The moonlight spilling in the stable door highlighted the guard’s legs. He’d propped himself against the wall of the first stall and had fallen asleep.
No one else seemed to be about.
She stepped into his line of sight and held up her pistol. “Don’t move.”
The man jerked at the sound of her voice and raised a sleepy head. His eyes widened as he saw the gun. Lyssa pulled back the hammer of the pistol just as Ian had done and was satisfied with the solid sound of the gun being cocked.
“Don’t hurt me,” the guard pleaded.
“Then take me to your prisoner. Now.”
She must have sounded as if she meant business because he hurried to do her bidding without challenge.
Ian was in one of the last stalls. Her eyes were growing adjusted to the dark, and she could see his wrists and legs were tied and a gag stuffed in his mouth. “Untie him,” she ordered.
The guard dutifully did as she commanded, starting with Ian’s wrists.
Ian was in pain. He moved stiffly, twisting and turning his wrists to get the blood circulating before removing the gag from his mouth. He had to go through the same process with his ankles. He staggered to his feet, using the stall wall for support.
The guard stepped back, but he wasn’t quick enough. Ian’s fist shot out and he caught the man right in the jaw. The guard flew backward against the other side of the stall where he unceremoniously slid to the ground, out cold.
Ian then turned to Lyssa.
“I’m so thankful you are safe—” she started, but her words were cut off by Ian’s hard mouth covering hers. His arms, powerful and strong, wrapped around her and he kissed her right on the lips with a startling intensity.
Fear and worry vanished from Lyssa’s mind. Who would have thought a kiss could be like this?
Yet it was over almost before it began.
“I knew you would come,” he growled out, his voice hoarse. “Knew it.” He took the pistol from her and lifted the knapsack off her back. He still wore his jacket and she noticed the sleeves were practically ripped off at the shoulder seams. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
She expected them to run directly out the door, but he stopped by one of the stalls. “Hold this.” He shoved the pistol back at her and disappeared into the darkest corner of the stable. When he reappeared, he carried a saddle and a bridle.
“What are we doing?” Lyssa asked anxiously.
“We’re leaving,” came his harsh response. His arm came around her waist, protective, familiar. His lips were close to her ear. “And we are not visiting any more of your relatives ever again.”
His dry comment surprised a hiccup of relief out of her. “I’m so glad you are alive.”
“So am I.” He opened the door to the first stall and walked in. A second later he emerged leading a ghostly gray horse by its halter. The Davidson Stallion. Ian started saddling the animal.
“You can’t!” Lyssa whispered.
“I can. Your bastard cousin owes me.” His hands moved swiftly in the dark.
“But it’s a stallion.”
“And the finest, most temperate horse I’ve ever seen. I’ve been watching him for hours. I had nothing else to do. The vicar was right. This animal is a prize and he’s mine in repayment for your cousin attempting to murder me.”
“Fielder is here.”
Ian paused. “So, that’s what it is all about,” he said as if finally fitting together the pieces of the puzzle.
“It was my stepmother,” Lyssa said. “He said so.”
Ian slipped the bit into the horse’s mouth. “He called her by name?”
“No, but he mentioned ‘her ladyship.’ ”
“If he was speaking of the Duchess, he would have said, ‘her grace.’ ”
Lyssa made an impatient sound. “Why won’t you believe me?”
Before he could answer, a groan came from the stall where the guard lay. “Hurry, Ian,” she whispered.
A door creaked open. Lantern light appeared from beyond the tack room. “Douglas?” a man’s voice called sleepily. “I thought I heard someone in the tack.”
“Quick!” Lyssa urged.
Ian brought the stallion out into the aisle. In a blink, he swung up into the saddle. “Give me your hand.”
The groom and his lantern appeared in the door of the tack room. “Hey there! What are you doing?” he shouted when he saw Ian up on the horse.
Ian took the pistol from her and aimed it at the groom. “Back off.”
Immediately the man did exactly that.
Holding his other hand out to Lyssa, Ian ordered, “Give me your hand.”
She reached for him. He lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather, but as he was setting her in front of him, the guard fully came to his senses and started shouting. The groom dropped the lantern and raced to shut the stable doors.
“Hold on,” Ian ordered as he put heels to horse. The stallion snorted and gave a prancing step before taking off, knocking over the groom in the process—and they were off even as a cry went up to stop them.
Chapter Sixteen
IAN leaned low over the horse, sheltering Lyssa with his body, his legs wrapped around hers, as they headed out of the stable yard toward freedom.
He paid no attention to the cries of alarm being shouted. He was off to London and no one was going to stop him. His arm around Lyssa’s waist and his other hand holding reins and mane, he sent the animal flying like the wind.
Ramsey hadn’t been making false claims about the stallion. He was true to his breeding, a mighty animal with the heart to run forever. His legs were strong, his lungs healthy, and he loved to race.
All Ian had to do was hold on and keep Lyssa safe.
His poor, brave Cailín. She was shaking but she needn’t be afraid. He’d let no one harm her now. When he’d been tied up in the stables, he’d known she would come. He’d willed it—and she’d answered his call as clearly as if he had reached out and touched her. Something lay between them, something rare. And he would protect her with his life.
They came to a fork in the road and he guided the stallion east, but he didn’t stay on the road long. Instead, he turned off, slowing the pace, and rode over newly plowed fields and across hedge fences, guided by the stars and his own dogged sense of self preservation.
His hand holding the pistol rested beneath Lyssa’s breast. He could feel the pounding of her heart and knew she was frightened. He eased up so she could sit upright, resting back against his chest.
“That was faster than I ever traveled before in my life,” she admitted. Her skirts were all the way up to the top of her thighs. He let his hand slip down to rest there. He couldn’t help himself. Her garters and hose were bunched around her ankles and the tips of his fingers touched bare skin. Her red curls covered his shoulder and if he turned his head, he could kiss her ear—and Ian felt powerful.
Having this woman and this horse made all right with the world.
He was like the great Finn mac Cumhail, the legendary Irish warrior who fought against the forces of darkness and won. Like Finn, he’d taken what he’d wanted—and no one would wrest them from him. He was invincible. He was brave, courageous. At long last, a whole man. He had won.
And he was in love.
Ian kicked the stallion into a trot.
“Are they behind us?” she whispered.
His lips close to her ear, he soothed, “Don’t worry, Cailín. I’ll let no harm come to you.”
“Ramsey was going to marry me for my money and then kill both of us. He was going to tell everyone we were runaway lovers. Ian, I was so afraid.”
He slowed the horse, dropping the reins, and put both of his arms around her, wanting to hold her forever.
Her body went still. Slowly she turned to face him. Feeling the change in their body position, the stallion came to a stop in the middle of the plowed field.
The moon high in the sky was reflected in Lyssa’s eyes. “You
kissed me,” she said, “when I cut your ropes.”
Ian smiled, his heart fuller than he had ever anticipated. “I was so proud of you, Cailín.”
“My mother sent me to you. I was in her room. I—I could feel her presence.”
“Cailín,” he said gently. “There is no such thing as ghosties. ‘Twas myself calling you.”
She stared at him a moment in disbelief. He nodded. “I pictured you in your room, waiting, and called your name in my mind.”
“You were telling me you needed me.”
“Aye.”
“And is that why you kissed me?”
He dropped his gaze to her lips, to those very kissable lips. “Because I was thankful?”
She nodded, a troubled line between her brows.
“Don’t be foolish.” And to prove his words, he kissed her again.
Only this kiss was different from his earlier one. Then, he’d been exuberant that she had come, that she had heard him.
Now, he attempted to explain the depth of what he felt, an emotion he did not fully understand yet himself. Their lips fit together perfectly. Everything about them fit together perfectly.
She made a soft mew of surprise, pulled back. He refused to let her escape—and she capitulated, turning more fully in his arms to receive him.
Ian had kissed more than his share of women, but none was as sweet and tempting as this one.
Deep within there rose a need for fulfillment like nothing he’d experienced before. All his life he’d been in search of what she was offering, in search of what she alone could give, and now here she was offering herself with such sweetness—
The pounding of hooves across the ground were his only warning. A heartbeat later, a party of four men and horses charged into the field. Ramsey Davidson was at their lead followed closely by another man in a low brimmed hat.
“It’s Fielder,” Lyssa said, identifying the second man.
Ian kicked the stallion and the chase was on. He drove the horse toward a midnight dark line of trees. He trusted this horse. He was smart and surefooted and Ian sensed he wanted to escape Davidson as much as they did.
Bracing her against him, Ian half-cocked the pistol, preparing to fire if necessary.
They reached the woods. Through the dark forest they ran. The stallion chose his own path, weaving in and out through the trees. Behind them, Ian heard their pursuers fall behind. At least two riders were unseated, their bodies crashing to the ground.
Someone fired off a pistol shot. It went wide and Ian grinned. Only a fool would waste a shot in a chase like this. He would beat them. He had no doubt.
They came out into another pasture. The stallion’s hooves threw up clods of newly turned earth. A hedgerow loomed ahead and without breaking stride, the horse jumped—
A second shot was fired.
Midair, the stallion squealed, kicking out and twisting in alarm. His front hooves hit the ground. He stumbled, coming down to his knees.
The horse had been hit.
He struggled to his feet and then, with a frightened squeal, reared in fear. Ian had to make a choice between Lyssa and the pistol which he let fall to the ground. Anger the likes he’d never felt before surged through him.
Ramsey Davidson shouted, the sound a screech in the night, “Damn you, Fielder, you shot my horse!”
Ian slid off, bringing Lyssa with him. “Run,” he ordered. “Head for the trees.”
“What about you?”
“I have a score to settle.” He gave her a push in the direction he wanted her to go and turned to face his attackers.
However, Davidson was no longer interested in him. He’d reined his horse in and confronted Fielder, “You shot my horse, you fool!”
“I wanted to stop them and I have!” Fielder flashed back. He was almost upon the hedgerow where Ian stood waiting. A man on foot could have an advantage over a rider, if he was cagey. Ian pulled the knife out of his knapsack and dropped the leather bag to the ground.
Fielder’s teeth flashed in a grin of anticipation as he approached the hedge, but then a shot rang out. Fielder stiffened just as his horse started the jump. His eyes widened in surprise and he went tumbling off the back, his hat flying through the air.
Davidson had shot Fielder.
Ian stepped out of the way of the riderless horse. The animal had jumped in fear to escape what he didn’t understand and now galloped over to the stallion for protection.
Lyssa gave a small scream and Ian didn’t need to look in her direction to know that she had, once again, not followed his orders.
Davidson rode up and looked down on the man lying in the tilled soil. Fielder groaned. Davidson pulled a second pistol from his saddle horse’s holsters and shot the man again.
The gun spent, he shoved it back in its holster. “Bloody bastard.” He looked up at Ian, standing on the other side of the hedge. “We’re not done yet,” he promised and pulled a sword from the scabbard at his waist. He kicked his horse.
Now, Davidson was fighting Ian’s sort of battle, one he’d learned against the French. Ian dashed out into the field, not wanting to be trapped by the hedgerow. He turned to confront his attacker.
Davidson rode like a Hussar, the sword high in the air. He cleared the hedgerow and bore down on Ian. The moon glinted off the dangerous blade. As Davidson drew by, he swiped the air with the sword. Ian ducked, hearing the blade whistle past, inches from his shoulder.
Lyssa made a move as if to come join him. “Stay back,” Ian yelled. “If you must do something, run!”
This time, she obeyed him, obviously realizing he couldn’t worry about Davidson and her at the same time. She took off running.
Her cousin had brought his horse up short, ready to make another pass at Ian when he noticed her racing toward the trees. He looked to Ian, then back to Lyssa—and grinned.
“Davidson, come get me!” Ian shouted, wanting to distract the bastard from Lyssa, but it was too late.
With a cocky salute of his sword in Ian’s direction, Davidson urged his horse after Lyssa.
Now, Ian was afraid. He shouted a warning and ran for Fielder’s horse.
The animal spooked but Ian caught the saddle in time and pulled himself up even while racing after Davidson.
Again, the dangerous sword was raised. Davidson was so intent on his prey, he didn’t noticed Ian riding up hard behind him. Ian slid the knife into his boot. He drove the horse hard, pushing it alongside Davidson’s animal and then he jumped, hitting Davidson with the full force of his body.
Both of them went flying through the air. Their bodies hit the soft earth heavily and they rolled over and over each other until at last they stopped.
Ian scrambled to his feet, his heart beating in his ears, his fists raised, ready to strike—but Davidson did not move. He lay on his back, partially buried in the newly turned earth, his head at an odd angle.
Cautious, Ian lowered his fist. Lyssa stood a distance away, watching as he waved his hand back and forth in front of Davidson’s sightless eyes.
Ramsey Davidson had broken his neck. He’d fallen off at such an angle, he’d hit the ground head first and met his Maker.
Ian was glad to be done with him.
He released his breath and fell back to the ground, spent. “It’s over,” he said.
Lyssa slowly moved forward. “Did you kill him?”
“He killed himself.” Ian got to his feet and turned his attention to the stallion, who stood not far away, the whites of his eyes showing in fear. He could smell death.
Davidson’s horse had run toward home, the stirrups bouncing off his sides. Fielder’s animal stopped, pawed the earth and waited.
“Come here, boy,” Ian said, approaching the stallion, with his hand open.
The stallion wasn’t trusting.
He whispered in Irish, “Ná bí buartha (‘Don’t worry’).”
Pricking up his ears, the stallion listened. Ian touched the velvet of his nose. “Ná bí buarth
a,” he repeated. The stallion lowered his head, a gesture of submission.
“You are so beautiful,” Ian praised and trailing his hand along the horse’s body so the animal knew where he was, he searched for where it had been shot.
“Is he all right?” Lyssa asked, coming to Ian’s side.
Ian didn’t answer. He found the wound on the stallion’s right flank. The bullet had grazed the horse and passed on. He leaned his head against the horse’s rump and said a word of thanksgiving.
“Will your salve help?”
“We can try it.” He picked up the reins, lifted them up over the stallion’s head and handed them to her. “Hold him while I get my knapsack.” He also took a moment to find his pistol.
Moving swiftly, he soothed the salve over the stallion’s wound, caught Fielder’s horse, a chestnut, and mounted. “Come, let’s get out of here.”
“Ian, we can’t go off and leave my cousin and Mr. Fielder lying here.”
“We have no choice. Who knows who will be chasing us next, and I don’t want to be here waiting to see if they accept our explanations.” He held out his hand and she took it without further argument.
Ponying the stallion, they started riding across the field. It was another sign of the stallion’s temperament that he didn’t balk at the arrangement. The beast was a jewel, a royal jewel.
Ian headed them south—toward London. They didn’t talk. Lyssa was very still and he feared she was having a hard time accepting the sudden turn of events.
When they came to a shallow stream, Ian urged the horses into it and followed its course for as long as he could. He had no illusions. A cry would be put out once the bodies were discovered. He could be held in suspicion of Fielder and Davidson’s deaths. Lyssa and the evidence would show him blameless…but there was still the tricky matter of a price on his head. He had no desire to tweak the nose of the local authorities, not when he was so close to gaining everything he’d ever wanted.
Lyssa stayed in his arms, so tired she eventually fell asleep sitting up, her head against his chest. Her precious plaid was still wrapped around her shoulders. Dark clouds rolled in on the horizon, blocking the moon. Ian kept on.
Adventures of a Scottish Heiress Page 20
