Just in Time for a Highlander

by Gwyn Cready

  Terms of a marriage contract.

  He snorted. With effort, he banished the emotion simmering inside him, clouding his thinking. Cold-blooded calculation was what he needed. The time to talk would come later, if indeed he and Abby would ever talk again.

  He looked through the spyglass he had stolen along with a fresh plaid and a sword from the saddlebag of one of Rosston’s men. Oh, yes, Duncan could reive with the best of them—and she would soon know he could plunder and pillage too. Too bad her definition of a worthy man didn’t include either of those qualities. Was she there? That was the question at present.

  The tent flap opened, and he caught a glimpse of her white bonnet. “Oh, aye, a bonny liar you are,” he said, feeling spikes of anger-laced adrenaline. “Let’s see if you do spurned lover equally as well.”

  The tent flap opened again, and this time a tall, broad-shouldered officer with blond hair and an air of elegance stepped from the tent. He closed the flap with deliberate care, stepped away from the opening, and gestured to one of his men.

  The man stepped closer. Duncan couldn’t quite figure out why the exchange seemed odd until he realized the men weren’t talking. Everything being communicated was being done by hand gestures and head nods.

  They know, he thought, as the spikes turn to fear. That had to be why they were avoiding talking. Despite Abby’s confidence in her disguise, someone must have recognized her. And they didn’t want her to know they knew.

  He had to get to her.

  Think, Duncan. Think before you hare off. Slowly, an idea took form. Jealousy has many uses. He reached for his sporran.

  A moment later, he began toward the tent at a full run. Halfway there, he was met by a wall of redcoats.

  “Put down your sword, Ginger,” one called, advancing on him, musket drawn. The other men surrounded him slowly.

  “Is she in there?” Duncan bellowed, thrusting the sword into the ground.

  “Watch out, boys. We could light a fire with the flames in those eyes. Is he drunk too?”

  “I’ve got no issue with you!”

  “Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind while I’m stuffing my boot up your arse.”

  Duncan had no escape. “I saw her there! Bring her to me!”

  The first man exchanged glances with another. “Who, laddie? Did ye happen to lose yer wife?”

  “My wife?” Duncan spat. “Not bloody likely. That’s the chieftess of Clan Kerr, and I want her. Now.”

  Forty-three

  A commotion outside the tent brought Bridgewater’s chewing to a stop. Abby had never been so grateful for an interruption. The man had consumed the quail followed by a joint of pork and four chicken legs with a surgical precision that had turned her skin to gooseflesh, stopping only a moment ago to excuse himself to order more. She half expected him to strop his knife between each course. And each bite had been preceded by an offhanded question about her husband, his farming, their neighbors, like the king to Scheherazade, so that he might be entertained as he ate.

  At a loud oof, Bridgewater put down his knife. The words, “Rose, what is going on?” had no more than left his mouth when a man burst into the tent, nearly knocking over the table.

  The man was Duncan. Bridgewater stood.

  Lip split and nose bleeding, Duncan snorted like a bull who’d been separated from a cow in heat.

  “Get up,” Duncan growled at her. Two soldiers flew in and caught him by the arms. Duncan flailed impotently. “That’s Lady Kerr,” he cried, and Abby’s heart dropped like a stone.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel,” one soldier said. “He got away from us.”

  Bridgewater sighed audibly. “Who is this?”

  “Duncan MacHarg,” Duncan said. “Where did ye find her? In the forest above the vale? Who was she with? Who was she with?”

  “Shut your mouth,” Bridgewater said calmly, “or I’ll have one of my men shut it with the barrel of his musket.” He turned to Abby. “Alas, Chieftess, I’m afraid our little tableau has come to an end. A shame, really. I was enjoying listening to you spin the tale of your simple farm life. You are, are you not, the Chieftess of Clan Kerr?”

  Abby didn’t know which man to look at—Duncan, spitting fury, or Bridgewater with his condescending smile. Of the two, Bridgewater seemed less a risk. “Aye.”

  “And you are not with child?”

  “Not by me,” Duncan said, grim faced. “I canna speak for any of the other men here.”

  She gasped.

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” Bridgewater said. “Do we have a lover’s quarrel on our hands?”

  Duncan glowered.

  “Sergeant, what do we know about Lady Kerr’s marital status?” Bridgewater asked.

  Rose, who had slipped in after the soldiers, said, “She is thought to be engaged to a cousin of hers named Rosston Kerr, also a clan chief though of a less important clan.”

  The muscles in Duncan’s jaw flexed.

  “And is this man Rosston Kerr?” Bridgewater said.

  “No, sir,” Rose said. “He’s about as tall, but Rosston Kerr has black hair.”

  “I see.” Bridgewater returned to his chair and said to Abby, “You have nothing to add, I suppose?”

  She shook her head, resolute.

  “Mr. MacHarg, I take it you are bedding the lady?”

  “Was.” Duncan must have sensed a weakness in his captor’s grip for he broke into another frenetic struggle.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, let the man go,” Bridgewater said. “He’s unarmed, and we all have swords. I, for one, would like to hear his story.”

  Abby would have been happy to put an arrow through the colonel’s heart.

  Duncan used his plaid to wipe the blood from his face. “She told me she would have no more of him. She told me that his money didn’t matter.”

  Bridgewater shook his head. “Oh, Mr. MacHarg, you are very naive.”

  Duncan turned to the colonel. “You know her reputation, do ye not?”

  Bridgewater looked to Rose, who made an embarrassed cough. “The lady has a propensity for incaution.”

  The colonel made an interested noise and looked at Abby. “I didn’t know.”

  She colored.

  “Oh, aye,” Duncan said. “There was a tale, mind ye, that she took a grand coach with six footmen to York. You ken York, aye? ’Tis a journey of three days—three days there, three days back.”

  Abby shot to her feet. “Shut up.”

  “Which meant by the time she returned—”

  The look on their faces when Abby took her swing was the first thing that had given her pleasure all day.

  Duncan’s head lurched sideways.

  Even Bridgewater was momentarily speechless. “Mr. MacHarg, I’m afraid you will not be receiving an invitation to the next Clan Kerr gathering.”

  The soldiers laughed.

  But rather than show even the slightest regret, Duncan turned back to Abby with such a look of insult in his eyes, it seemed to her he was asking for another punch.

  She obliged.

  This time, however, he caught her hand and squeezed it painfully. “Touch me again, Chieftess, and you’ll come to regret it.” He flung her away.

  She cupped her aching hand.

  Bridgewater said, “Lady Kerr, please sit. I should very much like to hear why you were in the woods. I suspect badger is not what you were hunting.”

  “Aye, Abby,” Duncan said darkly. “Tell him why you were there.”

  “Make him leave first,” she said to Bridgewater.

  “Oh, no, no. I think he has earned the right to hear.”

  She gave Duncan a smoldering look. “There is a man I meet there sometimes. A huntsman with a wife. Our assignations are infrequent. Only when I can no longer stand the awkward floundering of boys.”

 
“Whore.”

  Bridgewater winced. “Mr. MacHarg, really. If your oath to the clan does not forbid such a remark, I would hope your manners might.” He leaned back in his chair. “And what of the pillow under your dress, Chieftess? And Dunworth?”

  She pulled off her bonnet, unapologetic. “The costume allows me to travel unnoticed. Dunworth, though, is a filthy predator who threatened to leave my body for the huntsman if I did not lay down for him, just as I said.”

  “Not quite as you said,” Bridgewater replied, displeased. “Sergeant, is the washerwoman still here?”

  “No, sir. She took the clothes back to her cottage. She’ll return with them tomorrow.”

  The colonel sighed. “Lady Kerr, you are the chief of a clan and know the ways of war. You will understand I hope that by crossing into the Debatable Lands in a disguise you have left me no choice but to have you searched. ’Tis my duty as a representative of the crown.”

  She nodded.

  “There are no women I can call on to do this, and I will not wait until the morrow. Rose, take her to my sleeping area, strip her to the skin, and go through her things. Make it as quick and painless as possible.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Rose pointed to a small space cordoned off by a set of heavy, wooden folding dividers. Abby curtsied formally to Bridgewater, who returned a bow.

  The soldiers holding Duncan looked as if they had missed buying the winning lottery ticket by a half a moment.

  “Would you care to observe?” she asked one haughtily.

  “Well, if you’re offering—”

  “Collins,” Bridgewater said sharply. “Mr. MacHarg, take a seat. I have a question or two for you, if you don’t mind.”

  * * *

  Duncan did not care to imagine the chill Rose would endure as he performed his assignment. Rose may have scored one of life’s great unexpected treasures in being able to carry the image of a naked Abby to his grave, but he would likely never recover fully from the sense that a bit of shite scraped from her ladyship’s heel would be of more consequence to her.

  “May I assume Mr. MacHarg has been searched?”

  “Aye,” Collins said. “Thoroughly. He had a sword when he arrived. Nothing else.”

  “Nothing in his pockets?”

  Collins blinked. “Oh, aye. A biscuit, some coins. Oh, and a button. The usual.”

  Bridgewater waved at Duncan to sit. He did reluctantly.

  The colonel templed his fingers and gave Duncan a careful look. “You’ll forgive me if I observe you look rather more like a strong arm than the lady’s jilted lover.”

  Duncan nearly laughed. In the sleeping area, he could hear Rose’s murmured, apologetic instructions to Abby. “Why can’t I be both?”

  “Why not, indeed? My concern is that your story is merely a construct.”

  “A what?”

  “Made up.”

  “What she has done is no lie, I promise you.”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind describing her to me, the parts, that is, that one cannot see.”

  Duncan filed away a plan to embed the man’s teeth in the back of his head at some point in the future. For now, he wanted nothing more than to get Abby and himself out of the Debatable Lands and back to Castle Kerr.

  “She has a sizable scar on her chest,” Duncan said. “From a musket ball.”

  “Oh, aye. I had forgotten the tale of her exile and return. Charming family.” Bridgewater tapped his fingers on the desk. “Unfortunately, every soul from London to Glasgow also knows the story. I’m afraid I’ll need something a little less well-known.”

  Duncan ground his teeth.

  “Come, sir,” Bridgewater said. “I am perfectly aware what a man keeps in his head. Is her mons dark or light? Are her nipples long or fat, pink or brown? Do her buttocks sit high? If you bedded her, surely you can give me a description that proves it.”

  The thought of murder simmered in Duncan’s head. Perhaps once you’d killed one man, you grow more used to the idea. “Her nipples are small and pink,” he said, seething, “as are her areolae. Her mons is dark—considerably darker than the hair on her head. And it is as thick as a pelt of fur.”

  “Thank you. I know this isn’t easy. Rose,” he called.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Is she undressed?”

  “Aye.”

  “What is the color of the hair on her mons?”

  For a long moment, Rose, who had, no doubt, been thrown into a shocked silence, said nothing, then, “Black as a raven’s, sir.”

  “And her nipples? Cherries or currants?”

  Duncan wondered for an instant what effect these questions were having on the morale of the rest of the company.

  “Currants, sir. Dewberries, even.”

  Bridgewater returned his attention to Duncan. “Jilted lover you are. I apologize for having to put her through this—though I suppose you don’t much care at this point.”

  Duncan grunted.

  Bridgewater leaned closer and met Duncan’s eyes. “My thoughts, should you care for them: Forgive the trespass. She’s a fine-looking woman. As canty as a horse in clover. And one never knows when one will need a similar sort of carte blanche oneself.”

  Abby, tightening the laces of her gown, reappeared in the main part of the tent, followed by Sergeant Rose, who seemed to be absorbed in the leatherwork of his boots. She stopped when she saw Duncan, and he, too, dropped his gaze. Duncan suspected Bridgewater was studying the texture of his blotting paper. Abby had that effect when she chose.

  “Sergeant,” Bridgewater said, “did we find anything?”

  Rose deposited a handful of personal effects on the desk. To Duncan’s immense relief, no silk square was among the items.

  “And you checked her dress, pockets, shoes, stockings?”

  “All of it, sir.”

  Bridgewater poked through the odds and ends, and picked up a small metal ball.

  “Was this perchance the shot that pierced you, Chieftess?”

  She nodded.

  “Well done,” he said. “I admire your spirit. Sergeant, would you please review the supplies and make a report.”

  “I’ve already reviewed them, sir.”

  Bridgewater grimaced. “Then would you please review them again.”

  “Oh. Aye.”

  Rose tromped out.

  Duncan’s palms began to sweat. They had reached the end, though what the end entailed, he did not know.

  “Chieftess,” Bridgewater said, “I am not pleased to have found you, disguised, on land belonging to England.”

  Abby said, “The ownership of the land remains in dispute.”

  “Not to Her Majesty.”

  She straightened her sleeve. “I should think the death of your soldier might be of rather more concern to you.”

  “You were lucky, it seems. Dunworth was an idiot, and you have relieved me of the unwelcome task of removing him from my regiment.”

  “I was attacked and nearly raped, sir. ‘Lucky’ is most certainly not what I feel.”

  Bridgewater inclined his head toward Duncan. “Tell me the truth, Chieftess. Is this man your strong arm or your lover?”

  Abby made a dismissive noise. “He is no strong arm, and he will never again be my lover.”

  True or not, the words were jarring to hear.

  “He ran into a line of soldiers holding muskets without even his sword drawn,” Bridgewater said.

  “Then he is a fool.”

  “Perhaps. But I would think an experienced leader of men would see beyond the superficial interpretation and instead consider the depth of character such an act reveals.”

  My God! He’s trying to reunite us!

  Abby shifted.

  Bridgewater looked at his desk clock. “I am requi
red to sign off on our ordnance requirements before the messenger leaves. Would you excuse me for a moment?”

  She dipped her chin, and he exited, apparently feeling no need to seek Duncan’s permission.

  Duncan breathed a deep sigh of relief. “You got my message then?”

  “Aye.” She opened her palm to reveal the tiny slip of paper with the words “He knows” Duncan had pressed into her hands after the failed second punch.

  “Revealing you before he could was the only thing I could think of to disrupt his plan, whatever that might have been. And a forest dalliance explained your presence and lack of forthrightness.”

  “Not to mention fitting my reputation. Six footmen? Really?”

  Duncan flushed. “Well, I—”

  “Uh-huh. Can they hear us, do you think?”

  Duncan considered the distance to the tent walls and the thickness of the canvas. “No. But I would certainly expect someone to be watching. So we must remain unhappy lovers until his return. You do realize he is attempting to reunite us?”

  “Oh, aye.” Abby lowered her head. “Is he dead?”

  He knew she meant Rosston. Duncan took her clenched hands in his. “He was alive and talking when I left him—with his men, who cleaned the wound and stitched him up.”

  He saw the wave of relief go through her.

  “He’s not a bad man,” she said, eyes still downcast.

  “He is not,” Duncan said. “And though he is no great admirer of me, he was the one who encouraged me to come and offered the full help of his men, if I needed them. They are waiting in the woods for us. And while Rosston and I agree on little, we do agree on one thing: neither of us think you should have taken the message from Archie.”

  “Neither of you are responsible for the safety of my people.”

  She was right and he had no counterpoint. “Where is the note? Did you destroy it?”

  She met his eyes, and a chill went through him. If that note was found on a clan chief, Bridgewater would have every right to put her to death.

  “Oh, dear God, Abby. Where is it?”

  “Very likely in his hands right now. Bridgewater is not quite the Cupid you imagine. He may be trying to reunite us, but his absence is also allowing him to search my cloak and plaid, which he took when I was first brought in. The note is in a false hem in the cloak.”