by L. L. Muir
“Then Mallory was also right. The duchess doesn’t truly expect us to return and report our adventures.”
“No doubt she’ll be extremely disappointed when I do. I’ll be happy to share with her every detail of our escapade, but I will return and marry the baron.”
That statement ended the conversation, as it usually did. Even with the mustache, it was easy to tell Vivianne was biting her tongue.
Cousin Mallory was obviously going to be the first to lose the stiff-upper-lip game. The woman could be heard long before she came into view, and she’d forgotten to use a masculine tone.
“Now look here, beast. You’ve jiggled me loose again. Just who do you suppose is riding whom?”
Covered nearly head to toe in crimson velvet, a less-than-glorious Mallory was begrudgingly carried around the bend by a wild-eyed cat that had once been Bridget’s mild and patient training horse.
Mallory’s legs bounced wildly against the animal’s flanks, her boots having come free of the stirrups and her bosoms having escaped the loose confines of her unbuttoned waistcoat. Her long steinkirk kercheif had abandoned its post completely and waved over her shoulder. She held one rein in each gloved hand and sawed the poor animal’s head back and forth while she tried to keep her balance. Completely unable to walk a straight line, the “beast” looked frustrated enough to unseat its rider at any moment, rip off its shoes with its teeth, and claw out Mallory’s eyes.
“What are you doing to poor old Hamlet?” Bridget’s low demand was a reminder for Mallory to disguise her voice. “Your beard has drifted to the right, and your... your goiters are visible to all and sundry.”
The exposed woman froze. “Goit...?”
Mallory looked down at her beard, as black and thick as the hair on her head, and found her bosoms protruding through the dark mass like a pair of knees.
She burst out laughing. “Yes, this historically docile haybag has been bouncing me a’ purpose. I’m afraid my goiters have come loose from their moorings again, Sir Kennison.”
At least she’d fixed her voice; her laughter was hopeless.
“If you would but stand a bit in the stirrups, cousin, you would bounce less and remain dressed.” Bridget moved closer to pat Hamlet’s forehead; the horse closed its eyes as if it were praying. Vivianne, too, had moved closer, so Bridget was able to speak quietly. “If you pop out in company, we’re doomed. And you will cease torturing this animal. We’ll stop as soon as we’re nearer the trees and I will tie your feet to those stirrups and your hands to the saddle.” It was no use. She couldn’t help herself. “I don’t know what I can tie your bosoms to.”
Even the thickest of beards couldn’t muffle their laughter and Bridget prayed fervently no one heard. How could she expect sobriety from the others if she couldn’t control her own tongue?
Thank heavens they were about to divide and go their own directions—fewer chances to be caught talking, let alone laughing. As soon as Alistair Graham supplied them with three young escorts, they’d be on their way; Mallory to Glasgow, Vivianne to Edinburgh, and herself to the Highlands.
The other two were still against splitting up, but if anyone came after them, they’d be looking for three women, traveling together, not three individual gentlemen. And if the reaction of those lads had been any indication, their disguises were passing believable too. Once they had their escorts and a bit more confident in their disguises, Mallory and Vivianne would feel better about striking out on their own.
In the distance, a form topped a small hill on horseback, paused, then started in their direction.
“One of the boys has returned! Mallory, get yourself covered, for pity’s sake.” Bridget looked Vivianne over, then smoothed her beard before resting one fist on her hip in a Phinny-like pose. She held her reigns loosely in one hand, but let the little Scotsman come to them. No use letting him see how difficult it was for Mallory to keep her seat.
More figures topped the hill.
“Nothing to fear. He’s just brought back his little band of cousins. We’ve passed this test before.” Bridget patted the neck of her horse.
“Damn!” Mallory’s better eyesight had caught what Bridget’s had not; three of the figures were hulking creatures, clearly not boys.
“Steady, men.” Bridget lowered her tone. “Let me do the talking. Look them in the eye. Do nothing Phinny and his men wouldn’t do.”
Bridget’s blood sang in her veins while she waited for the Scots to close the distance. The three men grew impossibly large, as did their horses. And as they cleared the last rise, her heart jumped out of her mouth.
“That’s far enough!” Bridget’s most manly tone sounded more like a braying jackass, but it did the job. The Scots froze in their tracks.
The men appeared to be about Phinny’s age, possibly thirty. One of them looked identical to the young red-haired lad they’d spoken with before. His face held no expression, nor, she realized, did any of the others. A Scottish ploy to keep their enemies guessing?
The man cocked his head and raised his eyebrows, making it clear he was trying to be patient.
Bridget was pleased she’d gotten him to show any reaction at all, and doubly pleased he wouldn’t be able to see her smile behind her beard. However, she gave up smiling altogether when she noticed his bare knees. The man was wearing a kilt.
She cleared her throat. “I’m sure you can appreciate how out-numbered we feel at the moment, and will keep your distance.”
“Damned courteous of us, I’d say, even if you are who you claim to be.” The same man cocked his head to the other side and lifted his brows again.
Bridget’s horse seemed to read her mind and stepped forward so she might have a better look at that face. Surely it wouldn’t look so charming up close. Surely there were scars across the broad high cheeks. Or perhaps, beneath that dark ginger hair he’d be missing an ear.
Vivianne’s hand squeezed her arm and Bridget blinked and reined the beast in.
She shook her head a bit. “Did your son not relay my message?”
The man frowned, then looked at the red-haired boy. “Oh, ye mean Jamie? Yes, he gave yer message.”
That was it? Nothing more?
Bridget couldn’t help it. She cocked her head to one side and raised her brow to illustrate her own patience.
For the merest heartbeat, he smiled, and she felt Vivianne’s hand on her arm for the second time just before she realized her horse was moving once again.
“I believe his horse has taken a fancy to...Rory’s.” The blond man, whom Bridget hadn’t taken much notice of, threw his head back and laughed.
She waited for the laughter to end. She’d be damned if she’d bray like an ass again in order to be heard. “And do you have a message from Laird Graham?”
“I do not.” The first man glared at the blonde, then turned back to her. “My grandsire, Alistair Graham, is dead.”
A clanging began in Bridget’s ears as if a tinker had dropped all his cook pots off the back of a nearby wagon. Her horse tossed his head, demanding a bit of slack in the reins she’d snatched to her chest.
Were they doomed? Should they tip their hats and race home?
She quickly looked down so neither the men nor her dear friends, might see the panic she hid beneath the brim of her hat.
They could not separate without help. Bridget would be fine on her own, but her friends would not. And if they remained together, they’d be caught and dragged home as soon as Phinny and Grandmother discovered the three were not where they’d promised to be. No matter how good their costumes, someone would see past them. Someone would remember. Someone would have all the answers when someone else came hunting for a trio of Englishwomen. She and the others would no longer be Scavenger Hunters, they’d be the hunted.
“...Sir Kennison?”
Bridget looked behind her, panicked. But Phinny wasn’t there. The man had been talking to her. She grimaced at Mallory; her cousin rolled her eyes in answer. Then Br
idget faced the Scot. “Yes?”
He rubbed his face. Perhaps it had been a long day for him as well. “As Alistair Graham’s grandson, I’ll honor the debt to yer family.”
Bridget dared not celebrate yet. He’d honor it?
She cocked her head to the other side and waited for more.
He laughed. “I’ll see that ye have yer escorts come morning. Lads who know the roads ye mean to take. Lads who can handle themselves with a blade.”
“Young lads?”
His eyes narrowed.
The last man, the one dressed all in black, moved his horse forward a bit. “And just why must they be young lads, hm?”
It took Bridget a moment to realize what it must sound like, gentlemen asking for the company of young boys.
She started to clear her throat again, but it sounded a bit high, so she stopped. “I understand what you imply, sir, but I assure you we have no such inclinations. It would merely be foolish on our part to hire guides who might easily over-power us. If you are to honor your grandsire’s debt, the least we can do is honor the guides provided us. And their families, of course.”
Bridget pulled a heavy purse from her belt and tossed it with all her might toward the first man. He caught it and threw it back with no effort at all. It hit her squarely in the chest and nearly knocked her off the back of the horse. She kept from gasping for breath, but barely.
“We’re payin’ a final debt, English, not taking on another.” The snarl in his voice was unmistakable. He may be able to hide the emotions from his face, but his voice dripped with all the contempt he’d been hiding.
Bridget gave a little bow with her head. “I meant no insult, sir.”
As soon as the words slipped out of her mouth, she wished them back. Phinny wouldn’t apologize, not to a Scot. And certainly not to a Scot who owed him a debt. If she continued with such pleasantries, the Grahams would have no respect for the name Kennison.
Oh, but being a man was not as easy as it seemed.
Time stretched along with the evening shadows while everyone waited for the big Scot to decide the depth of the insult and whether or not he’d accept an English apology.
The blonde coughed. “It’s getting’ late, don’t ye think so, Connor?”
“So it is.” The dark one looked to The Graham’s grandson. “What say you, Rory?”
The red-head’s fiery glare remained locked on Bridget. He was still seething.
A little voice in her head warned her to turn her horse and head for home, that the man before her was capable of making her very, very sorry for accepting Lady Forsythe’s dare. If she weren’t representing the family, she’d listen to that voice.
Invoking her best imitation of her brother, an imitation she’d spent a lifetime perfecting, she shrugged her shoulders.
“If you’re determined to be insulted sir,” she said, “pray let me insult you properly with the bite of my steel. Though I’ll need your name first, of course.”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“I’ll have your name, sir. I try not to fight strangers. If you’re killed...” She thought better of using the word ‘debt’. “Let’s just say I feel obliged to keep a record of the people I am forced to wound mortally.”
“People? Surely you don’t kill women?” The blonde laughed again.
“Not if I can help it, no.” She glared as fiercely as she could. Phinny’s temper jumped and flared like a wind-tossed fire, and thus, playing the role of Phinny, she had no choice but to pretend the same.
The man laughed harder!
Bridget threw a leg over her horse’s neck and slid beautifully, but purposefully, to the ground. After tossing Vivianne her reins, she tugged off the fingers of her blue gloves on one hand, then the other, then tucked the pair into her belt.
“I’ll have your name as well, sir.” She slid her blade of Spanish steel from its sheath and the zing of metal-on-metal silenced the blonde’s laughter as her bluff could not.
“Alistair Macpherson.” The big one’s face had transformed from fury into a begrudgingly polite smile. “Though I’m called ‘Rory.’” He gestured to his gape-mouthed blond friend. “This is Sir Ian McDermott.” Then he nodded to the dark one. “And Sir Connor McGee, though I’m fair certain you’ll have no need of our names.”
Connor inclined his head, though he did so in Mallory’s direction.
“Forgive my manners. My thoughts were on other matters. And if you’ll get back on yer mount, ‘tis but a wee ride to the Graham keep.” Rory Macpherson turned his horse back the way he’d come.
“No. Thank you, but no. We’ll stay the night right here, if you don’t mind. Just send the lads to us at daybreak, if that’s still your intention.” She spoke quickly, while his ears were within range.
Rory turned back.
“Jamie told us you preferred the out of doors, but three Englishmen, such as yourselves, are not safe out of doors this night. You of all people should know, Phineas Kennison, that Elliots and others are swarming around Graham lands tonight.”
Bridget had to admit that the politics of the region were indeed the things that interested her brother, but she had no idea what the man was talking about, so she could hardly argue. They weren’t at the keep yet, however. She had the rest of the journey to think of some way to hide from any close scrutiny.
“Besides,” the big Scot added, “if I didn’t show proper Scottish Hospitality to Old Kennison’s heir, my grandsire would roll over in his grave. Once he’s in it, of course.”
Bridget paused with one foot in the stirrup. “You mean he’s not buried yet?”
“Nay. He’s still on the table.”
One thing was for certain—the three of them would be taking their meals in their room...
...if there were any rooms at Graham Keep.
CHAPTER THREE
What a pack of fools.
If Jamie hadn’t warned him they were women, Rory would have seen through their disguises instantly. Had his wits been slower, her sex was clear the moment she took off her gloves. Even her natural handling of the sword couldn’t distract him from those fingers. Best he remember that, in the event he might tangle with her one day. Eyes on the blade, not the hands.
If he were a wiser man, he’d have frightened her back across the border. He imagined growling at her, her eyes flying wide…
But hadn’t he already seen that?
He had! He’d already frightened her, harmed her. He felt it again--the weight of the coins in the pouch, the power in his hand as he let it fly. He felt the kick of the thing hitting her squarely in the chest, felt it punch the wind from her lungs. He saw again the fear in her eyes when she thought she might just tip off the back of her horse!
A brute. The other lass had been right about him all along. What he’d been denying all this time, another Englishwoman was able to prove. He was capable of harming a woman. He’d just done so.
And when it happened, he didn’t know with whom he’d been more angry, the woman or himself.
Had she insulted him? Yes, though she’d not meant to do it.
She’d wanted to be seen as a man, so he’d treated her as a man—though it was no excuse. He’d known better. Their disguises were well-made, but impossible to carry off once she’d opened her mouth. They’d have never made it far without being taken for ransom, or worse.
Fools!
No. He was the fool. It was himself he couldn’t forgive.
He felt it again. The weight of the bag as it left his hand. Heaven help him, would he forever cringe, like a Judas, when he heard the clink of silver coins?
It wasn’t just his grandfather’s debt he’d be paying now. And to a cursed Englishwoman!
Grumble and growl about as he would, in the end, he’d pay his penance. Perhaps God might even spare him from his nightmares. One thing was for certain; he should have run as soon as he heard the English were coming. After all, a coward was an easier reputation to live with than what he had.
> “Put your cloaks about you, if you please. I’d rather as few people as possible ken we’ve taken in English for the night.” Oh, the rest would know they were English, but Rory might just keep them from suspecting they were women. The boys vowed to hold their tongues until the English were gone. By then, he’d be gone as well and wouldn’t have to defend his actions.
Not right in the head, those three. If they couldn’t even convince Jamie and the lads they were men, they were doomed.
The young lads must be carefully chosen, and he, Connor, and Ian would have to follow along and guard their backs until they were all safely together again in Edinburgh. All debts would be fully paid, and he’d be free to start his search again, for a wife that would have both him and his reputation.
Question was, would he want the kind of woman that would have him?
Rory and his friends escorted the imposters through the baileys and into the chapel where his grandfather’s body lay in state. If he’d been fooled by their disguises before, they’d have given themselves away when the one in red and the one in green squeezed hands for an instant. He supposed they were afraid of the dead, which wasn’t surprising for Englishwomen who probably wouldn’t sully their hands on preparing their own kin for burial.
The Kennison woman, draped in blue, had the ballocks to look upon his grandfather’s face overlong, and Rory didn’t know whether or not he should feel insulted. If she was Kennison’s sister, Alistair Graham had likely been the bogey man of her childhood—the man who stole her grandmother for a time—and the man who might come for her if she weren’t a good little girl.
He very much doubted she’d been a good girl at all, so she might even be pleased to see Alistair dead and gone.
That thought had him prodding her from the chapel in a hurry. He rushed them through the hall with his heart pounding, as if he was sneaking fresh meat through the midst of starving wolves. With the lack of women about, that wasn’t far off the mark.
He told himself the urgency he felt wasn’t concern for the women, but the desire to have them locked away at one end of the keep so he could place himself at the opposite extreme, so he could catch a breath of clean air. But he made himself a liar when he stood to the side and let the women precede him into the war room, then turned to follow, lured along by the waft of filthy, flowered air that flowed along with their silly costumes.
