the encampment of the MacMillans. A huge man wearing a grim, dark glare stood waiting for them as they approached. They drew to a stop a few yards from him and all remained mounted while his uncle climbed down and strode to the man.
There were no pleasantries spoken between them. No greetings exchanged or signs of familiarity or friendship. His uncle matched the man’s stance, feet spread wide and arms crossed over his chest, and they spoke in tones so low no one could hear. Tension rippled in the air around them as the two chieftains spoke for some time, each one’s voice getting more strident as the conversation continued. Alan studied the two men and realised that, of the two, his uncle was more at ease. Calmer. More focused. The MacMillan, who it surely must be, was agitated. Angry. Worried.
‘Alan!’
He threw his leg over the horse’s back and dropped to the ground. Well, if nothing else, he would now discover what had happened and his part to play. He strode to the two and bowed. ‘Uncle. My lord.’
‘It appears that there is a problem with The MacMillan’s daughter,’ his uncle said. Alan remained silent, for his uncle wanted to control how he spoke of this problem. And he had no doubt at all that whatever had happened was no surprise to Gilbert Cameron. So he waited. ‘She has disappeared.’
Of all the things he could have dreamt of hearing that was not one of them. Alan glanced first at his uncle and then Lord MacMillan and knew one thing. His uncle was not surprised by this news. That played into the reason for his summons, Alan knew.
‘How can I help?’ he asked, carrying out the role he was meant to have.
‘Your uncle speaks highly of your skills in finding those lost. She has been missing for nearly three days.’
There were many questions he wished to ask, all of them would be deemed impertinent or too personal, so he asked for that which he needed to begin his task.
‘When did she go missing? Where was she?’ Alan looked back at the encampment. They’d chosen a place by the river, on high enough ground to stay dry.
‘She was seen last after we had our evening meal, three nights ago. She retired to her tent and her servant saw to her. The next morning, when she was called to break her fast, the tent was empty.’
Alan nodded. ‘Take me there.’ At the surprise on the chieftain’s face at being given an order, Alan added, ‘If you please, my lord.’
With a huff, the MacMillan laird turned and walked towards the tents and the river. They passed by several larger ones, reaching the last one that lay closest to the river. The noise of the rushing river grew as they approached it. How had the lady slept with this much noise? ‘This one?’ he asked in a near shout. ‘Has anyone touched or moved anything? You have searched the area?’ he asked, believing that the laird would have done that first.
‘Aye, my men searched along the river and back to the last village. No sign of her.’ As Alan lifted the edge of the tent’s flap, the laird continued. ‘Her maid said nothing is missing from her belongings and nothing seemed awry when my daughter retired for the night.’
‘And no one else went missing at the same time? Could your daughter have gone off with one of your kin or other servants?’ Alan asked.
He paused and stood blocking the entrance for he did not wish the laird to follow him inside. He wanted a chance to search for himself. A chieftain’s daughter, a wealthy heiress, did not simply walk away from her father. There was every possibility that she had been kidnapped.
‘Have you received any demands for her return?’
‘You think she was taken?’ his uncle asked before the other could. ‘Who would do that?’
From his uncle’s expression, he’d not thought of that possibility. Why not? The MacMillan’s daughter stood as his only heir and would be worth a huge ransom. Alan narrowed his gaze, watching his uncle’s eyes. His stomach clenched then, making him certain his uncle both knew more and was more involved than the woman’s father might be.
Though he wanted to understand his uncle’s part in this, right now he needed to look for signs so he could track the woman. Good God, he did not even know her name!
‘My lord, what is she called? Your daughter? How many years has she?’ he rattled off the questions quickly. He needed to know certain things now. ‘How tall is she? Her hair and eyes—what colour are they?’
‘Her name is Sorcha,’ Hugh MacMillan said. There was no hint of affection or concern in his voice. ‘She has ten and nine years and stands to my chest.’ The chieftain marked her height on his chest then. ‘Her hair is dark brown and her eyes are blue mostly.’
‘I need some time to examine her belongings. How far downriver have your men searched?’
‘Storms raged until late last night, so not far yet.’
‘There were storms the night she disappeared?’ Alan glanced at the swollen, raging river and suspected something other than kidnap then.
‘Aye. Heavy rains, lightning.’ The laird pointed over towards the river. ‘A bridge upstream washed out yesterday. Some farmers said they’d never seen such storms or such a flow as it is now.’
Alan was filled with a strange sadness then, for he suspected the lass was not just missing but was, indeed, dead. If she left her tent for any reason and lost her way or her footing, she would have been washed away in a moment.
‘I want to search her things,’ he said. ‘If you will gather the searchers, I would speak to them as well, my lord.’
* * *
Alan spent the next hours examining the woman’s belongings, questioning her maid and the men who’d gone off searching for her and walking the course of the river for several miles himself. His uncle stood with a knowing look in his eyes and The MacMillan glared at him the entire time, giving no hint of warmth or true concern over his daughter’s loss.
From the few bits of conversation he’d overheard between the two chieftains, Alan wondered which one was the more ruthless man. He also came to realise that the lass mattered not to either of them, but the marriage and the alliance did. That was all that seemed of importance to them.
* * *
By nightfall, Alan had finished his work and stood before the chieftains and their men to tell them what he’d discovered. The conclusion was not difficult—Sorcha MacMillan was dead. Something bothered him about it though. Though the others had missed the signs, he’d found them easily. Torn scraps of the gown she’d worn to bed. Bits of ribbons she used to tie her hair in braids. He’d even discovered one small braid of her hair entangled in the bushes near the river. Almost as though a path had been laid out before him there, leading him to one conclusion.
As his uncle and her father stood waiting on his words, Alan understood that less experienced searchers might not consider the signs he’d seen as easily found. Even without finding her body, for the strength and flow of the river might have carried that miles and miles down through the glen, he was certain of his findings.
‘My Lord MacMillan,’ he said quietly, holding out the ribbon he’d found, ‘I fear that your daughter is dead.’
If Alan had expectations of an emotional display or even a few kind words expressed
