The Highland Duke

by Amy Jarecki

  “I’m not their governess. ’Haps you should ask Mrs. Finch.”

  His gut clamped into a hard ball. The hairs on the back of Geordie’s neck stood on end. “And where’s Akira?”

  “That, too, Your Grace. I suspect you’d ken the lassie’s whereabouts better than I.”

  “Jesus Christ, the ship to Flanders cannot sail soon enough.” He thrust his finger toward the men. “Spread out. Search the grounds for Miss Akira.” He pulled his pocket watch from his doublet. “I’ll meet you back here in a half hour.”

  A furrow creased Oliver’s brow. “Ye think the lass has gone missing?”

  “I have an ill feeling, and I hope to God I’m wrong.”

  * * *

  After finding Akira’s chamber empty and discovering she had not attended Jane’s lesson, Geordie could have jumped out of his skin. It was still too early for the men to have returned from their perimeter search, so he raced to the stables.

  The groom, Fionn, poked his head out of a stall. “Are you looking to ride, Your Grace?”

  “Aye. Have you seen Miss Akira?”

  “She took one of the garron ponies out this morn. Said she longed to feel the wind in her hair.”

  “Are you mad?” Geordie stomped his booted foot. “Miss Akira is no horsewoman. Why was I not informed?”

  Fionn spread his palms, with a daft, dumbfounded look on his face. “Apologies. I didn’t ken you wanted me to watch her so closely, Your Grace.”

  “In which direction did she ride? Did she seem upset? Was she crying? Were her eyes red?” He slammed his fist against the wall. “Answer me, man.”

  “Ah—ah, now you mention it, I reckon she might have been a wee bit upset.” The idiot’s head bobbed like a puppet. “Aye, her hands were shaking when I handed her the reins.”

  “Bloody hell!” Geordie kicked a pile of straw. “Saddle my horse immediately and take him to the courtyard. I need a blanket and food supplies for a dozen men, and I need them in the courtyard faster than you can blink.”

  “Straightaway, Your Grace.”

  “Do not stop to breathe.” He shook his finger. “I mean it. We ride at once.”

  Geordie scanned the grounds as he hastened toward the courtyard. Oliver and the search parties were galloping back to the castle. At least the man-at-arms understood the need for urgency. But Geordie could have sworn someone had stacked a load of bricks on his chest. Akira wasn’t with them.

  Damn that evil duchess to hell!

  Oliver rode in the lead and Geordie met him at the gates. “Gather your gear and a retinue of twelve men. We’re riding after her.” He pointed to his sergeant-at-arms. “Mr. Wallis, take the duchess to Aberdeen and lock her in a chamber at the Boar’s Inn until the bloody ship sails.”

  “The duchess, Your Grace?”

  “I hereby place that woman under arrest. We’re divorced, and she’s trespassing on my lands. Guard her until she sets sail for Flanders.” He thrust his hand in the direction of Elizabeth’s window. Doubtless the wretched vixen lurked in the shadows, enjoying Geordie’s fury. “Now go and do my bidding. And make certain Mrs. Finch is overseeing the children. Dear God, one of you will pay if anyone else I love goes missing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Akira’s thighs already chafed. She had told the stable hand to give her a standard saddle, because she’d gained a certain amount of confidence riding astride. And this would be a long journey. During idle talk, Fiona had said it was a hundred miles to Dunkeld.

  The problem?

  She had no idea where she was headed. All she knew was to travel south, and she turned down the southward road at the end of the Huntly drive.

  As the afternoon wore on, howling wind swept through the trees, and dark clouds formed overhead. It turned cold, as autumn afternoons often did, and Akira had pinned her arisaid tight around her shoulders.

  Without another soul in sight, every rustle through the trees made her jump. She tugged the reins too tight and the horse slowed. When she gave him a tap of her heels, he sidestepped. Remembering Geordie’s instruction, she loosened the reins and her seat. The pony dropped his head and his movement grew smoother, as it had been when they’d first set out—when she’d been more certain of what she was doing.

  Gradually, the sky grew darker and doubts shot through her mind. Perhaps she should have talked to Geordie first. But then he would have showered her with declarations proclaiming his philandering ways were over. Doubtless, his heavy-lidded gaze and his deep voice would have turned her insides to warm honey, and she wouldn’t have been able to think straight.

  It was difficult to believe all the horrid things the duchess had said about him.

  Geordie couldn’t be that awful, could he?

  But then, he’d kept his identity hidden from her for so long. What was she to think of his ruse? Was he a liar? Heaven’s stars, Akira hadn’t encountered enough men to know what to believe. Her heart told her Geordie was a good man, but the man who hurt Ma was supposed to be good, too.

  Akira needed her family, needed Ma’s wisdom, needed the security of the shieling. It might be shabby, but it was home. There she was loved. There she knew her place.

  A streak of lightning flashed through the sky. Every muscle in Akira’s body tensed. The horse skittered. Akira cowered at a booming roll of thunder. The wind blew harder and the trees rustled and popped. With the next bolt of lightning, the sky opened, sending sheets of rain pouring down.

  Boom!

  The thunder pealed like God had spoken. The garron reared and broke into a gallop.

  Akira flopped in the saddle, her feet slipping out of the stirrups. “Whoa!” she shouted, tugging on the reins, but the pony ran as if they were being chased by Satan himself. Light burst around them over and over again, while rain pelted Akira’s face and soaked through the weave of her woolens.

  “Stop!” she screamed, her feet fumbling blindly for the stirrups.

  Ahead, something dark sprang from the forest straight into their path.

  Akira clutched her fingers around the reins.

  The horse’s croup dipped low.

  She leaned forward to keep her balance.

  Skidding, the gelding whinnied and reared.

  Squeezing her knees, Akira closed her eyes, willing herself to stay on. The wet, slick saddle proved too slippery. Her grip failed and her body soared backward through the air as her mouth opened, releasing a blood-curdling shriek.

  She hit mud, and water splashed around her.

  A deep voice cackled with a hideous laugh. “Och, we’ve found a wee lassie.” A big ugly brute with hairy legs sauntered toward her, flanked by a pair of scraggly thugs grinning like they were looking at warm Christmas pudding, while the rain plastered their hair to their heads.

  Ice pulsed through her blood as Akira scooted backward. “Leave me be.” She might need a guide, but every jumping nerve in her body told her these men were up to no good.

  The leader narrowed his gaze. “What are you doing out here in this squall?”

  “And alone?” asked another.

  Akira eyed her horse, standing beneath a sycamore not ten feet away.

  The men stepped closer.

  Bearing down with all her weight, she sprang to her feet, dashing for the garron.

  Curses, her wet skirts were heavier than armor. Clenching her teeth, she forced her legs to pump harder.

  Brutal arms wrapped around her, tackling her to the ground. “Och, that’s my horse now, wench,” a vile voice growled.

  Akira’s chin hit hard. Twisting and kicking, she fought to free herself from the man’s grasp, but the more she struggled, the tighter his arms clamped around her body. Shrieking, she rolled and slapped him across the face.

  “Bitch!” The thug hit her back.

  Her teeth rattled as stinging pain seared across her cheek. The iron taste of blood filled her mouth. “Get off me!” She bucked, fighting futilely.

  Lying atop her back, he groped her body wit
h one hand, shoving his fingers into her pocket. He flipped her over and held the coin in front of her face. “What have we here?” He gave her a black-toothed grin—breath that stank of moldy mutton. “Where did you come by this?”

  “’Tis my payment from the Duke of Gordon.” She prayed that using Geordie’s title would put some fear in the scoundrel’s heart. Wrenching a hand free, she reached for it, but he was faster. “Please. I need that coin for my family.”

  “I reckon I need it, too.” A sickly grin spread across his lips as his eyes bore into hers while crushing her with his chest. Then the blackguard tugged her skirts. “And you’re too bonny not to poke.”

  The men laughed. Black, ugly cackles. “I’m next,” one said.

  No, no!

  Akira kicked and gasped for air. Rain stung her eyes. He lowered his gruesome, bearded face and licked her mouth as he yanked her skirts higher. Thrashing her head from side to side, she wouldn’t give up the fight. “No! No! No! No! The duke will kill you for this!”

  “Aye? Where is his army?” asked one of the braggarts.

  Cold air blew over her inner thighs and up where it never should be. Dear God, why did she race away alone?

  The brute seized her wrists with one hand and pinned them above her head. With the other, he reached down and grasped himself.

  A musket fired, making her ears ring. One of the highwaymen fell.

  In a blink, the thug atop her sprang to his feet, dagger at the ready.

  Another blast, and the awful man clutched his chest, dropping gape-mouthed beside her.

  Howling, the third man ran into the wood.

  Too terrified to move, Akira curled into a ball, clutching her arms over her head. “Please do not kill me.”

  A pair of black boots stepped up to her. “Well, well. Let me guess. You’re Akira Ayres from Dunkeld.” She remembered hearing this man’s voice once before. Below the outcropping. He had an English accent, filled with menace.

  Her hands trembling like the saplings in the storm, Akira regarded the dead felon beside her, then shifted her gaze to the red-coated dragoon, slapping a riding crop in his palm. “Who are you?” she asked.

  He tapped his hat with the crop. “Captain Roderick Weaver, and I’ve been following your trail for weeks.”

  She shook her head, hiding her face in her palms while praying for a miracle. Anything she might say could incriminate Geordie.

  The rain slowed to a drizzle, but she was bone cold. Out of the corner of her eye, a bit of metal flashed. Her coin rested a few feet away.

  “Answer me, wench.”

  She edged toward the coin. “W-why have you been following me?”

  He laughed—an evil cackle as menacing as the felon. “Playing dumb, are you? Well, it won’t work with me.”

  Nearly close enough to reach the coin, she stretched for it, but her fingers filled with nothing but mud. “I would think a captain would have far better things to do than traipse after a healer.”

  “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Quickly drawing her fingers back, she held up her palms with a forlorn backward glance. “Why? Do you think I can outsmart an officer?”

  He pointed to one of his men. “Slap a set of manacles on her wrists.” Then he smirked at her. “You’re under arrest.”

  “What for?”

  “Aiding a fugitive.”

  “I did no such thing. I’m merely a healer.” Cold iron closed around her wrists, locking closed.

  The officer pulled her to her feet. “Do you admit to helping the Duke of Gordon escape?”

  Goodness gracious, what should she say? “I have no idea who that is, sir.”

  “I didn’t think you’d squeal easily.” He thrust his finger toward the garron. “Sentinel Grey, help the prisoner mount.” He pointed to two other dragoons. “You pair, shove those bodies off the path and cover them with broom.”

  Pulled by the sentinel, Akira stopped and yanked her wrists away. “You’re not planning to bury them?”

  “We’ve no time for that.” The captain marched to his horse and mounted. “We ride.”

  The dragoon grasped her elbow, led her to the horse, and gave her a leg up. “Where are you taking me?”

  Running his reins through his palm, the captain sneered. “To stand trial in Inverness.”

  Merciful Father, no. “For being a healer?”

  “Shut it,” sniped Grey.

  As they rode away, the captain’s horse trampled over the glistening silver coin.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Geordie’s gut turned over when they found two dead men shoved under a clump of broom alongside the road. Though he’d seen his share of death and brutality, coming upon the evidence of murder was an ugly state of affairs, and he prayed to the Almighty they had misread Akira’s tracks.

  He held up his hand, stopping his men well away from the soupy pandemonium of footprints. “Halt.”

  After dismounting, Geordie and Oliver examined the corpses.

  “Shot at close range, I’d reckon,” said the lieutenant, pointing to the blood-soaked clothing.

  “Aye, and from their ragged clothes and the stench, I suspect this pair of highwaymen attacked the wrong pigeon.”

  Oliver scratched his head. “Or set of pigeons. There’s tracks everywhere.”

  “Why would a pair of bedraggled thieves attack a group of riders?”

  “Must have been desperate, Your Grace.”

  No more than five paces away, a coin caught Geordie’s eye. He stooped to pick it up. “I’ll be damned.”

  Oliver peered over his shoulder. “What is it?”

  “I gave a ten-shilling piece just like this to Akira just this morn.”

  “Do you think it’s hers?”

  “God, I hope not.” He looked down the pathway. “I hope she traveled through before all this occurred.”

  Oliver moved around the stretch of road, studying the tracks. “Bloody hell, these prints are so soupy it’s near impossible to discern a thing.” He walked up the fork in the road leading northeast, and pointed. “Och, I’d reckon the men who killed these sorry souls headed toward Inverness.”

  A lead ball sank to Geordie’s toes. “What about Miss Akira?”

  Oliver shook his head. “Lord only kens.”

  “Beg your pardon, Your Grace,” said an obsequious voice from nowhere. A disheveled beggar stepped from behind a sycamore, hunched over in a bow as if he were addressing the queen.

  “Who the devil are you?” Geordie asked.

  Oliver pulled his dirk and stood between the duke and the wastrel. “Take one more step and you’ll end up in hell with your mates.”

  The man held up his palms, his eyes shifting. “The wench said she’d earned that coin from the Duke of Gordon. I reckon that would be you, m’lord.”

  A rush filled Geordie’s ears and his pulse raced. Shoving past Oliver, he grabbed the tinker by the throat, his fingers digging into flesh like iron teeth. “Where is she, goddamn you?”

  Spittle bubbled from the man’s lips as he struggled to speak, his face turning red.

  “Ye might want to ease your grip a bit, Your Grace,” Oliver said from behind.

  Snatching the man’s arm, Geordie wheeled him around and wrenched his wrist up his back. “Where is she?”

  The cur licked his lips, squirming futilely. “I reckon I need payment afore I say another word.”

  “You’re in no position to negotiate.” Clenching his teeth, Geordie wanted nothing better than to slam his knuckles into that scraggly-bearded jaw. He forced the arm higher. “If you value your life, you’ll not waste another breath before you tell me what happened.”

  The man scrabbled his feet with no effect. “We didn’t mean nothing.”

  “Spill your guts, you flea-bitten sheep-swiving maggot.” Shifting his hold, Geordie snatched his dirk and held it to the man’s throat. “I’ll ask you once more. Where. Is. The lass?”

  “We just wanted her coin…b
ut Illiam was aiming to give her a good poke when a mob of rutting dragoons shot him. Shot my brother, Clach, too.”

  Geordie pushed the dirk hard enough to draw blood. “You violated her?”

  “Nnnnnn-no, Your Grace. They shot Illiam afore he could give it to her.”

  Geordie’s stomach turned over with revulsion. “I ought to slit your pitiful throat and rid the world of your stench.”

  The man shied. “But I c-c-can tell you more, Your Grace.”

  Geordie tightened his grip, holding his dirk firm. “I’m listening.”

  “It was them redcoats. They tried to make her confess about helping you.” He licked his lips and glanced downward. “Then they slapped a set of manacles on her and took her with them.”

  A cannonball sank from Geordie’s gut down to his toes. Captain bloody Weaver. “Where are they headed?”

  “The officer said Inverness to stand trial.”

  Good God. Geordie looked to Oliver. “We have to stop them before they reach the city.”

  “Aye.” Oliver inclined his head toward the prisoner. “What do we do with him?”

  Releasing his grip, Geordie shoved the man to the mud. “Let him go.”

  The beggar bumbled to his feet. “Please. Give a poor man a shilling for his good deed.”

  Geordie jammed his dirk in its scabbard. Never in his life had he wanted to kill a man in cold blood, but if decency hadn’t been drilled into him since birth, he’d have run his blade across this varlet’s throat. For the love of God, the man had been all too ready to violate the love of his life. He abhorred such cowards.

  Tipping up his chin, he regarded the beggar, his blood near boiling. “You’ve received ample payment this day.” He sauntered forward and gripped the man’s cods, squeezing them in his fist. The ruffian squealed like an adolescent lad, and that only made Geordie squeeze harder. “If you ever even think of violating another woman again, I will hear of it,” he growled through clenched teeth. “And I will not rest until your ballocks are sliced off and shoved down your throat afore I drain your life’s blood from your miserable body.”