“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.”
“Show me,” Graeme bit out.
His fury was growing with every minute that passed with no sign of Eveline. The idea of her being imprisoned in the dungeon had him shaking as they descended the stairs into darkness.
Patrick stopped to hand a torch to Graeme. He then lit two others and passed them to Tavis and Bowen so the way would be sufficiently lit.
At the bottom of the stairs, Patrick plucked a key from the wall and inserted it into an old, rusted lock. The clasp came away easily, despite the amount of rust and deterioration.
Graeme exchanged glances with Tavis to see if the older man had picked up on the lock. It should have creaked and groaned if it hadn’t been in use for two decades. It never should have unlocked so easily.
Tavis realized it too, because his expression went from brooding to instant alertness. His entire stance stiffened and his face tightened in rage. He held up his hand to let Graeme know he understood and then put a finger to his lips to signal for complete quiet.
When all were through the iron barred door, Patrick led them to the middle of the decaying room and held up a torch to show them the rope leading down into the pit.
“Sweet Jesu,” Bowen muttered. “Surely no one would put a wee lass down in this hole. It smells of death.”
Graeme handed over his torch to one of his men and then ordered Teague to hold his torch so he could see his way down. Then he grasped the rope and quickly descended hand over hand into the darkness below.
When he hit the ground, he yelled up for Bowen to drop his torch. Not waiting for the others to climb down, Graeme immediately searched the surrounding area, going from one wall to the other and all points in between.
When the others dropped down, more light exploded into the chamber, enough to see that it was completely empty.
“See?” Patrick sputtered. “ ’Tis madness that you come bearing your army and accusing my son of such treachery.”
“Come, Graeme, we’ve still to search the outlying cottages,” Tavis said.
Graeme stared around the room, damning the fact that Eveline could not hear. He could not even call out to her and let her know that he was here, that she was safe and that all she had to do was call out to him.
He flashed the torch one last time and readied himself to go back with the others, who were already climbing back up the rope, when his gaze fell on a disturbance in the dirt against the far wall.
He stalked forward, holding the torch in front of him as he drew near to the wall. There was a footprint, one that he and his men had not made, for it was not possible.