by L. L. Muir
“The sun will be setting soon,” Jacob said, looking off to the left.
Mallory sighed with relief. “We must call it a day, then, and find shelter. If you suppose you can catch something for our supper, I can cook it.” She’d been studying the art of cooking since they’d decided to venture into Scotland, and she was almost eager to prove herself.
The boy grinned. “Aye, my lady. I’m a grand hand with fish, and there’s a wee loch off to the west a bit.” He pointed toward the setting sun that was not remotely close to setting. Either he was just as fatigued as she was, or he was taking pity upon her with his suggestion to stop for the night.
Not too far from their narrow path, and sheltered by a copse of birch trees, they found a grassy clearing and a shallow cave. There was a meager burn nearby for washing, and if she made a fire, the smoke could curl against the curve of the rock above. It would be less detectable from the main road where Macpherson and his friends would be searching for three Graham boys and three women dressed in Phin Kennison’s finest clothing.
Jacob left her alone, but only after she insisted she could defend herself just fine if necessary, against either man or beast. By the time she tended to Old Hamlet, she’d worked the stiffness from her legs and was able to collect bits and branches for a fire without too much discomfort. She hoped if she kept her hands busy, she might also be able to pretend she wasn’t frightened to tears, the evidence of which suddenly washed a salty path to the corners of her mouth.
She scrubbed at her cheeks, not at all pleased with her own show of weakness. She’d vowed to Bridget, over and over again, that she was made of stern enough stuff to strike out on her own—as long as she had a young Scottish escort to keep her from getting lost…and keep her from being alone in the darkness.
She wouldn’t allow Jacob to return and find her whimpering next to her horse.
“I’m only weary,” she muttered and bent to pick up a dead branch.
The snap of a tiny twig sounded from the trees behind her and she stiffened. She sensed more than just a small, harmless animal. There was no scurry of tiny feet running for cover. Whatever watched her had ceased moving too. She held perfectly still, too frightened to turn and look for fear of what she might see in the shadowy copse. She waited for a growl of warning, but there was nothing.
Her ears strained as realization struck. If it knew to hold its breath, it was a man.
She’d left her weapons next to the cave. And since the branch in her grasp had no weight to it at all…she ran.
~ ~ ~
It was clear to Connor, early on, that Lady Mallory’s heart was not in escaping him. Just as she had failed to spur her horse down the lonely trail, she failed to elude him through the shadowy wood. After she caught sight of him, the fright left her and her energy flagged. He decided to slow down as well, to drag out the chase just a wee longer. He wanted her too weary to fight him.
She was not a lithe little woman. She had curves. And two of those curves were a bit of a burden when trying to run. If the exertion didn’t take her breath away, he hoped the heavy pounding to her chest would.
Eventually, he took pity on her and grabbed her from behind. She gratefully sank to her bottom in the tall supple grass of early summer.
“Whew,” she said, exhaling dramatically. “I’m worn through.”
Good, then. No pretense that she had truly meant to escape.
“No one can say I did not resist, can they?”
He laughed. “No, Lady Mallory. No one can say that.”
“Can I catch my breath first, before you put your hands on me?”
From the angle, she was unable to see his shock. But he wanted her to know he was offended, so he slipped around and lowered himself to the ground so she could read the indignation on his face.
“My lady, I wish I didna ken what you mean. How can you think I would ravish you when Macpherson gave his word you and your friends would be protected?” He placed a crooked finger under her chin and made her look into his eyes.
Her expression revealed nothing but innocence. “Forgive me, Sir Connor, is it?”
“It is.” He dropped his hand away and sat back.
She smiled sweetly. “I thank you for your protection.”
His frown held. He wasn’t ready to forgive the insult, but neither would he lose his manners. “You are welcome to it.”
“And no matter how many fish Jacob returns with, you are welcome to share our meal.”
He narrowed his eyes, trying to guess her game by the look on her face, but she revealed nothing. “Generous of you, under the circumstances.”
She waved off his comment. “And you are welcome to travel with us to Glasgow, of course.” Her smile never faltered. The minx would do well at court with such talent.
“We won’t be continuing to Glasgow.” He got to his feet and offered his assistance.
She placed her soft hand in his and he pulled her up. He pointed in the general direction of the clearing and gestured for her to precede him. They both gathered wood as they went, but neither of them commented on the distance they’d covered in their less than vigorous chase.
“Once we reach the city,” she said, “you’ll have to go your own way. I have…business… in Glasgow—”
“We will be traveling straight to Edinburgh, lass—”
“And I can’t have you interfering.” She pretended she hadn’t heard a word, and with her smile still affixed, she strode into camp. Near the rock face, she bent over a spot of earth where a fire had previously burned, and began stacking the wood they’d gathered.
Connor was momentarily distracted by the sight of her cleavage, but when he realized she had purposely put herself on display for him, it was easier to ignore. She likely thought it might sway the conversation her way if he was unable to pay strict attention.
“If you’ll help me get a fire going,” she said, “it will hurry supper along.”
He knelt before her and did what he could. From the edge of his vision, he noticed her slight frown when she realized he was paying her bosom no mind. It was difficult to suppress his laughter—almost as difficult as it was to avert his gaze. So he concentrated on a single thought while he struck his small blade against his flint and waited for a spark to take hold.
She is daft as a hatter if she thinks she can simply insist her way to Glasgow.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The road to Edinburgh was a busy one, and it heartened Vivianne to know she and Young
Bowman didn’t have to worry overmuch about Rory Macpherson or his disturbing friends. After all, it would take them a good while to reach Glasgow, and hopefully a good bit more to realize she and her companions hadn’t gone to the port city as their decoys would have reported. By the time the big Scots started looking along the road to Edinburgh, Vivianne and Young Bowman would have arrived in the capital.
But just in case they’d all underestimated the men, she tried to blend in with those traveling alongside her and the boy. She wore a gown of rich honeyed brown—the only gown she’d been able to fit in her saddlebags besides her sleeping gown and wrapper—but with the skirts covered by her cloak and a tattered shawl draped over her head, she hoped to draw little notice. She’d also traded a coin for a man’s hat for Young Bowman to wear. Since none of their pursuers actually lived at Graham Keep, she hoped the horses wouldn’t be readily recognizable, though her own mount seemed a few grades higher in quality than most of the animals traveling the road that day.
She thought it particularly clever of her to ride uncomfortably close to a man and his wagon full of barrels. He cracked a whip over the heads of his four mules and more than once it cracked behind him, just ahead of Vivianne’s horse, no doubt to encourage her to go on her way and leave him in peace. But in spite of the whip and the occasional dust that arose from patches of dry road, she persisted. Of course she told Young Bowman to ride behind her, just in case.
Eventually, when they all stopped to water and res
t the animals, she ended up passing the wagon driver a few small coins if he would allow the pretense they were all traveling together.
He eagerly pinched the coins from her open hand and, according to their translator, Young Bowman, the man agreed. However, the hungry look the man gave her empty palm made her nervous and she decided they would soon have to leave him and his slow mules behind so the fellow wouldn’t come searching for more coins in the night. During daylight, however, she resolved to make good use of the masquerade. And though the end of the man’s whip swung close to her horse, it never cracked in her direction again.
They were nearing a drastic bend in the road when the sound of galloping horses grew from a low murmur in the distance to a rumble coming up behind them. Vivianne held her breath and prayed as the mob neared. She tried to convince herself not to panic, that there must be more than just three riders approaching, but the sound alone was frightening.
The noise grew to crescendo at their backs and swallowed up her involuntary gasp as nearly a dozen riders came upon them and then poured around the side of the wagon to continue on. A few heads craned in her direction, so she turned in the saddle to look at the boy, shielding her features with the shawl. By the time she faced forward again, all the horsemen had lost interest in her and the wagon. The few forms still completing the corner disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Young Bowman laughed, but his bulging eyes had not yet recovered their rightful place in their sockets. Vivianne was simply grateful her heart was still beating inside her and not in the grasses at the edge of the road. She covered her face again but only to avoid choking on the cloud. Her young escort turned in his saddle to do the same. But when the dust settled and they were once again on damp road, the lad still faced backward.
Suddenly, he kicked his horse to come closer. “My lady,” he hissed, “dinna turn, but a man rides behind us.”
A single man didn’t worry her as much as three might have.
Young Bowman swallowed with difficulty. His eyes filled with tears and it nearly broke her heart to see it. “He resembles Sir Ian.”
She reached across and patted the boy’s arm. “It is all right,” she insisted, though her frantic heart insisted differently. “Do not worry so. We shall face him if we must.”
The steps of the Scot’s horse were audible now that the thundering herd had moved on. There was no doubt he was maintaining the same pace. She toyed with the idea of ignoring him and plodding on to Edinburgh, allowing him to follow as he liked. But they had to stop for the night, possibly twice or more before they reached their destination, and it wasn’t likely the man would hold his tongue and his distance until then.
She worried over silly things for another five minutes before she made a decision.
“Bowman,” she said quietly. “Shall we make a run for it?”
The boy grinned. “Aye, my lady. I am with ye.”
She winked. “Now,” she said, then put her heels to her horse.
With a bit of rest behind them, their mounts were happy to oblige. The mules shied to the right as they hurried past, the horses gaining speed with every lunge. The cursing might have come from the wagon driver or Sir Ian, it was impossible to tell which. Young Bowman’s beast proved to be much faster than hers, no matter its appearance, and she laughed as the lad took the lead, his grin wide.
She felt the drumming hooves of the third horse before she saw its shadow on the road to her left. She led to the right. The shadow followed. Then the animal’s great black head appeared for a moment before her own horse sensed the race and put forth greater effort.
The black appeared again, then legs, then rider. She looked away, avoiding Sir Ian’s face, fearing what the sight of him might do to her resolve.
The road turned left ahead. Young Bowman disappeared at the bend. The big Scot put a few feet of distance between them, eyeing her horse nervously as they turned. The lad came into view. He watched over his shoulder, no longer grinning. She realized it was dangerous to continue if the boy wasn’t able to watch where he was going, so she stopped urging her horse and sat straight in the saddle. She was relieved to see Bowman do the same.
It had only been a game. There was no chance they could outrun the man far enough to elude him, so it would be foolish to risk the safety of the boy or the horses simply to draw it out. But from the look on Sir Ian’s face, when she finally looked at him, he wouldn’t underestimate her again.
She inhaled deeply for courage and slowed her horse to a full stop.
“A foolish display,” the man said, glancing pointedly at the boy.
Vivianne shrugged. “You’ll notice I stopped.” She watched Bowman return to her side. The boy was clearly waiting for an explanation. “A fine horse, young man,” she told him. “You beat us both. You deserve a prize.”
The boy grinned and blushed, but the smile fell away when he looked at the Scot.
“Oh, he’ll have his prize,” the man said. “Instead of being beaten for his participation, he’ll be allowed to return home with his wee backside intact.”
The boy’s chin quivered twice, then stilled.
She lifted her own chin in the air. “Mr. Bowman will accompany me to Edinburgh, sir. I still need him—”
“Nay. You do not, my lady. I will see you to Edinburgh—”
“I refuse your escort.” She pulled the reins taught and her horse took a step backward.
He bowed in his seat. “I insist.”
Vivianne pulled her dagger from the sheath tied to her waist. “I warn you, sir, stay clear of me.”
The blackheart laughed. “Take care, my lady. I’ve vowed to protect you, even if I must protect you from yourself. Or are you as skilled as Lady Kennison with a blade?” He looked only amused by the idea, not alarmed in the least.
She only wished Bridget Kennison was there to teach him to respect a woman with a weapon. Unfortunately, Vivianne had spent the last months learning to hunt animals, not men. Although…
She studied his neck, then allowed her gaze to roam down to his heart. “I wonder,” she mused aloud, “if killing a man feels the same as killing a boar.”
Sir Ian barked with laughter. “Oh, aye. You’ve killed a boar, have you?” His head wagged back and forth. “Come now, my lady. Give me a lie I can at least pretend to believe.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I was trapping the beast for practice, but it was far too injured to release it and expect it to live long. I had no choice.”
Sir Ian smiled into her eyes. “A terrible, drawn out death, poison. Did you linger until the end?”
It was her turn to laugh. “Does it frighten you so much, then, to believe I could thrust a blade into a neck…and twist?”
The man scowled and nodded toward Young Bowman. “Nay, but I daresay you’ve convinced the lad you no longer need his protection.” The lad in question puffed up his chest in his defense. The Scot turned his frown on the boy. “Save that cheek for your kinsmen, laddie. And get along home. Now.”
“Wait.” Vivianne sheathed the weapon, climbed off her horse, and forced Young Bowman to take the rest of her cheese and bannocks from Bess’s house. “Fare thee well, Mr. Bowman,” she said, patting his leg. “We are not outnumbered, we are simply…out-weighed.” She glanced irritably in Sir Ian’s direction, then back to the boy. “You were my hero, if only for a short while. Let no one tell you differently.”
“If you travel faster than mules,” the man said, “you will be home before midnight. But if you ride too fast, Bowman, someone will covet that bonny horse enough to take it from you. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded. His expression told her he was duly warned. He wouldn’t be racing off to harm then.
Vivianne urged the boy to bend to her so she could kiss his cheek. She waved him away as the mules came along with their heavy load.
“Here now!” She slapped her hands to her hips and called to the wagon driver. “I paid you good money. Won’t you defend me against this man?” She pointe
d up at the blond, who might as well have been a Viking god, and hoped the man with the whip was sufficiently worried.
The wagon man’s eyes widened and he shook his head vigorously. “Nay,” he said, which only proved he’d been able to understand her all along.
“Just a moment,” Sir Ian said, moving his horse to block the mules. “What exactly did she pay you for?”
Grudgingly, the man dug into his purse and threw two copper coins to the ground. “Naught at all!”
He swung his whip behind him, then seemed to think better of cracking it over his mules with Sir Ian so near. He dropped his arm. “God blight ye, let me pass,” he grumbled.
The big Scot moved out of the way and dismounted. He took one of Vivianne’s reins before stooping to retrieve the money. With large, warm hands, he took hold of her wrist, pushed her fingers open, and pressed the coins in her palm. She could still sense the slide of his touch after he turned away to tie her horse to his.
She took only a step toward her saddle when one of those large hands took hold of her shoulder and turned her. She was suddenly lifted into the air and placed on the man’s saddle before she could do much more than gasp. He mounted behind her and turned toward Edinburgh.
“You’ll catch flies,” he murmured. His hand came up around her to lift her chin and close her gaping mouth. Then he chuckled.
What upset her most was the way her body responded to the sound and feel of his laughter against her back! It was just as disturbing as looking upon his handsome face! She felt like a silly girl of twelve, and if she didn’t keep a firm hold on her thoughts, she was destined to make a complete fool of herself.
“My reputation will be ruined if I arrive in the city alone with you,” she said.
“You should have considered that when you ran away from home, my lady.” Though he spoke flippantly, his disapproval rang clear. “But never fear. We will meet up with the others in the morning, at Linton, and travel the rest of the way together.”
