves,” he shouted.
    “I must protest,” Davey spluttered. “This is outrageous. We are not assassins. We have travelled from Oban. My wife and I are escorting my niece, Margaret, to her betrothed.”
    “At Blair Castle?”
    “Aye.”
    “Who is her betrothed?”
    “The Master of Atholl, Robert Stewart, and he’ll be outraged at the treatment afforded his future wife.”
    In the utter silence that followed, Margaret held her breath, unsure whether to stay hidden. She was a noblewoman, not some peasant obliged to hide like a criminal. Her betrothed was of royal lineage. She swallowed her fear, gathered the blanket round her shoulders and stepped from the rear of the wagon. “I am Lady Margaret Ogilvie,” she announced with as much conviction as her parched throat allowed.
    She gripped the cart when the black stallion’s breath warmed her forehead, not sure her legs would sustain her when she looked up into the bleak face of Rheade Robertson.
    “Ye’ve had a wasted journey, Lady Margaret,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Robert Stewart willna be marrying anyone. He is one of the kingslayers.”
    He turned his horse aside and shouted, “Arrest them.”
    As her knees buckled she felt a strange sense of relief. At