She didn’t know how long it went on. Bit by bit, the pain overtook every one of her rational thoughts. The world had narrowed to nothing but her misery, and she didn’t know how to make it stop. But the most important thing was for this horrible agony to end.
Oh, but she did know how to make it stop. Forever. If she told him what he wanted to hear, he’d kill her. He’d end her misery once and for all.
“Now,” he said, his voice like razor blades cutting down her spine, “tell me what you told those Scottish bastards.”
“I…” She worked her mouth, trying to form the words. They came out as if she had a mouthful of cotton. “I told them everything,” she slurred.
A bright flash of agony whipped through her skull, and then the world went blissfully still as the pain, and then all else, slipped away until nothing existed.
—
Emilia heard the shouting first. A Scottish male accent that brought all her nerves flaring back to life. Colin? She surged upward, then gasped as every bit of her body screamed at the movement. The copper tang of blood filled her mouth. She tried to open her eyes, but only one of them would cooperate.
“Wha…? What?” She flinched. Speaking hurt. She couldn’t get enough words out, anyhow. She tried to focus. Where was she? In a carriage, she realized, as the vehicle ground to a halt. Her one eye struggled to focus. That was her father, across from her. But he wasn’t looking at her. Enraged, he pushed the carriage door open and stepped out, slamming it so hard behind him the noise of it felt like a blow straight to her head.
“Highwaymen on the road!” the Scottish voice bellowed again. Her body had heard the accent and immediately connected it to Colin, but this was not Colin. The clomp of horses’ hooves drew to a stop outside. “Milord, forgive me, but there’ll be outlaws lyin’ in wait dead ahead. They’ve blocked the road and are takin’ what they can from innocent passersby. They stole everything I was carryin’. They grabbed at my horse, but I managed to get away first. If ye continue, they’ll swipe yer carriage right out from under ye.”
“Good God,” her father said disgustedly. “Why have we stopped yet again? I begin to think I’m surrounded by fools.”
“He was right in front of us, sir. I didn’t want to run him over,” one of her father’s men said.
“Ignore this nasty old man. Clearly he’s gone daft.”
The handle turned on the door, and Emilia tensed, expecting her father to enter again. She cast a desperate look at the opposite door. Why hadn’t she tried to get away when she’d had the chance?
“Move aside, then, sir,” her father’s man commanded. “Go on.”
“Nay!” the Scot outside cried. The handle went back to the closed position. “Nay, I beg ye. Heed my warnin’, yer lordship. I’d weep to see a fine lord such as yerself kilt upon this road today.”
Her arms and legs were still tied, but anything, anything, was better than being in this carriage with him. She fumbled at the ties on her legs with her bound hands. She might be able to untie herself…but she was certain she didn’t have the time. If she could crawl, find a place to hide—
She reached out for the opposite door, but just as she touched the handle, it opened.
Colin.
He looked terrible—half his face was puffy and black and blue. Relief burst through Emilia, and before she could stop it, she released a strangled sob.
One look at her, and Colin’s face went hard as granite. “I’m going to kill him,” he said under his breath.
So great was her relief, she felt like she lost all control. Her muscles disintegrated into great heaps of putty, and she began to slide to the carriage floor, but Colin caught her. He picked her up, one arm tucked under her knees, one under her back, and pulled her to him.
Her father was still arguing with the Scotsman on the other side of the carriage.
“Shh,” Colin murmured in her ear, and she buried her face into him.
Holding her tight, he backed away into the brush on the side of the road, then hurried deeper into the copse of trees beyond. A few moments later, he was lifting her onto a waiting horse, then he mounted behind her.
With a firm arm around her middle, he urged the horse into a gallop.
Chapter 17
Colin’s entire body bristled with rage, but he held Emilia tenderly, aware of her drifting in and out of consciousness as they raced north, back to the Scottish border, once again passing the unconscious man who lay on the side of the road, blood staining the leg of his trousers. Colin didn’t stop. The fool had cast his lot with Pinfield, and Emilia was Colin’s only concern.
In Berwick he changed horses and convinced the innkeeper to sell him two blankets to wrap around Emilia. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop her trembling.
Now they were only a mile or so from the MacCallums’ cottage, and Colin slowed the horse to a walk. The road was quiet here, the afternoon lazy and warm, and Colin’s head pounded as if the hounds of hell were trampling through it. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and go to sleep, but first he needed to ensure Emilia’s safety.
“Are you awake, lass?” he asked softly, even though he knew she was. He pressed a kiss to her temple. Not knowing where her abused flesh was tender, his action was gentle.
“Yes.” The word was low and slurred. It obviously hurt her to speak. He wanted to kill Pinfield. He would kill him.
“We’re going to the cottage of an elderly couple who helped me after we encountered…your father.” The words your father were the bitterest things he’d ever tasted upon his tongue. No true father would do this to his own child.
“All right,” she said.
“Their names are Mary and Stuart MacCallum. They are very kind. They’ll help us.”
She didn’t say anything, and he released a long, controlled breath, then tightened his arm over her middle. “There’s just one thing, Emilia.”
“Yes?”
“I…er…” He cleared his throat. “I told them we’re married.”
She didn’t react.
“They dinna ken who I am, or who you are. I gave them the name of John Montgomery.” He didn’t give a damn about the name, but the fact that he’d told him they were married…“They believe we’re husband and wife, lass. Do you understand?”
“I do,” she said quietly.
“Will you be able to continue the ruse?” God, he felt like an ass. Really, if the MacCallums learned he’d lied to them, who cared? But there were many reasons to stand by what he’d told them, he rationalized to himself. Revealing the truth to the MacCallums would only put them all in greater jeopardy.
“Don’t…” She took a breath, obviously steeling herself so she could speak. “Don’t worry, Colin. I am prepared.”
He wished he could look into her face, but he couldn’t, not now. He pressed a thankful kiss to the top of her head.
A few minutes later, they rode up the winding road that led to the cottage. Mrs. MacCallum’s round frame appeared in the doorway as they approached, and when they were close, Colin halted the horse, jumped off, then carefully lifted Emilia down.
Mrs. MacCallum hurried to them, gasping, “Och, ye poor wee thing. What’d those wicked bastards do to ye?”
Helping Emilia walk toward the house, Mrs. MacCallum glanced back over her shoulder, raising a questioning brow at Colin.
“He was behind me,” he said, knowing she was asking about her husband. “He should be here soon.” He could only pray MacCallum had continued to outsmart Pinfield and his men. He’d been doing a fine job of it as Colin had slipped away with Emilia.
Mrs. MacCallum nodded and turned back to Emilia, placing a comforting arm around her. The women disappeared inside as Colin took care of the horse. A few minutes later, he returned to the cottage. The inside smelled of savory cooking and fresh hay, and he found Emilia and Mrs. MacCallum in the kitchen, seated at a table as the older woman gently dabbed at Emilia’s face, cleaning her wounds. The room was warm and comfortable
, and something delicious-smelling bubbled over the fire. Yet Emilia sat stoically, staring straight ahead, not even acknowledging Colin as he entered. He hesitated in the arched doorway, wanting to take her into his arms and comfort her but not knowing if that was the right thing.
“Ah, there ye are, laddie. Will ye fetch some fresh clothes for yer wife? I’ve a mind to burn these.”
“Please do,” Emilia croaked out. “This dress is no good to anyone now.”
Mrs. MacCallum’s brows crept toward her forehead. “She speaks! I was beginnin’ to worry.” She widened her eyes at Colin. “An English bride, eh?”
Colin nodded. “Er…aye. I’ll be back with something for you to wear, mo leannan.”
“Thank…you.”
He turned, and walked behind the cottage to the outbuilding—a large stone-walled shed where MacCallum had stored the phaeton. But at the edge of the building, he reached out and leaned on the stones, head down, his chest heaving.
God. He’d nearly lost her. He’d almost been too late. And she was so hurt, so terribly hurt…And the look in her eyes was so blank…
He sucked in breaths but couldn’t get enough air.
Maybe he had been too late.
No. No. He refused to accept that. He fought to regain control of his body. She needed him now, and he wasn’t going to fail her. Forcing breath into his lungs, he stood up straight and pushed inside the shed.
As MacCallum had said, their luggage was intact in the boot, and Colin rifled through it, quickly collecting anything he thought Emilia might be able to use. He hurried back to the house, and Mrs. MacCallum chose a nightgown for Emilia to wear.
“Will ye help her get into it, lad?” Mrs. MacCallum said. “I’ll just be waitin’ outside should ye be needin’ anythin’.” Handing Colin the nightgown, she stepped out.
“Emilia,” he said softly, when she only stared straight ahead. He lowered himself into the chair beside hers. “Talk to me, mo leannan.”
“What does that mean?”
“Mo leannan?” He hesitated and then said, “It means ‘my love.’ ”
She blinked at him. “Do you?”
“Do I what?” he asked gently.
“Love me?”
This had not been the way he’d meant to reveal it to her. But there was no way in hell he was lying to her. “Aye, I do,” he said, his voice firm with conviction. “I love you. I’ve fallen in love with you.”
“Why?” She turned to him finally, her eyes bright but dry, though she moved like a lady far older than Mrs. MacCallum, and he almost expected to hear her bones creaking as she faced him.
Her face was wrecked, one eye swollen shut, a nasty bruise forming around it and dipping low onto her cheek. Though no longer caked in blood, her lips were still swollen, and the bottom one was split. The cut on her cheekbone looked deep enough to scar and would probably mar her bonny face forever.
He gently took her hand in his own. “I love you for so many different reasons, Emilia. So many I dinna ken where to begin.”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He was going to kill me, I think.”
Colin swallowed hard.
“I…wanted him to.”
He didn’t blame her for that.
“What kind of woman wants to die? I gave up. I stopped defending us. You shouldn’t love a woman like that, Colin.”
“I dinna care what you said to your father, Emilia. I dinna care whether you defended us.”
“I gave in and told him what he wanted to hear,” she whispered.
“And what was that?”
“That I revealed all his secrets to the Highland Knights.”
Colin closed his eyes. Thank God he had come when he had. The bastard had probably been on the verge of murdering her. His own daughter. Jesus.
“I betrayed you,” she whispered.
“What? Nay,” he said.
“I did.” Her breath hitched. “I told him…”
“Of course you did. ’Tis nothing,” he soothed.
“But don’t you see? I gave up. I wanted him to kill me. He should have killed me.”
“Nay.” He grasped her shoulders, firm but still gentle, wary of her injuries. “Listen. There comes a point in everyone when they canna take any more.”
She shook her head. “No. The loyal ones never give in. Never offer up their secrets.”
“That’s not true. Where’d you ever hear such a thing?”
“I just…I know. I broke. He broke me.”
Where was she getting this absurd idea? “Listen to me, Emilia. You didna break. You told him what he wanted to hear, but he would’ve discovered that in a few days, anyhow. That doesna mean you’re disloyal. You must stop thinking that way.”
“But—”
“Nay,” he said gently. She was tired and hurt and not thinking clearly. “He was hurting you. You did what anyone would have done.”
“You wouldn’t have,” she said stubbornly.
“I did, though,” he said.
She blinked, and he clarified. “In Spain…five years ago. I…” He swallowed hard, panic tickling at the fringes of his mind. Be factual. Be concise. Don’t let them in. “I was captured and held by the French for a time. I…” He pushed out a breath. “I told them everything I knew.”
Her eyes widened so that he could even see a slit of blue in the one that was swollen shut. “You did?”
“Aye. I…had to.” He had never talked about this to anyone. The major and the other officers of the 92nd knew what had happened, but no one made him speak of it. Ever.
“Why?” she whispered.
He looked down. “All that was left was what they wanted to know. They stripped the rest of it away.”
“How?”
“They kept me for several days, blindfolded and gagged, without food, and they only teased me with water. They hit me with a baton until they broke several ribs. And…once my ribs were well and broken, they whipped me.”
“The scars on your back…” She closed her eyes. “Why am I asking you this?”
“Because you need to understand, lass. The men never questioned my loyalty afterward and so neither did I.”
“I h-hate the thought of you in pain,” she whispered. “And…what happened to you yesterday? Your face—”
“Sideswiped by a plank,” he explained. “I feel better tonight. Having you with me…” Hell, he’d forgotten about his own injuries once he’d laid eyes on hers. “I’m fine,” he assured her. “Just a wee bit tired.”
“I’m tired, too.”
“Let’s get you into this nightgown, then. And then we ought to try to get some sleep.”
She rose and tried to untie her dress, but her fingers fumbled with the ties and he moved her hands away. “Let me.”
He undressed her slowly, checking carefully for breaks, cuts, and bruises. A multitude of scratches marred her legs, some deeper than others, but by far it was her face that sported the worst damage.
Though she told him she’d already washed her legs at the stream near the abandoned farmhouse, he ran a cloth over them again, wiping up small trails of blood and bits of dirt.
“It’s best Pinfield kens that the Knights have been told of his treasonous actions,” he said after a short silence.
“Why?” she whispered.
“It means you’ll be safe in London now. Your father won’t dare show his face in Town now.”
“Are you certain?”
“Aye. Once you’re well enough, we’ll head south again. We’ll go to London. You’ll be safest there among the Knights.”
She nodded. “I did want to see the Scottish Highlands, but—”
“Dinna fash yourself, mo leannan. You’ll see the Highlands. I’ll bring you back once this is all over.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.” He slipped the nightgown over her head.
“Colin?”
“Aye?”
“I did give up, you know.”
He p
ulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “I hate him for hurting you, Emilia. I hate him so damn much.” He couldn’t wait to kill the man. But first he had to ensure Emilia’s safety.
“So…so do I.”
He pulled back and gazed into her face—her bonny, damaged face that made him want to scream with rage. “And you ken it’s all right, don’t you? It’s right that you hate him. If you loved him after all this…” He shook his head. “Well, that wouldna be right.”
“I thought I might have an ounce of love left for him somewhere, but I was wrong. I despise my father,” she said, her voice as flat and dry as an autumn leaf, and equally as brittle. She pressed her forehead into Colin’s chest and whispered, “I want him to hang.”
Chapter 18
They left the kitchen, to find Mrs. MacCallum in the great room, talking animatedly to her husband. Thank God, Colin thought, looking over the older man with a critical eye. He’d made it. He looked as fit as he had early this morning, except for the bit of exhaustion creeping around his blue eyes.
MacCallum came toward them, smiling. “Ah, Montgomery. What a bonny wee wife you have.” He took Emilia’s hand and bowed over it. “Mrs. Montgomery.”
“You must be…Mr….MacCallum,” Emilia said haltingly. It hurt her to speak, and Colin had been worried her jaw was broken, but he’d checked it and thought it was just badly bruised.
“Aye, that I am.”
“Thank…you. Col—John told me all that you’ve done for us.”
“ ’Twas my pleasure, lass. Happy to help.”
“Now then, I have some rabbit stew a-boilin’,” Mrs. MacCallum interjected. “The lot of ye look like yer aboot to keel over any moment. So let’s get tae eatin’, ye can tell me what happened, then ye all must go straight tae bed.”
They headed back into the kitchen area, where they sat around the table while Mrs. MacCallum ladled soup into bowls at the stove. She doled them out, along with a plate piled high with bannocks. Colin ate ravenously, as did MacCallum—they hadn’t had a bite to eat all day. Chewing pained Emilia’s jaw, so she sipped at the broth and didn’t touch the bannocks, but at least she was trying to take in some sustenance.
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