by L. L. Muir
“I want to ken if he harmed anything more than yer lovely arse!” Kennison be damned.
“No. I don’t think you do.” Her voice moved, as if she were sitting up. “You only wish to know if he took my...if he took what you...what I meant to lose…” She grunted in frustration. “You’re curious to know if there is any use hanging about, or if the prize is gone!”
Rory couldn’t think, couldn’t move. How could she believe such a thing? Had she supposed all along that he kept her close only for a chance to steal her virtue?
“And now that you think the prize is gone, you’d take the coins in my gown instead.” She hissed in a breath, but he couldn’t tell if it was from pain or anger. “I suppose you’d like the sack, as well, but you’ll have to bully Mallory to get it, and I won’t allow it!”
If he could only see her, he could stop that mouth from spilling nonsense. She’d worked herself into a lather, and he doubted she realized she was sitting on her poor backside, she was just that riled. Hell, he doubted she realized what she was saying. But if he reached out to locate her, she’d scream and he’d never get the chance to get near again, to prove her thoughts had taken a wrong turn.
“I’ll take yer gown, Miss Kennison, so I may remove the coins and thus the temptation for another man to abduct ye. I’ll return all too ye, on my honor.” He took a breath to keep from lathering as she had, but damn it all, it was tempting. “As for wanting the prize ye speak of, I’ll die a happy man if ye’ll but convince me ye still possess it…” He couldn’t stop himself now. “…so ye can give it to the Englishman it was meant for, to keep him from flogging ye a second time.”
The thought of her baron flogging her poor arse pained more than his head, and muddled what he’d wanted to say. What he would have preferred to tell her, while pulling her into his arms, was that he would like nothing better than for her to still have her virtue, and yes, to give it to her husband, and that he wished with all his heart that he could be that man. But for some reason she was determined to marry her baron, a man she clearly disliked.
Did she want him for his wealth? Could it be why she’d become so angry over the idea he might covet her coins?
No. He’d never believe it of her. There was another reason she wanted her baron, and damn him if he would rest until he knew what it was.
The carriage wobbled. Fabric rustled against fabric.
“Bridget?” He squinted against the void. “Lass?”
He was shoved back against the seat with a great wad of a gown. Padded coins slammed against his head. It smelled of her, of warm skin, and gardens. Even though she couldn’t possibly see him well, he fought the desire to bury his face in its folds.
“Get out.” Her whisper was clear enough in the small space between them, but her voice caught.
He reached across, groping for a knee, and his hand was knocked aside by the slap of a wet hand. Tears, then.
“If my brother kills you for what you hold, so be it.”
“And were ye harmed, lass? I’ll have the truth of it.” What an arse he sounded, even to himself. “I would know if ye are in danger of yer...baron.” He couldn’t say ‘husband.’
He heard her stretching back onto her stomach. There was less rustling, due to the burden now in his arms.
“He touched only the gown over my hip. Once.” Her voice was small, distant though only an arm’s-length away. “The only one who hurt me was you.”
Perhaps she hadn’t meant for him to hear the last, but he had. He’d caused her more pain than the man who’d beaten her. He could understand that, considering how he’d tried to keep her at a distance so he could avoid falling in love with her. He’d failed well and truly. And perhaps one day he’d confess it. But he had a puzzle to solve first.
He would need to speak with his friends, to see if he was quite mad to consider it, but he suspected Bridget had just confessed the purpose of her mysterious quest. And perhaps it involved more than just the items Kennison had finally told them about.
No wonder Bridget and her friends were determined to keep it a secret.
Chapter Thirty-Four
A shilling flew into the fire.
“Damn.”
Rory wished he taken a blow to the face instead of telling Kennison his sister had sewn a small fortune into her gown. The poor sod had lost his senses and ordered both Mallory and Vivianne to be searched before those senses returned.
Connor and Ian had also snorted and stomped over the danger in which the ladies had placed themselves, and now the four of them sat around a fire, slicing open the hems and linings of three dresses while the women shivered together in the carriage. The door to that carriage was guarded by John, who broke into laughter every wee while, either because of the dramatics of the past hour, or over what he was hearing from inside the conveyance.
Rory would love to listen himself, but each time he, Connor, or Ian even glanced John’s way, Kennison would growl.
McMurtry’s men had cut the coins from all three cloaks, filling a heavy sack indeed. And now, with the Englishman cutting up Bridget’s gown, and his friends seeing to the other two, Rory had nothing more with which to occupy himself than to twiddle his thumbs and fetch coins out of the fire where a good many were wont to land.
Mallory’s dress was a bloody mess due to the sharpness of Connor’s smallest blade. The man who couldn’t miss a target with his eyes covered was now leaking blood from the tips of at least four fingers.
“Ye’d best wash the thing before ye let her see it.” Rory pointed to a bright smear. “And have it dry by mornin’.”
Connor jumped to his feet, no doubt happy to make Rory into a similarly bloody mess.
“If ye’d rather fight than continue, I could finish it,” Rory offered, reaching for Mallory’s now-dotted gown.
“Hmph.” Connor snatched the disaster out of reach like a selfish child, then sat and bent back to his task.
A moment later, from the corner of his eye, Rory watched his friend wipe the pale cloth against his face, inhaling as he did so.
Ian had noticed as well. He looked at the dress in his hands, lifted it to his nose, and sniffed loudly. When the dress lowered, he flashed an unrepentant grin and went back to work.
Rory looked at the pale green gown in Kennison’s hands.
“Not on your life, Highlander.”
When the next silver disk flew from the Englishman’s clumsy blade and into the fire, Rory folded his arms and snorted. “Fetch yer own.”
The evening wore on. Kennison’s men laid their heads well away from the women, smart lads, and the lot at the fire shrugged and stretched to keep themselves awake.
It was time.
Rory cleared his throat. “Why does yer sister wish to marry her baron, I wonder.” All blades stopped moving. He frowned at his friends, but couldn’t shake their attention. “It was The Kennison I was askin’.”
“I haven’t asked why.” The Englishman’s knife began to work again. “I did ask if she was certain, and she assured me she was.” Kennison took a deep breath, frowned, then let the air out in a huff. “I doubt she’s changed her mind, Macpherson. Even for you. There is something going on between them, but it has naught to do with affection. Something Bridget deems important.”
Over in the darkness, John freed his sword with a loud zing and turned toward the carriage. Rory was the first to jump to his feet. The others were hindered by fabric they needed to keep away from the fire. No threat emerged from the darkness, however—unless one counted a woman dressed as a man to be a threat.
In spite of her costume, Vivianne held out a hand to John, and the man helped her to the ground. Without her hat or beard she was a charming sight, and Rory watched Ian watching her, his mouth hanging open as she made her way to the fire in the green velvet his friend hadn’t had the heart to alter for his disguise.
“Vivianne?” Kennison stood and offered her the large stone upon which he’d been sitting.
The lass was
not a brave soul, like her friends. Viv was always the most shy, the most quiet of the three. And yet, she’d braved her way out of her wheeled prison to face Kennison, her jailer.
“Phinny...my lord.”
Kennison grimaced.
Interesting. Did the title of lord not sit well with him? Or was it that the woman knew him well enough to call him Phinny?
“Phinny is fine, Vivianne.”
“Very well. Phinny. I need to break a promise.” She looked at her fingers for a moment, then lifted her chin. “I must break a promise I made to Bridget. I wish I could see some other way, but I cannot.”
“I’m sure you and Mallory are the most loyal friends my sister could ever hope to have.” Kennison knelt beside her. “But in this foolishness, perhaps you have been a bit too loyal.”
Vivianne smiled. “Oh, Phinny, don’t call it foolishness, especially to Bridget. She is miserable thinking she put us in such danger, but I must say, we’ve done worse to her. You see, when she came up with the idea to rob the baron—”
“What?”
Dear lord, how many had said that in unison?
“As I was saying, when she decided she wanted to rob the baron...of satisfaction, let’s call it...we prodded her on. I don’t remember now who suggested what, but this adventure was not just Bridget’s idea.”
The wee minx looked a bit smug at that, and Rory wondered if he’d underestimated her.
“She feels responsible because she was charged with our defense, you see? I was to do the hunting, Mallory the cooking, and Bridget, the protecting, until we decided to find escorts to help us. We studied for half the year, don’t you know.”
“You thought some things through. I appreciate that. But it doesn’t change much, does it?” Kennison looked her in the eye. “It was foolish to sew even more temptation into your clothing than would naturally be there.”
Instead of blushing, the lass laughed in his face.
“Oh, Phinny, if you think you’re going to convince me we were foolish, you forget—I grew up with Bridget and Mallory. We believe adventure is the raison d'être. I remember you used to think so too. Just because you disagree now, doesn’t make it less true for us. Foolish to sew coins into our clothing?” She rolled her eyes. “We would have escaped those men at some point, and the coins in our gowns could have paid for passage home. You’d have thought us clever then.”
Kennison looked both disappointed and resigned. Ian was a large blond puppy waiting with a wagging tongue for Vivianne to glance in his direction. Connor scowled at the carriage now and then as if it weren’t fair for one lass to be allowed outside and not the others. But perhaps he’d forgotten that Vivianne was the only woman with a set of clothing still intact.
“I’m sorry Phinny,” she said at last. “I didn’t come out here to repent. Far from it. I came to betray Bridget. And I’m hoping you will find a way to help without letting her know what I’ve done.”
Kennison sat back onto his rump, as if bracing himself for bad news. “What is it?”
She turned to Rory with a sad smile. “I think you should know why Bridget will marry Braithwaite.”
It was that one word that bothered him the most. She hadn’t said Bridget means to marry the baron, but that she will.
Vivianne patted his hand. He settled back onto his rump as if she’d pushed him over. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to like it.
The tale Vivianne told around the fire that night left Rory’s guts twisted, his chest on fire. But there was nothing to say. No questions to pose. The lass had explained everything well. Too well. And though Bridget marrying the baron was a tragedy not to be borne, it would also be wrong to prevent it!
It grew late into the night, and there was little wood left to keep the fire alive, but Rory asked Vivianne to tell it again to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. He prayed there was something in her story that might hint at a better solution.
That second time through, her voice grew faint both with fatigue and necessity—the creatures of the night had long since sought their rest, and to speak any louder would have spread the horrible tale to anyone awake.
Kennison had listened with his head in his hands, his chin on his chest. But suddenly he jumped to his feet and paced away from the dying fire. Rory thought the man might pull all his hair from his head before returning to face the rest of them. As for himself, he was far too dejected to move.
“I’m more a fool than you know,” Kennison said, bending and gasping as Round Rob McMurtry had done. His responsibility would have weighed heavily upon any man, even if the bride-to-be was not his own sister. Perhaps if Rory had not been so occupied with his own desolation, he would have consoled the man.
Kennison closed his eyes and shook his head vigorously, displaying the very emotions every soul around the fire was feeling. When he finally opened them, he swallowed with difficulty, then looked at Rory. The expression on his face promised more distress and a new surge of dread flooded Rory’s breast.
“Braithwaite,” Kennison whispered, “will be waiting…in Edinburgh.
Chapter Thirty-Five
After her friends had been ordered to surrender their coin-laden gowns, Bridget was not pleased to find herself trapped inside the carriage with Mal and Viv again. What had her feeling prickly had less to do with having spent the day together inside the rattling cage and more to do with her nearly frantic need for quiet solitude—so she could relive those few precious moments she’d spent with Rory.
They might have been the last private moments they would ever know!
She and Mallory wrapped themselves in blankets and Vivianne donned her green made-to-suit. Every spare bit of cloth was needed to keep them warm since they weren’t allowed near the fire, and the Scottish evening felt less like summer and more like a moist English spring.
Bridget stifled her shivering when Phinny handed them a cold supper of bannocks and cheese through a narrowly opened door. Soon afterward, he returned with three mugs of hot tea for which they were infinitely more grateful. In no time, they were warmed from the inside out, and Mallory suggested they douse the ensconced candle and stop fighting the darkness.
Vivianne agreed and blew out the flame. “Since I am warmly dressed,” she said, “I’ll stretch out on the floor and you two sleep on the benches. We’ll all be more comfortable, I believe.”
Bridget was too grateful to argue. And mercifully, her friends found little reason to chat in the dark. Her mind was finally free to summon Rory. In the blackness, she could almost believe he was in the carriage with her again—except for the thrill that sang in her veins when he truly was close by.
“Aye, love. ‘Tis me,” he’d said.
He’d called her love! And she was English. Surely that meant his feelings for her had to be strong indeed to overcome even that.
And he’d kissed her!
Twenty times, or perhaps a hundred, she relived that kiss, trying to remember just how long it had lasted, just where his fingers lay on her face, how hard he’d pressed his lips against her—like a thirsty man finally allowed to drink.
What did it matter that he’d seen her backside? Ostensibly, he hadn’t been repelled by it.
He’d asked for reassurances that McMurtry and his men hadn’t abused her in ways that couldn’t be seen. But she hadn’t been expecting to be questioned—she’d expected him to confess his feelings for her. In her disappointment, she’d lashed out, accused him of horrible motives. Of wanting…what I meant to lose.
Bridget groaned inwardly.
Rory had to believe she’d intended to lose her virtue, but it wasn’t true at all. She’d been thinking about her reputation, but her tongue hadn’t been able to function quickly enough to match her temper. And now it was too late to deny it.
She shook her fist in the dark and it hit the rear wall with a thump. For a long moment, she held her breath, but no one stirred. No one spoke. Perhaps the others were already asleep.
The three of the
m—rebuked and sent to their room. Not at all what they had planned. But their plans meant nothing now. At least hers didn’t. Shamefully, she had no idea what her friends were thinking. They’d talked all day, on and off, but her mind had been on a wide-shouldered Highlander with deep red hair and not on the relationships between that Highlander’s friends and her own.
Were Mal and Viv as smitten with Connor and Ian? Was that the reason they’d been more quiet than usual? She determined to question her friends in the morning, but she suspected they, too, had changed a great deal since they’d left England. Perhaps they’d all but forgotten about a piece of pirate’s treasure and a love letter.
It seemed like months since she’d tricked her way out from under her brother’s roof. And, looking back, she had a difficult time believing she was that same girl who had, less than a fortnight ago, rushed toward the Scottish border, fearless and foolish, thinking there was no danger that couldn’t be deflected with a sword.
Danger to the heart was simply part of the history between Grandmother and Alistair Graham. A myth. A tale to enliven an afternoon of sewing.
Danger to their persons, she’d been prepared for. Against Rory Macpherson and his ability to turn her insides to warm liquid simply by standing too close, she could have never have adequately armed herself.
Yes. She’d changed. She was no longer interested in upsetting the baron by acquiring a kilt. Her thoughts were solely consumed with the man inside that kilt. But even if Rory Macpherson had realized a similar obsession for her, it wouldn’t matter. She still had to leave him behind.
If he now considered her less than virtuous because of her outburst, perhaps it was for the best. If there was no way to lessen her own heartache, perhaps the misunderstanding could lessen his.
Love, he’d called her.
At least she could hold tight to the memory that once upon a time, someone had used the endearment on her. For it was certain the baron never would.
