by L. L. Muir
She looked about the clearing, but other than the dark stains where Cranky and the fat man had fallen, there wasn’t much blood at all. Unless... “Surely, you weren’t planning on spilling more blood, my lord?”
Phinny acted as if he hadn’t heard her, but his face reddened. John, the captain of his guard, came to her side and gestured for her to precede him. She folded her arms and stood her ground.
“Carry her, if necessary.” Phinny must have at least been looking from the corner of his eye.
She folded her legs beneath her skirts and lowered herself to the ground, careful not to sit directly on her rump.
Phinny turned redder. “Here, John. Keep your blade at his throat.”
Once John obeyed and had his weapon on Rory, Phinny sheathed his sword and came toward her.
Bridget turned, scrambled to her feet, and fled. Phinny couldn’t ignore her if he was chasing her; it only stood to reason.
He nearly caught her once, but she darted around a tree. Barely eluding his grasp, she couldn’t keep from squealing like a child. One of his men tried to intervene but only managed to touch her skirts as she fled past.
“I will handle this!” Phinny’s shout came from close behind.
“Will you listen to me now, brother?” She was nearly out of breath and knew she couldn’t elude him much longer. They’d run around the clearing three times making a path in the grass that led between his men, but they didn’t dare reach for her.
“No.” Phinny spared no more breath than that.
She spun in a new direction and stopped short in front of the red puddle that marked where the fat man had died. Phinny nearly toppled her, but managed to keep them both on their feet. He grabbed her arm and began dragging her away.
He was not the proper Lord Kennison now. He was winded and angry and unable to hold that temper he’d tucked away half a year ago when that mantle of power had settled on his shoulders. He was his old self again.
She was in trouble.
He plopped down on the large fallen log he’d thrice chased her over and pulled her across his knees.
“Don’t do it, Englishman.” Rory’s voice boomed across the clearing.
She couldn’t see the Highlander since her rump now faced in his direction, but how she wished they would all turn away while her brother doled out her punishment. She only hoped she’d be able to get a few words in between strikes.
“He hasn’t touched me—”
Whack!
She thought she’d be able to speak? Impossible! She couldn’t exhale!
On top of the beating she’d taken from Cranky/Bowen, she’d sat for hours on the floorboards of the cart which had spanked her every time a wheel touched a rock, which they did constantly. In addition, her underskirts, which had been stuck to her backside in places—from either sweat or blood, she didn’t want to know which—had just been violently detached. She couldn’t comprehend any other explanation for the knife-like pain!
“Phinny!” Mallory screamed.
Whack!
Air. She needed air.
“She’s already been whipped!” Vivianne’s small voice could hardly be heard above her heart beating in her ears and painfully echoing in her backside.
Behind her, a growl became a roar of outrage, but Bridget braced herself for the next strike, just in case the outrage was not on her behalf. Depending on how angry he was, Phinny usually stopped around ten. She doubted she could last that long, so she tried again.
“Phinny. Please listen to me.” She whispered against the bark of the felled tree. “You can’t kill him. He saved us.”
“Dear God, help me!” Phinny’s voice was different, younger. “If I roll her over, I might hurt her.”
Was he speaking to her?
Someone else was there. She heard the whisper of steps in the grass.
“I could kill you for this.” Rory stood above her.
“I’m so sorry,” she breathed.
“Not you, damn it. Your brother.”
“Too bad.” She took a deep breath and choked on a laugh. “I would almost rather be dead.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-T WO
Bridget came awake and realized she must have fainted. But if she’d fainted from the pain in her bottom, then why the devil was she not fainting now, she’d like to know, since she currently endured ten times the pain as before?
She lay on her side. Her front roasted from the orange fire blazing before her, and her bare backside was chilled behind. As she became more alert, she felt a slight breeze on her bottom assuring her that it was indeed bare, and worse yet, someone was behind her.
She moaned in embarrassment. If it were Rory tending to her injuries as he had tended her throat before, she would pull a sack over her head and not remove it until the day she died.
The smell of something disgusting wafted over her. The salve with which he’d greased her neck!
Sweet heavens, just let death come.
“The water is hot.” Vivianne carried a steaming pot around from the other side of the flames, her hair pulled back, her brow furrowed.
“I think she’s coming around.” The voice behind her belonged to Mallory, thank Heaven. “Bridget? Dearest?”
“Umn hmn.” It was all she could manage without bursting into tears, both relieved Rory wasn’t there, and worried over the pain she was about to feel if they meant to pour hot water on her wounds.
“It’s time to bandage you, cousin. We’re going to wash you one last time and put on Rory’s salve. Pig’s fat, comfrey and honey.” A hand patted her shoulder. “Your injuries are not nearly so bad as they must feel.”
“The skin was only broken in half a dozen places. We expected much worse.” Vivianne knelt beside her and smoothed hair away from her cheek. “Unfortunately, your underthings had to be peeled away, but the salve helps. You will mend.”
“This is going to hurt.” Mallory applied a hot cloth to her searing injuries.
Bridget gasped, but didn’t complain. At least her flesh wasn’t cold anymore. What she truly wished to do was run to the nearest stream and drop her arse in it, the cold be damned.
When she closed her eyes the pain intensified, so she looked past the fire for distraction. A second fire burned nearby, a third much further off, and if her eyes did not deceive her, Phinny, John, and the three Scots sat amiably enough around the former. The Irishman stood above the latter, talking and waving his arms about as if telling a fanciful tale to some of Phinny’s uniformed men.
Around Phinny’s fire, to her utter amazement, Rory seemed to be doing the same.
She’d never have guessed the man capable of talking for long stretches at a time. Every now and again, someone would pose a question, and he’d start in again. Or another man would make a comment and he’d nod or shake his head with equal vigor. Whatever they were discussing, he felt very passionately about it.
She cleared her throat and somehow tasted whisky. “Whisky?!”
“That Rory’s been pouring watered whisky down you each time Phinny looked the other way. You should be glad. When we had to peel your skirts off, you slept right through it.”
Vivianne didn’t make sense. How often were they changing her bandages?
“How long have I been asleep?” Her voice felt and sounded unused.
“Since yesterday. You had a little fever in the night, but it passed quickly. Rory sat with you until it did, then he slept all day.” Vivianne turned toward the other fire. “He seems well rested now.”
As Bridget watched, Connor elbowed Rory, who stopped mid-sentence and turned to look directly into her eyes. He frowned at her, then leapt over his fire and came toward her. If she were standing, she would have retreated.
“Don’t let him come!” she whispered urgently, then hid her face against her makeshift pillow.
“Stop, Highlander!” Mal’s voice was kind, but firm. “No men over here until tomorrow, if you please. She’s not clear-headed yet. I’m sure you understand.”
> Bridget didn’t dare peek at his reaction, but he didn’t leave right away, nor did he come closer. Eventually, footsteps faded and a few moments later, she heard the thrum of his voice as he resumed his conversation. She couldn’t pick out words, just the lilt of his speech and the vibration of his brogue. It was entrancing, soothing. If she wasn’t so well rested herself, it would have lulled her to sleep.
She uncovered her face but didn’t look at the men.
“What are they talking about?”
Vivianne giggled. “We’ve no idea. They stop talking completely if we get too near. They’ve been at it all afternoon, too.”
“Bunch of women.” Mallory grunted. “They whisper and walk into the trees to whisper some more.”
“Mal, you should try a bit harder to hide your jealousy.” Viv’s squeeze of Bridget’s shoulder. “Can you roll onto your stomach? We’re just putting salve on now. It will be over soon.”
“Why should I pretend around the pair of you?” asked Mallory. “Of course I’m jealous. Connor hasn’t said ten words to me today, but he’s been giving entire speeches to Phinny and John—their enemies. And if he pats me on the head just once more, I’m going to bite him. See if I don’t.”
Bridget sucked a sharp breath through her teeth.
“Forgive me,” Vivianne whispered.”
“No need. I’m all right.” And she was. The pain was receding already, the salve making her feel less...raw.
Once her backside was covered, Vivianne helped her raise up on an elbow and forced her to drink warmed wine until she promised to be sick if she swallowed another drop.
“Just you wait and see if I have anything to say to him on the road tomorrow.” Mallory packed away the salve and clean cloths. “But I’m also quite jealous of you, Viv. I’ve seen how Ian has been trying to get a word with you all day. Did he succeed?”
Viv snorted lightly. “I know a word is not what he’s wanting, and so do you.”
“Hmph. I suppose a word is not what I was wanting from Connor, either.”
“Mallory,” Vivanne chided softly.
“I only wanted a kiss. Is that so wicked? He was terribly generous with them just before Phinny showed himself. Now he’s just a coward.”
What a wonderful moment or two that had been for Bridget as well. In truth, she wouldn’t mind a kiss either.
She glanced at the source of her last one. It was a mistake. Rory stared directly at her again. The men around him managed to carry on their conversation without him, though, and he bit his lip as if praying she wouldn’t look away. For a moment, she obliged.
He gave her a tentative smile. She returned it, and that earned her a bigger smile in response. But tears filled her eyes and she snapped them closed. Hopefully he didn’t see them escape and trickle to the side of her face.
She was better; he was relieved. That was all.
Or was it?
Perhaps he’d be gone in the morning. Perhaps he was trying to tell her goodbye! And she’d sent him away!
“Vivianne!”
“Still here, sweet.”
“Vivianne, you must talk to Rory for me.” She groped for her friend’s hand and held firm. “You must take him aside and make him promise.” As rested as she was, she couldn’t seem to hold her friend tightly at all. And her eyelids were suddenly too heavy to bear.
“What must he promise, Bridge?”
“He must promise...” She yawned.
Oh, how sweet was the absence of pain. How easily she could rest now. Just for a moment, she would allow her eyes to close. After she enjoyed a breath or two without knives in her backside, she would definitely remember what she needed to tell Rory. Or had she told him already?
No, Vivianne was going to tell him he mustn’t leave before she was recovered enough to bid him farewell...kiss him farewell...and it would be wonderful.
She could sleep now.
CHAPTER THIRTY- THREE
A carriage was acquired the next morning.
Kennison insisted on carrying his sister inside, which he managed quickly and silently. The bastard was determined to make her suffer for her crimes, though not physically. In truth, if Rory were in his place, he’d likely do the same.
But he wasn’t in the Englishman’s boots. He was in his own, riding a road he had no attention for, toward a city for which he felt only dread. Thankfully, they travelled slowly to keep from jostling the wounded lass, so they wouldn’t reach Edinburgh that day.
In spite of the looks sent his way, and the laughter at his expense, he had eyes only for the blasted window of the carriage in spite of the fact that it remained covered the entire day. He had to change positions in his saddle to keep from breaking his neck.
When the carriage rolled off the road for the evening, Rory was there to hold to door open for the ladies. Phinny was not far behind.
Mallory smiled knowingly. Vivianne laughed aloud as he handed her down. He reached in for the piss pot only to shove it into Kennison’s arms. Then quickly, before anyone could stop him, Rory jumped into the conveyance, slammed the door shut, and locked it.
The gloamin’ afforded only shadows inside. He couldn’t tell hide from hair as his eyes adjusted, but he could hear Bridget’s breathing.
“Rory?”
“Aye, love. ‘Tis me. And there’s no sendin’ me away until my voice gives out, ye ken?”
She only breathed, but he was happy to hear she labored to do so, nearly as hard as he. She wasn’t indifferent to him, then.
“Ye’ve avoided me long enough, I’m thinkin’.”
“I have?”
“Ye have.” He nodded in the dark. “Ye’ll be tellin’ me all that befell you at the hands of McMurtry and his lot.”
The silence drew out. He couldn’t hear her breathing any longer, but he was beginning to make out her shape lyin’ belly down on the seat opposite, her knees bent and her feet resting against the wall. How he wished for a wee peek under her skirts, to see that she was healing.
Or so he told himself.
Two nights before, he’d gotten a look at her tortured arse before John and another had dragged him away. He’d wished Bowen had still lived, just so he could flog the man dead once or twice more. And when her fever had come, he’d considered hurrying off to Hell, to hunt the bastard down and do him more damage.
He still might, depending on what the lass told him.
“I’m not going to show you my...my...injury, sir!”
“Och, now. I dinna intend to see it again. I trust the other women to be tellin’ the truth, that ye’re on the mend.”
If her gasping and sputtering were any indication, he likely shouldn’t have mentioned he’d laid eyes on her bare bum while she’d been unconscious. He knew only one way to distract her.
Hoping he was judging the shadows aright, he reached for what he hoped was her face and pressed his own to it.
Dead on.
Full lips were right where they should be, though they took a wee moment to respond. Her cheeks in his hands were of the smoothest skin, the taste of her just as he’d been remembering for two days—the taste he feared he might starve without.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
“Keep talkin’, Macpherson! If I hear nothing, I’m ripping off this door.” Kennison pounded once more on the wall. “And get back on the other side of the carriage!”
Rory laughed. The windows were covered. If he couldn’t see, neither could Kennison. He couldn’t resist spitting back a bit. “And just what do ye suppose I could do with a woman whose arse has been recently flogged?”
Kennison was thankfully speechless. A fine feat, if he said so himself.
“I don’t think he’d want you to kiss me.” Bridget sounded rather breathless, the sweet lass.
“And what do you want?” He cared not if the whole bloody carriage was pulled apart; if she asked for another kiss, she’d get it.
She declined to answer. But she would answer the question he came here to ask, so help him.
“What else did they do, Bridget? I believe at least one man had to have...handled ye.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No!” She grew angry. “That man, Bowen, whipped me when I wouldn’t go meekly along. That was all.”
Perhaps it was too horrid to remember. Perhaps it would be kinder to let her forget. Or perhaps she was lying through her pretty white teeth.
“Then how did he ken you had coins in your gown?”
She gasped.
The inside of the carriage suddenly darkened as if in response to his mood. Either that, or the clouds scurried to block what was left of the light.
“I knew it was a coin I felt.” He could hear her sputtering once again, but could no longer discern the whites of her eyes or the outline of her head.
“I think you should leave now, Mr. Macpherson, before you make the mistake of asking for my dress again.”
Mr. Macpherson? He hadn’t missed the condescension in her tone, either. Was this change due to her brother’s presence, or was she simply trying to distract Rory from his purpose?
“My dear Miss Kennison, I don’t intend to leave yet, but when I do, be sure as certain, I’ll be takin’ the gown with me.” If Kennison was listening for voices, he’d hear only the most courteous tones from him, but hopefully not his words. The door had not yet been ripped from the carriage, so Rory pressed on. “And I’m not about to move until you tell me true, how that man kenned the coins were there.”
“What are you asking? What is it you truly wish to know?” She spoke through her teeth, but she, too, kept to a friendly tone.
“I want to ken if he harmed anything more than your lovely arse!” Kennison be damned.
“No. I don’t think you do.” Her voice moved, as if she were sitting up. “You only wish to know if he took my...if he took what you...what I meant to lose…” She grunted in frustration. “You’re curious to know if there is any use hanging about, or if the prize is gone!”
Rory couldn’t think, couldn’t move. How could she believe such a thing? Had she supposed all along that he kept her close only for a chance to steal her virtue?
