Pride of the Clan by Anna Markland Page B

in linen. “Ye gained us precious minutes,” he said. “They might have got away had ye not distracted them.  
    “Logan has trussed up our prisoners with rope from the stable, and I canna wait to see Tannoch’s face when we arrive home with two of the assassins in our custody.”
    He shrugged his plaid back on and adjusted the pin.
    “’Tis a bonny brooch ye have,” she said hoarsely.
    “Aye,” he replied, tracing a finger over the clover shaped pin with great reverence. “’Twas a gift from my father when I turned thirteen. Must look the part,” he quipped with a wink as he offered his arm and escorted her outside. “Pay no mind to Stewart.”
    She deemed it good advice. Berating her betrothed would serve no purpose, but she gasped in dismay when she stepped out into the sunlight. Despite the injury to his arm, Walter Stewart’s hands had been tied behind his back. A rope knotted around his waist was tethered to Logan’s pommel. Robert had been similarly bound, his tether held by Keegan.
    Evidently the Earl and Master of Atholl were to be forced to walk behind the horses to Dunalastair. Protesting the ignoble treatment would do no good. Indeed the humiliating ordeal would likely be the least of the torments these men would soon suffer.
    A familiar whinny caught her attention. She dragged her eyes away from Robert. Rheade held the reins of her palfrey. “Bàn,” she breathed, relieved the horse had returned safely.

STANDING UP TO A BULLY

    They proceeded slowly and hadn’t gone far, mayhap a league or two, when they sighted a large party of men coming toward them.
    “Tannoch,” Logan growled. “He’ll be furious.”
    Riding between Rheade and Logan, Margaret was saddened again that neither brother seemed to hold any affection for Tannoch. She didn’t fault them after her brief contact with the Robertson chieftain. “He’ll be angry I escaped,” she murmured.
    Logan snorted. “He’ll be preoccupied with the prisoners and might not notice ye.”
    Rheade called a halt and his next words made her nervous. “He’ll get round to it. May as well wait for him to reach us. Give the Stewarts a chance to prepare.”
    His measure of pity for the assassins, despite the foul crime they had committed, heartened her, but his remark made her fearful of what Tannoch might do to the captives. The chieftain wasn’t a man in control of his anger.
    Rheade sat tall in the saddle, the reins loose in his hands, but his jaw was clenched. She longed to lay a reassuring hand on his bare knee, something she’d never done to a man before. However, specks of blood had oozed through her bandages and he might not appreciate the gesture in front of the other men.
    Tannoch reined to a halt directly in front of Rheade, his face contorted in anger. His men gawked at the battered wretches tethered to the horses.
    Logan and Keegan dismounted, untied the ropes securing the prisoners to their saddles, and handed them to Rheade. The Earl had collapsed to his knees. Rheade dismounted, jerked Atholl to his feet and made a courtly bow to his older brother. “Tannoch, my laird, into yer custody I pass my prisoners, Walter Stewart, Earl of Atholl, and his grandson, Robert Stewart, Master of Atholl.”
    Tannoch scowled, but ignored the ropes Rheade offered. He spat into the dirt. “I see no Earl and no Master,” he growled. “Only murderers. Where is Graham?”
    Rheade bowed again. Margaret sensed his agitation, but marvelled at his composure. “Robert Graham was not with the assassins when we captured them, my laird. Ye would have been proud of yer clansmen. They fought hard against greater numbers to bring these men to ye.”
    Margaret gulped when Tannoch’s gaze fell on her. “What the fyke is she doing here? Did ye aid in her escape?”
    Rheade threw the ropes to the ground. It was evident the prisoners had no chance of escape. “Margaret Ogilvie was of great assistance in the apprehension of these fugitives.”
    Please dinna