Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series

by Collette Cameron

  “He’ll follow.” Arms wrapped around his brother, Alasdair frowned. “Yer not returnin’ to the castle?”

  “No. Isobel’s out there, alone and no doubt terrified.” Yancy secured the basket and blanket to the rear of Skye’s saddle before swinging into the seat. He patted Alasdair’s shoulder. “Get your brother home, and ask Sethwick to send a search party.”

  Yancy pointed Skye to the forest. “I’m going after her.”

  Chapter 16

  Isobel forced her leaden eyes open, regretting doing so instantly. Crushing agony hammered her skull and sent a wave of nausea scraping at her throat. She tried to swallow the burning bile, but a filthy cloth crammed into her mouth and tied behind her head made the task difficult.

  Her face and lower lip ached. Memories hurtled to the forefront of her mind. She had been planted a facer by that fiend of a man. He’d yanked her hair, too, which explained the tenderness behind her head.

  What had become of Yancy and the others? Were they dead?

  A wave of guilt impaled her. The blame for endangering them rested upon her. Stinging tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as wrenching pain seared her chest with such brutal intensity, she feared she suffered a seizure.

  She should have heeded him.

  He hadn’t been trying to control her, but had been intent on keeping her safe. If only he and Ewan hadn’t been so protective and had told her their worries, she wouldn’t have been so stubborn.

  Please, God, let them be safe. And, please, send someone to help me.

  The renegades had dared to trespass onto Ewan’s lands, their intent murderous. Something powerful drove them to take such a monumental risk.

  Oh God, they think I’m Lydia.

  What would her abductors do when they discovered they had the wrong woman?

  Isobel tried to swallow again, gagging on the rag. She had never been so thirsty in her life. Terror dried her parched mouth further. She tried touching her throbbing face and found her hands tied behind her.

  Trussed up tighter than a Christmas goose.

  She shook her fingers and wrists, gasping as shards of pain streaked to her elbows.

  A dank, earthy smell permeated the air. A gust of cold air speared her, and she shivered. She must be outdoors, and from the clammy material clinging to her, she would guess wet as fresh-washed fleece.

  From the raucous chorus of frogs ebbing and flowing, a pond must be nearby. Another torrent of gut-wrenching fear slammed into her.

  Did her abductors mean to defile her? She’d seen the hunger in Dunbar and the other Scots’ lascivious gazes. If they discovered she wasn’t Lydia, they would ravish her in less time than it took to butter bread.

  Terror squeezed her ribs, and she couldn’t inhale.

  No, she wouldn’t panic. Calmness and reason must be her weapons. If only she’d been conscious while they traveled, she would have an idea of her location and possible escape routes.

  Forcing her body to relax, Isobel drew in a bracing breath and counted to ten, then exhaled bit by bit. She must keep her wits about her. She’d gotten into this mess; she may very well have to get out of it alone.

  First, where was she?

  Cracking an eyelid open, she surveyed her surroundings. She lay in a smallish cave—not much more than a hollow in the hillside—barely large enough to stretch full length in.

  She carefully turned her head in the direction of the raspy murmur of male voices.

  A few feet beyond the cavern’s entrance, her abductors sat before a fire eating what appeared to be roasted rabbit. A pair of drowsy horses stood tethered to a pine tree beside a trickling stream.

  Where had the gypsies got to? And the other Scots?

  Judging from the few stars visible between the pewter clouds and scraggy tree tops, night had long since fallen. The storm had passed while she’d been unconscious.

  How far had they travelled? Avoiding the main roads and in foul weather, carrying an insensate woman, they couldn’t have covered more than ten miles.

  One of her captors lifted a flask to his lips and took a long pull. He belched and passed wind.

  Angus.

  The other guffawed before tipping his flask and greedily gulping the contents.

  Dunbar.

  Stifling a groan, Isobel managed to roll onto her side. The tight cords binding her arms and legs tore the tender flesh. The renegades weren’t taking a chance that she would escape. She would have marks for days, perhaps even permanent scars.

  Something tickled her palm. She released a weak screech and struggled to her knees. Brushing her hands together, she tried to dislodge the creature, doubtless a hairy spider or other repulsive, crawling pest the likes of which she didn’t want to imagine.

  Angus swung his attention her way, his expression unreadable. After tearing a leg from the animal he’d been eating, he rose and withdrew a dirk from his belt.

  Dunbar gave her a leering look and grabbed his crotch, bucking into his hand. He laughed and took a swig from his flask while stroking himself.

  Drunken sod.

  Palpable loathing and fear sluiced Isobel. She sat on her heels and winced as her numb legs protested the added weight.

  Angus trudged up the gentle slope to the cave, rabbit leg in one hand, ugly blade in the other. Did he mean to dine while disposing of her?

  He bent to enter the hollow, his large frame filling the space. The fetid odor of his grimy plaid, combined with body sweat and the rancid grease in his beard, sent her stomach reeling.

  He smiled as if reading her thoughts and tossed the charred rabbit leg into her lap. “Turn around. I’ll cut yer hands loose.”

  Isobel shuffled on her knees and presented her back.

  The cold blade sliced through the rope binding her wrist. She cried out as feeling returned to her numb hands. A thousand hot, needle-fine, coals pricked her fingers.

  “Eat. We ride in ten minutes.” Angus returned to the fire.

  Plopping onto her bum, she rubbed her wrists until the most extreme pain receded. She untied the gag and flinched. The cloth tore at the dried blood caked at the corner of her mouth.

  She ran her tongue along her teeth. All there and none seemed loose. Tentatively touching the tip to the sore area on her mouth, she encountered the split lip she’d expected.

  Grimacing against her protesting muscles, she leaned forward and worked the knot securing her ankles free while covertly eyeing the two men.

  They meant to ride at night.

  Those tracking her would find trailing them more difficult, and she wouldn’t be able to commit the route they traveled to memory as easily.

  An owl hooted, the echoes haunting and lonely.

  She didn’t much care for owls. Not that she believed that nonsense about the birds being harbingers of death or that seeing one in daylight brought about bad luck.

  Using the cavern wall for support, Isobel stood. Her ankle twinged after the violent connection with the brick-like chest of the Scot she’d kicked in the woods.

  The forgotten rabbit leg rolled to the ground. Just as well. She doubted her rebelling stomach would retain anything solid.

  Legs trembling, she swayed as lightheadedness engulfed her. Closing her eyes, she raised a shaky hand to her forehead. Female weakness be hanged. Gently probing her swollen cheek, she felt for broken bones.

  God’s blood, her face and head hurt.

  Had she suffered a concussion? If so, riding so soon was pure foolishness, but what choice had she?

  She dared a tiny snort. These devils weren’t going to delay their journey because she ailed. Angus, no doubt, would flop her, belly down, behind one of the saddles and bind her hands and feet.

  Imagine what that would do to her already-throbbing head
and roiling stomach?

  Gritty determination compelled her to the cave’s entrance.

  The men paused and looked at her.

  “Might I get a drink from the stream?” Afraid she would topple over, she didn’t dare point. “And I also need a moment of privacy.”

  Mortification suffused her. Discussing something so intimate with complete strangers, especially men of their ilk, galled.

  Dunbar released a lewd chuckle. “I’ll take ye into the bushes, lassie.”

  Isobel dredged up a dark scowl. The man was a veritable pig, and she would like nothing better than to see him run through. Or mayhap, given the opportunity, she’d do it herself. Her ability to wield a blade brought her no shame.

  My dagger.

  Had the blade gone undetected, and remained snug in her boot? She wriggled her ankle the merest bit.

  Yes.

  Wisdom weighed against the urge to draw the weapon at once.

  Wait. You’ll not get two chances, and you cannot take on both of these barbarians at once.

  “Those will suffice.” She inclined her head the tiniest bit in the direction of some shoulder-high shrubberies across the narrow creek.

  “Shite, now I be playin’ lady’s maid.” Angus rose once more. Grumbling, he strode to the horses where he retrieved a length of rope.

  Feeling slightly stronger, Isobel wobbled a few steps beyond the cave. The night air, though brisk, did much to revive her. As did the knowledge her dagger lay within her boot.

  The owl hooted again, its eerie call sending a shiver skittering across her shoulders.

  She clasped her hands to her middle. “Where are you taking me?”

  Ripping a piece of meat with his teeth, Dunbar jerked his hand to the north. “Home, for now.”

  Angus returned, uncoiling the rope. “Lift yer arms.”

  She reluctantly raised them. “What do you intend to do?”

  “This.” He looped the line about her waist.

  Rigid as Mrs. Bracegirdle’s back during Sunday sermons, Isobel flattened her lips and stared past his shoulder as his chest pressed into hers—deliberately, she would vow.

  After giving a final tug, he pulled several arms’ length of rope free of the coil.

  “Go on with ye.”

  Isobel fingered the rough restraint, anger and disbelief tempering her speech. “You actually mean to tether me while I get a drink and relieve myself?”

  “Aye, if ye want privacy. Or else I be lettin’ Dunbar escort ye.” A vile chuckle rumbled from him.

  Cretin.

  Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin and proceeded to pick her way behind some low-lying shrubs bordering the pathetic excuse of a stream. Nothing like exposing her bum for the world to see.

  Once she’d taken care of her personal business—almost toppling onto her face twice from dizziness—she crouched before the brook and scooped water into her mouth. The cold liquid tasted wonderful, and she drank her fill.

  Dampening her cloak’s edge, she attempted to gingerly wash her face. Without a looking glass, she couldn’t be certain she’d cleansed away the blood, but the cool water should help reduce the swelling.

  Gently patting her cut lip, she glanced to the fire.

  The men, absorbed in an intense, whispered conversation—or perhaps an argument—gestured toward her every now and again.

  Angling her back, she tore a strip from her chemise. She hung the shred on a branch out of their sight then quickly arranged a few hand-sized rocks into an arrow pointing north.

  “Aren’t ye done yet, fer God’s sake?” Angus tugged the rope, his harsh voice cutting through the night.

  Holding the last stone, Isobel froze. “Yes, I’m coming.”

  She took a couple of steps, shaking out her skirt and cloak to distract them.

  A few moments later, after dousing the fire, Angus mounted his horse.

  Dunbar reached for her. “Up ye go, lass.”

  Isobel swatted his hands away.

  “I’m not riding with you. I shall walk.” She gathered her wrap closer and marched past him only to jolt to a stop when the rope cut into her stomach.

  Angus dangled his end, a cruel grin curving his mouth. “Nae, ye wilna walk. Ye look like ye’ll topple if ye sneeze. It be nigh on fifty miles to Dounnich, and we be in a hurry.”

  He’d revealed their destination.

  So typical of men, underestimating a woman. She might not have traveled much, but she’d studied maps aplenty. A few more clues and she would determine her exact location.

  He leaned frontward and rested his forearm on his saddle. “Either ye let him lift ye before me lass, or ye ride with him. It be yer choice.”

  Hands fisted and teeth clamped, Isobel stamped to Angus. She had no choice. Riding with Dunbar put her virtue at serious risk, even atop a horse. He would molest her the entire journey.

  Dunbar shambled forward. Scooping her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a bairn, he seized the opportunity to paw her breast and thigh. Fondling her bottom, he planted her sideways on Angus’s horse.

  “Get your filthy hands off me.” Isobel swung her legs at his chest.

  He leaped away, a lecherous promise in his disturbing gaze.

  Both men guffawed.

  “I can mount a horse myself, gentlemen.” Shoulders stiffened in rage, she wished them a speedy journey to the lowest level of hell.

  “We be no gentlemen, lass, and I winna deny Dunbar his bit o’ fun. Or me either.” Angus buried his face in her hair. He snuffled loudly and groped her breasts. “Ye smell like spring and flowers.”

  You smell like something died and took up residence in your ratty beard.

  Her skin crawled from his stench and their lecherous handling. She feared for her virtue. There wasn’t an iota of decency or valor in either man.

  “I dinnae recall a lass who smelled so guid.” Like an ill-mannered hound, he sniffed her again.

  “I assure you, the same cannot be said for you or your friend.” Isobel shoved his hand away and wrinkled her nose, choking back a gag.

  Another shout of laughter erupted from Angus. “Damn me, if I hadn’t promised I would deliver ye to MacHardy, I’d keep ye for meself.”

  That was twice he’d mentioned MacHardy, the wretch behind the turmoil with Lydia. The baron would be furious when he found they’d abducted the wrong woman. Given his reputation, Isobel had better escape before then.

  “Why dinnae ye marry the wench yerself? Ye may not be the Laird, but ye be the war chief, and ye have more say than the laird does with the clan.” Dunbar wiped his nose on his arm before mounting his horse.

  He slanted Isobel a calculating gaze. “Canna the same thing be accomplished if’n ye marry the lass?”

  She clenched her teeth to stifle her squeak of horror.

  Angus stared at Dunbar for an extensive, disquieting moment.

  The frogs had become eerily silent as well.

  The damnable owl hooted again, and she started. Her nerves were tauter than Artemis’s bowstring.

  Angus’s gaze dipped to her face, and for the first time, she saw something flicker in the depths of his wintry eyes.

  He’s truly considering it?

  She’d rather die.

  “Aren’t you going to remove this?” Isobel plucked at the rope.

  Leaping from the horse and charging through the forest held real appeal at the moment, the consequences be damned.

  “Aye, if ye promise not to try to run.” Angus steered the horse between two trees. “I would have to knock ye out again.”

  She twisted to gape at him.

  His eyes, once again as emotionless as a dead person’s, calmly returned her gaze.

 
He would hit her again, without a qualm. And likely enjoy it too. She’d heard about men such as he; men who enjoyed beating women.

  Angus wasn’t a man to underestimate. His vileness penetrated to his soul. If he hadn’t already sold it to the devil.

  “Mister . . .”

  “Just Angus will do ye.”

  “Angus, I’m a gently-bred woman. You don’t really think I would go pelting off alone into these woods?” She shuddered delicately and clutched her throat, widening her eyes in a manner she hoped made her appear vulnerable.

  “There are all manner of wild beasts out there.” She made her voice quiver and choked on a fake sob as she fluttered a hand toward the trees. “If I were that foolish, how would I ever find my way home? I would need a man’s guidance, for sure.”

  About as much as she needed a man to help her don her stockings or win a game of chess.

  Lord Ramsbury’s green eyes, shining with amusement during their chess game, interrupted her playacting.

  Real, remorse-induced tears misted her eyes.

  He cannot be dead. Even if he was a cad and a scoundrel. And my fickle heart is set on him.

  Angus grunted and shrugged, the movement releasing a fresh waft of fetidness and forcing her wayward reveries back to the present.

  She batted her eyelashes and formed her mouth into a moue. “I would be an imbecile to attempt escape.”

  A Drury Lane actor performed no better.

  “Aye, that be true.” Angus clawed at his face, scratching his beard with dirt-encrusted fingernails.

  She narrowed her eyes trying to see amongst the bristly hairs. Did the unruly bush harbor louse? She eased away as another shudder scuttled across her flesh.

  Devil a bit, he’d touched her hair.

  Now, she would be scratching her head, envisioning the horde of tiny bugs scampering to live there. What she wouldn’t give for a bath and a way to wash her hair.