by L. L. Muir
“He tells the truth, milord.” Another mounted man pointed at Connor. “This is the Highlander who fetched Lord Steadham’s girl off the Blue Marlin.”
“I did,” Connor said. “Her name was Beatrice, if I remember aright. Gave her over to her uncle, Theodore, though I do not like his chances of getting the lass all the way home again. She was…determined.”
Lord Pellham stopped trying to catch Connor’s horse and stepped back. “You are the Daughter Catcher?”
Connor stiffened, started to turn his head in Mallory’s direction, but his attention snapped forward again. “I would rather not be known as such, but aye. I am.”
Mallory’s stomach turned with dread and she reached behind her, to clutch the girls standing at her shoulders. “Do not do it,” she whispered, willing him to hear her.
The jump of his jaw proved he had. “As you can see,” he said, “my lads and I have found three more.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Connor prayed Mallory would understand what little choice he’d had. The one bastard had been wrapping the end of his rope into a noose even after his true identity was known. He had to continue to improvise until that wrapping ceased and the man pulled his rope off the beam.
They were her lads. Surely Mallory couldn’t begrudge whatever lie was told in order to spare them!
Oh, but she would. She’d warned him, with that brief, clear whisper. But he could think of no alternative. And now, she was locked inside her carriage plotting his murder. He could feel it. He could almost hear her whispering behind the window coverings.
Thankfully, the lads had all thought quick on their feet, even though they sent him the odd glare now and again, to let him know what they thought of his newly revealed title. At first chance, he would pull them aside and explain everything that had happened in Glasgow while he’d been searching for Mallory--all the other English daughters he’d found hiding in the city, some willingly, some not. What was he to do, leave them behind, unprotected?
At the very least, the lads would understand that he’d been moved to help other lasses who were foolish enough to go a’ hunting in Scotland.
Connor glanced to the side and found the hangman giving him the evil eye, as if to say he would be watching, waiting to put a noose around whichever Scot miss-stepped first. After a few glances and no change to the man’s expression, Connor almost wished he was inside the carriage with Mallory.
Almost.
If the lads were careful, even when they thought themselves out of hearing, they might all have a chance to see the morning.
If they failed…
“Daughter Catcher,” Janine repeated for the twentieth time. Either she still had trouble believing it of Connor, or she was trying to drive Mallory mad.
“Janine, dear?”
“Yes?”
“Shut your gob.” Mallory assumed the girl had heard it enough to understand what she meant, since the coach fell blessedly silent. “Forgive me. I must have peace so I may think.”
Connor had turned her in. He could have said two, but he’d said three.
He couldn’t have been the one to summon the authorities if they believed he was Black Brian. It must have been Jorgeson—or someone who’d passed them on the road. So at least she need not forgive him for that.
His reputation had been both blessing and shock. Daughter Catcher?
Obviously, he hadn’t been idle while he waited for her to arrive in Glasgow. And she had to remember that she and Bridget had been the first Englishwomen he’d rescued. So it wasn’t beyond his character to rescue others. Perhaps he’d needed money…
What did she care? He lived by the sword, he would die by the sword one day. And she did not intend to be around to wash his body and see him buried in the ground.
Then why was she angry?
She nodded, even as the truth came to her—Connor McGee had, intentionally or not, found a way to take her choices away from her yet again. Lord Pellham and his sheriff’s men would be watching closely, to see that Connor turned them in to the constable, which might mean they’d be jailed until their fathers came to collect them!
Rory would never have allowed it to happen to Bridget. In fact, Mal doubted Ian would have allowed it to happen to Vivianne. So why did she believe Connor would allow it?
From last night’s conversation in the woods, his words came back to mind. “Bridget and Rory were…destined for one another. And I worry that ye and I—”
Are not.
How else could he have finished that sentence. “I worry that ye and I…are fated as well?” Being destined for one another would cause him to worry?
Only if he didn’t want to want her—and hadn’t he said those words before?
She sighed and lifted the window covering, to allow just a little sunlight into her dreary thoughts. It didn’t matter what Connor did or did not say. A declaration of love might only be an apology, now. She could never trust it to be real, didn’t want it to be true, because she could not love him in return.
She refused to bear witness when that beautiful body turned cold.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Daughter Catcher!” The constable was pleased to see Connor and pushed gentlemen out of the way in order to greet him as he dismounted. “No doubt ye have a new collection of Englishwomen inside, aye?” He eyed the carriage and rubbed his hands together with anticipation. The man would clearly profit from whatever fathers got the pleasant news that their daughters had been found. A pity the money would not go to the lads, instead, who had watched over the lasses for weeks.
Or perhaps not…
“We will wait for the fathers to collect them, of course,” Connor said. “Now that I have an army of Daughter Catchers, I must now collect those bounties.”
The constable looked horrified and began stuttering. Lord Pellham appeared and the smaller man found his tongue. “My lord, we have yet to locate yer daughter. I will send word, of course—”
“Never you mind about my daughter,” the Englishman said. “I only came to verify that this Daughter Catcher is not Black Brian. And since I have your verification, I shall hire him to find my Penelope.” He reached for his coin purse. “Name your price, man.”
Connor faced nine worried lads and put the question to them. “I must leave off catching daughters, men. Of course, if ye so choose, ye can continue without me. Every one of ye kens the borders as well as I.” He said that bit loud and clear so that all the eavesdropping fathers might hear it. “What say ye?”
Going round in a circle, starting with Sim, each lad agreed with a hearty, “Aye!” When finally, it came to Padruig’s turn, the lad had to consider for a moment. But eventually, he added his commitment.
Connor turned back to Pellham. “My men are for hire, sir. If it so pleases ye.”
“It does. They come well-trained, I trow.”
Connor nodded. “And honorable men, to the last.”
Pellham turned and looked at Sim, who stood beside the carriage door, waiting for permission to open it. “Name yer price, son.”
Sim grinned. “I will need to confer with Sir Connor for a moment. But first, may I let the cats out?”
“Cats?” Connor was not the only one to ask, but he quickly added a prayer that Sim was referring to three ladies who may or may not be angry as wet cats when they emerged, not that actual cats had taken their places inside the carriage. He could promise nothing where Mallory was concerned.
He nodded at Sim and the door was unlocked, then opened. From the dark interior emerged a woman’s boot—and the entire gathering laughed. Padruig hurried to hand Janine down, then escorted her inside the constable’s office. With the activity still centered on the carriage, the pair would hopefully have a stolen moment to speak plainly. If Janine were no more interested in marriage than Mary was, he prayed she would speak quickly.
After all, the lad had many more English daughters to catch.
William handed Mary out and escorted her insi
de as well. They would only need a whisper or two to settle things between them. Martin, wise lad, remained on the far side of the carriage, sharing a horse with another lad, beyond the reach of all cats.
Mallory seemed in no hurry to disembark.
Pellham waved his feathered tricorn. “Stand back. There is one more,” he announced. “Come out, miss. We will only stand here until you do. Follow the example set by the other two. Face the consequences of your foolishness.”
Connor winced. “I wish ye would not have said that.” He sighed and made his way to the carriage door. “I beg ye, my lady. Come inside the office where ye might enjoy some privacy.”
Mallory said nothing. In fact, the interior of the carriage was strangely silent.
Connor looked at Sim, who answered his unasked question with a raised eyebrow. “She must be inside, Sir Connor. We’ve watched the door carefully, aye?”
He did not need to look, but he did. He even climbed inside to lift the cushions, to make certain she wasn’t hiding inside one of the seat boxes. Then he took just a quick moment to grin, there in the darkness, before facing the crowd empty-handed.
This mystery would be solved and Mallory found before the day was out…for he already had his first clue.
Connor invited the lads to join him at the Irish alehouse for a farewell. He and Sim had persuaded Pellham that one escaped English lass did not diminish the fact the Daughter Catchers were his best hope for seeing his Penelope again. And with a neat stack of coins as a retainer to start their enterprise, Connor felt no qualms about leaving the lads to fend for themselves.
He strolled around the table until he stood behind the guilty party. “Before I go,” he said, “I must have a wee visit with Martin, here.” He clapped the tall lad on the shoulder and held firm. “And whichever of ye was responsible for helping Mallory get away.”
Martin’s bones shuddered slightly under his grasp. “What makes ye think my lady had help?”
“No, Martin. The question is where is yer horse?”
The lad’s shoulders dropped and all denials were abandoned. After glancing around the table, Connor realized they’d all been in on it.
“When did this happen?”
Sim wagged his head and grinned. “Wouldn’t have happened at all had the old men not taken the lead, for fear of a bit of dust, aye?”
Connor remembered the two parties slowly separating until Pellham and his men rode at the head of the procession to Glasgow. “And where was I?”
Sim snorted. “Avoidin’ dust with the others.”
Connor sighed and nodded while the lads all laughed at his expense, insinuating he was an old man too. It was his own fault for forgetting where their true allegiances lay. “So ye opened the door and plucked her out of a moving carriage?”
Sensing the danger in answering, they remained silent. Connor realized he could never bully them into betraying their Black Brian, so he had to use a different tack.
“I confess,” he said, earning their complete attention. “I love Mallory. I cannae live another day without her. She loves me as well, though it will take some cleverness on my part to get her to admit it. Ye never kenned the way she was before Black Brian died, but I will bring back her ready smile, if it takes me the rest of my days.
“For pity’s sake, help me find her.”
“The Carnarvon, near St. George’s Cross, tonight.”
None of the others seemed to begrudge Padruig giving up the information. In fact, they appeared relieved, like the secret was eating them alive. Padruig, poor lad, was already deep in his cups, or deep in his self-pity, so it was no surprise he’d been the first to surrender.
“Who will she be expecting?”
Martin raised his hand. “I was to book passage to London for herself and a lady’s maid, and meet her with instructions.
“Then ye must do precisely that. Anything more?” When they all shook their heads, he clapped Martin’s shoulder again. “Then ye’ll come with me, laddie.”
Martin got to his feet slowly. “Wh…where do we go?”
“To book that passage, where else?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mallory escaped to the deck to get away from her hired lady’s maid. The last thing she needed was to listen to someone prattle on with a Scottish brogue. It wouldn’t have mattered what the subject of conversation.
She still hobbled a little when she walked thanks to a bruised hip from her daring escape. Even though they’d slowed the carriage, the lads had been unable to stop it completely while she’d stepped from the box and into a stirrup. She’d ended up on her backside in the middle of the road, but she hadn’t broken anything.
Bridget and Vivianne would have enjoyed a good laugh had they been witness to her daring do. If she got the chance to tell them about it someday, they would never believe that the same woman who’d failed to ride Old Hamlet properly would try to jump from a moving carriage to a saddle.
Thankfully, Martin and Padruig had helped her get out of sight before anyone had noticed. But she was careful not to let them know she was injured. Her pride had taken the brunt of it in any case.
Her pride…
There was nothing left of it now, and no use for it. Pride couldn’t mend her heart or make her forget Sir Connor McGee. Pride wouldn’t help her explain to her father where she’d been and why she’d gone. It was like an old pair of shoes that no longer fit. A pair of shoes she left among some old ruins in Scotland.
The wind and the sea spray combined to chill her skin and remind her of so many rainy days and nights, but the taste of it was much different, and she shook her head quickly to keep a nostalgic thought from forming.
I miss home. My home. I miss England and sunny days, and proper speaking. Manners and linens and sleeping indoors. The list went on until she found herself adding the feel of heather bells crumbling between her fingers, the smell of crushed pine needles…and tasty Highlanders.
Her hands rose to touch her cheeks, then she jumped at the feel of cold, unfeeling flesh. Dead men, she would not miss. And what was Connor, if not a dead man, in time?
“Mallory Naylor!”
She started at the sound of her name and spun on her heel, to find the source. The ship’s crew paused in their tasks to stare back at her, some trying to keep from smiling, one grinning outright. The wave of an arm caught her eye and she looked up.
Connor McGee stood upon the top rail of the quarterdeck, grinning like a fool and waving like a drunken sailor. She hadn’t recognized him at first because he wore a white shirt instead of the usual black.
“Brace yerself!” He held a fat rope, then hopped off the rail and grabbed with both hands. His feet lifted over the front rail and he swung, through the air, headed directly for her.
She stepped to the side but was trapped against the railing. Connor swung past, then back again, landing on his feet in front of her, then holding his arms out to his sides to catch his balance. Was she dreaming? Connor McGee didn’t waste his time with silliness.
She shook her head, confused. “What do you suppose you are doing?”
He stepped up to her and slid one arm around her waist, to pull her close. “Shut that pretty gob of yers, lass, and dinnae ruin the moment.” He laid his warm lips against her cold ones and greeted her like a lonely husband come home from a long journey.
After indulging herself one last time, she finally found the strength to push his shoulders back. “I shall ask again. What are you doing?”
He grinned. “Swooping.” Then he ducked his head to kiss the side of her neck, moving outward, to her shoulder.
“Swooping?”
“Aye. Swooping. And if ye say I’ve done it wrong, I can try it again, though I’ve already worn my hands raw with the practicing.” He started his lips back toward her neck again.
Mallory only remembered using the word once, when she’d explained to Janine and Mary what she’d hoped Connor would have done after Bridget’s wedding. Clearly, he’d b
een listening outside the window.
“Swooping,” she repeated.
“Aye, lass. Will it suffice?”
“Oh, Connor. What am I to do with you?”
“Ye’ll marry me, that is what.”
“So, that is the ploy you used to get the boys to give me up? The promise of marriage?”
He frowned and shook his head. “I dinnae believe so, nay. The gist of my speech went more along the lines of…” He pulled her close again and began kissing her face. “I love Mallory. I cannae live another day without her.” He skimmed past her lips to kiss the opposite cheek. “She loves me as well, though it will take some cleverness on my part to get her to admit it.” He kissed both eyes. “And I will bring back her ready smile if it takes me the rest of my days.”
Finally, he found her mouth again and made up for neglecting it. She was certain, after a thorough ravishing, he would expect her to relent. But she knew what would happen if she lost him—it would destroy her.
“There is only one sacrifice I must insist ye make, before I will pledge my troth.”
“Oh?”
“Aye.” He snaked his hands around her neck and lifted the large chain up and over her hair. When she reached for it, he held it out and away. “Nay, lass. Let me speak.” She folded her arms and gave him a look he chose not to interpret. “I am not Black Brian. Say it.”
“I am not Black Brian.”
He laughed. “Nay, lass. Connor is not Black Brian.”
She rolled her eyes. “You are not Black Brian.”
“Aye. I am not Black Brian, and I will no longer live by the sword—or any other blade. I will sail to London and kiss the bloody ground if need be. I will do what I must to win yer father’s blessing, and I will take ye before a priest and the whole of London. I vow to live as tedious a life as ye can stomach, as long as I can live with ye in my arms. And if ye need more swooping, ye shall have more swooping. But first, ye must give up the chain.”
