by Amy Jarecki
Gordon licked his lips with an arid tongue. “How did you reply?”
Akira’s fist slid down to her side—a more respectful stance for a wee maid. “I told him I’d received handsome payment from His Lordship for tending his cousin.”
“His Lordship?”
“The Marquis of Atholl, of course.”
Smart lass. “Do you ken the marquis?” Bloody hell, he hoped not.
“If you call paying him fealty knowing him, then aye. So does everyone around these parts. He’s lord of these lands.”
And he supports the Government troops, the bastard.
Geordie needed to mount that damned horse and ride like hellfire. If anyone recognized him, he’d be shipped to the Tower of London, where they’d make a public mockery of his execution.
He leaned forward to stand. Jesus Christ! Stars darted through his vision. Stifling his urge to bellow, he gritted his teeth.
The lass caught his arm. “Allow me to help.”
His insides clamped taut. Must she look at him with such innocent allure?
He gave a curt nod, hating to accept any help but knowing it was necessary. “My thanks.”
Clenching his teeth, he slid his good foot beneath him. Akira tugged his arm while he pushed up with the other.
“Christ Almighty!” he bellowed from the depths of his gut before he had time to choke it back.
She slung his arm over her shoulder. A lot of good that did. The lass might make a useful crutch for a lad of twelve. “If they didn’t ken you were here before, they do now.”
“Ballocks!” he cursed, trying not to fall on top of the woman. Then he looked at the damned nag. “No saddle?”
She held out a few copper farthings. “There wasn’t enough.”
“Damnation.”
The urchin narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ll not be cursed at like a doormat whilst I’m merely trying to help you.”
Geordie grumbled under his breath and removed his arm from her shoulder. He took quick note of the surroundings. They needed more cover for certain. He pointed deeper into the wood. “Lead the beast to the fallen tree, yonder.”
She didn’t budge. “Oh my,” she said with a gasp. “Your leg is bleeding something awful.”
He swayed on his feet. Good God, he couldn’t lose his wits. Not until he had ridden to safety. “Can you stanch it?”
“Give me your belt.”
He slid his hands to his buckle, when a twig snapped behind them.
“Who goes there?” demanded a stern voice.
Akira’s eyes popped wide.
The beat of Geordie’s heart spiked. With a wave of strength, he grabbed the lassie’s waist and threw her atop the horse. Taking charge of the reins, he urged the beast into a run, steering it beside the fallen tree. Agonizing pain stabbed his thigh, but the pressing need to escape gave him herculean energy.
Haste.
In two leaps he landed astride the gelding, right behind the lass. Slapping the reins, he kicked his heels into the horse’s barrel as he pointed the beast down a narrow path. Stabbing torture in his thigh punished his every move.
Musket fire cracked from behind.
Geordie leaned forward, demanding more speed. He pressed lips to Akira’s ear. “Hold on, lass, for hell has just made chase.”
Chapter Two
After them!” roared Captain Roderick Weaver, leader of the Marquis of Atholl’s regiment of Government troops. He dug in his spurs and whipped his reins. With a grunt, his steed pinned his ears and broke into a gallop, white foam leeching from his neck and withers. Roderick wasn’t about to let another cowardly Jacobite escape into the Highlands.
“The horses are spent,” yelled Corporal Snow from the rear. The beetle-brained halfwit forever bemoaned the comfort of the damned horses, though he never thrust his sword into the air and hollered for the men to follow him—unless he was heading for the mess tent.
“Onward!” Roderick boomed, ignoring the corporal’s warning.
The horses were beasts of burden. If the animals fell, he’d sequester more from the locals. There was a reason Atholl hired Roddy from Yorkshire to quash the rebellion. A staunch supporter of Queen Anne, he’d relentlessly chase these traitors to the end of the earth. For a price.
True, Roderick’s entire body ached with fatigue just like everyone else’s did. The battle had been fierce and the cleaning up after was laborious. But they’d found a runner, someone the captain would like to use to make a statement. Show Jacobites throughout Scotland what would happen, not only if they crossed the queen, but worse, if they crossed him.
No one crossed Roderick Weaver. Not ever.
On and on he kicked his horse while the beast snorted louder and louder. The tree branches whipping past and stinging his face only served to heighten his ire.
“Captain…”
Roddy glanced over his shoulder. The corporal’s shouts combined with the thundering hoofbeats, making him impossible to understand, though Roddy had definitely heard the word lame.
Miserable bleeding heart.
Returning his gaze to the path, he saw a fallen tree three paces away. No time to change course. Roddy slackened the reins, gave the horse his head, and prepared to jump. He leaned so far forward, his torso suspended over his mount’s mane as together they soared.
This old gelding can run all day.
The front hooves hit the ground. But the hindquarters of the horse kept going.
“Woooooooah!”
Sailing through the air, Roderick curled into a ball, ready for impact. With a jarring thud, his hip slammed into the earth. Hard. Every muscle in his body tensed. Dammit, he hated looking like an arse in front of his men.
Corporal Snow hopped off his horse and dashed to Roddy’s side. “Are you all right, sir?”
The captain jerked his fists away from his face. Dear God! Sharp pain shot from his hip down through his leg. “Of course I’m all right, you maggot. Quickly, we must continue after them.”
The corporal gestured behind him. “Your horse is spent.”
Roderick peered around the coward. Blast, the beast was lame as well, and appeared to be limping on all fours. Sitting up, he pulled his pistol from his belt. “We’ll have to shoot him.” He waved the weapon at a pair of sentinels. “Muldoon and Grey, ride double. I’ll take Grey’s horse.” That chestnut gelding was the most spirited of the lot.
“With all due respect, sir. Every last horse is finished. They need food and water, as do the men.”
Snorting, their heads down, the horses looked like a mob of nags ready for the slaughter yard. “Bloody hell!” He jammed the pistol back into his belt. Damnation, there was no use whipping horses to gain a few miles only to have them all go lame. “But mark me, we ride at dawn. I want that bastard’s neck swinging from Atholl’s noose.”
When they arrived at back at the clearing, Roderick dismounted, limping from being thrown by that miserable excuse for a horse. “I want to know the name of the bastard’s accomplice.”
Corporal Snow kneeled beside the bloodstained earth. “Looks like he’s injured pretty bad.”
“With that much blood lost, I doubt he’ll make it through the night,” said Grey.
“Good.” Roddy grinned. “’Twill make our job on the morrow easier, though I’d prefer to find him on the brink of death rather than dead.”
“What’s this?” The corporal reached under a clump of broom and pulled out a silver flask.
“Give that to me.” Roderick snatched it from Snow’s hand and examined the engraving. “I’ll be damned. If I’m not mistaken, ’tis the Duke of Gordon’s coat of arms.”
Snow stood and looked over Roderick’s shoulder. “I’ll wager that’s worth a year’s pay.”
“Aye.” Grey licked his lips. “But the duke’s army didn’t march against us—there was no Huntly pennant.”
“His cousin, William Gordon of Strathdon, was here for certain,” said Snow.
Roderick turned the flask in
his palm. “The duke could have ridden with them.”
“A duke ride without his army?” asked Sentinel Muldoon. “It would be far too risky for a man of Gordon’s station to ride alone, especially into battle. His lands would be forfeit, not to mention his head.”
Corporal Snow scratched his chin. “Right. Mayhap the flask was a gift?”
“A bloody generous one.” Roddy had to agree with Muldoon. It was unlikely that the Duke of Gordon would have ridden into battle without his impressive clan of fighting Highlanders behind him. Regardless, whatever the culprit’s clan, the runner wasn’t long for this world.
Two more sentinels marched up and saluted. “Word is the woman was a healer from the village. She purchased a horse. Came up with the coin out of the blue, sir.”
“Her name?”
“Akira Ayres—a thieving tinker.”
Roderick snorted. “At least there’s no need to worry about staging a rescue. The wench is as guilty as our mysterious, wealthy Highlander.”
* * *
Racing through the forest so fast, everything passing in a blur, Akira hunched over the horse’s neck as she dodged vines and sapling branches. The wind howled in her ears as if a tempest was brewing. Bless it, if Akira’s heart would stop beating so fast, she might be able to think. She wove her fingers through the horse’s mane and hung on for dear life, with the crazed Highlander leaning over her, demanding more speed with each kick of his heels. Every bone-jarring gallop made Akira’s head hit the man’s wall of a chest, while her seat slapped up and down behind the poor animal’s withers.
“Stop leaning on me,” she yelled. If only she had the nerve to let go and reach for the reins, she might be able to turn the beast around and head for home.
“Bit further,” Geordie replied, his breathing ragged, his voice choked.
Akira chanced a backward glance. Oh no, his face looked as white as bleached linen. “Are you all right?” she hollered.
“Wha’ ye think? Been shot.”
Akira gulped and her palms perspired. She wasn’t much of a horsewoman—hadn’t had many chances in her life to ride. And now she was speeding into the Highlands on a mount with a bombastic wild man who spoke as if he were a commander in charge of the entire kingdom.
In a blink, the steed leapt a burn.
Her rear end soared off the horse. Akira closed her eyes and strengthened her grip lest she fall.
I pray the fairies are with us.
All three—horse and two riders—landed with a jolt. Her buttocks rebounded so high, the forward motion almost flung her over the horse’s head. Stomach flying to her throat, Akira peered through the forest in terror. When would she fall, or worse, when would a branch smack her face and hurl her to her death?
A surge of courage pulsed through her fingers.
It’s me or him.
Releasing one hand, she snatched a rein.
“No!” Geordie bellowed.
Ignoring him, she grabbed the other rein and bore down. “Whoa!”
Enormous fingers clamped over hers. “We need more distance, lass,” he growled in her ear, his voice so deep it rumbled clear to her bones.
Her stomach squeezed. “You must be tended afore we both fall to our deaths running through the thick wood like a pair of lunatics.”
“Outcropping.” Overpowering her, he forced the reins to the right.
At first she had no clue what he was talking about, but as the horse turned, Akira saw it—a stony crag hidden in the trees. They hastened up the steep slope, rocks and gravel showering behind them. Halfway up, Geordie pulled the gelding to a stop, directly outside the mouth of a cave. She hadn’t seen it from below, but there it stood, jagged and carved into the outcropping, with moss and leafy ferns draping over the opening, which was high enough for her to walk inside without stooping.
“Did you ken this was here?” Akira asked.
“Aye.”
“Where are we?”
He dropped forward against her back. “Tay Forest. Not far enough from Hoord Moor, but you have to help me stop the bleeding.”
She tried to push back with her elbow, but the man was too heavy. Gracious, he must weigh at least sixteen stone. “Are you feeling faint? B-because you keep leaning on me.”
“I’m fine.” Jerking up, he swung his uninjured leg over and slid from the horse. When his feet hit ground, he wobbled, all but collapsing.
Akira tried not to show her fear. Mercy, it seemed a long way down. Geordie grasped the bridle and placed a hand on her thigh—a very large and powerful hand for a man who’d lost so much blood. “Come, lass,” he growled. “I’ll help you.”
“You can barely stand.”
“Och, have a bit o’ faith.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and guided her to the ground, a strained grunt rumbling from his throat.
“See? You most likely made your wound bleed all the more.” Though never so happy to be standing on her own two feet, she gave him a stern shake of her finger. “Look at you, you’re half-dead.”
“Inside,” he grumbled, clearly not much for words, the commanding oaf. He draped his arm over her shoulders and leaned heavily, his face too white.
With no recourse but to wrap her arm around his waist, she threw a forlorn glance over her shoulder at the horse. She’d remove his bridle and hobble him later, but for now his reins were secured to a tree.
Together they staggered into the cave, its walls oozing with green algae. If she’d thought Mr. Geordie was heavy pushing against her on the horse, he now felt like four sacks of grain lumped across her shoulders. Worse, his breathing was labored.
Akira’s fingers sank into banded muscle as she tried to support him. Never had she tended a patient so solid. The Highlander couldn’t have an ounce of fat covering his flesh.
They went deeper, serenaded by dripping water, the footing uneven and slick. A small stream ran through the middle of the rocks. The air was chilly, and gooseflesh spread across her skin like an eerie warning.
What if someone found her here with this strange man?
“I must return home,” she announced. “I’ll tend your leg, but then I must go.”
He leaned against the stony wall, his head lolling. “I need your help. Stay a day until I regain my strength.”
“Oh no.” She shook her head. “My mother and sisters need me.”
He closed his eyes. “I-I need you more.” The words were soft, as if he hated to say them.
“No, I sai—”
“I will pay!” he boomed.
She sucked in a sharp breath. Hesitating, she looked him up and down. After Ma’s accident, Akira couldn’t trust strangers. Especially men. And there she stood, alone in a cave in the midst of the forest with a braw Highlander? But then, Mr. Geordie might grouse like an overbearing tyrant, but he was in no condition to do her harm.
She chewed her bottom lip. Few people in Dunkeld could afford to pay her much. Often her fee came in the form of food or the like.
Payment? In coin?
“How much?”
“Wha’ever ye—ah—need.”
She glanced to his sporran, her tongue slipping to the corner of her mouth. “Ten shillings.”
“Done.”
She quashed her thundering heart with her hand. Never in her life had she been paid ten shillings for one task. She’d attended the man with the musket ball to the knee for a whole month and had only received sixpence.
Her eyes adjusting to the dim light, Akira watched the big Highlander slide down the wall and collapse onto a pile of musty old thresh left by the last occupant. Grunting, he hunched over, his head dropping to his chest.
“Sir?” When he didn’t respond, she placed her hands on his shoulders and shook. “Geordie? Are you still alive?”
He took in a stuttered breath.
Thank heavens.
Tilting her head to the same angle as the man’s, she examined his face. It was pleasant to look at, somewhat long and aristocratic, with bold eyebrow
s—but not too bold and definitely not bushy like her uncle’s. The Highlander’s hawkish nose suited his face, and dark stubble peppered his upper lip as well as his chin and jawline. Goodness, if Geordie were to grow a beard, it would be impressively full. But a beard wouldn’t do at all, because it would cover the cleft in his chin—a very male cleft. Akira’s tongue slipped across her bottom lip. A beard would also cover the wee mole on his right cheek. Aye, everyone needed to see that mole. It told anyone who regarded him that he wasn’t perfect—his face, that is, wasn’t quite perfect…but it was extraordinarily close to being so.
With another inhale, he snored a bit and his body jerked.
So did Akira.
His head lolled further to the side, and down with it went his shoulders. He hit the cavern floor with a dull thud. Akira’s fingers trembled as she held the back of her hand to his nose. Thank heavens, warm breath caressed her skin. As she ran her fingers through her hair, her gaze went to Geordie’s leg, now covered by his blood-soaked kilt.
Wincing, she gingerly pushed the plaid up his leg until she exposed the bandage. A stream of blood leaked out and slid across his leg in a red stream. Quickly, she removed her apron and rolled it tight. Straining and grunting, she worked it under his enormous thigh, wrapped it around, and tied the linen taut.
With a deep sigh, she sat back and watched the blood seep through the cloth, fast at first, becoming slower. Thank heavens her mother had insisted she learn the art of healing. This man might actually live. If only she still had her medicine basket, food, candles, and the dozens of other things they needed.
She shuddered. What was she going to do with a patient in a cave?
On all that is holy, I pledge that I shall not lose this one. Not this time.
But she needed more than an apron for a bandage. How far had they traveled from Hoord Moor? She couldn’t just disappear without letting her family know she was well. Besides, Ma and the lassies needed the shilling Geordie had given her.
