by Tarah Scott
“Heddy,” Phoebe muttered as she hunkered down, “I'll choke every last breath from you when I return home. As for you, Ashlund, I'll shoot you myself if these brigands don’t do it for me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The wide valley became visible beyond the thinning trees and Phoebe brought her horse to a standstill on the hill’s edge. The moon illuminated a grass-covered basin strewn with rocks and ground-hugging brush. Further scrutiny was halted by the discovery of riders entering the long valley at a gallop from the north. She squinted at the tall figure in the lead. A cloak lashed behind him in the wind. Kiernan MacGregor. She looked south where the valley narrowed and spotted the bridge where Zachariah and his men waited. She pulled the derringer from her pocket and kicked her horse’s ribs. He neighed and lunged ahead. Phoebe leaned into him as he sped down the hill. The chill of the autumn night penetrated the sleeves of her dress. She tucked her head down and bent closer to the horse's neck.
Moments later, the ground leveled and they shot from the trees. Directly ahead, Kiernan and his men were midway into the valley. Shouts went up from his party. Kiernan whipped his horse around on an intercept course. The two men with him followed. In less than a minute, they were within shouting distance.
“You’re riding into a trap!” Phoebe yelled. “There are brigands waiting for you at the bridge.”
Kiernan glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the bridge, then faced her.
“Two men are acting as lookout,” Phoebe brought her horse up short as Kiernan and his men did the same beside her. “They mean to block your retreat,” she panted. “Four men are below the bridge and another waits on the other side.”
“What?” Kiernan demanded. Then, before she could respond, “Damnation, woman, are you trying to catch your death?”
He whipped off his plaid cloak and edged his horse closer. Her gelding shied, but before she could pull back on the reins, Kiernan grabbed the beast’s bridle and stilled him.
“MacGregor!” one of his men cried as he threw the cloak around her shoulders.
Kiernan whirled his horse in unison with shouts that abruptly emanated from the opposite side of the valley. Phoebe jerked her attention toward the shouts and saw two riders emerge from trees near the bridge.
“They spotted us,” she said. "There are six of them."
"How do you know that?" Kiernan demanded. "Never mind. When this is finished I'll beat it out of you." He looked at his men. "Take care of them." He motioned toward the approaching brigands and the men started toward them. He brought his gaze back to bear on Phoebe. “Get to the other side of the valley and stay inside the trees.” He snapped the reins across his steed’s rump. The horse leapt into action.
“Ashlund!” she shouted. “They intend to kidnap and ransom you.”
“Do as I say or I'll beat you here and now,” he called over his shoulder.
A shot rang out. Phoebe cut her gaze to the approaching brigands who aimed a pistol at the MacGregor men. Her pounding heart skipped a beat. The ball had missed its mark and the would-be kidnappers still raced toward the MacGregor men.
She looked at the derringer. Why hadn’t the duke had anything better in his library? Shooting the derringer at a target more than fifteen feet away was like spitting. She clasped the cloak about her throat, then spurred her horse back the way she’d come. Another gunshot pierced the night air. She glanced back and saw Kiernan holding his weapon level, and a riderless horse charging toward him.
The fallen man’s comrade whirled and raced back toward the bridge. Phoebe urged her horse into the forest, then reined south toward the river. Beyond the trees, she glimpsed the man who had fled. He reached the bridge and raced across. Indistinguishable shouts reached her when Kiernan and his men disappeared down the riverbank left of the bridge.
Minutes later, Phoebe reached the bank. She pulled her horse up short and dismounted. She discarded Kiernan’s cloak, then slid down the riverbank to river's edge. The bridge lay a hundred feet away. Waist high bushes grew in sporadic patches along the bank. The slow moving water whispered in a gentle flow downstream. She gave a final glance around the deserted riverbank, then scurried between the bushes toward the bridge. Thirty feet from the bridge, something rustled in the foliage within its shadows, and Phoebe halted behind a bush. Her heart jumped into her throat when a figure emerged from the shadows and started up the bank.
She aimed the derringer, then hesitated. He was too far away to hit with any accuracy, and his back was to her. Her stomach took a sickening turn. She'd never shot a man, and she wasn't about to start by shooting him in the back. Crouching, she headed for the next bush. Another shot discharged. The man spun toward her before she reached cover and she stopped. Their gazes locked, then he stepped toward her and she fired. He jerked to his right and fell. Her heart jumped into her throat. Thank God, the bullet hit his shoulder, as planned. She'd feared the gun would pull even harder to the left than anticipated, and she would miss him altogether.
Phoebe rose on shaky legs, but forced herself to hurry forward. Another brigand appeared from beneath the bridge and she halted. His glance flicked from his fallen comrade to her—then the derringer she still gripped. He leveled the double barrel revolver he held. Phoebe dove behind the bush an instant before he fired. She looked up, expecting to see his pistol aimed at her again, but he wasn’t there. A strong hand clamped onto her arm and yanked her upright.
Her captor began dragging her up the bank and Phoebe fumbled for the sgian dubh in her pocket. The dagger bounced off her thigh with the long strides he forced her to take. She caught sight of two revolvers stuffed into his waistband, then gave a tiny cry upon recognizing the MacGregor plaide of his kilt. Phoebe looked up and searched his face, but didn't recognize him.
“Who—" She tripped as they crested the bank. He grabbed her around the waist and yanked her off the ground. “Barbarian,” she yelped, and elbowed him in the ribs.
He grunted. At the sound of more gunfire, Phoebe glanced back, but saw nothing as he hauled her up the bank. They entered the trees and she twisted to face her captor.
“You would do better to help Lord Ashlund," she said. "Those ruffians will shoot his companions and take him.”
“You have a fine opinion of MacGregor men,” he replied in a placid voice that didn’t hide the sarcasm.
Phoebe jammed her derringer into his side. “Release me and go help the others.”
“You used your one shot on that fellow.”
“Useless piece of iron.” She tossed the weapon aside.
Her horse came into view a few feet ahead, alongside a stallion. Her captor set her on her feet, but kept hold of her arm, while directing her toward the horses.
“They need your help.” she burst out.
“I can't take you near the fighting, and I canna’ leave you alone. MacGregor will have my head.”
“Lord Ashlund will understand.”
“Not him. His father.”
They reached the horses. Phoebe spied a branch the size of her arm near the stallion’s feet.
“What will his father say when you return with me and his son’s ransom demand follows?” she demanded.
More gunfire echoed through the trees and he cast a glance in the direction of the sound. He shook his head. “I must do as the MacGregor ordered.” He reached for her horse’s reins.
Heart pounding, Phoebe bent and grabbed the branch. Sorry about this, lad. Her stomach tensed as she shot to her feet, swinging the branch against the back of his head. He fell to the ground with a groan. She dropped the branch and grabbed a revolver from his waistband. He groaned again.
“You’ll live.” Her stomach relaxed a fraction and she headed for the river.
Upon reaching the forest’s edge, Phoebe once again crept down the riverbank and ducked behind the first bush she reached. She surveyed the quiet riverbank. Was Lord Ashlund on this side of the river or had he crossed over? The moonlight dimmed behind filmy clouds. She scurried from bush to bus
h toward the water. Nearer the river, the bushes thinned, then stopped altogether. She bent low and darted from the cover of the last bush. Gunfire broke the silence and she dropped to the ground fifteen feet from the water’s edge. Her knee smashed against a small rock. She winced, biting back a cry of pain.
“Give it up, Your Lordship,” Zachariah's call drifted across the river. “You’re outnumbered. We won’t hurt you, I swear.”
Silence met his demand.
“You can’t escape. I have men guarding your retreat.”
Still no answer.
“Come, now. You’re only going to get you and your men killed.”
A soft splash in the water jerked Phoebe's attention sideways.
“If you come out now, I promise to release everyone except you,” Zachariah shouted.
A figure rose from the river near her. He turned slightly and the silhouette of the revolver he held above the water became visible. She realized the giant was the man Zachariah had called Bob. Phoebe rose to her knees and aimed her revolver as Bob stepped up onto shore and started toward the bridge.
“Not another step, Bob,” she said in a whisper, “or I’ll blast a hole in you.”
He halted. Her thudding heart skipped a beat.
“Do we have an agreement?” Zachariah called.
“Drop the weapon,” Phoebe ordered.
Bob remained motionless.
She drew back on the hammer. The chamber clicked over with an audible grate. “Throw down the weapon,” she ordered again.
He looked over his shoulder. His gaze latched first onto the weapon, then slid up to her shadowed face. He whirled and she fired. He staggered back with the force of the ball that hit his belly.
He looked down at the spreading stain, then at her. “Ye shot me.”
Her stomach turned. Two men in one night. And this one, she guessed, wouldn't live.
He fell to his knees, hitting the ground with a choked groan. “Done in by a woman.” He raised his weapon.
Phoebe froze. The man she had killed was about to kill her. Another shot fired. She jumped as Bob fell face forward onto the ground. Something rustled behind her and she twisted, losing her balance and hitting the ground on her backside. A figure emerged from behind a bush and she barely stifled a scream upon recognizing the MacGregor man she'd left unconscious.
He hurried forward. She stared dumbly at him as he halted beside her and dropped to his knees. She allowed him to disengage the revolver from her grasp and help her kneel. Revolver at ready, he grasped her arm.
“Can you crawl?” he asked.
She nodded and started on all fours alongside him toward the bridge.
“Now,” came Zachariah’s voice again, “you see what happens? You’re forcing me to kill your men. Who did we kill, Your Lordship?”
Phoebe yelled, “Bob didn’t kill anyone, Zachariah. He is dead.”
An instant of silence passed.
“What?” Zachariah demanded.
“Come along.” Her companion urged her toward the bridge.
“That’s right, Zachariah,” she shouted. “Bob is dead.”
“Who is that?” he shouted back.
There was a scuffle, muffled voices, then the sound of footsteps running through the trees—running away, Phoebe noted.
“Come back, you cowards,” Zachariah called.
A moment later, Phoebe and her companion reached the bridge, and he called out softly, “MacGregor.”
A man’s voice answered a few feet away, beyond the bushes. “Donald?”
“Aye,” he replied.
A man showed himself and waved them forward. Donald got to his feet, pulling Phoebe with him. He hurried her past him and she pushed through several bushes, snagging her skirt on brambles. Donald yanked the skirt free and pushed her forward. They broke through the bushes where three men stood, and she stopped short at seeing Kiernan sitting on the ground, back against a large rock as he loaded a revolver.
“Phoebe Wallington,” he said without looking up, “when this affair is finished, I do swear to beat you.”
There was a gritty edge to his voice Phoebe didn't like. “Indeed, my lord? I was thinking I would shoot you.” Her gaze caught on the tartan wrapped around the uppermost part of his left thigh. “Good God, what have you done?”
She hurried forward and dropped to her knees at his side. A splinter of pain shot up her leg. She winced, but ignored the discomfort and touched the tartan around his leg. She pursed her lips upon recognizing the moist stickiness of blood and pressed down on the wound.
“Phoebe,” he said in a raspy voice.
She shot him a quelling look. “You were the one person who was not supposed to get shot.”
“Save your reprimands for the wedding night,” Kiernan said with a grunt.
“Don’t be a fool.” She pressed gingerly on his leg.
“Madam,” he growled, “if you would kindly cease your ministrations until we are finished with—" Phoebe pressed harder. “By God,” he cursed.
“Hush, or you'll have no business to attend to at all.” She looked at his men. “How is that, of the four of you, he is the one shot?”
“It was the sniper.” One of the men pointed at the bridge.
She gave a disgusted snort, then eyed Kiernan critically. “Hurts like the devil, I imagine.”
He scowled. “A mere flesh wound. See to that fool threatening us," he ordered, and two of his men slinked off into the darkness as he returned his attention to sifting the powder into the muzzle of his weapon.
“From the looks of that fabric, you’ve lost a fair amount of blood.” Phoebe touched his damp forehead. “You're flushed.” She rose and turned from the men, slipped off a cotton petticoat, then turned back and thrust the petticoat into Donald’s grasp. “Tear this into one long bandage.”
“I suppose you'll insist on a new petticoat,” Kiernan said as the sound of fabric ripping filled the quiet air. A large portion of the powder he had been trying to force into the barrel of his revolver missed its intended mark and ended up in a heap on his lap. “Damnation,” he cursed.
Phoebe snatched the weapon from him.
“What the devil—give me that, woman.”
She dodged his swipe for the weapon. “Why wasn't I able to get my hands on this belt pistol when I needed it?”
“What’s that you say?” Kiernan made another grab for the pistol.
“Be patient,” she ordered. Phoebe pointed the barrel upward and pulled back the hammer to the half cock position. Another rip of her petticoat rent the air. “Give me the powder.” Instead of waiting for him to comply, she grabbed the horn from his hand. She measured powder into the chamber. “Keep pressure on that wound,” she told Kiernan. “I don’t like the way it's bleeding. Where is Mather? He would have kept you out of trouble.”
Kiernan shifted the tartan back onto the wound and pressed gently. “I gave him leave to visit family before I saw you this morning—and he didn’t succeed in keeping me out of trouble the night I met you. Who taught you to load a pistol?” He retrieved a ball from the pouch lying beside him and offered it to her.
“I told you, my uncle is an amateur collector.”
Phoebe took the ball and placed it on the face of the cylinder. Using the loading lever, she depressed the ball into the cylinder, watching as a small ring of lead was shaved off the ball in the process.
“Excellent.” She reached for more powder and began loading another chamber.
A moment later a shot rang out from across the river.
“I pray that was a MacGregor weapon.” Phoebe pressed the last ball into the chamber and gave the weapon a final examination. Satisfied, she handed it back to Kiernan, then turned to Donald. “Finished ripping that petticoat, I see.”
“Aye.” He handed the mass of fabric to her.
Phoebe set the bandage on Kiernan’s lap, then reached beneath her apron and retrieved the sgian dubh from her pocket.
“What the devil?" he mutte
red.
“Where is the closest doctor?” she asked as she unwound the tartan from his leg.
“Edinburgh is three hours away,” Donald answered.
Phoebe tossed aside the tartan. “Nothing closer?” She grabbed Kiernan’s breeches at the right thigh, and positioned the dagger over the cloth.
“Phoebe,” he said, “I don't care for the way you are holding that knife."
She stuck the point of the dagger into his pants.
“Phoebe!” He twitched.
She gave an exasperated sigh. "Lie still, and I won't cut you." She slit the fabric to his knee, then scooted down and finished cutting the pant leg. “Has anyone got any liquor?”
Both men shook their heads.
"Use the powder," Kiernan said.
“That'll do.” She set the dagger on the ground and grabbed the horn. Kiernan had shut his eyes. “What of English soil, Donald?” She sprinkled the powder on the wound.
“What?” he asked.
“A doctor,” she said. “Where is the nearest doctor in England?”
“There is a respectable village an hour away,” he answered.
“Come here,” Phoebe ordered.
Donald knelt beside her.
“Hold his leg up as I wrap the bandage.”
He did as instructed and she reached beneath Kiernan’s leg and handed the bandage from one hand to the other, keeping the fabric taut with each pass.
“Phoebe,” Kiernan said, his voice sleepy, “be gentle, lass.”
She paused, concerned that she had applied too much pressure to the wound.
“I'm wounded, not dead,” he said.
Phoebe frowned, then noticed the bulge in his pants a couple of inches from her hand. “By heavens, shall I have Donald finish the job?”
“No,” Kiernan’s voice held a trace of amusement. “I shouldn't enjoy it half as much.”
She continued wrapping his leg. "Zachariah has an employer who it seems has an interest in you."
"What are you talking about?"
"I overheard them in the forest," she said.
"We will speak about the fact you were in the forest at length when I am in better condition to deal with you," he said.
