by Tarah Scott
“Is his lordship home?” Bryson demanded before she could say anything.
“Nae, sir. He is not expected home for two or three days.”
“Where is he?” Bryson demanded. The girl’s eyes widened. “Tell me, girl. It is a matter of life and death.” Not a lie, for if he reached Hensley before Stirling did, he would kill him.
She retreated a step. “We are not allowed to give information about his lordship.”
Bryson stepped into the hallway. “Either tell me where he is or get me someone who can. Otherwise, I will call a constable.”
Her eyes widened. “Wait here.” She spun and fled down the hallway.
Bryson paced for two minutes before the butler appeared.
“Where is Lord Hensley?” Bryson snapped as the man approached. “Do not think to turn me away,” he added when the tall, dark-haired man opened his mouth to reply. “Your master has kidnapped a young woman. If you do not tell me where he is, you will be party to the kidnapping, and I will be sure the constable knows that.”
The man stopped in front of him. “I cannot say with absolute certainty where he is gone, sir,” the butler replied without hesitation. “He may have gone to Caystoke, or perhaps Archiwick. His father maintains an estate there.”
“A hundred miles apart,” Bryson muttered. “Where is he most likely to take a woman if he thinks he will force her to marry him?”
“Caystoke is more secluded, sir.”
“I assume he is not here,” Bryson said.
“I have not seen him since late this morning.”
“He will need a parson,” Bryson said more to himself than the butler.
“I understand Lord Hensley has known the parson at Caystoke since he was a child,” the butler said.
“Do you know Hensley well?”
The man shook his head. “His lordship hired me only four months ago.”
So, Hensley couldn’t keep a staff for long.
“I want to you to send a message to Sir Stirling James,” Bryson said.
Half an hour later, Bryson left Inverness behind. Another forty-five minutes later, he started up the treed hills that ran alongside the River Beauly. He glanced up at the fast-moving clouds that scudded low across the sky. He flipped up his collar against the chill wind as he wound north, a mountain to his left, the river, beyond the trees, to the right. Hensley had a two-hour head start, but a single rider could make double the time of a carriage. The knot in Bryson’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t fathom what he would do if Hensley had harmed her. What if the viscount found a parson who would marry them before Bryson reached them? He forced the thought aside. A forced marriage wouldn’t be upheld by the church or state.
The drive to Caystoke took five hours. In all likelihood, the viscount believed no one suspected him in the kidnapping of Miss Ramsay, so he probably traveled at a sedate pace. Bryson would reach Falcon Inn in another forty minutes. Hensley would have to change horses there. If luck favored Bryson, the viscount might linger there for a short meal. There was simply no way—
A shot rang out. Bryson hunkered down and whipped the reins across his horse’s shoulder. The animal galloped faster. The trees sped past. They neared the top of the hill and turned the bend. The carriage—Hensley’s carriage—stood on the side of the road up ahead. Bryson reached the vehicle an instant later, but found it empty. He wheeled his horse in a circle. Where were the occupants?
“Miss Ramsay!” he shouted.
Foliage thrashed deep within the trees. Bryson urged his horse toward the noise.
“Miss Ramsay,” he shouted again.
A woman’s muffled screams sounded. Bryson urged his mount around a large tree, swung from the saddle and dropped soundlessly to the ground. He pulled the pistol from his waistband, then angled around the animal and crept forward to a large elder tree. Carefully, he peered around the trunk. A large brute of a man inched toward the location of Miss Ramsay’s scream. The brute gripped a revolver that looked as if it had seen use in the ‘45 rebellion.
Bryson didn’t recognize him but, by the cut of his breeches and coat, he guessed the man to be a stable hand. He had to be the man who hit Davis over the head and kidnapped Miss Ramsay. Bryson grimaced. He now understood how Davis had been so easily knocked unconscious. The kidnapper was a large brute. How the devil would he incapacitate the man? He stood well over two meters, his shoulders as broad as an ox.
Bryson wasn’t opposed to shooting the monster, but that would give away his location. Where was Miss Ramsay? The way the man inched forward, it seemed he wasn’t certain of her whereabouts, either. Might she have gone down the bank to the river?
Bryson cursed. With the brute so close, he couldn’t call out to her. He had to knock the man unconscious, but had only his pistol as a weapon. Could he hit the big man hard enough to knock him senseless?
The man abruptly halted. He remained motionless for three heartbeats, then lunged down the bank and out of sight. Bryson ran after him. A woman screamed. Bryson pumped his legs faster.
“Let me go,” she shouted.
Miss Ramsay.
Bryson reached the bank and careened down at breakneck speed. The man no longer held his pistol, but gripped Miss Ramsay by the arm. She kicked his shin, but he seemed unfazed and only continued his climb up the bank.
He abruptly stopped, eyes on Bryson as Bryson stumbled more than ran down the incline. Miss Ramsay’s head snapped in his direction. Her eyes widened. She yanked hard in an effort to break free of her captor’s grasp, but he held tight as if unaware that she fought him. Bryson couldn’t shoot him for fear of hitting Miss Ramsay. He realized the man intended to either simply step aside and let Bryson’s downward momentum propel him into the water or ram his fist into Bryson belly—perhaps both.
The man reached into his coat—no doubt for the ancient pistol Bryson had seen earlier. Bryson glimpsed a flash of metal. Bryson reached them, seized Miss Ramsay’s wrist, and drove the butt of his gun into the man’s jaws as he sped past.
Bryson yanked Miss Ramsay against him. She pressed her face against his chest as he hit the ground and rolled downhill. The man howled as he, too, rolled down the hill. Bryson’s heart raced. The man barreled toward them. Bryson twisted in an effort to avoid a collision with the man. A rock dug into the back of the hand that cradled Miss Ramsay’s head. In the next instant, they went airborne. She screamed as they fell twenty feet through the air, then struck the river. The shock of cold water went bone deep. Bryson grabbed her arm and kicked upward through the ribbons of current. They broke the surface coughing and gasping for air. The current spun them.
“Rapids!” Miss Ramsay cried.
Grip tight on her arm, Bryson twisted as the current swept them downstream. He caught sight of the rapids a hundred feet ahead. The current that carried them forward was nothing compared to the thunderous roar of the whitewater. He scanned the bank on the right. Like the spot where they’d fallen, the bank was too high to climb. The left bank was a steep, tree filled, incline, but he could manage the climb. He searched for branches that overhung the water and caught sight of a perfect spot forty feet ahead.
“Hold onto my back,” he shouted. “Catch that branch up ahead.”
“I can swim.”
She started to swim, but he held tight. She snapped her head in his direction.
“Stay close,” he said, then released her. The current swept them toward the rapids as they fought the cross-current toward the opposite bank. They drew within eight feet of the branch, still too far away to reach it.
“Grab my waist,” he shouted. “We won’t make it otherwise.”
She threw her arms around his waist and hugged his back. Bryson lengthened his strokes and kicked with all his might. They neared the branch. He gave one final, mighty push and the branch loomed. He grabbed the branch. Her weight pulled as the current dragged her. She kicked in a clear effort to try to help him push closer but only succeeded in yanking harder with each kick. He cursed as a ja
gged knob slashed his thumb. Then they were racing alongside the bank.
Bryson grabbed for Miss Ramsay’s hand. Their fingertips brushed, then she swept out of reach. He kicked with all his might and swam toward her. Her head went under and fear ripped through him. She surfaced ten feet away and flailed. The rapids were fifty feet ahead. Stroke after stroke, Bryson kicked until the rush of water was the only thing he heard. She screamed.
Keep swimming Bryson ordered himself.
He drew nearer. Five feet… She tried to swim against the current toward him. Four feet… The water spun her away. Three feet…
She disappeared beneath the surface. Bryson dove underwater, kicking in the direction he’d seen her go under. In the murk he caught sight of her two feet to his left. Her legs were twisted in her skirts. He kicked and grabbed. His fingers closed around her arm. She twisted. Bryson hugged her to his chest and propelled upward.
They broke the surface, her back flush against his chest. She’s coughed and he dragged in great gulps of air. The rapids were twenty feet away. They wouldn’t escape.
His feet hit something. The riverbed. One arm around her, Bryson rolled onto his side and swam toward the bank. Seconds later, his feet touched bottom. He swam two more strokes and could stand chest deep. He slipped on the slick rocks, flailed, and lunged toward the shore. The water was waist deep.
They neared the tree line. He grabbed a branch of the nearest tree. Miss Ramsay wrapped her arms around him as he pulled them up the bank. Bryson shoved her onto shore among the ferns and climbed after her. They lay on their backs gasping. His legs and arms ached. Each breath burned his lungs as if they’d caught fire. He closed his eyes and forced his breath to slow. Deep slow breath in—
Whap! Something hit his chest. Bryson bolted upright.
She batted his chest with her fist. “Why did you do that?”
He grabbed her wrists. “Do what?”
“Drag me into the water.” A good portion of her hair had come loose of its chignon and hung across her face. She yanked, and he released her.
“To save you from your captor,” he said.
Miss Ramsay shoved her hair out of her eyes. “You think nearly drowning us both is a way to save me?”
“He was very large and had a pistol,” Bryson replied.
She pushed to her feet, wobbled, then promptly fell on her backside. “He did not intend to kill me. You almost did.”
Bryson frowned. “Perhaps I should have let him keep you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” he said through tight lips.
“Looking for me? Why?”
“Because Hensley kidnapped you.”
Her mouth fell open. “You know about that?”
“Not just me, everyone knows.”
“How interesting,” she murmured.
“Interesting?” Bryson narrowed his eyes. “You left with him of your own accord?”
“Are ye daft? Of course not. He had the large man steal me from the garden.” Her brow furrowed. “How is Mister Davis? That terrible man hit him over the head and knocked him unconscious.”
“I am well aware you were kidnapped under that fool’s nose,” he muttered, despite knowing he was being unfair.
Her brows shot up. “You nearly drowned us in order to avoid a confrontation with the man. I do not think you are in a position to disparage anyone.”
“Indeed, I am,” he snapped. “There is a huge difference between saving you from a man who has a pistol and that man getting the drop on me.”
She barked an unladylike laugh. “Spoken like the man who wasn’t hit over the head by that large man.”
She was right, of course. Still, his new friend jealousy stabbed. “I suppose you feel sorry for Davis.”
“Of course, I do. It is not his fault that man conked him over the head.”
“Whereas, I should have let him make off with you.”
“Nae, but you could have formed a better plan then charging willy-nilly down the hill like a madman and—”
“Nearly drowning you,” he finished for her. “I heard you the first time.”
What stung was that she was right. Still, one would think she would understand the risk he’d taken to save her, and offer at least a small thanks. Nae, she was saving her gratitude for Davis.
Chapter Eight
Kenna couldn’t believe she’d escaped one madman to be saved by another. First, he had almost killed Lord Wilshire and now had nearly drowned them. Well, he hadn’t truly almost killed Lord Wilshire, but he had most certainly almost drowned her. Not to mention, he’d become a general nuisance by interfering in her life. Not to mention, despite the sun that shone down on them, cold had begun to seep through her clothes. She hated being cold.
Kenna eyed him. “Are you ill?”
He frowned. “Ill? Nae. Why?”
“You must admit you are acting oddly.”
He pursed his lips. “I cannot deny that, Miss Ramsay. God willing, it is an affliction I can cure myself of once I escape your presence.”
She stared. “Escape my presence? What have I to do with your ailment?”
He muttered something unintelligible, then pushed to his feet. “We had better find our way back to my horse so that I can find shelter. Falcon Inn is a twenty minute ride. That is closer than trying to return to Inverness.” His eyes raked her body. “In those wet clothes, you will catch your death.”
“I’ve never been sick a day in my life,” she said, then realized that while she wasn’t worried about sickness, her clothes were drenched. Petticoat and dress clung to her body like a second skin. This was a much bigger scandal than last night when Lord Newhall fought Lord Wilshire, but no one would know about it. Kenna looked up at the viscount. She’d never known a man who irritated her more. She stood and wobbled slightly. Her legs still felt like jelly. Of course, this time, he didn’t offer help.
She braced a foot to steady herself on the incline and tucked loose hair behind her right ear. “Do you know where you left your horse?”
He seemed not to hear her, but stared upriver.
“Did you hear me?” she said.
He nodded. “I am wondering what happened to your friend.”
“My friend?” Then she understood. “He is no’ my friend.”
“Whatever the case, I wonder what happened to him.”
“He was probably washed down into the rapids.”
Lord Newhall gave a slow nod. “Perhaps, though I did not see him. In any case, my horse is on the far bank not far from the carriage, but we cannot cross there.”
The cold of her wet clothes began to seep deeper into her bones. She resisted the urge to rub her arms. “You know how far we have to walk before we can cross or come to a road?”
“I have never been down here, but I would guess perhaps half a mile. We must climb off this bank first, however.” He nodded upward along the steep incline. “Use the trees to pull yourself up.”
Like he had used the trees to pull them out of the water. That had been very clever of him. He looked at her and her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. He was a gentleman, however, and kept his gaze on her face.
She straightened. “The sooner we find your horse, the sooner you can escape my company.”
He gave a curt nod and she grasped the nearest branch within reach and began to pull herself up the hill. He climbed behind her, and Kenna realized he intended to catch her if she slipped. A smidgen of guilt niggled. Her attempt at escape had only gotten her caught by Lord Hensley’s driver. Had the man succeeded in taking her back, no doubt, the viscount would have tied her up for the duration of their trip for fear she might try to escape again—which she would have. That means Lord Newhall had saved her. Though, she still believed he would have been wiser to have waited until the driver had returned her to level ground before attacking. He’d raced downhill like a madman with no sense at all, which she suspected was how Lord Newhall handled most
situations.
She grabbed another branch and pulled herself up another step. The ridiculous slippers she wore were useless on the steep, moist ground. Her foot slipped. She started to fall backwards. Her heart jumped as she envisioned herself tumbling down the hill and back into the river. Strong fingers closed around her arm and she found herself yanked upward, her back against his chest. Kenna slumped against him and drew in a deep breath in an effort to still her thudding heart.
“Are you unharmed?” he asked.
His voice seemed to rumble deep in his chest. Kenna became aware of the delicious warmth emanating from his broad chest and the arms banded around her.
“Miss Ramsay?” he said.
“What—oh, aye. Thank you. I am fine. These silly slippers are not meant for climbing hills.”
He chuckled. “Nae, I imagine not. We are close to the top. If you do not mind, I will stay close. I would rather not risk you falling.”
Kenna nodded, and he released her. Gooseflesh raced across her arms, but she ignored the sudden chill and began climbing. True to his word, Lord Newhall remained close behind until they reached the top. He slid an arm around her waist and took the final two steps, pulling her up alongside him. He took two more steps away from the edge, then released her. Kenna hurried forward half a dozen paces before turning and looking through the trees down at the water. The rapids looked even more treacherous from this vantage. She shivered.
“Is something wrong, Miss Ramsay?”
She kept her gaze on the water and nodded.
“Hensley did not…harm you?”
“Harm me?” She realized what he meant and looked at him. “Nae, he did not. He intended to marry me.”
Lord Newhall’s mouth thinned. “So we guessed.”
“Why would he do that? I have no title or money.”
He shrugged. “I would guess that he believes your connection with Sir Stirling means you are a person of importance.”
“That is ridiculous. My connection to Sir Stirling is simply that he and Lady Chastity are very kind.”
