by Amy Jarecki
“Two—mayhap three miles back.” He stooped to untie the hobbling rope. “With luck I’ve purchased time by covering our tracks.”
She strode into the clearing. “But their horses have rested longer and have only one rider.”
He didn’t need to be reminded. Straightening, he gestured for her to come closer. “’Tis why I said we must haste.”
Mary slid the musket into the leather harness on the saddle. “Will we reach Achnacarry afore they catch us?”
“On my life we will.” Dammit, Donald didn’t want to scare the lass, but if they didn’t move quickly, the dragoons could easily spot them once the miserable sops reached the crest of the mountain. “If we make good time, we’ll gain enough ground to elude them.”
Without assistance she mounted the garron and sat like she ought. “Let’s ride then.” Giving the gelding a firm pat on the neck Mary leaned forward. “Come Ragnar, you must not fail us this day.”
Don mounted behind her and took up the reins. “You seem in better spirits. Were you able to sleep?”
“Heavens, no.” She glanced up. Lord, in daylight she had the most enticing eyes—blue as the summer’s sky. “Every wee rustle of leaves made me jump. I’m just overjoyed to be moving again.”
“Then that’s what we shall do.” Digging in his heels, he drove the garron hard—galloping when there was an opportunity, but still remaining beneath the canopy of trees so not to be seen.
Mary held tight to Don as they hastened down the slope and skirted around the western side of the loch. Having her curled under his chin, her arm around his back made his chest swell. By God, he would see her to safety. No amorous lieutenant would steal the lass away under Don’s watch.
“Do you think they’ll pick up our tracks?” she asked, leaning back and peering around his shoulder.
“Aye, ’tis a matter of time.” He looked back as well. “I haven’t seen them crest the mountain as of yet.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s because we’ve been hidden in the trees.”
He should have known he couldn’t fool her into thinking they weren’t in danger. “We’re about to come to a clearing. Take a good look, ye ken?”
“Very well.”
Don didn’t slow the horse as they cantered through the opening.
Mary gasped. “Redcoats.”
“How many?”
“Two, three.” They dashed onto a game trail under thick scrub. “Could have been more.”
“Did they see us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did anyone point or look our way?”
“It was too hard to tell from such distance. If they weren’t dressed in red I mightn’t have seen them at all.” She placed her hand atop his doublet—her dainty fingertips touched him, though gently, the sensation ignited a wildfire within him. Mercy, even his breathing sped. She met his gaze with trust filling her eyes. “Thank goodness neither of us is wearing red.” Indeed, the black, blue and green plaids they wore were colors that blended well with the forest.
He tightened his grip on the reins. “Agreed, and thank goodness they’ve only just crested the mountain. We’ve purchased an hour or two for certain.”
Again Mary leaned forward and patted the pony’s neck. “Keep going old fella.”
Don’s heart squeezed, certain she’d just paid far more attention to Ragnar than she had to him since he returned from backtracking. If only he were covered with molting fur and had four legs.
For hours they rode onward up and down hills. White foam leeched from the gelding’s coat, his snorts becoming more labored. Don had no choice but to restrict the animal’s pace to a trot.
They’d leapt many a burn and splashed through rivers, and the little garron continued to power forward without complaint. Highland ponies mightn’t be tall as the dragoon’s hackneys, but they were sturdy stock—were as reliable as the mountains themselves.
Gathering the reins, Don leaned over Mary to jump another burn. Together they soared through the air while he eyed the footing on the other side of the babbling water.
His heart flew to his throat.
Mary squealed and clamped her arms taut around Don’s waist.
When the pony’s front hit the craggy rocks, the jolt flung them both from the saddle. Time slowed as Don twisted, trying to lever Mary’s body above his. With a grunt, his shoulder hit first, sinking into mud in the bed of the burn. Again he grunted when Mary landed atop him. Cold water seeped through his boots, up his kilt and swept across his back.
Sprawled across his body, the lassie coughed, sucking in sharp gasps. “W-what happened?”
Don looked at her mud-splattered face, her long tresses tangled every which way and did his best not to grin. “Craggy rocks.” Wrapping an arm around her, he sat up. “Are you all right?” Heaven help him, her petite frame felt good pressed over his. He slid his fingers down her back until it met the luscious curve of her hip.
“My knee hit something…You?”
Snapping his hand away, he pulled his kerchief from his amazingly dry top pocket and swiped the mud from her face. “The nice thing about having a sore head is a man doesn’t notice other parts.”
Mary cupped his face between her palms. “You have a sore head, Sir Donald?”
He stuffed the kerchief back in his pocket and forced all amorous thoughts from his mind. “’Tis nothing a bit of sleep won’t cure.”
“Goodness, you must be exhausted.” And there was that sultry voice tempting him yet again.
“No more than you are, miss.” Clearing his throat, he shook his head, lifted her up and set her on the edge of the burn. “Now let us have a wee peek at your knee.”
Mary just spread her hands and ignored him. “Look at us, soaking wet and caked with mud.”
“Fortunate for us the weather is fine, but I shall enjoy a warm bath when we reach Achnacarry.”
She sighed.
Why must every sound emanating from her body sound entirely too sultry?
“My, that does sound luxurious.”
Definitely too sultry.
Stepping out of the burn, he brushed the water away and wrung out his woolens. “Would you prefer to examine your knee whilst I turn my back?”
A darling blush blossomed in her cheeks. “Aye. If you please, sir.”
Turning, he removed his doublet and wrung out more water while his entire body set to shivering. Ballocks, the last thing he needed was to be miserable and cold.
Behind him, Mary gasped.
Don spun around before he had a chance to think. God save him, the creamiest, most shapely leg he’d ever seen stretched out atop the grass—slender ankle tapering to a delicious calf—a calf worth savoring over dessert. But his gaze stopped at the blood oozing from a jagged cut just below Mary’s kneecap.
He dropped beside her and applied pressure with his kerchief. “That looks nasty.”
“It seems I’m making a habit of sullying your kerchiefs.” She tugged her skirts down to his hand, but not before he’d glimpsed her thigh. Good God, at a time like this when the lass was in pain, all he could think about was shoving her kirtle back up so he could feast his eyes on her delectable flesh. Why a woman with legs as alluring as hers would want to hide them with layers of skirts was beyond him. Of course, decorum would be required, but only when Miss Mary was in public.
“I think it will be all right once the bleeding ebbs,” she said, drawing him back to the task at hand.
Don nodded to the kerchief. “Hold this in place whilst I fashion a bandage.” He pulled out his shirt and tore a length from the hem then tied it around her knee. “This should fix you up.” Careful not to be overly familiar, he patted her calf. Smoother than satin beneath his fingertips, he rested his hand on her skin for a moment. If only he could slide his hand higher and sink his fingers into Mary’s pillow-soft thigh. But that was absolutely out of the question.
Tucking her legs beneath her wet skirts, she looked down, her cheeks still red.
“Thank you.”
“Do you think you can stand?” Don offered his hand.
“Aye.” When he pulled her up, she grimaced but took a few steps. “It should be like new in a day or two.” Then she stopped dead in her tracks. “Ragnar!”
“Good God,” Don swore. The damned horse was limping along the bank of the burn, tearing away at the grass. The mule’s right front pastern was swollen all the way up past the cannon bone.
Mary flung her hands to her sides. “We cannot ride him like that.”
Ballocks, what else could go wrong? He started for his musket. “We’ll have to shoot him.”
“No.” Rushing forward, Mary grabbed his arm. “We can’t kill Ragnar. He—he’s part of the family.”
“Aye?” Don frowned at her too-hopeful, too-angelic, too-goddamned-pretty face. “If you recall, we are on the run from a pack of mad dragoons, one of whom wants to force you into his bed.” He used the word bed for added emphasis. Mary had seen her father. She had to know the root of MacLeod’s intentions. Balfour MacLeod wanted to bed the lass for certain. God save him, so did Don. So would every man who took the time to really look at her—see the stunning beauty beneath the freckles. Holy hell, he’d soon start dreaming of freckles if he didn’t soon pass the lass off onto Lady Isobel Cameron.
Mary crossed her arms. “Please. Let us try to lead the pony. Besides, a musket blast would alert the lieutenant of our location.”
“I don’t—”
She stamped her foot. “I hurt my knee and you wouldn’t try to shoot me.”
He glowered at her. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” Limping forward, she grabbed the garron’s reins. “Come then. We’ve lost precious time.”
Don growled as he watched them pass—looking like two injured feral animals limping in tandem—the horse still molting its winter coat and the woman wet and muddy. She crossed in front of him without giving him a look, sticking that mud-smudged nose into the air. Crossing his arms, he enjoyed the rear view, however. Though her skirts were wet to the waist, they surely did have a way of clinging to her maidenly form. By God, her hips swished when she walked—er—limped.
Holy bloody hell. He combed his fingers through his hair. I’m in trouble.
He didn’t let the pair go far when his sense of decorum returned and he hastened forward to take charge of the lead. “How is your knee holding up?”
“Fine.”
From her gimpy gait, she didn’t appear to be too terribly fine. In fact, the horse ambled along a bit more sure footed than Miss Mary. “I could carry you on my back.”
“I’m certain that is not necessary, sir.” She clipped “sir” as if she were angry.
“You’re upset with me?”
She stopped and pointed to the mangy pony. “If you dare try to fire your musket at Ragnar, I—I—I will never speak to you again.”
A woman who swore to keep her mouth shut throughout eternity? Now that was tempting. “He’s still alive is he not?” Don trudged forward. “Come along afore the redcoats pick up our trail.”
His back prickled as she walked behind him. There was no need to glance over his shoulder. He could feel her eyes boring into him. “Damnation, I said I wouldn’t shoot the beast. Why do I sense you are still angry?”
“Unfortunately for me, anger isn’t an emotion from which I easily slip in and out. Besides, now you said it, I’ll be worried about Ragnar until he heals.”
“Well, if we don’t keep up the pace, we all may end up filled with musket balls—excepting you m’lady. You’ll be hearing wedding bells within the ranks of the Government troops.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“My mother oft told me that when I was but a lad.”
Finding sheer rock that wouldn’t leave tracks, they plodded on while Mary’s limp grew more pronounced and the pain in Don’s back needled him with every jarring step. Perhaps he did hit a rock or something when he fell from the horse. And even Ragnar ambled along with his ears pinned. Nothing like a beautiful June day spent in agony, running from a mob of lusty dragoons to sour one’s mood.
At least their clothes were drying.
“Do you think we would be able to stop and rest for a bit?” Mary’s voice sounded strained.
Don’s shoulders tensed. “The offer to carry you still holds.”
“Bless it, I don’t want to be carried.” She stopped and jammed her fists into her hips. “I’m tired and I’m so hungry I could eat a leg of lamb all by myself. Pardon me, sir, I have never been one to complain, but neither of us can keep up this pace—especially without food.”
Don glared back, his tongue twisting into a knot. The worst thing? Mary of Castleton was right and their nerves were fraying with every step.
He scratched his head and raked his gaze down the umpteenth slope they’d traversed. Surely they must be nearing Achnacarry by now. Then he blinked twice and wiped his eyes. Indeed, a bit of white shone through the trees. “Is that…?”
Mary stepped beside him. “I think ’tis a cottage.”
Don hastened forward. To their fortune, a cottage and another stone structure came into view as well. “And a barn.”
“Do you think anyone lives there?” Mary asked, peering around his shoulder.
“Not sure.” Don didn’t see anyone, but during these times who knew if the inhabitants would be friend or foe?
She grinned—a sweet, damned endearing grin. “I think mayhap the fairies of the Highlands have granted us a gift.”
“Aye? If it’s fairies you’re counting on, they’re more likely to play tricks than lend us a hand.”
“Oh stop.” She thwacked his arm. “You ken the fairy folk prefer Jacobites to Williamites.”
“That I do.” Without much other choice, Don led Mary to the cottage. “Let me do the talking.”
“Yes, Sir Donald,” she whispered, tiptoeing alongside him. “It looks abandoned.”
Don urged her behind and drew his dirk. “Hello the cottage,” he called in an assured voice.
They stood very still and heard not a thing.
Inching forward, Don pulled down on the latch and opened the door.
Something clicked, metallic like a trigger. “You’d best take not another step and return from whence you came,” growled a threatening male voice.
Dammit all to hell, could nothing be easy? Don strengthened the grip on his dirk. “My wife is injured—horse too.”
Mary snorted behind him.
Reaching back, he squeezed her wrist, demanding she keep quiet. The steel of the musket barrel glistened inside the dim chamber. Don lowered his weapon. “We seek shelter and a meal if it please you. I can pay you in coin.”
“How much coin?”
“A crown for the night, with a meal and hay for our horse.”
“A crown for all that? What? Are you a pair of tinkers or worse? I reckon our kind hospitality is worth—”
“Och, stop your wagering, Parlan,” a woman’s voice cackled. “Can you not see they’re out of sorts?”
Don glanced down. His doublet was covered with mud and what he could see of his cravat wasn’t much better. He bowed, happy to be taken as a commoner. “My thanks, madam.”
The gun barrel lowered. “You’re too trusting, Cadha.”
“And when was the last time we had visitors?” The woman stepped into the light. “And such attractive young people you are. I’m Cadha and the old grumblebum is Parlan.”
Bowing as was his habit, Don kept the introductions vague. “Donald and Mary at your service, m’lady.”
The woman sputtered at the undue respect he gave her. “A strapping sort, is he not?” The old woman winked at Mary. “Welcome to A’chul Bothy Croft. Come inside and we’ll serve you up a warm bowl of pottage. Parlan will take your pony to the stable and give him an extra ration of hay.”
Mary moved alongside Don. “Thank you ever so much. We’ve been traveling for two days without rest.”
“My hea
vens.” Cadha gaped at Don. “You mean to tell me you’ve driven your poor young wife until she’s nothing but skin and bone? From the looks of her, she hasn’t eaten in a month. What, are you newlyweds?”
He cringed. Dear Lord, had they just stepped into the lair of Grandmother Cocksure? The sweet young thing was skin and bone by her own volition. And she wasn’t unduly thin at that. The lass’s rather shapely bottom had been riding in his lap which could certainly attest to the appropriateness of her figure. Thank God. If she’d been a heifer, Don would have been forced to take her back to the lieutenant.
Mary laced her fingers through his and smiled—not a pleasant, maidenly smile, but more like a grimace of annoyance with his wee fib. “Just wed.”
“Oh, look at that, and what a lovely couple you make.” Cadha flicked her wrist toward her husband. “Go stable the horse and give him a hearty ration of hay—oats, too.” Knitting her brows at Don, she continued, “I reckon if this gentleman is as stingy with food for his wife as he is for his horse, the poor gelding probably has ribs showing beneath that saddle and blanket.”
Ready to drag Mary and Ragnar onward to the next isolated cottage within fifty miles, Don squeezed Mary’s hand. “They’re both in good health,” he managed through gritted teeth.
“Well, not to worry.” Cadha ushered them inside. “I set a new pottage to simmering first thing this morn. ’Tis a good thing you arrived when you did, we were just about to take the evening meal.”
Chapter Thirteen
Following Cadha’s direction, Mary took a seat on the bench at the table. Don climbed beside her, his eyes darting to every nook and cranny like a mob of hairy bogles were about to spring from the shadows and attack. The old woman had marshalled him to the bench as soon as they’d stepped inside and the baronet appeared rather hot under the collar. His bamboozled expression made Mary want to laugh. Truly, she appreciated Sir Donald for his bravery—would put him on a pedestal for the rest of her days, but he had behaved a wee bit overbearing whilst they were running for their lives.
And Mary knew why. His head was sore not only from lack of food and sleep, but all of the men at the gathering had carried on into the wee hours the night before she was abducted. That’s why no one was awake and Balfour was able to capture her as well as Sir Donald’s galley. Indeed, the baronet needed sleep more than she.
