Not one to pass on the mention of his favorite treat, the black beast dropped her ruined slipper and shifted closer to the wall beneath her. A rush of pride swelled inside Arabella.
She dropped her feet from the wall and allowed her arms to bear her weight. The long hair of Devlin’s hide tickled her outstretched toes. Arms burning from the strain, she adjusted her position until her back rested against cool stone. With her toes atop of his hindquarters, she abandoned her grip on the gown. As he bore her burden, she eased down to sit astride his back.
Triumph soared through her aching limbs. She scratched behind his ear in appreciation. “You have my thanks, Devlin.”
Arabella hesitated a moment and frowned at the rope left to dangle against the castle wall. She hated to leave the evidence of her escape there for all to see, but Maggie vowed to take care of the matter before day patrols resumed their duties at first light. For now, she’d lingered too long. ’Twas time to move.
Nudging her gelding onward, she steered him through the inner courtyard to the stables in the outer bailey. Near the rear stalls, she reined Devlin to a halt and swiftly dismounted. At once, her feet protested the action and she gritted her teeth against a fresh wash of pain.
Forcing aside the discomfort, she limped toward the rear entrance of the stables. Careful to stick to the shadows, she crept around the corner inside, only to collide with a solid mass that stopped her in her tracks. Rough hands captured her arms, and alarm gripped her throat in firm press.
A deep voice rasped near her ear, “Wondered where you were, girl.”
At the sound of the familiar voice, a layer of her distress slipped away.
“Dougal,” she scolded and placed a hand over her heart. “You gave me a start.”
The old marshal shrugged his broad shoulders and grunted. “That wretched horse of yours broke through his pen. Almost followed the beast myself to see what was taking so damned long.”
She studied Dougal’s whiskered, ruddy face half-cast in darkness. His appearance in the stables did not surprise her in the least. The aging Highlander was every bit as stubborn and overprotective as his wife, Maggie.
Hailing from Clan Fraser, the pair had been close friends of her mother and traveled with her to England when she’d wed Arabella’s father. Even after a ravaging fever had claimed her mother and father years before, Maggie and Dougal had chosen to remain at Penswyck and care for her while her brother, Iain, was at Court or occupied with errands for the king. The thought of leaving the couple behind prompted a sharp pang to pierce her heart.
She threw herself against the marshal’s burly chest and clung to him. “Oh Dougal, promise me you and Maggie will leave before Longford arrives. I could not bear to lose the two of you, too.”
His strong embrace wrung the breath from her body. He patted her back with an awkward, heavy hand, a show of affection she cherished from the older man. “Aye, lass. We shall leave at dawn after we settle a few things first.”
“Why can you not leave with me now?” Fisting his tunic in her hands, she’d drop to her knees and beg if it would sway the stalwart Highlander. “Please, Dougal. Grab Maggie and come with me.”
“Have a care, lass. We’ve been over this already. You need to be as far away from here as you can be when Longford arrives. You do not need the two of us slowing you down.”
“But—”
“Nay.” His stern voice rose and his grip tightened. “Get on that infernal horse of yours and ride as hard as you can till you reach Fraser lands. You can tell Hammish to expect me and my Maggie soon. We shall have no trouble finding our way home. Now go on with you. You’re wasting time, girl.”
Dougal disentangled her arms from his middle and stepped aside, dashing away a stray tear with an angry swipe of his hand. He retreated into the nearest stall, emerging moments later with her saddle and his cloak. He thrust the coarse material at her, which she accepted with a nod. After a jerk of his head toward the pen, he disappeared outside.
Wind pushed against the stable causing the wooden planks to creak and groan. A lone lantern lit the area, discharging a soft glow of light. She hurried into the enclosure, and the sharp scents of horse, leather, and fodder assailed her nostrils. Near the back wall, her belongings lay neatly beside a hay pile.
Arabella grabbed one of her boots and shoved on the tight leather. Barbs of pain shot through her foot and robbed her of air. Throwing an arm out to steady herself, she leaned against the railing for support. A handful of uneven breaths later, she managed to gingerly don the other boot. Once wrapped in Dougal’s cloak, she grabbed her bow and quiver and the saddlebags Maggie had packed for her. She limped out of the stall and aimed a wary glance to the front of the stables. Satisfied no others lurked nearby, she rushed to join Dougal outside.
With Devlin saddled, she secured her bow and quiver along his side, while Dougal tied off her bags. After they’d finished their chores, she stepped in front of the older man and pressed a soft kiss to his scruffy cheek. Moisture gathered in her eyes, but she forced a faint smile to her lips.
“I love you, Dougal. Look after yourself and Maggie.”
Nodding, he passed her Devlin’s reins. His callused fingers brushed over hers, and Arabella turned away before she lost the will. Though a heavy burden weighed on her heart, she gripped the thin leather straps and led Devlin toward the gatehouse and her freedom.
Pausing beside the mill, she searched the bailey over for any sign of movement. Drunken revelry from the great hall and drafts of wind suffocated the silence. Fortunately for her, in Longford’s absence, his men had not taken their duties in earnest. Since occupying Penswyck a fortnight ago, his soldiers did naught but drain dry the castle’s supply of ale each eve. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Iain would’ve flogged his men for such shameful behavior.
The thought of her brother summoned a well of sorrow, and she rubbed at the raw ache in her chest. Giving herself a mental shake, she tucked her grief away. ’Twas not the time to mourn his loss. She could grieve later, once she reached safety. Now, one final obstacle stood in her way—the portcullis.
To her blessed relief, the prone bodies of four guards littered the ground near the raised gate. God bless you, Maggie. The crafty woman had procured the aid of two of the castle’s most lascivious servants to ply the men with their charms and jugs of wine laced with a potent sleeping draught. From the state of the slumbering guards, the women had met with success. Arabella simply had to pass through the gate to freedom.
*
SOMEWHAT CONFOUNDED, CALUM MACGREGOR had not removed his gaze from the side of the mill since the lass slipped into the shadows. Truth be told, he’d not anticipated such an effortless rescue. Nor would locating his charge prove difficult. Especially since the blasted woman appeared to be in the midst of her own damned escape.
Stooped near a grain wagon beside his cousin, he’d witnessed her mad descent down the side of the castle wall, clad in men’s attire, and onto the back of that hideous creature bearing a faint resemblance to a horse. Without a doubt in his mind, Hammish Fraser had fleeced him.
The wily, old goat had painted a troubling image of his helpless, sorely-abused niece. In a fit of rage, he’d sworn to invade England, burning every small village along the way, until he removed her to Scotland under his protection. Just to prevent his foolhardy ally from waging a war no sound-minded Highlander wanted, Calum agreed to slip over the border and grab the lass.
Moreover, he owed the woman’s slain brother as much. ’Twas the least he could do to honor his friendship to Iain de Percy.
Of course, Fraser seized upon the opportunity to press him for more.
For reasons unknown, the stubborn laird labored under the illusion that Calum was in want of a bride. The man had gone as far as bribery, dangling a bounty in front of Calum’s face, well aware the MacGregors would benefit from the vast holding. Only a lackwit would’ve refused.
Calum snorted. Apparently, he was a lackwit because he sure as
hell refused to wed anyone, much less this troublesome female. Fie, from what he’d seen thus far, he’d wager a tidy sum the lass was not quite right in the head. Nonetheless, he held Fraser at bay, vowing to give the man an answer when he returned with the woman. Not that he anticipated his answer would change.
A flicker of movement caught his eye just before she emerged from the shadows with her beast of a mount in tow. He cast a sideways glance at his cousin crouched beside him. Even in near darkness, Liam’s huge grin shone bright.
“Go ready the men and wait for my signal.” He grabbed Liam’s forearm. “No matter what, do not let her past the gate.”
“As you bid, my liege.”
“Christ, enough. Just go.” Calum rolled his eyes.
Liam chuckled and retreated to the stretch of wall they’d scaled earlier in the night to gain entry into the bailey.
Calum swung his gaze to the guards sprawled near the raised portcullis. With the lack of a night watch, he and his men divined something was amiss long before the female climbed from a window opening in one of the towers.
As she skulked toward the gatehouse, he straightened to his full height and scanned the outer bailey for any errant patrols. Certain of no threat, he moved along the curtain wall, careful to hang in the shadows, out of sight. Pressed against the wall’s cool stone, he tracked her every move. Once she paused mere yards from him, torchlight presented him a clear view of her features.
Hands propped on her shapely hips and a smile on her lips, she regarded the slumbering state of the guards. A flash of bright, red-gold hair lay plaited in a messy braid over her shoulder, while stray hairs framed her dainty face. Too far to determine the shade of her eyes, he’d bet a coffer full of gold they were green.
Taken aback by the comely sight, Calum stood motionless and gawked as the lass whirled about to mount her ugly giant of a horse with startling ease. Her low, tinkling laugh reached his ears and he almost grinned. Damn, but she was unlike anything he’d imagined.
Shaking off his surprise, he pushed away from the wall and strode to the middle of the raised portcullis. As soon as she nudged her mount forward, he stepped in her path, effectively blocking her escape. Gasping, she tugged on the gelding’s reins to control the animal while Calum crossed his arms and braced his legs apart.
Heedless of the beast’s clomps near his feet, he swiveled his head toward the blackness enveloping the outer wall and let loose a faint whistle. Within moments, his mounted warriors emerged from the gloom of night and surrounding, opaque forest. Once his men spanned the gate as a solid barrier, Calum returned his gaze to the woman.
Torchlight glimmered on a pair of the widest, brightest, emerald eyes he’d ever beheld. Amused by the sight, he gave in to the urge to grin. For a scant moment, the thought of marriage seemed far more agreeable.
Chapter Two
STUNNED, ARABELLA GAPED at the stranger who sprang from darkness. Dread sunk its claws deep beneath her skin and her heart skipped several beats. She sat frozen in Devlin’s saddle, ensnared in a brief stupor.
One side of the man’s face bore a grievous mark, which carved a jagged path from temple to neck, disappearing beneath his leine and tartan mantle. A jawline of midnight whiskers did little to soften the sharp planes of his visage. His cropped, raven hair gleamed a dark-blue luster in the torchlight. Powerless to stop herself, she swept her gaze over the length of his massive body, down to his buckskin boots. When she met his stare, she barely repressed a shudder. He stood unmoving, his tight, blue gaze fastened on her. Those icy eyes of his, joined by a baleful grin, seized her.
By the Saints, why was he smiling?
A frantic burst of laughter almost tumbled out of her. I’ve survived the mossy wall of doom only to face down the devil.
She glanced over the giant’s head to his twelve henchmen blocking the gate. Attired in the same cloth mantle as the man in front of her, each warrior sat astride his horse, proud and strong. Their dour features were harsh and unyielding. ’Twas evident who, or rather, what they were—Highlanders.
Barely a fortnight had passed since she’d dispatched David, a young messenger, to Scotland with an urgent missive for her uncle. She’d no notion whether the youth reached the safety of the Fraser keep, or if he’d even made it out of England alive. Eyeing the muted colors of their mantles, she frowned at the group.
Several Highland and Lowland clans donned the coarse, dyed fabric to announce which lands they hailed from. Her uncle’s clan was no different. But Frasers, these men were not.
Who then? And why the devil now of all times? Reivers or bandits? ’Twas not unheard of for bands of Scots to venture south and rob English holdings. She gave up searching her weary, frayed mind for a sound reason. Naught made sense any longer.
At the end of her wits, Arabella resisted the urge to toss up her hands in exasperation and curse the intruders for their ill-timed arrival. On the brink of grasping her freedom, she refused to retreat now. Not when she’d come this far and certainly not if she wished to survive. Grabbing on to her tottering faith, she squared her shoulders and returned her gaze to the man in front of her.
The tall Highlander had not budged one massive muscle. With his arms crossed over his bulky chest and his mouth set in a firm line, the stern man resembled a stone carving. Despite the weight of unease, she fought the impulse to roll her eyes at his posturing stance. Instead of provoking him, she attempted an appeal in his dialect.
“I beg of you to let me pass, sir.” The Gaelic rolled from her tongue with ease, but the shakiness in her voice surprised her. She cleared her throat and spoke in a steadier tone. “Attack the castle at your will once I’ve passed. I assure you, I shall sound no alarm.”
The big man snorted and she flinched. His humor or incredulity—she was unsure which her statement inspired—was not the reaction she sought. She swallowed hard and sucked in a deep breath to gather her patience. One dark eyebrow hitched upward and his blue eyes speared her in place.
“Nay, my lass. You’ll be coming with us,” he countered in Gaelic.
The deep, rich drawl sent a shiver through her, raising gooseflesh along the skin of her arms. Alarm flared inside her as bright as the sun on a midsummer’s day. She blinked her eyes shut in an attempt to blot out her imminent defeat. But ’twas still there, along with the last memory of her brother’s teasing smile.
Her wavering composure threatened to splinter apart into a dozen pieces. Arabella bit her bottom lip, embracing the twinge of pain, and snatched ahold of her temperance before she dissolved into a sobbing heap of despair. A flush of anger bled through her sorrow and her indignation chose to rear its stubborn head.
One covetous fiend sought to take everything from her, including her freedom. By the Saints, she refused to submit the only thing she had left to another. Assembling every scrap of her courage, she opened her eyes and met the Highlander’s unsettling, crystalline stare. With far more confidence than she possessed, she lifted her chin in defiance.
“I’m passing through this gate whether you allow it or not.” The man parted his lips as if to speak, but she rushed on, “’Tis a matter of life and death I leave, at once. Please stand aside, sir.”
His inflexible countenance conveyed not a flicker of emotion. His gaze roved over her face, as if taking her measure. Bearing the scrutiny, she strove for a calm outer appearance despite the pitch and roll of her stomach.
The howling wind, clamor from the great hall, and the drum of her own heart filled her ears. The man had not removed his eyes from her since the shadows spat him out. The weight of his firm stare bore through her, heightening her discomfort. Fiddling with Devlin’s reins, she shifted in the saddle, unable to sit idle another godforsaken moment.
With a quick glimpse of the men blocking the gate, she constricted her grip on Devlin’s reins and gave a faint tug to his bridle. The beast let loose a loud, warning whiny and clomped his feet in agitation. She braced her legs tight to his flanks in anticipation.
<
br /> Devlin tossed his mane and Arabella held on for dear life. The massive gelding reared up, kicking out at the man in front of him. Surprise flashed across the Highlander’s features and he jumped aside to avoid being trampled. As soon as Devlin’s hooves hit the hard-packed earth, she clucked her tongue, urging the horse to a full gallop.
The horse had only gained a few yards before a heavy weight vaulted in the saddle behind her, and the Highlander pried the reins from her cold, shaking hands. With a sharp tug to the bridle, he brought the gelding to a prompt halt. Devlin snorted his displeasure and the man wrapped a thick arm around her middle as the beast reared up again.
Heart banging in her chest, Arabella was on the verge of tears.
“Christ, woman,” he growled in her ear. “Calm yourself. Fraser sent us. I’ll explain later, but we need to move. We’ve tarried here long enough.”
The breath she held hissed out of her in a steady stream. Why had the blasted arse not said so sooner?
She might’ve stated the question aloud had she not almost slid from her saddle in relief. The grip of fear squeezing her chest slackened and her limbs relaxed. Too distraught and weary to care, she took him at his word and sent up a quick prayer for the boon.
Slipping from the saddle behind her, the big man strode to a mount held by one of his men. After rifling through his saddlebag, he stalked to her side and shoved a bundle of cloth into her folded hands. Perplexed, she blinked at the tartan material then glanced at him.
He answered her unspoken question with a harsh bite. “Put it on.”
Arabella’s mouth dropped open at the ridiculous command. He was there to rescue her, not order her about.
“I’m warm enough,” she snapped.
He grunted. “Even so. Put it on.”
A scalding reply dangled on the tip of her tongue, but the sternness of his narrow-eyed gaze warned against an objection. She sneered at the woolen cloth and handled the coarse fabric as though it were an adder ready to strike. He remained at her side with his strange, yet oddly beguiling stare fixed on her until she donned the mantle.
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