Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series

by Collette Cameron

  She perused the entrance and listened for movement within. Other than Scottish wild cats and red foxes, nothing of substantial size roamed these hills and moors.

  Her bum pressed against a rock twice her size, Isobel gingerly edged onward. She bent and peered into the cave’s dark recesses several feet way.

  Complete darkness stared back at her.

  “It’s black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat in there.”

  Shading her eyes, she sent a glance skyward and frowned. The clear azure sky she’d rode out under a jot more than an hour ago, now hung heavy with gun-metal gray clouds. This morning’s comfortable breeze had stiffened into a biting wind.

  Unwanted company would soon be upon her, for she had no doubt Lord Ramsbury thundered to the cliffs like a rutting buck after a doe, determined to disturb her treasure seeking.

  Her lips twitched into a gratified smile. Oh, to have been there and seen his arrogant face when he realized she’d disregarded his directive, the deceiving snake.

  Who did he think he was, manipulating her like that?

  She was not such a slowtop as to put herself in danger. Surely, if a real need for concern was present, Ewan or her parents would have explained the circumstances. These mysterious secrets and Drury Lane theatrics were entirely unnecessary, and this whole clan feuding business appeared nothing more than a few covetous, power-hungry men stirring up discontent.

  Lydia had resided at Craiglocky for months because some troublesome baron was determined to marry her in an attempt to acquire her father’s lands. Now, other clans had become embroiled in the chaos.

  Greed and power—two of the devil’s most destructive weapons.

  Emira’s low nicker carried to Isobel on the soft, heather-scented breeze. She’d left the mare ground-tied in a copse of Scots pine a few hundred yards away. The horse had been trained to remain where Isobel left her, and Emira wouldn’t leave unless Isobel whistled.

  Scooting her bottom along the rock, Isobel advanced further until a rough edge snagged her skirt. She gave a firm yank, and tore a three-inch rip in the material.

  A short chuckle escaped her.

  Lord Ramsbury wouldn’t approve.

  He’d loathed the Kersey gown she’d worn yesterday. His displeasure had been etched all over his noble face. Admittedly, she did resemble a humble, village lass when wearing the drab garment. She fingered the wool of her current dress. He would be hard-pressed to find fault with this gown, even though it had seen three winters.

  Her humor evaporated the next instant. Hmph. His approval meant nothing.

  Creeping another couple of inches across the rock, she released a defeated sigh. Why did men dictate everything women could do and what they should think? If God hadn’t wanted women to use their own minds, then why had He given them a brain?

  Years of suppressing knowledge and opinions behind decorous behavior had reached a pinnacle, and Isobel wasn’t certain she would ever be able to return to that docile and demure young lady. Truth be told, she didn’t want to. She could no more pretend to be an empty-headed ninny than The Prince Regent could turn somersaults.

  Even now, she must rush to explore caves a man had dictated she couldn’t.

  She squinted into the horizon. Yes, there in the distance, riders approached, moving fast from the looks of them.

  God’s toenails. I haven’t made the cave yet.

  Emira whinnied. The other horses’ scents likely carried to the mare on the wind.

  This would be Isobel’s last solo outing. Of that she had no doubt. His lordship would see she didn’t sneeze without his permission. In the future, her shadow would be allowed more freedom than she would.

  How her fickle heart could yearn for such a man boggled her mind. Yet there remained an unexplainable, wholly illogical attraction—no, more of an uncontrollable draw—to him.

  Och, such absurdity made no sense.

  Placing one hand on a boulder for balance, she deliberately kicked some loose stones. That should alert anything residing in the cave and encourage the creature to make a hasty exit.

  Trepidation quickening her pulse, Isobel gathered a few pebbles. She tossed them at the cavern’s mouth, and several rolled inside. Ducking behind a boulder, she waited, her lips compressed and her breath suspended.

  Nothing.

  Only the screeching cry of a golden eagle overhead disturbed the quiet.

  Stop being such a dunderhead.

  As she maneuvered around an odd-shaped rock, she slipped and scraped her elbow.

  “Ouch.”

  Clutching her arm, she waited for the sharp sting to pass.

  She pushed her cloak from her shoulder and inspected the injury. Droplets of blood dotted her shredded sleeve. Wincing, she straightened her arm and grabbed a final handhold. With a gusty sigh, she jumped to the ground and left the last of the cumbersome rocks behind her.

  Tiptoeing the remaining few feet to the cave’s opening, she cautiously stepped inside and peered around. She sprang backward and tripped in her haste, landing hard on her bottom. Paralyzing fear seized her for a heart-stopping moment.

  Hell, Hades, and Purgatory too.

  She’d experienced the bloody fright of her life.

  Isobel had heard tales of people fainting or wetting themselves from fear but dismissed the stories as nonsensical balderdash. She’d be rethinking that notion since she about did both.

  Alarm and pain urged her to rise.

  She’d counted five bedrolls inside. Someone had been using the cave as a shelter. In addition to the bedding, cookware, discarded bones, and an extinguished fire further testified to that fact.

  Emira neighed again, followed by the undeniable sound of men’s voices and horses’ hoofbeats. Not Lord Ramsbury and the others. Even riding neck or nothing, they couldn’t have reached the bluffs that swiftly.

  Dread rendered Isobel immobile. Dear God, what if the intruders were armed?

  Of course they are, featherbrain.

  Their reasons for being here couldn’t be legitimate, or else why use the cave?

  Danger threatened those riding her way, and she blamed her damnable pigheadedness. Why had she been so self-centered and impetuous? Lord Ramsbury and the others would be armed, but unless she warned them, they might be ambushed.

  Closing her eyes, she drew a calming breath and forced her panic aside.

  The men’s voices drew nearer.

  Isobel opened her eyes and sought a hiding place or a means of escape. There, on the far side of the cave, almost hidden by heather, was that a path?

  What a pity she’d scaled the outcrop when a trail led to the cave. How long had these men been using the cavern anyway? The weightier question was why?

  She worried her lip. God’s teeth, Lord Ramsbury had been right. Unless she hid amongst the boulders, she’d be found. She swiftly examined the outcrop. Above her, rocks projected creating a shadowy shelf. Her cloak should blend with the stones.

  Shoving the straps of her bag up her arm, Isobel charged to the boulders. Her hem crammed in her belt, she scrambled over stones. She tried to listen while moving silently and succeeded in doing both poorly. Gloves protected her hands, but her worn half-boots slipped and slid, causing her knees to bang painfully against the rocks several times.

  Teeth clamped, she cursed beneath her breath like a Highland whore. Mother would have apoplexy if she suspected Isobel possessed such an extensive vocabulary of profanity.

  Her injured elbow protested, and rocks bit into her forearms and calves. Sweating and panting, she scooted below a crevice offering protection from above and most of the way around her.

  After yanking her hood over her head, she wiped the beads of moisture from her upper lip and forehead. Her gaze fixed on the exposed side, she removed
her dagger. She set the bag beside her before crouching into a ball.

  The wind whistled amongst the rocks, and she shivered.

  “He canna be far away. He left his beasty untethered.” The voice came from a few feet away.

  Isobel flinched, her heart nearly leaping from her chest. Pray God, they hadn’t heard her clambering across the rocks. Ever-so-slowly, she inched her head to the right. A crack between the boulders afforded her a partial view.

  Four hulking men wearing unfamiliar plaids stood clustered a mere twenty feet away.

  She’d never seen such shaggy, unkempt Scots before, not even amongst the rattiest Highlanders.

  Wild, tangled hair hung to their shoulders, and each sported a bushy chest-length beard and hair-matted torsos. Except for one, none wore shirts, but rather a leather vest, belted at the waist. More wooly hair covered their cudgel-like forearms and massive legs exposed by their soiled kilts.

  Isobel swallowed her revulsion and concentrated on the men.

  The Scot wearing a shirt scratched his chest, his keen gaze roving the area. “Must be a laddie. The saddle be too small for a man.”

  Heavily armed, the men resembled the barbaric Highlanders of Grandma Ferguson’s legends of old. One held Emira’s reins.

  No, devil it.

  Fighting tears, Isobel leaned her forehead against a stone and prayed.

  What was she to do?

  The shirted man seemed to be their leader. He motioned at Emira. “Baines, ye and Kilgore take the beastie and tie it yonder, by the cave, then git yerselves into hidin’ with the others. Take yer horses. Riders approach, and Dunbar said the Farnsworth lass be with them.”

  Isobel tightened her grip on the dagger.

  “Aye, Angus.”

  “Och, be about it then. We needs be hidden to grab the hoor. Dunbar and the others already be in the pines.”

  Her pulse stuttering in alarm, an icy chill wracked her. She dipped to her knees, daring to peek above one of the sheltering stones. Those from the castle must be warned. She turned to scurry to the ground, but froze as the man called Angus spoke, his words drifting to her on the increasingly brisk wind.

  “Kill the men. Hide their bodies in a cave. The Farnsworth wench comes to no harm, ye ken?”

  Chapter 13

  Hugging Skye’s back, Yancy threw a glance to the riders following behind. The others, including Miss Farnsworth, charged after him. Worry, and jealousy, if he were honest with himself, prompted him to ride hard in pursuit of Isobel, the foolish chit.

  “There be the outcrops Isobel usually ventures to.” Voice raised to be heard above the wind, Alasdair pointed to a rugged pile of rocks about a half mile away.

  As he spoke, a few random droplets of rain splattered to the earth. A tempest approached by the looks of the ever-increasing clouds on the horizon. Movement atop the stone snared Yancy’s attention. He squinted against the brisk air scratching his face.

  Damn inhospitable Highlands.

  He couldn’t leave for England soon enough to suit him.

  An odd-shaped bush swayed, its tormented branches flailing. He peered closer. The wind flattened billowing cloth against a frantically waving figure.

  A woman.

  Not just any woman.

  Isobel.

  He raised his hand. “Halt.”

  The riders rumbled to a stop.

  “Why we be stoppin’?” Gregor sidled his horse next to Yancy’s.

  The others drew close, and Yancy pointed.

  “Isobel’s waving her arms, there atop that tor.” Fiend seize it. Yancy had used her first name without thinking.

  Only Harcourt noticed and responded with a sardonic twitch of his mouth.

  Damnation, Harcourt knew him too well.

  How the devil had she managed to climb to the peak of the outcrop? Bloody dangerous, that. No other woman of Yancy’s acquaintance would attempt to do so, let alone succeed.

  Ross edged his mount ahead, an idiotic grin on his face. “I do believe the lass be waving at me.”

  He lifted his arms and flapped them in imitation of her, rather like a giant crow in the throes of death.

  Gregor leaned near his brother and muttered out the side of his mouth, “And the mighty Robert the Bruce wore a corset and a lace bonnet into battle.”

  Alasdair chuckled. “And lip rouge, too.”

  Waving excitedly, Ross hurled them a frosty glare.

  “Cease, you dolt.” Yancy pinned Ross with a glare.

  A headless chicken possessed more wits than the Scot.

  Harcourt stared at Ross as if he possessed three heads. “Please tell me why you presume she’s waving a greeting and not a warning?”

  A mutinous frown twisting his mouth, Ross’s arms fell to his sides.

  Miss Farnsworth’s mare pranced in a nervous circle. “Where’s Isobel? I don’t see her.”

  Yancy wrenched his attention to the horizon once more.

  Isobel had disappeared.

  Senses honed, his spine tingled in alarm. “I don’t like this. Something’s afoot.”

  An eagle screeched high amongst the clouds, the cry an ominous warning confirming his premonition.

  He covertly scanned the dark stand of pine trees to the left of the rock run. A glint amongst the trunks caught his eye.

  Blade? Gun?

  “Aye, me hackles be raised.” Gregor, his expression taut, scrutinized the area.

  Alasdair gripped his sword’s hilt. He canted his head. “Someone lays in wait in yonder woodlands.”

  Yancy fingered his dirk. “Why, and is he alone?”

  More importantly, what danger did the bugger present to Isobel?

  “I would wager my new barouche, that’s no solitary gent lurking amongst the greenery.” Harcourt flicked a manicured forefinger in the direction of the mysterious gleam.

  Yancy snorted and removed his gloves. “They’re idiots to attack English and Scottish citizens under the protection of the crown—and on Sethwick’s lands, to boot. He’ll see them imprisoned.”

  “MacHardy’s promised them something that makes the risk worthwhile, I would guess.” Harcourt followed suit and removed his gloves. He patted his stomach. “I would have eaten something more substantial this morning had I known I’d be required to exert myself this early in the day.”

  At Harcourt’s sarcasm, Yancy elevated a brow. “I shall do my best to assure you return to Craiglocky in time for luncheon.”

  In his rush to pursue Isobel, had he led them into a trap?

  He didn’t question the McTavish brothers’ ability to fight. After all, their father was Craiglocky’s war chief. Hell, he might have to call upon Duncan McTavish and his men to assist with this feuding clan business.

  Harcourt’s skill with a blade was second only to Sethwick’s, but what of Ross?

  Yancy eyed the lanky fellow and tried to imagine him swinging a Lochaber axe. Hardly more than a bag of bones, a strong gust of wind could knock the sot on his skinny arse.

  The weapons Miss Farnsworth carried would be of little use against gunfire. Besides, their small group might be outnumbered, likely was.

  He didn’t hold to striking women, but when he got his hands on Isobel, her deliciously rounded bottom would suffer a pinkening. If not by his hand then her father or brother’s.

  He took a measure of relief in knowing she possessed a shrewd mind.

  Blast, he needed Harcourt, Gregor, and Alasdair with him. They knew these lands and were experienced in fighters. Ross was the sort to get lost while using the privy.

  Something besides the Scot’s fixation with Isobel set Yancy’s teeth on edge. For all of Ross’s bumbling ineptitude, Yancy sensed there was more to the man, and his instinct shouted caut
ion.

  He swung his gaze in Craiglocky’s direction and drummed his fingers on his thigh. An experienced rider could make the castle in ten, maybe twelve, minutes of hard riding and be back with reinforcements in fewer than thirty.

  Thirty minutes seemed a lifetime when the woman you cared for faced unknown danger.

  Yancy maneuvered Skye to face the others. “If we try to reach Miss Ferguson across this meadow, we’re easy targets and can be picked off like pheasants on snow.”

  The remains of his morning meal churned in his stomach. Every minute they delayed, the peril to Isobel increased.

  He forced his emotions aside and concentrated on strategy.

  The sky had darkened to the same shade of slate as the boulder-strewn ground behind them. The rain fell harder, great, fat, splattering drops, which saturated his coat in minutes. The pungent odors of heather and damp earth wafted by on the wind.

  “Is there another way to that outcrop?” Yancy slanted his head without turning around.

  “Aye, but the paths be through the forest or clear around the loch.” Alasdair turned to Miss Farnsworth. “The weather be turnin’ ugly. Ye should return to the keep.”

  She jutted her dainty chin out. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. McTavish. Nonetheless, I shall wait to hear what Lord Ramsbury suggests.”

  Her pert response earned her a frown from Alasdair, a grin from Harcourt, and a rude snort from Ross.

  “I be responsible for me niece, McTavish. If anyone be tellin’ her what to do, it be me.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, Uncle.” Annoyance flashed in her eyes. “You would do well to remember, you are not my guardian.”

  Fury contorted Ross’s features. “Ye’ll do as I say, or—”

  “Stubble it, Ross.” Harcourt edged his mount beside the Scot, pinning the man’s leg between the two horses. “Before I forget I am a gentleman and that my cousin is present.”