THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

ask when Duncan would come, Jacob had disappeared.
    Deciding it didn’t matter so long as he knew she was alive, she rolled around until she got the blade into her hands.
    Her numb fingers fumbled repeatedly.
    God, please.
    To her relief, she felt the intricate carving of the hilt. She started sawing at the bindings at her back and prayed she wasn’t slitting her own wrists.
    ~#~
    When Duncan spotted Jacob’s worried countenance peeking around the far doorway, he sent a silent prayer of thanks to heaven—the lad had not been caught snooping below—and put down his tankard.
    “Bruce, I thank ye, but we have imposed on yer hospitality long enough. Given the hour ‘tis best we return to MacDougall land. Say a prayer my lady is somewhere safe.” As if it were an afterthought he added, “And say one for the bastards who took her for they willna see another sunrise once I find them.”
    He stood and hit his half-full tankard with the back of his hand. As metal clanged against the stone hearth all eyes turned toward him, and Jacob slid unnoticed back into the room. When the lad thumped a fist to his chest, Duncan’s heart stuttered. The lad had found Beth. Alive. Had he not, he reassured himself, surely the lad would be greeting.
    It took all his control to calmly lead his men en mass through the torch lit bailey lined with watchful Bruce men-at-arms and into the stables where their horses waited.
    In a dark corner of the stable Duncan yanked off his doublet and hood and threw it at Angus, who just as quickly jerked off the coiled rope he wore beneath his plaid.
    “Our lady?” he hissed.
    Jacob, donning Angus’s cloak, whispered. “The dungeon, m’lord. She’s a woeful sight but alive.”
    “Praise God.” Duncan, breast soaked with sweat, then silently pledged to bring The Bruce to his maker at the first opportunity.
    He cast a glance at Angus now dressing in his doublet and cape. Rope in hand, Duncan whispered, “Thank ye, lad. Now into Angus’s helm and garb with ye.”
    While Jacob was hoisted onto Angus’s mount, Duncan slipped deeper into the barn’s shadows. He took a deep breath and prayed his men safe as Angus, now hooded and riding Ransom, led his men out into the bailey proper.
    Without a backward glance Angus and the clansmen formed up into a column of three abreast and road out under the raised portcullis.
     
     
     
    Chapter 28
     
    The minutes felt like hours and the hours like days for Beth as she tried to rub the circulation back into her hands and feet. She started hearing heavy footsteps above her. Praying it was Duncan but not knowing that it was, she hurriedly assumed her trussed position just in case.
    When she thought the guard might be peering into her cell, feeling parched and nearly frozen, she pleaded for water and a blanket.
    The man chuckled, “Ah, so ye wake.”
    A moment later a bucket of cold, rancid water splashed on her head. As she gasped and fought to keep her freed hands locked behind her and away from the suffocating mask, she was assaulted with a long string of expletives that called hers and Duncan’s paternity into question.
    When the guard left, she ripped the mask from her face, sucked in some much needed air and mumbled a few rich curses of her own. She then realized she didn’t feel the need to cry anymore. She certainly couldn’t credit her lack of tears to courage. No. The peace she now felt came from simply knowing Duncan was close and he’d come as soon as he could.
    She scooted away from the muddy spot she’d been lying in. To pass the time she pictured a calendar in her mind. She counted the days she been Mrs. MacDougall and counted the days since her last menstrual period, something she’d been avoiding since seeing Wee Mary give birth. Thirty-seven. No, that couldn’t be right. Regular as a Swiss timepiece, her cycle ran twenty-eight days. Chewing her bottom lip, she started counting again.
    ~#~
    The time passed with interminable slowness while Duncan waited impatiently for the Bruce stronghold to settle for the night. Like Blackstone and the Campbell’s Dunstaffnage keep, this keep’s only obvious entrance was from the bailey. Had he someone to watch his back he might have tried to find the secret entrance, but he hadn’t the luxury and time was fleeing.
    All finally appeared quiet by the time the moon passed the mid-point on its journey across the sky—its cool light cast only on the west and north faces of the battlements. He took a