Never Seduce a Scot (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #1)(94)

“By all that’s holy, I do not know of what you speak!”

Patrick’s words were tinged with desperation. He was visibly shaken and it was obvious that he was seized with fear.

“Deliver your son,” Graeme said in an icy tone. “ ’Tis all that will save you and your clan from annihilation.”

“Give me but a moment. I beg you. I’ll summon him. Do not harm him. He couldn’t have done all you’ve accused him of.”

“If he’s innocent then you have nothing to fear,” Tavis barked out. “Now stop wasting our time and present him forth. If my daughter has come to harm, ’tis not the Montgomerys you’ll have to worry about.”

Hearing the solidarity between the two rival clans, Patrick folded on the spot.

“Bring Ian to me,” he barked back to one of his men. “And open the gates to admit the chieftains.”

Tavis quickly turned and counted out a contingent of men to ride inside the gates with him and his sons. Graeme nodded to Bowen to direct him to do the same. They’d not go in without enough men to successfully defend against an ambush. The rest would remain outside and on guard.

A moment later, the gate opened, and Graeme urged his horse forward. His pulse was pounding loudly in his ears, the taste of fear acid in his mouth. He feared he was too late. He feared that Ian would have already brutalized Eveline.

God, don’t let him be too late.

Men and women alike scurried away as Graeme, his brothers, Tavis, and his sons were the first to ride into the courtyard. Behind them came forty other soldiers, all with weapons drawn, their gazes rapidly scanning for any threat.

Patrick rushed forward and a bare moment later, a sullen Ian was brought before Graeme by two of his father’s men. Graeme’s gaze honed in on the smaller man. He didn’t seem remotely nervous or afraid. He stared boldly at the two chieftains still astride their horses and then sneered in their direction.

Graeme slid down, wanting to be face-to-face with Ian so he wouldn’t have a false sense of safety. He wanted the younger man to know exactly what fate awaited him.

Behind him, his brothers also dismounted, and then Tavis and his sons came in close behind Graeme.

Ian’s chin came up. The only evidence that his bravado was faltering was the hard swallow he took.

“Tell them,” Patrick said. “Tell them you had nothing to do with Eveline’s disappearance so they can be on their way.”

“And you,” Graeme said in a deadly quiet voice. “I hardly think your son acted alone, McHugh.”

Patrick was openly sweating and his hands shook. “ ’Tis all ridiculous. I would never have done something so foolhardy, and neither would Ian.”

“Of course I had nothing to do with her disappearance,” Ian replied. “What would I want with the daft lass?”

Graeme took a menacing step forward, his hand reaching to grasp Ian’s tunic. He yanked the much smaller man up until his toes were barely dragging the ground.

“If you’ve harmed a hair on her head, I’ll quarter you and feed you to the buzzards,” he hissed.

“Put him down, Montgomery,” Patrick said angrily. “He’s told you he had nothing to do with the lass’s disappearance.”

Still gripping Ian by the tunic, Graeme turned his cold stare on the older McHugh. “Then you’ll not object to us searching the keep for her now, will you?”

Patrick’s brows went up. “Of course not. She is not here. Don’t you think I would know it if she were?”

The conviction on McHugh’s face and in his speech bothered Graeme. It bothered him greatly. He knew Ian was lying, but Patrick seemed to be telling the truth. Either that or he was a better deceiver than his son.

Graeme tossed Ian in the direction of Silas. “Do not let him move.” He gestured for his brothers and then stalked toward the keep entrance. He’d turn the entire place upside down if that was what it took.

Tavis and his sons followed quickly behind. A dozen of the Montgomery and Armstrong men filed in with Graeme and the others.

Graeme didn’t bother issuing orders because he planned to cover every inch of the keep himself. He would not trust the well-being of his wife to anyone but himself.

He began in the first room he came to. Every corner, every space was invaded. He tossed furniture, tore back furs, upended beds, his fury growing with every room he found empty.

When he came out of the last chamber on the top level, a cloaked figure stood in the hallway, a hood drawn over his head so his face was not visible.

Upon taking a closer look, Graeme could see the figure was slight and small, obviously a lass or a very small lad. But when the person turned, a long lock of midnight black hair fell loose from the hood. A small hand came up to grip the hood so it remained covering the face and ’twas obvious it was a female’s hand.

“Look below, Laird,” she whispered. “In the dungeon.”

Before Graeme could respond, the lass turned and fled down the passageway, disappearing into one of the far chambers.

Graeme barked an order for his brothers and then stalked down the stairs where he met Patrick McHugh at the bottom.

“Show me to your dungeon, McHugh. By all that’s holy, if you’ve made my wife to suffer imprisonment in a dungeon, I’ll kill you.”

If possible, Patrick paled even more. “Of course, but it hasn’t been used in well over two decades. There’s not even a clear stairway into it anymore. Just a hole with a rope leading down.”