by Scott, Tarah
Blood pounded in her ears in tandem with the rhythm of her thudding heart. She smoothed her skirts, until certain the bulge wasn't noticeable, then hastened from her room and down the stairs to the front entrance. Phoebe forced her pulse to slow and her mind to quiet as she pushed open the door and stepped into the busy courtyard. She resisted the urge to glance at the upper level of the castle. If luck smiled, father and son would be in conference long enough for her to reach the village. If all went well, Kiernan wouldn't seek her out until she was long gone. Leaving on her own was a huge risk, but she couldn't see any other choice. It was simply out of the question for her to arrive in London engaged to a man who she had already reported as a possible traitor to England. The letter she'd sent to Alistair was among those the duke thought was to her uncle, and would reach London with Kiernan's announcement for the papers.
Keeping her gait casual, she started toward the gate. Halfway across the compound, a high-pitched shriek caused her to jerk her head in the direction of the scream. Two children raced across the courtyard. Phoebe shoved her hands into her pockets and slowed her pace. The open gate was only a few feet away. Easy, she told herself. A man stepped from the battlements as she crossed the gate’s threshold. He glanced at her, but she kept her gaze straight ahead as if not having seen him. She felt his gaze linger on her and her heart sank. But he didn’t call out, and a third of the way down the hill she couldn’t refrain from quickening her pace.
Upon reaching the village, she spotted two women she'd met the night of the fire. They smiled. By heavens, they intended to stop her. Phoebe gave a cool nod and one woman flashed her a disgusted look. Phoebe winced inwardly, but kept walking. The minutes it took to reach the stables ticked by with the sluggishness of a nightmare. She reached the stables and slipped inside. A quick inspection of the horses revealed two stallions, a mare, and two geldings. She backtracked three stalls to the first gelding, a nice looking chestnut.
Phoebe ran a hand along the strong back of the animal. “Your brethren in the keep’s stables are finer than you,” she cooed, “but pay them no mind. We have the element of surprise and will outrun them.”
With a precision born of practice, she had the gelding saddled in ten minutes. Phoebe took a deep breath. “Ironic. Of all the villains I have had to escape, it is a duke insisting I marry his son that makes me quiver in my shoes.”
Leading the horse toward the rear door, she halted at the squeak of a wagon wheel halting at the front of the stable.
“There, there,” a raspy voice called.
The creak of wood indicated the wagon’s driver was dismounting. She would have to make a run for it after all. Phoebe urged the horse the final paces to the rear door. She shoved the door open and, yanking her skirts past the point of propriety, vaulted into the saddle. She dug her heels into the stallion’s belly just as light streamed into the stable from the other end.
“What the—" Phoebe heard behind her as the beast lurched forward into the morning light.
The ride through the lane was finished in seconds. She shot past the last cottage, and the young boy who stood on its step staring after her.
Phoebe didn't slow the gelding when the forest thinned, but kept him at a cantor as she glanced up at the early afternoon sun. Four hours had passed since she’d fled Brahan Seer and only one hour since she’d spotted three riders half a mile behind her. Her stomach churned. Despite the fact that she'd circled north before heading south, they had picked up her trail. Phoebe urged her horse up the hill she had been riding alongside the past fifteen minutes. His neck muscles strained with the effort.
“That’s it, laddie,” she said. “Let’s have a look.”
They topped the summit and she brought the horse to a halt beneath the cover of trees. She surveyed the sparsely treed terrain directly below, moving her gaze northward where the forest thickened. Her gaze snagged on shadowy movement within the trees and her pulse jumped. She couldn't discern the men's faces, but there could be no doubt who led the men: Kiernan MacGregor. Phoebe yanked the reins and whirled the horse around and back down the hill.
“Easy,” Phoebe instructed the gelding as he tried to veer west and deeper into the forest.
She estimated the border to be about two hours south. Darkness had fallen and, though she would have preferred the cover of thicker foliage, she feared getting lost without the aid of the moon and stars which, thankfully, shined bright that night. The horse neighed loudly.
“Quiet.” She pulled back on the reins.
He neighed again, this time, succeeding in veering off course. Phoebe distinguished the soft rush of water and realized the horse's intent. She relaxed her grip on the reins and the gelding quickly broke through the foliage and into a small clearing. Phoebe spotted a stream ten feet away, glistening in the moonlight. The horse trotted to the water’s edge. She dismounted as he bent his neck and drank. She lowered herself to her knees and did the same. A rustle of leaves beyond the brook caused her to pause.
For a moment, the faint sound remained lost in the babble of the brook, then slowly distinguished itself as the light tread of a horse. Had Kiernan MacGregor separated from his men? Or maybe this was one of his men. Phoebe pulled her skirt calf-high and jumped noiselessly across the brook. She crept to the nearest tree and listened. The rider’s approach was still faint. She glanced at her horse. He grazed contentedly beside the brook.
Phoebe stole deeper into the forest following the discerning horse's step. She stopped behind the trunk of a sprawling chestnut tree. The moon sliced through the branches in thick stabs of light and she was rewarded with the sight of a rider picking his way through the trees. This short, stocky man was not Kiernan MacGregor. Two men on horseback materialized from the shadows of a large oak beyond the rider.
Phoebe started, then her heart skipped a beat. None of the men wore kilts, but instead, wore the loose fitting trousers and badly cut woolen coats worn by the lower class English.
“Ain’t but three o’ ‘em,” the man she had followed said in rough English accents.
“You sure?” another demanded with authority.
“I can count," the first retorted.
A twig snapped in the darkness beyond the men.
“Bob,” called the one Phoebe believed to be the leader.
“Aye, Zachariah.” A large man astride a massive horse entered the circle of men.
“Where’s Cary and John?” Zachariah demanded.
Bob jerked his head in the direction he’d come as two more men became visible behind him.
Zachariah looked back at the first man. “You and Frank hide in the trees near Borthwick bridge. When they cross, fire a shot so that we know they’re there, then block their rear.” Zachariah looked at the other men. “You four get down below the bridge. If they try to jump, give them a taste of your pistol. But whatever you do, aim for the sky. Kill the wrong man and we end up with nothing.”
Phoebe's blood went cold. The 'wrong man' Zachariah referred to could be none other than Kiernan MacGregor, the Marquess of Ashlund, son of a wealthy duke. He would bring a fine ransom.
“What about our employer?”
“What about him?” Zachariah said.
Yes, Phoebe wondered, what about him?
“Don’t strike me as the type to like being double-crossed.”
“He doesn’t run this band,” Zachariah growled. “I do.”
“What if he comes looking for us?” another asked.
“It won’t matter, we’ll be long gone. You men want to keep working this drudge of a country?”
Grunts of agreement went around.
“Get going, then,” Zachariah commanded.
The men turned their horses east and Phoebe knew they were headed for the valley she had left half an hour ago. She waited until they disappeared, then hurried back to her horse. She mounted, then urged him back through the holly bushes and down the mountainside toward the valley. Fifteen minutes later, the terrain leveled out and she snap
ped the reins against the gelding’s rear. He shot forward.
“Heddy,” Phoebe muttered as she hunkered down, “I'll choke every last breath from you when I return home. As for you, Ashlund, I'll shoot you myself if these brigands don’t do it for me.”
Chapter Eight
The wide valley became visible beyond the thinning trees and Phoebe brought her horse to a standstill on the hill’s edge. The moon illuminated a grass-covered basin strewn with rocks and ground-hugging brush. Further scrutiny was halted by the discovery of riders entering the long valley at a gallop from the north. She squinted at the tall figure in the lead. A cloak lashed behind him in the wind. Kiernan MacGregor. She looked south where the valley narrowed and spotted the bridge where Zachariah and his men waited. She pulled the derringer from her pocket and kicked her horse’s ribs. He neighed and lunged ahead. Phoebe leaned into him as he sped down the hill. The chill of the autumn night penetrated the sleeves of her dress. She tucked her head down and bent closer to the horse's neck.
Moments later, the ground leveled and they shot from the trees. Directly ahead, Kiernan and his men were midway into the valley. Shouts went up from his party. Kiernan whipped his horse around on an intercept course. The two men with him followed. In less than a minute, they were within shouting distance.
“You’re riding into a trap!” Phoebe yelled. “There are brigands waiting for you at the bridge.”
Kiernan glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the bridge, then faced her.
“Two men are acting as lookout,” Phoebe brought her horse up short as Kiernan and his men did the same beside her. “They mean to block your retreat,” she panted. “Four men are below the bridge and another waits on the other side.”
“What?” Kiernan demanded. Then, before she could respond, “Damnation, woman, are you trying to catch your death?”
He whipped off his plaid cloak and edged his horse closer. Her gelding shied, but before she could pull back on the reins, Kiernan grabbed the beast’s bridle and stilled him.
“MacGregor!” one of his men cried as he threw the cloak around her shoulders.
Kiernan whirled his horse in unison with shouts that abruptly emanated from the opposite side of the valley. Phoebe jerked her attention toward the shouts and saw two riders emerge from trees near the bridge.
“They spotted us,” she said. "There are six of them."
"How do you know that?" Kiernan demanded. "Never mind. When this is finished I'll beat it out of you." He looked at his men. "Take care of them." He motioned toward the approaching brigands and the men started toward them. He brought his gaze back to bear on Phoebe. “Get to the other side of the valley and stay inside the trees.” He snapped the reins across his steed’s rump. The horse leapt into action.
“Ashlund!” she shouted. “They intend to kidnap and ransom you.”
“Do as I say or I'll beat you here and now,” he called over his shoulder.
A shot rang out. Phoebe cut her gaze to the approaching brigands who aimed a pistol at the MacGregor men. Her pounding heart skipped a beat. The ball had missed its mark and the would-be kidnappers still raced toward the MacGregor men.
She looked at the derringer. Why hadn’t the duke had anything better in his library? Shooting the derringer at a target more than fifteen feet away was like spitting. She clasped the cloak about her throat, then spurred her horse back the way she’d come. Another gunshot pierced the night air. She glanced back and saw Kiernan holding his weapon level, and a riderless horse charging toward him.
The fallen man’s comrade whirled and raced back toward the bridge. Phoebe urged her horse into the forest, then reined south toward the river. Beyond the trees, she glimpsed the man who had fled. He reached the bridge and raced across. Indistinguishable shouts reached her when Kiernan and his men disappeared down the riverbank left of the bridge.
Minutes later, Phoebe reached the bank. She pulled her horse up short and dismounted. She discarded Kiernan’s cloak, then slid down the riverbank to river's edge. The bridge lay a hundred feet away. Waist high bushes grew in sporadic patches along the bank. The slow moving water whispered in a gentle flow downstream. She gave a final glance around the deserted riverbank, then scurried between the bushes toward the bridge. Thirty feet from the bridge, something rustled in the foliage within its shadows, and Phoebe halted behind a bush. Her heart jumped into her throat when a figure emerged from the shadows and started up the bank.
She aimed the derringer, then hesitated. He was too far away to hit with any accuracy, and his back was to her. Her stomach took a sickening turn. She'd never shot a man, and she wasn't about to start by shooting him in the back. Crouching, she headed for the next bush. Another shot discharged. The man spun toward her before she reached cover and she stopped. Their gazes locked, then he stepped toward her and she fired. He jerked to his right and fell. Her heart jumped into her throat. Thank God, the bullet hit his shoulder, as planned. She'd feared the gun would pull even harder to the left than anticipated, and she would miss him altogether.
Phoebe rose on shaky legs, but forced herself to hurry forward. Another brigand appeared from beneath the bridge and she halted. His glance flicked from his fallen comrade to her—then the derringer she still gripped. He leveled the double barrel revolver he held. Phoebe dove behind the bush an instant before he fired. She looked up, expecting to see his pistol aimed at her again, but he wasn’t there. A strong hand clamped onto her arm and yanked her upright.
Her captor began dragging her up the bank and Phoebe fumbled for the sgian dubh in her pocket. The dagger bounced off her thigh with the long strides he forced her to take. She caught sight of two revolvers stuffed into his waistband, then gave a tiny cry upon recognizing the MacGregor plaide of his kilt. Phoebe looked up and searched his face, but didn't recognize him.
“Who—" She tripped as they crested the bank. He grabbed her around the waist and yanked her off the ground. “Barbarian,” she yelped, and elbowed him in the ribs.
He grunted. At the sound of more gunfire, Phoebe glanced back, but saw nothing as he hauled her up the bank. They entered the trees and she twisted to face her captor.
“You would do better to help Lord Ashlund," she said. "Those ruffians will shoot his companions and take him.”
“You have a fine opinion of MacGregor men,” he replied in a placid voice that didn’t hide the sarcasm.
Phoebe jammed her derringer into his side. “Release me and go help the others.”
“You used your one shot on that fellow.”
“Useless piece of iron.” She tossed the weapon aside.
Her horse came into view a few feet ahead, alongside a stallion. Her captor set her on her feet, but kept hold of her arm, while directing her toward the horses.
“They need your help.” she burst out.
“I can't take you near the fighting, and I canna’ leave you alone. MacGregor will have my head.”
“Lord Ashlund will understand.”
“Not him. His father.”
They reached the horses. Phoebe spied a branch the size of her arm near the stallion’s feet.
“What will his father say when you return with me and his son’s ransom demand follows?” she demanded.
More gunfire echoed through the trees and he cast a glance in the direction of the sound. He shook his head. “I must do as the MacGregor ordered.” He reached for her horse’s reins.
Heart pounding, Phoebe bent and grabbed the branch. Sorry about this, lad. Her stomach tensed as she shot to her feet, swinging the branch against the back of his head. He fell to the ground with a groan. She dropped the branch and grabbed a revolver from his waistband. He groaned again.
“You’ll live.” Her stomach relaxed a fraction and she headed for the river.
Upon reaching the forest’s edge, Phoebe once again crept down the riverbank and ducked behind the first bush she reached. She surveyed the quiet riverbank. Was Lord Ashlund on this side of the river or had he cross
ed over? The moonlight dimmed behind filmy clouds. She scurried from bush to bush toward the water. Nearer the river, the bushes thinned, then stopped altogether. She bent low and darted from the cover of the last bush. Gunfire broke the silence and she dropped to the ground fifteen feet from the water’s edge. Her knee smashed against a small rock. She winced, biting back a cry of pain.
“Give it up, Your Lordship,” Zachariah's call drifted across the river. “You’re outnumbered. We won’t hurt you, I swear.”
Silence met his demand.
“You can’t escape. I have men guarding your retreat.”
Still no answer.
“Come, now. You’re only going to get you and your men killed.”
A soft splash in the water jerked Phoebe's attention sideways.
“If you come out now, I promise to release everyone except you,” Zachariah shouted.
A figure rose from the river near her. He turned slightly and the silhouette of the revolver he held above the water became visible. She realized the giant was the man Zachariah had called Bob. Phoebe rose to her knees and aimed her revolver as Bob stepped up onto shore and started toward the bridge.
“Not another step, Bob,” she said in a whisper, “or I’ll blast a hole in you.”
He halted. Her thudding heart skipped a beat.
“Do we have an agreement?” Zachariah called.
“Drop the weapon,” Phoebe ordered.
Bob remained motionless.
She drew back on the hammer. The chamber clicked over with an audible grate. “Throw down the weapon,” she ordered again.
He looked over his shoulder. His gaze latched first onto the weapon, then slid up to her shadowed face. He whirled and she fired. He staggered back with the force of the ball that hit his belly.
He looked down at the spreading stain, then at her. “Ye shot me.”
Her stomach turned. Two men in one night. And this one, she guessed, wouldn't live.
