A MacKenzie Clan Gathering Read online

  No need for keys, though, he saw. The front door was not only unlocked but ajar.

  Ian slipped carefully inside, his breath hanging in the chill air. Darkness stretched around him, shapes of things familiar by day distorted by shadows and moonlight.

  Ian stood in the middle of the large foyer, looking up at the grand hall that rose two floors above him. The silence was immense.

  The abductors were no longer there. The air that flowed over Ian’s face was cold but fresh, as though a window had been opened and left that way. In the quietness, Ian felt no presence, no watchers, sensed nothing.

  Even so, he decided to make a quick search. Ian groped for lanterns stored in a cupboard near the front door, lit two with matches also kept there, and handed a lantern to Ackerley. Ackerley broke away to search rooms on his own, his lantern held high, saying both of them searching would cut the time. Ian’s regard for the man rose.

  Ian found an open window in the ground-floor office. The window had been forced, the catch broken. The thugs must have come in this way and left by the front door, which had not been forced, not bothering to close either window or door behind them. They’d also grabbed lanterns from the shelf in the office, along with a spare coat Ian kept here and a bottle of whisky.

  Ian left the room to see Ackerley hurrying through the front hall toward him, excitedly waving something. “I found this on the floor, near the still itself.” Ackerley thrust a strip of cloth at Ian. “The sort of thing nightshirts are made of.”

  Ian took the cloth, rubbing his thumb over the softness of the fabric. “It’s Jamie’s.” He remembered kissing his lad good night only hours ago, smoothing his shoulder, which had been covered with this very material.

  “Lucky it tore off,” Ackerley said. “It shows we’re on the right trail.”

  “Mm.” Ian folded the fabric into a careful rectangle and tucked it into his pocket. He knew damn well the cloth hadn’t come to be there by luck.

  Nothing more to be found here. Ian strode out of the distillery, flashing his lantern across the path outside the gate.

  The kidnappers wouldn’t have gone south—that way lay the caretaker’s house, and beyond it the lane to the village. Too many farms and people down that road. To the north, the way was rougher, the sea close. However, they might risk heading for a boat, especially now that they’d grabbed lanterns from the distillery.

  Ian started off on the north-leading path, Ackerley laboring to follow. Ian strode faster and faster, then he broke into a run, fear pushing him on. If he did not reach the men before they took ship, they might never be found. Ian would certainly go to Lord Halsey and beat on the man until he told Ian where to find his son, but by that time, Jamie could be hurt, or dead.

  Ian refused to think what would happen to him, and to Beth, if Jamie died.

  Ian moved rapidly along the path, his lantern swinging, his feet skimming over rocks and bramble without pause. He scarcely noticed his breath as the way turned to a steep climb—he noticed nothing, everything within him fixed on finding Jamie.

  Nothing else mattered. If Ian remained a madman for the rest of his life, unable to follow conversations, uncomfortable in crowds, uncertain how to respond when everyone else seemed to know effortlessly what to do, it didn’t matter. He’d take the taunts, thinly veiled contempt, and ignorant questions of the rest of the world—as long as Jamie was all right.

  “Wait!” Ackerley panted far behind him. “Wait—Ian! I found another.”

  Ian leapt back down the rocks to Ackerley, who was wheezing but holding up another strip of cloth. “On the bush. Back there.”

  Ian seized it, a soft piece of his son’s nightshirt. Relief made his limbs watery. “Jamie is alive and well.” Thank you, God.

  Ackerley looked hesitant. “It might have simply caught on a bush as they carried him, I hate to say. You must be prepared, I’m afraid, for the worst.”

  “No.” Ian wrapped the strip around his fingers, using it to vicariously hug his son to him. “Jamie tore this off himself and left it. He knows I’ll be following.”

  Ackerley’s face was ghostly pale in the lantern light. “How would he know you’d choose to come this way? There are so many possibilities out here.”

  “He knows,” Ian said. He turned to lope up the path again. “Hurry.”

  Hope gave Ian strength. He ran on, leaping from rock to rock, wind whipping his kilt around him. Ackerley manfully kept up, uncomplaining.

  Then, minutes later, Ian emerged on a cliff top that gave him a wide, sweeping view of the sea. Moonlight danced on the water, illuminating a ghostly path to nowhere. Mists were forming on the shore below.

  Ian’s hopes plummeted. He saw no sign of any ship on the water, no lights, no wake—no indication that anyone had passed this way tonight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ackerley reached the top of the path behind Ian. “Have they gone already?” he asked in breathless worry. “Have we missed them?”

  Ian sank down on his heels and wrapped his arms around his kilted knees. Too late, too late, he’s gone, gone, gone, gone, gone . . .

  Ackerley’s hand landed on Ian’s shoulder. “Steady, lad.”

  Ian realized the words were coming out of his mouth, surrounding him in sound, filling his ears. “Gone, gone, gonegonegone . . . !”

  Ian squeezed his eyes shut. Beth, my Beth, help me.

  But Beth wasn’t there. She was at the house, doing what was necessary, keeping Hart and Fellows busy organizing a wider search, stopping them from panicking the thugs too soon. This was what being parents meant, Ian had come to understand—he and Beth doing what they must for their children, together and separately, each contributing their unique strengths to the task.

  Beth’s strength was her goodness, and her ability to think clearly and lend others courage and hope.

  Ian’s strength was solving puzzles, reaching conclusions no one else could, reducing life to mathematical equations. All he had to do was clear his mind, and then sort everything he saw, heard, and touched into neat categories.

  This isn’t mathematics; this is m’ son! his entire being wailed. My child, my dearest wee lad. M’ Jamie . . .

  And I can only help him if I think.

  “Zero, one, two . . .” Ian’s voice wavered at first, then gained strength. “Five, twelve, twenty-nine . . .”

  “Pardon?” Ackerley leaned closer. “What are you saying?”

  Fibonacci’s sequence was not the only type of number series the mathematician Mr. Lucas studied. The Pell numbers fell into a neat, unending progression that could be spun out to infinity. All Ian had to do was double a number in the series and add it to its previous number—Pn=2Pn-1 + Pn-2.

  “Seventy, one hundred sixty-nine . . .”

  The mists in Ian’s mind began to clear. His heartbeat slowed, the mantra of the numbers restoring his equanimity.

  Ian opened his eyes. Ackerley held a lantern high, bathing them in a circle of light.

  “Four hundred eight, nine-hundred eighty-five . . . If they’d taken ship, we’d see it,” Ian said, his words in the same even tone as the numbers. “They could not have gone so far so fast, even with an engine. We’d hear a steam engine—sound carries in the night and across the water. They are down on a shore or in a smuggler’s cave, waiting for daylight.”

  “Then we must go back,” Ackerley said. “Inform Mr. Fellows. Have him round up constables—the duke can send word to alert the navy. We’ll bottle them up and have at them.” He waved the lantern, excitement making his eyes shine.

  “You must go back,” Ian said firmly. “Tell them. I must fetch my son.”

  Ackerley gaped. “Good heavens, man, you can’t go after them on your own. Even if you do find them and corner them, what will you do? You don’t know how many men there are—they might be armed.”

  “Five men.” Ian looked down into the cove. “Five distinct tracks on the paths, and Jamie’s. They are very likely armed.”

  “Then
you shouldn’t go alone.”

  Ian studied Ackerley, looking directly into the man’s eyes. “You can’t help me with this. You need t’ show Hart and Fellows where I’ve gone. And tell Beth . . .” Ian trailed off, thinking of Beth’s blue eyes, her red lips parting whenever she rose on tiptoe to kiss him. “Tell her I will bring our son home. As I promised.”

  Ackerley appeared ready to argue, then he gave Ian a nod. “Very well. I understand.” He stuck out his hand. “God go with you.”

  Ian gazed at Ackerley’s outstretched palm in its worn leather glove for some time, then he slowly put out his own hand and clasped it.

  Ackerley grabbed Ian’s wrist, gave him a hard handshake, and released him. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Ian stared down at his fingers as Ackerley started to pick his way back along the path. Ian still had to instruct himself to accept an offered clasp, that this was natural, a way people reassured each other. Even now, he did not truly understand when a handshake was necessary, but it no longer worried him unduly. Those who loved him understood.

  By the time Ian pulled his gaze from his hand, he was alone in the night.

  He extinguished the lantern and set it down, leaving it behind as he made his way to the path that began at the very top of the bluff and then down the cliff face to the sea below.

  * * *

  Ian found them in a cave about half a mile from where the path ended on the rocky shore. He moved like a ghost, using the rising mist to conceal him. He saw the kidnappers’ lights darting through darkness, and at the boulders at the bottom of the path, he came across yet another strip of Jamie’s nightshirt.

  Ian would have chosen a better cave for concealment. Not far from where the kidnappers had chosen to shelter was a narrow fissure that exited into a tunnel that opened to a stretch of shingle on the other side of the outcropping. These men, however, didn’t know this shoreline like Ian did.

  Ian also knew that if he rushed in with nothing but the knife he’d picked up in Cameron’s rooms, a sgian dubh, he’d be surrounded, beaten down, possibly shot. None of that would help Jamie.

  What Ian needed to do was flush them out, drive the kidnappers into a place of his choosing. Then he could separate them from one another and Jamie, and rescue his son.

  Ian rarely debated with himself once he chose a course of action. He made a decision and carried it out.

  He faded into the shadows and moved to the most hidden cave in this cluster, one that in the old smuggling days on this coast had been stocked with ample supplies. Not that smuggling had ceased altogether, which was why this cave still had a stash.

  Ian gathered what he needed into a canvas bag, which he slung to his back. He picked up a few other useful items then climbed out past the concealing scrub, all the way back up the path to the top of the low cliffs.

  He walked along the cliff to the spot he knew was just above the cave the abductors had chosen. Here Ian dropped to his belly and crawled a few yards forward on the sharp rocks. Tufts of grass and heather grew here, the plants as resilient as the Highlanders who’d inhabited these glens forever.

  A crack in the cliff rocks formed a natural chimney for the cave below, which was likely why the villains had chosen it. The night was cold—they’d want a fire to keep warm. Indeed, Ian saw a small campfire through the fissure, the flames straining against the draft.

  Ian pulled out the wad of oil-drenched rags he’d taken from the stores, opened the small jar of kerosene he’d found, and soaked the rags with the liquid. He struck a match against a black rock, and lit one tip of the cloth. Jamie, if he were conscious, would know what to do. If he weren’t conscious, Ian would storm down and grab him after the men boiled out.

  Ian quickly shoved the burning rags through the hole, to land right on top of the campfire.

  The small fire faded for a second as the wet bundle choked it, then the rags exploded in a glare of blue and yellow light. Black smoke streamed to fill the cave as the oil under the kerosene caught and smoldered.

  Men coughed, swore, shouted. They fled the cave, choking, drawing weapons, searching frantically for the source of attack.

  A small white streak darted among them and then past. Jamie.

  Ian’s body went slack, his heart pounding until his head throbbed. His relief was so complete, he almost forgot the next part of his mission.

  One of the men saw Jamie. “Get after ’im!” the thug yelled, with a cadence that spoke of London backstreets. They were far from their element. “Grab ’im!”

  Jamie ran, his bare legs flashing, straight to the path that led to the cliff tops. Jamie’s hands were bound before him, but he didn’t let that slow him down.

  Five burly men chased him. Likely they’d catch Jamie before he reached safety. Ian, however, wanted them up that path, which led straight to where he needed them to go.

  Ian lifted another item he’d brought, the Winchester rifle that had been locked, unloaded, into a crate, along with a box of shells. Ian cocked the now-loaded rifle, sighted well away from Jamie, and shot down into the cove behind the men.

  More bellowing, swearing, chaos. Ian recocked and shot, recocked and shot, the repeating action of the Winchester letting him fire several rounds without stopping. The final shot had the last of the five men scrambling desperately for the cliffs.

  The path emerged about twenty yards from where Ian lay. Jamie reached the top just ahead of the thugs, and started running, not toward home, but across a field, heading for the woods on the other side of open land.

  “Good lad,” Ian said under his breath. He got his feet under him but remained in a crouch, not wanting his silhouette to show against the night sky.

  Jamie had darted under the trees when his abductors, with their longer stride, caught up to him. One scooped up Jamie—who swore like the best of them—and continued into the woods.

  Ian slung the rifle and pack to his back, rose, and ran silently after them.

  Ian caught up to the man bringing up the rear just outside the line of trees. This man was a little more portly than the others, a little more out of breath.

  Ian had his arm around the thug’s throat, hand across his mouth before he could cry out. A fist across the man’s temple made him sag, but he struggled, still conscious, so Ian banged him back into the nearest tree. Ian was gone before the unfortunate man landed in a heap on the damp ground.

  The next thug did manage a shout before Ian could silence him. Ian dragged him aside into deep shadow, hearing the others call worriedly after him.

  Ian’s blow with the hilt of the sgian dubh quieted this man right away—or else, the thug decided that folding up and lying still was a good idea. Ian left him and ducked under the trees as one of the man’s colleagues came running back to see what was the matter.

  This man approached cautiously, but from the way he blundered about, his lantern obviously night-blinded him. Ian was beside him before the man registered his presence, his soft grunt of surprise lost as Ian’s fist put him on the ground.

  The floor of the woods was muddy, marsh waters oozing through. Ian knew the dry paths and quickly skirted more treacherous footing. He heard the remaining two men snarling as they slipped or stepped knee-deep into mud. Jamie didn’t make a sound.

  If they’d hurt Jamie—if they’d so much as frightened him . . .

  Ian’s breath suddenly left him, his feet ceasing to move. He needed to continue, to find his son, but against his will, black panic from the past rose inside him, blotting out all coherent thought.

  Ian hated that his mind could do this to him. He’d be perfectly fine, living his day-to-day life, then something would trigger terrible visions—sights as well as sounds and smells, memories he’d hoped he’d never encounter again. Ian’s blasted mind forgot nothing.

  He remembered how he’d run through these very woods as a lad, terrified of the will-o’-the-wisps that glowed deep between the trees. Ian would run from his father, knowing the man would snatch him up and
throw him to the ground if he were caught.

  Ian’s only refuge had been to find a place as far from home as his legs would take him, which often meant these woods. His father refused to follow him there—whether from fear or because the old duke simply didn’t want his boots dirty, Ian had never learned.

  Ian would run until his strength gave out, and he ended up facedown, panting and sobbing, in the mud. After a long time, Hart would find him. Hart would help him up, and they’d sit together on a boulder at the edge of the trees, simply watching the world. Hart never admonished Ian, never derided him for his fear, his need to escape. The two brothers would sit in silence, Hart understanding. Until Beth, Hart was the only one who had.

  One night, when Ian had been about seven years old, as he and Hart had waited for Ian to calm enough to walk home, the sky had suddenly burst with color. Waving bands of green had rippled into the heavens, flowing among the stars.

  Ian jerked himself to the present. The sky above the trees was glowing with the same bright green, bands of it flaring high into the atmosphere.

  He heard the astonishment of the two men who still had Jamie.

  “’Struth!” one said loudly. “What the bleeding ’ell?”

  “This place ain’t right,” the other said. “It ain’t worth the pay. Kill the lad, and let’s be gone.”

  The raging cry of a Highland warrior ripped from Ian’s throat as he barreled through the woods at full speed, rifle in one hand, sgian dubh in the other.

  The two men had pistols. Green light gleamed on the barrels as they were aimed at Ian, and Ian heard Jamie’s shout.

  “Dad!”

  A pistol went off. Ian wasn’t there to receive the bullet—he’d already spun aside in the darkness.

  “Dad!”

  Jamie’s yell came from Ian’s left. The shot had come from the right. Ian lifted his rifle and fired at the man on the right. The thug screamed and collapsed.

  Ian levered the rifle and advanced rapidly until he stood six feet from the man who held Jamie.