Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  A master seldom assigned himself the task of going for help when his carriage broke down. Plus, a single rider would need only one horse. The man’s master must be Faucon, but who had gone with him, and why had Faucon gone at all?

  “May I be of aid?” Robert asked.

  “Thank you, monsieur, but my master has matters in hand.”

  Robert would wager he did. He angled his head. “If you are certain. It could be some time before he returns.”

  “I am, quite certain, sir.” The man bowed.

  Robert nodded and urged his mount forward. He maintained a sedate trot until he started down another small hill. Out of sight of the man, he snapped the reins. His horse broke into a gallop. Whatever had motivated the Frenchman to unharness the horses and take one of his servants couldn’t be good.

  A quarter mile sped beneath his mount’s hooves. Then a half. Tension tightened every muscle. Where was Faucon? Movement on the other side of the scrubby pines separating field from road caught his attention. Robert veered left, toward the trees. Two men on riding bareback came into view through the boughs. Their pace, dangerous on the rocky fields beyond the trees, bespoke of desperation. Robert used the comparable smoothness of the roadway to close the distance between them.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. They couldn’t be chasing Elizbeth. Haywood had taken her north. Then the Frenchmen must pursue… Nae. Surely, Davina had ridden with Margaret far from here by now? But he knew better. Elizbeth had left that morning to see him, long before Faucon arrived at Kaerndal Hall. Long before Davina had fled with Margarette.

  Damn Elizbeth for choosing this moment to act like a lovesick girl. If she had remained home as she should have, Davina would have ridden away with both girls. All three would be far from James’s reached by now. Instead—

  Two riders emerged from the trees onto the road a quarter of a mile ahead. Lithe and beskirted, they broke into a gallop across the roadway and into the fields to the right. His heart raced. Davina and Margarette. The Broughton estate lay two miles away. Davina likely hoped to reach the manor and beg sanctuary.

  One of the men shouted something in French. They turned their horses toward the road. Robert hunkered down closer in the saddle. He had to stop Faucon. Robert sped after, though his horse’s sides heaved. If the women reached the manor before Faucon caught them, the Frenchman would await them outside the manor and send his man for James, who could arrive inside of twenty minutes. Or perhaps not. When Robert last saw James, he was dressed to ride. By now, he would have left Kaerndal Hall.

  Still, Robert wouldn’t have much time to get the women safely away before Faucon’s man located James. The safest course would be to kill Faucon’s man when he rode for Kaerndal Hall. But that plan would be for naught if Faucon captured the women before they reached Broughton Manor.

  “Damnation,” Robert cursed as his horse jumped a large rock he hadn’t seen when they rounded the tree line.

  How was he to sneak up on two men in an open field? What the bloody hell was he to do if Faucon or his man spotted him? They hadn’t looked back yet, but the nearer Robert came, the more likely they would hear him. If he had any hope of subduing them, he needed surprise on his side.

  The women disappeared into more trees at the far end of the field and Robert cursed, again. Davina was going to get herself or Margarette killed maintaining that pace among the pines. Robert urged his flagging mount toward the men, who were far too close to where the women had entered the thin line of trees. The men were damned good horsemen to stay astride at such speeds with no saddle, and their mounts finer than any hitched to a carriage had a right to be.

  The Frenchmen disappeared among the trees. Robert hunkered down and snapped the reins across his horse’s rump. The gelding picked up speed. They entered the trees and Robert cursed when he was forced to slow. He caught sight of the women deeper in the woods, nearly overtaken by Faucon. They stood no chance of reaching the manor. Faucon would catch them in minutes.

  Davina twisted in her saddle to look at Margarette. The younger woman shook her head. Davina snapped something Robert couldn’t hear, but he could read the command in her expression. She slowed and Margarette’s horse shot past hers.

  Robert marveled at Davina’s courage. She intends to try to hold them off while Margarette makes good her escape. An odd pride flooded Robert. The McKinley women truly were princesses of Scotland. He’d be damned before he allowed French scum to lay a finger on them. He leaned right and pulled his pistol from the holster fitted into the top of his boot and stuffed the weapon into the side of his waistband.

  “Faucon,” he shouted.

  The Frenchman looked over his shoulder. Davina fixed her gaze on Robert, as well. Faucon said something to his man, who whirled toward Robert. Faucon maintained his pursuit through the trees.

  “James McKinley sent me,” Robert shouted, not slowing his momentum.

  The man frowned and yanked a pistol from his waistband. He aimed at Robert. Good. As expected, Davina took advantage of the Frenchmen’s distraction to flee after Margarette.

  Robert neared the Frenchman, who’d halted to bar his way. “Turn back,” the servant ordered.

  Robert slowed and shouted, “James McKinley sent me to find his sister and daughter.” Robert looked past him, through the scraggly pines. The women had gained enough of a lead on Faucon that Robert felt renewed hope they might reach the manor in time. Robert came to a stop near the man and pointed after the women. “They are getting away, man.”

  The servant looked over his shoulder. Robert’s heart pounded. They were almost out of sight of Faucon. If he heard a shot, would the Frenchman keep going, sure his servant had done his job? Robert reached for his pistol. The man swiveled back to face him, his gun still aimed at Robert’s chest.

  Robert dropped his hand to his leg and purposely frowned. “If they escape, McKinley will shoot you himself—if your master does not do it for him.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed in distrust.

  When he still didn’t move, Robert snapped, “By God, man, either shoot me or allow me to do my duty.”

  The servant hesitated another second, then waved Robert to continue past him. Robert bit back a curse and urged his horse forward. The servant followed.

  When they broke from the trees, the servant drew alongside him, but remained out of reach. In the meadow ahead, he had a clear view of Faucon, gaining on Davina and Margarette.

  Patience.

  One wrong move and the women would be on the next ship to France. Elizbeth would never forgive him if he didn’t save her aunt and sister. That was, assuming she ever forgave him.

  The gables of the manor came into view a mile away, beyond a hill. Robert edged his horse closer to the servant’s. The man cast him a sideways glance, then moved farther away. Still half a mile away from the manor, Faucon’s horse reached Margarette’s. He grabbed for her arm and missed. She cried out. Davina whirled her horse around so quickly, Robert feared the animal would trip over its own legs. Davina rushed them.

  Robert and the servant urged their heaving mounts faster. Faucon grabbed Margarette’s arm. Fury whipped through Robert. He yanked free his pistol and aimed at the servant. Davina sped past Faucon and lashed her reins across his face. He released Margarette and flung up his arm to ward off the blows. Hope surged through Robert.

  “Riders!” the servant shouted.

  Dread chilled Robert’s blood. Men crested the hill, surged downward toward the women and Faucon. Robert recognized James McKinley in the lead. Faucon grabbed Margarette’s arm and yanked her onto his horse.

  “Release me!” she shouted.

  Davina whirled her mount and started back for them. Her head snapped in the direction of the riders and Robert knew she’d seen her brother. Nearly to Margarette and Faucon, Robert didn’t check his pace. How the bloody hell would he save the women now?

  “Mister McFarlan,” Margarette shouted, voice pitched high with desperation. “Help
us.”

  Robert tamped down on another round of invectives. Faucon’s arms were clamped around Margarette. She looked at Robert, eyes pleading. Davina reached them and stopped, clearly unwilling to abandon her niece and understanding that was her only choice if she wanted to make a run for safety.

  Safety? A bitter laugh died in Robert’s throat. The women wouldn’t be safe while James lived. Robert yanked his horse to a halt as he reached Faucon and the ladies. The beast immediately dropped his head, panting.

  Davina searched his face and Robert knew she sought knowledge of Elizbeth. He dared not attempt reassurance. Not that she would trust his assurances. Not after he’d helped James capture her.

  For now, he must go along with James.

  Riders streamed down the hill and encircled them.

  James’s steed barreled between Robert and Faucon. “Release her, Faucon,” James snapped.

  “As you wish.” The Frenchman hugged Margarette close and swung a leg over his mount’s back, then dropped to the ground.

  The moment his arms went slack, Margarette wheeled. She slapped Faucon. His head jerked to the side.

  “How dare you accost me.” Margarette lifted her chin like the princess she was and swung to face her father. “Papa, have this man horsewhipped.” Without waiting for a reply, she started toward her mount, which stood near Davina. “Aunt, let us be on our way.”

  Faucon rubbed his jaw.

  “Halt,” James commanded.

  Margarette faced her father. Robert glimpsed the fear she tried to hide.

  James’s gaze swept over his sister and daughter. “You will both return to Kaerndal Hall.”

  “We are going to visit Lady Charlotte,” Davina said with absolute calm.

  “Indeed?” James narrowed his gaze at his sister. “You raced away from Kaerndal Hall on your way to visit Lady Charlotte? Shamefully astride?”

  “Raced?” Davina scoffed.

  James’s visage exuded anger. “How dare you steal my daughter from me?”

  “Steal your daughter? I am her governess,” Davina replied with an anger to match her brother’s.

  “Papa, we were only—” Margarette began.

  “Enough.” James’s gaze swung onto Robert. “What are you doing here, McFarlan? I sent you to the bank.”

  “He said you sent him, sir,” the servant said.

  James’s eyes narrowed. “Did he now?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Davina’s pulse hammered a dizzying rhythm. She stole a quick glance at the ring of men. Men loyal to James. Her gaze settled on Margarette, who stood beside Davina’s horse. Davina doubted her niece had skill or strength to pull herself back into the saddle, especially not after the effort already expended on their harrowing ride.

  “Well, McFarlan, what are you doing here?” James repeated. “And with weapon drawn?”

  Davina’s heart leapt. Had that really been a slight hesitation in his eyes?

  “I was on my way to the bank, sir, when I saw two men chasing the women through the fields.” Mister McFarlan shrugged. “I drew and gave chase.”

  “I see that.” The suspicion in James’s eyes intensified. “But to what end?”

  “To see your daughter and sister safe, sir.”

  “Mister McFarlan,” Margarette cried. “You must help us. Papa wants to send us away with that”—she jabbed a finger at the Seigneur Faucon, who winced—”terrible Frenchman. He means to marry us off to strangers. Elizbeth too.”

  Davina hid a grimace. Margarette sounded mad. She had also effectively ruined any hope of getting James to lower his guard. He would lock them away now for certain.

  Mister McFarlan looked between Margarette and James. “Miss McKinley, I cannot really credit that.”

  “She tells the truth,” James said, narrowed gaze locked on McFarlan’s face. “I told you, I found them matches. I intend to send her, Davina and Elizbeth to France with Seigneur Faucon. What say you to that, McFarlan?”

  “And Elizbeth?” McFarlan echoed, enough strain in his voice to fan Davina’s hopes.

  “Aye,” James replied.

  Davina took in Faucon’s now smug expression. She noted how James’s hand lingered near the hilt of his gun, felt the intensity of the men ringing them. The validity of her hope didn’t matter. Even if he wished, there was naught Mister McFarlan could do.

  Robert uncocked his pistol and shoved it under his belt. “I cannot see how it is any concern of mine, unless you tell me it is, sir,” he said, expression a study in neutrality.

  Margarette let out a wail. “Mister McFarlan, please reason with Father. Please help us. If not for us, for Elizbeth.”

  Davina wished she dared shush her niece. She read near-madness in James’s gaze. She and Margarette were a hair’s breadth from being bound and gagged.

  “Miss McKinley, it is your duty, and mine, to do as your father asks,” McFarlan said.

  “How can you say that?” Margarette cried. “You know my sister—”

  Davina spurred her mount forward. Seigneur Faucon yanked Margarette out of harm’s way. In view of James’s precarious mental state, Davina still held hope that her brother didn’t realize the level of affection between Elizbeth and Mister McFarlan. She wanted desperately to believe McFarlan would, indeed, aid them in some way. He’d never be permitted near Kaerndal Hall should James realize love existed between his attorney and Elizbeth.

  “We will return with you, James,” Davina declared. “And you and I shall have words.”

  James snorted. “Rail at me all you like, Davina. My mind is made up.”

  “We shall see,” she didn’t bother to check the frost in her voice. James best watch his step, before she gave up on reason and shot him, brother or no, consequences be damned.

  He gave a sharp nod as if approving of her silence. He addressed the Frenchman, “Seigneur Faucon, help my daughter onto her horse. We ride for Kaerndal Hall. Except you, McFarlan. You still have time to reach the bank.”

  “Aye, sir.” Mister McFarlan turned his mount.

  Faucon’s eyes smoldered as he lifted a pinch faced Margarette back onto her saddle, but his movements showed exaggerated care, like he hoisted an invaluable work of art. His expression mirrored the look he’d given Margarette when they came upon the disabled carriage. Davina couldn’t quite believe that look stemmed from simple admiration, no matter how lovely her niece. Davina’s gut soured. Had James already promised Margarette to this man?

  Brittle silence engulfed the journey back to Kaerndal Hall, broken only by the creak of tack, thud of hooves and Margarette’s stifled sobs. At one point, Seigneur Faucon proffered a kerchief. Margarette snatched the delicate square from his fingers and turned away to dab her eyes. Davina, where she road behind them, pressed her lips into a hard line.

  James didn’t lead their party to the stable, but to the grand front entrance. Men made a ring around them. They marched up the steps in the center, with Seigneur Faucon. The door swung open to reveal their butler, Carlton, expression questioning. Beside him stood a hulking, redheaded brute of a Highlander.

  “Faucon,” the brute said. “You didn’t return to the inn.”

  “We made chase on the mademoiselles,” Seigneur Faucon replied, stripping off his gloves.

  “I see you found them,” the brute said. “‘Tis about time. I have been waiting for you for well-nigh an hour.” His gaze raked over Davina, then Margarette. “Wouldnae think such wee lasses could run far.”

  Margarette let out another sob. Carlton’s eyes widened.

  “Faucon, contain your lacky,” James snapped.

  “Hold your tongue unless spoken to, MacGregor,” the Frenchman ordered.

  The brute, MacGregor, snorted but stepped back to stand against the wall. He crossed his arms, expression sour.

  James turned back to Carlton. “When McFarlan returns, send him to me immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please have a bath sent to my room, and to Margarette’s
, Carlton,” Davina added.

  “Nae.” James whirled to face her. “My sister and daughter will not be staying in their rooms. Clear out one of the pantries and have a bar put across the door.” He met Davina’s gaze. “You shall reside in the manner of thieves and traitors, as you’ve proven yourselves to be.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Davina gasped, with no need to feign surprise. “James, be reasonable.”

  One long stride brought him towering over her. “I am being reasonable. Did I order no baths? No food? Have I placed you in chains?”

  Margarette let out another sob. Faucon reached for her. She jerked away.

  “I am six and twenty,” Davina stated, voice low and hard. “You have no right to my person, James.”

  “I have a right to every man, woman and child in Scotland.” James threw his shoulders back. He sucked air in through his nostrils. “Including and, especially you, Davina.”

  Davina felt the tension in the foyer, the ring of men practically breathing down her neck. Uncertainty roiled about them, but she knew where pressed loyalties would fall. Especially that of Seigneur Faucon and this MacGregor. She and Margarette must bide their time, await their next chance of escape. Where the devil was Graham?

  “Where is Elizbeth?” Margarette asked on a sob. “Did you…did you hurt her, Papa?”

  James blinked. He pulled his glare from Davina and settled a confused look on his daughter. “I would never hurt Elizbeth, or you, child. I am securing your future.”

  “But I don’t want you to, Papa.” Margarette’s voice came out small, forlorn.

  “You are too young to understand.” He raked a hand through his hair. “You think, now, in your youth, that certain things are important. Love. A family.” He shook his head. “These are fleeting things, Margarette. So easily stolen.” His visage firmed. The half-mad gleam returned to his eyes. “When you are grown, you will realize few things truly matter. Power. Your duty to your country. The honor of Scotland. These are things that shall never waver. Never fall. Ideals worth upholding.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “Worth dying for.”