by L. L. Muir
“Oh? So what have they done now?” Connor lifted his elbows for a woman preparing the table for the noon meal.
“Jamie and Jacob were fightin’ over who she fancies more.” Rory lifted his arms in turn and eyed the humming woman with suspicion. No bows in her hair at least.
Connor raised a bow. “Ah, but which she?”
Rory poured wine in two glasses and slid one to his friend while he waited for the possible spy to move away. “I never asked.” He had yet to get a good look at the other Englishwomen, so there was no telling which female had the lads in such a lather. “Ye should have seen them. Ready to kill over the affection of an older woman. An English woman.”
“How much harm was done?” Connor took a drink, more concerned for the wine than for the lads.
“Jamie’s unconscious. Jacob was bleeding from the mouth.”
His friend’s mouth fell open in surprise. “Ye saw it, then?”
“Aye. As did Ian. Nearly the whole keep watched, though I don’t ken if they realized whom the boys fought over.”
Connor’s face darkened. “Rory?”
“Aye?”
“I’m not outright calling ye an idiot, see? But who was watchin’ over the lasses while the lads were fighting?”
“No one. Sounded as if they were sleepin’ just before Young Bowman came to get me... But Bess was with them when I returned.”
“So ye’ve heard their voices since ye came back?” Connor was already on his feet, headed for the kitchens.
“Weel, nay, I’ve not.” Rory headed for the stairs. “Damn!” He took them three at a time.
When he reached the door, he charged through it. The brace popped from the wall and the thick wood bar bounded across the floor and landed with a sickening boom. No screams. No outrage. Not so much as a gasp. Nothing.
Everything was placed just as when he’d first surveyed the room, only the locks were gone from the trunks. The room reeked of women, all flowers and sweet skin—
Damn her! And damn his grandsire for ever laying eyes and hands on her hellcat grandmother! It would have been better if the late Phineas Kennison had known no reason to save Alistair Graham from the hangman’s noose. If he’d never known who had hidden his wife.
Alistair would have died long ago, swinging from a noose, spared a long life with a broken heart. There would have been no boon. And Rory would have never been born.
It was only right to make Bridget Kennison wish the same.
Chapter Ten
Bridget heard the horses long before she saw them. She waited a moment before peeking out the window, just in time to see three wild-eyed Scotsmen riding furiously past Bess’s family’s cottage near the north end of the village. She held her breath until they passed and a shudder ran through her at the look on Rory Macpherson’s face.
“Are they gone?” Mallory asked while tucking small coins in odd places about the little room. Since Bess had refused all but a length of green ribbon as compensation for the risks she’d taken on their behalf, she’d be finding little tokens of their appreciation for days after they’d gone, with no way to return them.
“Yes. They’re gone.”
Bridget wondered why her voice dripped with disappointment. She and her friends were triumphant. They’d won each battle, and the war was over. They had escaped the hunters and could once again play that role.
They had a great adventure ahead of them, again. And they didn’t need a trio of Highlanders chasing after them in order for that adventure to be exciting. In truth, she doubted her heart could take much more excitement in the form of a red-haired Scot.
It was well past midday when Rory, Connor and Ian caught up to them. The women had stopped near a burn a bit away from the road, not bothering to stand watch. The dust on their cloaks made them look as if they’d been on the road for weeks, not days.
One lass sat to the right. A smaller to the left. And since the larger figure had her back to them, Rory stood aside and let Connor do the honors of announcing their presence.
As Connor’s arms wrapped around the waist of the seated woman, the other two sprang to their feet and began to protest.
At first, Rory was impressed that the three had improved upon their masculine voices. Connor’s captive swung her elbow around to connect with his jaw with far too much power, however, and Rory realized they’d been fooled yet again.
“Hold!” Rory reached out with empty hands to stop further violence.
Connor had already turned free the larger form, who then turned to face his assailant.
“They said ye would not harm us if we had no weapons,” the young man said accusingly, his hood now hanging behind his neck.
“Who said so?” Rory demanded.
He cared not whether they all pissed themselves, as the three lads looked likely to do. He had ridden all morning with horrible possibilities running through his mind, and his relief at finally finding the women had just been snatched away as well. Bridget Kennison was going to pay dearly.
“Who?” he shouted. His bellow shook a flock of birds from the surrounding trees.
All three lads began to sputter and spill what they’d been told. They were to wear a dark cloak and head for Glasgow. Once there, they would leave the horses at Paisley Abbey with a message that Bridget Kennison would be coming to collect them. If three large men came upon them, they would not be harmed if they carried no weapons and did not resist.
“Where are they?” Connor demanded, when the lads had finished.
“We dinna ken, Sir.” The smaller lad seemed earnest.
Connor apparently didn’t believe him and took an intimidating step toward the poor boy. “Where were they when ye last spoke to them?”
“At Bess’s.” The larger lad came to his friend’s aid. “She works at Graham keep and sent us to her father’s cottage.” He sighed in defeat. “We were only doing our part, sir.”
“Yer part?” Rory knew the answer before he heard it.
“Our part...to pay off Alistair Graham’s English debt.”
With all the willing help, it was a wonder the debt was not paid long ago—whether or not the Kennisons were ready to be paid!
“They’re meant for Glasgow. Together. Dressed as men.” The third lad’s eyes dropped to the ground when he spoke.
Rory had no inclination to call him a liar. But since when did paying the English debt include thwarting a fellow Scot?
He kept a straight face. “Glasgow?”
The lad nodded. “Aye, Sir.”
“All right. Glasgow it is.”
The lads dropped their shoulders in unison, relieved the story had been swallowed. May as well let them believe they had played their parts well. The young’uns would stand their ground. They could dress it up as ‘doing their part for Auld Alistair’, but they were just like the others.
Smitten.
Connor fiddled with a small blade while he watched the lads ride away. “They’ve been terribly clever, in their foolishness.”
“Aye, they have, damn them.” Rory stood staring down the road long after the horses disappeared.
“Are they together, or have they separated, do ye think?” Ian mounted.
“Separated. If we know nothing else about them, they’re stubborn. They wouldn’t let the likes of us change their plans,” Rory said.
Connor nodded. “Their original destinations, then.”
“The lad said ‘together, dressed as men.’ So naturally, they’re each to her own, and dressed as women.” He wished he was as confident as he tried to sound. They’d be easier to find if he was correct. But if they were easier to find, they’d be easier prey for anyone.
“What of their escorts?” Ian rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. “What if they now have lads at their sides none of us recognize? What if we pass them on the road and don’t recognize them a’tall?”
Connor shared a rare grin. “I know three lads nearly as stubborn as Englishwomen. I doubt me they would give up their
charges easily. And they likely ride the original horses—the ones with the marked hooves.”
Rory brightened. “Ye marked all six then?”
“I marked all nine. Just in case they somehow ended up with our mounts. I would put nothing past a woman who managed to pour piss on yer head and live.”
Ian laughed. “I can’t imagine how they might end up with our horses, but it was a sound strategy.”
“And I couldn’t imagine them leaving Graham Keep unnoticed.” Rory admitted. He would never make a like mistake again.
Connor cleared his throat.
“Beg pardon, Connor. Ye warned me.”
Ian wondered aloud what might drive these clever women to take such risks? What was this quest?
“I dinna ken, my friend,” Rory said. “But I’ll have the truth of it by the end of the day. I swear it.”
There were a few things he already knew to be true; his cousin Jamie had deceived him; the fight had been a ruse; and the little bugger might well be with Bridget Kennison at that very moment.
Oh, but the lad was going to get more than just a bare-arsed whippin’.
Chapter Eleven
For the fourth time that day, Phinny caught himself headed for the stables and forced his feet to stop. He turned and stomped back toward the manor.
“Damn it!”
Of course he shouldn’t go after his sister and the rest. He’d handed that task to another. She’d be caught, trussed if necessary, and taken to Edinburgh. She’d be loaded on a southbound ship and dragged home with few the wiser. Her friends would follow dutifully, like a colt follows its mother.
The baron would certainly never hear of it, if Bridget was at least smart enough to keep her mouth shut. He only hoped she’d be remorseful enough to do so.
For just a moment, Phinny allowed himself to wonder what might happen if the baron did find out. Surely he’d call off the wedding.
The image of scales appeared in his head and he weighed the importance of Bridget’s reputation against her happiness, for surely the woman would be much happier not married to their odd neighbor, no matter what she claimed. She’d been an accomplished liar when they were younger, going about her mischief like it was an expected duty. But she wasn’t skilled enough to convince Phinny she was in love with Baron Braithwaite. He’d given her ample time to cry off, or to give the real reason for marrying the man, but she’d kept it to herself.
Perhaps he could lock the other women in the stocks and force the truth from them...
The vision of wide skirts billowing out behind the punishing devices turned his stomach, and his feet. Once again he was headed for the stables, only this time he wouldn’t stop himself. Bridget had no right to keep secrets from him, now that he was her protector. He’d send word to the baron and start things in motion. He’d also send to London, for Grandmother. If Bridget would confess to anyone, it would be her.
The only problem might be trying to track a Highlander through the heart of Scotland.
Late in the afternoon, dressed her precious cloak, but without the manly garb or beard beneath it, Bridget followed close behind Jamie. They made good time on a small trail that led toward the Highlands. Their passing kicked up little dust due to the previous night’s rain. It dampened the path and lent a soft patter to the drumming of their horse’s hooves.
Her scented bath still clung to her, the fragrance alternating with the smell of fresh leaves all around.
It had been leagues since they’d passed another traveler, so Bridget pushed her hood back behind her ears and turned her face up to the sun. In a flash of blinding light, she conjured the face of Rory Macpherson, and wondered what the next Highlander would look like.
As fate would have it, he looked exactly like the first.
Rory sat on a rocky outcrop above the road, whittling with a small knife, looking at neither Jamie nor his charge while the trail led the pair beneath him.
Jamie reined in and drew his sword. “Go my lady! Stay the course and I’ll find ye, I promise!” He whacked her horse’s rump and barred the path.
“Oh, very gallant indeed, cousin. Was it such devotion that won her affection?” Rory tossed the stick away, sheathed the blade and leapt from the rock to land on the trail, spooking Jamie’s horse. He crossed his arms and waited for the lad to get his animal under control.
While the horse backed and bucked, Jamie’s face turned a bit green and his eyes flew wide.
Rory’s anger disappeared in a flash. He grabbed the reins just under the animal’s chin and soothed the bloody beast. Then slapped Jamie’s blade aside and dragged the lad from the saddle to lay him on the ground.
“Ye wee fool. Jacob’s blow was real enough, was it no’? Ye’ve no wit to ride out with a bump to the head, son. I don’t care if a bloody Scottish princess needs rescuin’. If ye rode hard all day, ye might not have lived until the morrow.” He pulled the lad close and held him tight. By the look in Jamie’s eyes, the world had to be spinning.
“Cousin Rory. I tried to protect her, to do my part.”
“Yes, laddie. Ye did yer part fine.”
“Ye’ll have to finish the job for me. Promise ye will. If I die—”
“Ah, wheesht! Yer not going to die lad. Yer but an hour from yer bed.” He looked at the bump on the side of Jamie’s face. Nice and purple. Must’ve hurt like the devil.
A healer lived near. Rory could have the lad in good hands and be on his way before Lady Bridget slowed her horse for a rest. And when he found her, he’d let her ken just what he thought of her taking an ill child on the road for her petty game.
Bridget travelled quickly. She completely doubted the boy’s ability to get past Rory Macpherson, but she was moved to tears that he’d try. Surely the man could see the lad’s bruised face and take some pity on him.
She remembered being pressed against Rory, behind a door, in the darkness. Her eyes closed with the gentle memory of his hands on her face. Surely he’d be just as gentle with the stubborn boy who refused to be left behind.
Jamie had explained most of their route and pointed to some landmarks in the far distance. The first was a butte where they’d planned to stop for the night. But since Rory might be on her trail soon, she swung away to the right, hopefully leading him to believe she might head to Edinburgh after all. As soon as she could hide her trail, she would correct her course.
It really didn’t matter if she made it to the Highlands, but she’d be able to say, honestly, that she’d been there. What did matter was getting far enough away from the English border to make it impossible for the Braithwaite and others not to notice her absence. Long enough for other scavenger-hunting misses to be caught. Long enough to have a waiting audience when she pulled a Highlander’s kilt from her bag.
Taking Rory Macpherson’s kilt was out of the question. Even if she managed to steal it from the canny man, she would almost prefer not to take his memory home with her. It was too disturbing by half. She’d much prefer snatching a length of tartan from a line of drying laundry, or whatever opportunity might present itself where she might never know the man who had worn it.
Of course, the tale of being kissed in the dark by a Highlander would make a satisfying tale for Flora, even if nothing more note-worthy happened for the remainder of Bridget’s journey. And if she could produce a man’s kilt, the old woman would be too pleased to keep that detail to herself.
Braithwaite would be mortified and he’d have to live with his mortification. He’d been a fool to show his hand, to allow Bridget to see how much her dowered lands meant to him. And though he’d made it impossible for her to refuse his proposal, he’d also ensured that he would marry her, no matter what she did.
He was a monster. And though denying him those lands was the only way to truly hurt him, she would have to settle for humiliating him. It was the only power she had left, and she wouldn’t have it for long.
Thank goodness Fiona had given her the method and impetus to wield that power before it
was too late.
The rock-strewn path Bridget chose would have been difficult enough to travel in the full light of day, but the strain of picking out the animal trail near dusk, and leading her horse up the incline, was wearying. The only thought that kept her upright was that there was a good chance she had lost her pursuer. But for the first time, she was alone.
She had a talent, truly, for not wasting worry for things she could not control. If there were animals about, she had weapons to defend herself. If there were thieves about, she’d use the same on them. The worries she wished she could avoid were over the fate of Mallory and Viv. Young Bowman was confident he could see delicate Vivianne to Edinburgh. Once at the duchess’ family residence, her friend could safely hunt for a poet and a bit of romance in the light of day, stalking the University, attending parties if invited.
No. No need to worry over Vivianne, then. She’d be safe—at least after she reached the city. And truly, when not pretending the timid mouse, Viv could fend for herself.
Mallory’s hunt for a piece of pirate’s treasure could prove dangerous to anyone but Mallory. The woman could bluster her way out of a noose if the occasion warranted. Bridget nearly pitied the pirate who held his treasures too dear.
The only danger to Mallory was to her backside if she didn’t find a carriage or cart soon. Her borrowed mount was the only living thing in jeopardy, truth be told.
Bridget felt much better once she stopped fretting over her friends. But it only took the snap of one twig, near and to her right, to make her admit she wasn’t quite as brave as she intended to be. The bracken was low all about her. It could only have been a small animal, but still...
She wouldn’t be out there alone if a bothersome brother hadn’t stuck his nose over the border and into her grand plans.
“Damn you, Phinny!” she called out into the shadows, hoping her bravado would still her furry audience and rally her spirits. The silence of the insects made her smile and she trudged on, making lists in her head, forgetting details, making the lists again.
