Kilt Trip

by L. L. Muir

  “’Tis only I, cousin.”

  Rory cared little for the lad’s sober tone. It did not bode well for the report to come. Either Bridget was not with her brother and continued to be lost in the vastness between that clearing and the whole of Scotland, or she was back beneath her brother’s wing, well and goodly lost to himself.

  He imagined his face was a mirror image to Connor’s as the man flew to his side. Ian’s expression was hidden as he came forward and lowered his head to listen, his hands now braced against his own folded arms.

  Three fools, then.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It was time to struggle again.

  Bridget’s bottom still stung from the last time she’d been subdued, but she didn’t care. One more lashing and surely it would be numb.

  Slung face down over a horse, she suffered an unclean rag in her mouth and another tied around her head to keep her from spitting out the first. Her jaw ached. What she wouldn’t give to put her lips together once more.

  Comfort didn’t concern her, however, nor did her bottom. What ripped and clawed at her insides was what she’d brought upon Mallory and Vivianne. She was so ashamed.

  It was up to her to get them out of their new dilemma. Rory had promised her, before they’d left the White Boar, that if she fled him again, he wouldn’t follow. Of course, she wouldn’t have fled this time if her neck was her only wound. But when he’d spoken so kindly to Mallory and Vivianne, and then ignored her completely, her heart and pride had started bleeding as surely as her neck had done. And leaving seemed the only way to stop it.

  With her dearest friends at her side, she’d found her courage again. And now, those women were going to pay for Bridget’s foolishness.

  She didn’t care what these monsters did to her as long as she could ensure that Mal and Viv were safe. She’d promised to see to their protection--it was the least she could do for bringing them into such danger in order to exact revenge on Braithwaite. If they had any sense at all, the sisters of her heart should now be plotting their own revenge against her.

  Time to make trouble. Thank Heaven she had a talent for it.

  Dangling over the barrel of the horse, Bridget straightened as best she could and quickly brought her tied hands down against the animal’s belly. Her chin slammed into the poor beast’s ribs. It jumped sideways and the swing of its rump knocked one of her captors from his horse. His startled yell was cut short when he hit the hard road.

  At least her jaw ached in a new way.

  Praying silently for forgiveness, she repeated her assault and the poor animal bucked. Unfortunately, she was secured rather well to the saddle so the only change in her position, when the beast settled, was that her feet were closer to the ground and her rump no longer stuck up in the air.

  No matter. Cranky’s willow branch found it.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Thrice.

  She was wrong. Her bottom was not numb enough by half.

  Her four-legged victim balked as if it, too, had felt the switch and refused to walk a straight line, finally causing the entire party to halt. She thanked Heaven for clever beasts.

  “Oy, I think we should nay hold out hope of getting’ a coin of ransom out of this one.” Her fattest captor wheezed from somewhere behind her. “Don’t look like she’ll even make it ‘til supper. Best beat her for an example to the others, and sell her off to the highest bidder.”

  The gasps Bridget heard from the wood cart proved Mal and Viv were alert and listening. She had no idea how they fared otherwise. They’d been placed in the back and joined by two of their abductors. Bridget hadn’t seen or heard anything from them since she’d been tossed over a horse; blood filling her head and ears made it hard to hear much more than the clopping of hooves and the occasional squeak of a wheel.

  She’d fought of course. If the villains would only listen to her, she could demand to be placed with the others, but they hadn’t shown any interest in what she had to say. She’d kicked and squirmed like a madwoman, and just as she’d been about to give up, the most disturbing of the lot—the one she thought of as Cranky—had whipped her backside with a firm branch. Her immediate compliance had given him the wrong idea completely, but she’d let him believe she’d rather be quiet than be whipped.

  At least until she’d been rested enough to fight again, which was every ten minutes or so.

  A rough and calloused hand lifted her chin until she was once again looking into Cranky’s shadow-ringed eyes. Now that the sun was up, he looked no less frightening with his broken teeth and beak-like nose. His expression promised pain. His whip, a much more slender branch than she’d imagined, slid along her cheek. The smell of freshly crushed leaves trailed in its wake.

  “Did ye hear that, lassie? I no longer need concern meself with the condition of yer hide.” He spoke in English, no doubt assuming she hadn’t understood Scots. He watched for her reaction.

  “Mmmmnnf. Arruuf mmnf mmmmnf,” Bridget said as calmly and clearly as possible. Dear God, let him wonder what I’m trying to say.

  God complied. The man’s hand reached behind her and pulled the knot and a great deal of hair back over her face. She immediately spit out the rag.

  “Thank you,” she gasped. “If you will put me with my friends, I promise not to resist, sir. I will not scream. Nor will I complain.”

  Cranky frowned.

  But surely he would welcome her compliance, since her resistance earlier had resulted in his landing arse-first in blackthorn. Extracting him from the thorns, and the thorns from him, had delayed their departure to the point the fat man—who seemed to wield just a smidgen more authority than Cranky—had very nearly left him behind. He hadn’t looked kindly upon her since.

  “There’s nay space.” Still holding her chin, he picked the rag off the ground with the hand that held the whip.

  “Make. Space.”

  In her tone, and her unwavering stare, Bridget tried to imply every possible extent of her retribution should Cranky not comply.

  In his eyes, she could see his warring emotions. She hazarded a glance at the blood-caked scratches on the hand which held her chin, then returned her gaze to his. She could see his rage, his need for revenge, but she also saw something else—wariness. She’d seen the look in Phinny’s eyes many times.

  She smiled, showing the man just how pleasant she could be, if he’d only do as she asked.

  “Please. Sir.”

  He dropped her chin, then walked away. A moment later, she could feel him behind her, pressing his body against hers as he untied the ropes that held her to the saddle.

  Heaven help me! I shouldn’t have smiled!

  Her body dropped back against him. She couldn’t prevent it. His low laugh was as clear as the blow of a horn in her ear and her stomach twisted. She’d had a man that close to her before in the Graham kitchens, but it hadn’t been like this—revolting like this, terrifying like this. Oh, what she’d give to have that other man, Rory Macpherson, close to her now.

  She pushed her hands against the horse, which pushed Cranky back, then she pulled away from him. “Forgive me, sir, but my backside is sore.”

  Even with her hands tied before her, she managed to duck away from him and head toward the cart at the rear of the procession. She kept her pace controlled, predictable, ignoring the pain ripping across her buttocks. She passed by another four men on horses, two more on a plank seat at the fore of the cart.

  She made no eye contact, for she remembered how erratically Rory had behaved when she’d looked him in the eye, often frowning and stomping away. And since she’d managed to put some distance between her backside and Cranky’s switch, she didn’t want anyone else angry at her that day.

  Twelve men then, including the fat one. She could see the heads of the two men in the box but no sign of Mal and Viv as she walked to the back of the boards. A pair of horses were tied at the rear and she ducked beneath the tethers of one, hoping for an easy way to clim
b aboard.

  The first thing she noticed, besides the glint of morning sun off steel knives, was the remnants of dark, ripped clothing draped across the knees of the two men.

  All her fault. Whatever had happened, would happen, she should never be forgiven. Never. All she could do was try to help Mal and Viv get home. Safe, if not sound.

  She shut her eyes and took a deep, sustaining breath before looking further. But she remembered her friends’ dresses had not been dark, only their cloaks! The blackhearts were only after their money!

  Verifying her hopes, one of the men held up a bright piece of silver he’d just freed from its confinement, and with a chink, the coin joined a number of its companions in a small leather sack in the center of the cart.

  Backed up against the opposite end of the box were the two haggard Englishwomen, fully clothed and clinging to each other as to a mast in a stormy sea. Silent tears streamed down their smiling faces when they saw Bridget before them, but then their eyes flew wide at something over her shoulder.

  “I’ll just be givin’ ye a leg up, shall I?” Cranky wrapped an arm around her, then slid a lecherous arm across her sore bottom and down behind her knees before pulling up her legs and setting her inside. She rolled quickly onto her knees and prayed he wouldn’t follow.

  A horse approached. It was the fat one, who looked as impatient as ever. When he noticed Bridget in the cart, his brow smoothed a bit.

  “So. A third ransom after all,” he said cheerfully, though he did not smile. “Good. Let’s get on, then.”

  “Hold!” Cranky stalked quickly to the fat one’s horse and grabbed the bridle. “Ye offered highest bidder. That would be me.”

  The fat one’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then his face cleared. Bridget was beginning to think he was more dangerous when he didn’t frown. Cranky must have believed the same, for he released the bridle and took a step back.

  “Yer share is no’ one third, though, is it?” the fat one asked. “If she behaves, she’ll be ransomed along with the others, and ye’ll have one in twelve.” The calm man looked at the faces around him, then back at Cranky. “Unless ye plan to kill ten of my kinsmen in their sleep…”

  Cranky looked at the ground.

  “I thought no’.” The fat one moved his mount next to the cart and changed his speech to English. “There was no time for explanations earlier. Ye will be my hostages until yer ransoms are paid. If ye are in no condition to be ransomed, ye be of no value to me. Is that clear?”

  Bridget nodded.

  “Excellent.” He turned his horse back toward the lead, but his wheezy voice carried over his shoulder. “It’s an honorable custom, here in Scotland. I assure ye.”

  Bridget huddled with Mal and Viv, grateful the attention of the cart’s other occupants returned to their tasks. Soon they were forgotten by everyone...except for Cranky who, more than ever, lived up to his sobriquet, following behind the cart with his face twisted in a constant snarl. His gaze seemed trained on her mouth. The distance didn’t matter; if she plotted an escape, even in a whisper, he’d understand every word.

  She refused to believe he was watching her mouth for any other reason.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Rory had never experienced such indecision in his life.

  Standing at the crossroads near their campsite, with the threat of the Englishman entering the road at any moment, he had to make a decision and do so quickly. If he stood aging in his boots much longer, he and his friends may well end up, as Connor had warned, dangling like chimes in the trees.

  They didn’t take their horses. Why did they not take their horses?

  Bridget wasn’t daft. Foolish? Certainly. But she was a clever lass. She’d not leave horses behind unless she had others.

  He studied the road. Dozens of horse tracks littered the ground, headed north, south, and west. The paths of wheels cut through them like vines through leaves, with no telling the direction of travel.

  Had the women stolen away in a cart? If so, he and his companions could never search all such craft headed to Edinburgh. But once in the city, the three Englishwomen would be easy finding.

  Trouble was, they’d be easy finding for Kennison as well. And Rory wasn’t ready to be finished with the lass. Not anymore.

  Bridget, ye bewitcher, which way did ye go?

  He felt Ian and Connor watching him. He sensed their urging to get on with it, but he also felt their hope in him, that he’d choose the path that would lead them to the women they wanted.

  Rory looked to the dirt one last time.

  One set of wheel tracks turned off the main road and headed west. They were clearer, with fewer hoof prints overlapping them. Rory followed. Ian brought his horse along. Connor led the women’s horses in a string behind his own.

  Soon after the turn, the wagon had pulled off the path, no doubt for the night. When its tracks reentered the road, they were deeper. Was the ground less firm there? Or was there more weight in the cart?

  He waved Ian to stop and studied the hoof prints again. No deeper than before. The road was no softer then.

  He looked to the right, trying to imagine where their camp had been from the west road. Could it be?

  He struck out into the trees, only to return a moment later.

  “Our camp is but a stone’s throw from here. If they were planning to take something from us, this is just where they would have tried.”

  “They?” Ian managed to look pale and hopeful at the same time. “Ye suspect they didn’t run off then? That they were taken?”

  “Off the road!” Connor hissed the warning and ran the horses into the trees.

  Just as all men and mounts were safely ensconced in greenery and morning shadows, a company smelling strongly of England stopped at the crossroads in which the three Scots had been dawdling only a moment before.

  “Shouldn’t we send a few men in this direction, my lord?” One man’s voice, and his accent, sliced coldly through the misty morning air.

  “We’ll not cut our numbers, John. I’ll not send a few men to their deaths, nor to be ransomed. Respect where we are.” A moment later, the English party continued north.

  Rory wasn’t the only one suspicious of the west road then.

  “Who raised that one, do ye suppose?” Ian walked out of the trees, pausing to hand Rory his mount’s leads. “Respect where we are? And from an Englishman, no less.”

  “Wise men in England? There could be a handful, I suppose.” Connor pulled himself into his saddle and checked his weapons. “Just as there are fools in Scotland, aye?”

  “Aye.” Rory swung onto his horse’s back and nodded west. “I’d say six or eight fools at least if they’ve taken our women.” He wasted no time setting a fast pace and his friends were soon beside him. “And I would think,” he shouted, “the fools will be needing our help just about now.”

  Ian frowned fiercely down the road. “If they’ve touched my gentle Vivianne...”

  “I was referin’ to the Scottish fools, Ian. Listen lively for their cries for pity. My less-than-gentle Bridget’s got them at her mercy by now, sure.”

  At least he hoped she had. His prayers in the last few hours had outnumbered all his previous ones. So had his curses, but that was to be expected. There was an Englishwoman involved after all.

  In spite of what he’d said, he very much feared the worst—for Bridget at least. She’d never be able to behave like a typical hostage. And those other two might well follow her to her grave for loyalty’s sake. Just as Connor and Ian would follow him, he supposed.

  They were a pair, he and Bridget. Not much family, and yet two loyal friends who would see them happy, no matter what the sacrifice. But it was high time Connor and Ian were set free, to find their own happiness. They’d helped him limp along since that fated trip to England, even ransomed him once. They’d done enough. As soon as this adventure was finished, Rory would go home, blend back into his clan as quietly as possible, and wait for some lass to
trust him. He hoped to God he would still have his hearing by the time a wee laddie called him da.

  Connor could return to his plans for a trading company. Ian could finally settle in one spot, with one woman, instead of having to love and leave each lass he’d met along the way.

  As soon as the adventure was finished… Lord, don’t let it be finished.

  A rider came toward them from the west as hurried as Rory and his were flying from the East. Rory slowed. The other man slowed, out of caution, no doubt. No telling who one might meet on the smaller roads. Wise man.

  “Oh, Gawd!” the stranger cried, then dropped his head to his chest and reined in his horse a safe distance away. “Rory Macpherson, it was ye, wasn’t it? Damn my luck. Damn it to hell.”

  Rory stopped and realized he was no stranger at all. Blue Brian, the Irishman. Damn both their lucks.

  Connor cleared his long blade from his tabard.

  Rory frowned, not happy that the coming fight would delay rescuing the women, if indeed they needed rescuing. But he wasn’t about to share his business with the blackguard.

  “Piracy’s not easy from the back of a horse, I would think,” he said blithely.

  “Not at all. Not at all. Some might say ‘tis easier, Rory, me lad.” Brian smiled and raised his hands, nodding to Connor. “Ye’ll not be needin’ that, Connor darlin’. I’m a grand one for changin’ sides in the middle of a war, and I am happy to do so now, don’t ye know it?”

  As usual, it took a moment to decipher what the Irishman was trying to say. He wished he hadn’t happened upon Rory? Why? He was up to some piracy, ship or no ship. But willing to change sides? The only men with whom Rory was at war were Kennison—who hastened to Edinburgh—and the men who’d taken...

  “Where are they, Brian?” He hoped his voice expressed how grave was the Irishman’s danger if he didn’t reply quickly.

  “I thought ye’d never ask,” the man sang. “May I put my hands down, Connor?”

  “Nay, Irish. Keep them out, and stay where ye are.” Connor’s growl was a bit harsh, no doubt because the man had laid eyes on Mallory Naylor more recently than he had. The fact that Connor had paid Brian a ransom for Rory’s kidnapped arse usually didn’t upset his friend much at all.