The Scot Beds His Wife

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Alison’s hold was just as tight around her, and their sobs burst against each other’s in a symphony of terror, shock, and abject relief.

  What in the hell just happened?

  Not twenty minutes ago, Samantha and Alison had been no more to each other than amiable fellow passengers on an eastbound train, chugging across the wintry landscape of the Wyoming Territory.

  What were they now? Enemies? Survivors?

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Samantha repeated the words with every short, sobbing exhale. Though she couldn’t have said who the apology was to, exactly. To Alison? To Bennett? To whoever had been shot on the other railcars?

  To God?

  This morning she’d been the irate, disillusioned wife of a charming and dangerous man. An insignificant and unwilling member of the outlaw Masters Gang.

  This afternoon, she’d been the new acquaintance and confidant to Alison Ross, commiserating over childhoods spent on secluded cattle ranches.

  This evening, because of what she’d just done, of what they’d all just done … chances were good that she’d be hanged.

  This train job was supposed to be like any other. Each of the Masters boarded on the last platform for miles and miles. To avoid detection or suspicion, Bennett, Boyd, and Bradley Masters would each take a seat in separate passenger cars.

  Samantha would be placed in the least populated car, usually first class, as it was also the least dangerous. Once civilization completely fell away, the signal was given, and the men would strike, rounding up all passengers into one car.

  This was done for the safety of the passengers as much as the Masters brothers themselves, as the gang didn’t generally rob people. Cash, jewelry, and personal items were never as valuable as actual cargo. The Union Pacific Railway didn’t only deliver citizens across the vast American continent. It delivered goods, sundries, and often … federal funds.

  Even in these modern times, when it seemed all the gold had been mined from the rich hills of California, American currency was still minted in the east. Which meant everything from company payrolls, to government bonds, to cash and precious metals were transported by transcontinental railways.

  And the Masters brothers, aspiring entrepreneurs, had decided that if the government wouldn’t allow them land, nor the banks grant them loans …

  Then they’d take what they needed.

  This was supposed to have been their fifth and final train job. It was supposed to have gone like the others.

  No one harmed or robbed. Merely a bit inconvenienced and perhaps a little shaken. The Masters brothers would escape with a few bags of money that the government could simply print again, a “frightened” female hostage as played by Samantha herself, and the papers would have an exciting story to publish in the morning.

  The signal, both to each other and to the passengers, was one shot, fired at the ceiling, and then a command to disarm, get moving, and a gentle promise that all this would be over before they knew it. Samantha’s job was to act like any other passenger, and incite them to obey. Then, if necessary, act as the hostage to force compliance.

  “People are sheep,” Boyd had always said. “They’ll follow a sweet thing like you to their doom.”

  On this job, Samantha had been more comfortable than any other. At this time in October, with winter settling in but Christmas still a ways off, travel wasn’t foremost on the mind of the average American.

  Her railcar had only two occupants other than herself. Alison Ross, a lively, bright-eyed San Franciscan socialite, and a well-dressed businessman more interested in his paper than conversation.

  At first, Alison’s friendly overtures had vexed Samantha, as she found it hard to concentrate on responses when her blood sang with equal parts anticipation and anxiety. But, she realized, to not engage would be suspicious, and before long she’d found herself enjoying Alison’s company.

  She’d not known many women her own age, least of all friendly ones.

  Samantha imagined that in another life, she and Alison could have, indeed, been friends.

  Had she not been about to rob the train.

  Had there not been more gunshots than were agreed upon …

  Had Boyd and Bradley not bailed with the money, leaving Bennett to come after his wife, his white shirt and dark vest splattered with blood.

  Oh God. What had they done?

  Over the deafening beat of her heart, she’d heard Bennett say something about federal marshals. About someone taking a bullet in the shoulder. Boyd? And then a shootout.

  Through vision blurred with tears, Samantha glanced at the businessman, dead-eyed and bleeding.

  Her fault. All her fault.

  Bennett had shot him without a word or warning. Then he’d grabbed Alison and put his pistol to her temple, because he’d known.

  He’d known the second he’d seen the horror and denial on Samantha’s face at the blood on his shirt, that she wouldn’t have gone with him. That, while she’d have stayed married to an outlaw, she could never love a murderer.

  “Come with me, Sam,” he’d ordered tersely. “Come with me now, and we will go to Oregon.”

  It was in that moment Samantha had known he lied to her.

  They’d fought about it the night before, when he’d said Boyd wanted to go south to Texas or the New Mexico Territory instead of north to Oregon like they’d planned. That oil towns were the new gold rush.

  She’d railed at him. It wasn’t the life he’d promised her. They were supposed to go to the sea to make their fortune in lumber. He was going to build her a grand house on a cliff and make love to her while serenaded by thunderstorms. They’d only just escaped their desolate life on a cattle ranch in the high desert. She didn’t want to go back to bleak sweaty days beneath the harsh, unrelenting sunshine. She wanted pretty green hills, trees, and meadows. She wanted to live somewhere she could wrap a shawl about her and listen to sea storms toss rain against her windows.

  Last night, she’d been shrill, and Bennett had been cruel.

  But he’d awoken his charming self, randy as he ever was before a dangerous job. And she’d lain beneath his thrusting body, unable to relinquish the churning of her resentments and worries enough to appreciate his affections.

  Then it was time to wash, and dress, and commit a crime.

  Bennett had promised to revisit the issue. To make her smile again, to fulfill her dreams.

  Problem was, Samantha had already lost faith in Bennett Masters’s charming promises. A part of her had begun to accept what she’d long feared. Bennett would never go against his brothers, brutal and backward as they were. If Boyd decreed the family was going south to work in stinking, desolate oil towns, then there was no other option but to do exactly that.

  Boyd had once whispered to her in secret that, while Bennett might love her, he feared him more, and fear was always more powerful than love.

  “He’d let me fuck you, if I wanted,” Boyd had threatened once when she’d been mouthy. He’d grabbed her through her trousers, his fingers digging painfully against her sex. “You’d best keep that in mind.”

  She’d never forgotten that night five months ago. Because she’d told Bennett of Boyd’s behavior.

  And, as Boyd predicted, he’d done nothing.

  Now, when Bennett held his pistol to this helpless woman’s head, and ordered Samantha to open the door to the railcar, she’d looked into the eyes of her husband of four years.

  And seen a stranger.

  “You’ll let her go,” she’d reasoned evenly. “You’ll let her go, and we’ll get out of here.”

  She’d opened the door. Bradley had the horses keeping pace with the train as it slowed around the McCreary Pass bend. She motioned to him, and he spurred his ride faster. They’d get off the train, and she’d figure out just what the hell had happened before making any hasty decisions.

  “She’s seen us.”

  Bennett’s words had frozen her blood as she realized that he
wasn’t wearing his bandana.

  “People have seen us before,” she’d said over her shoulder.

  “Not like this, Sam. We can’t leave witnesses. She has to die—”

  Samantha had reached across her body, drawn her Colt single-action, turned, and shot him between the eyes in the time it took him to pull back the hammer of his higher-caliber, slower-action Smith & Wesson.

  Only now, while clinging to a stranger on her knees, did she have time to think about what she’d just done.

  She’d killed a man. Not just any man.

  Her husband.

  “Thank you,” Alison said ardently against her ear. “Thank you. I know he was your man, but I wasn’t ready to die.”

  Pulling away from Alison, Samantha noted the mark that Bennett’s recently used gun left on her pale temple. He had to have killed before, hadn’t he? He just … murdered that innocent man like it was nothing to him. He didn’t even hesitate. And then to even consider executing a slight and lovely girl like Alison?

  Her husband of four years.

  God, had she ever known him at all?

  Wood paneling splintered above them as a bullet pierced the wall, and Alison screamed, lifting her arms to cover the green silk hat perched above a wealth of mahogany curls.

  Bradley.

  Samantha’s head whipped around to see that he’d gained on their car, and had witnessed the entire thing. Luckily, of the four of them, Bradley was the weakest shot and only the second-best rider.

  The distinction as the best, of course, belonged to her.

  Boyd was the gunslinger.

  Samantha dimly remembered Bennett saying that Boyd had been wounded, and with any luck, those wounds would be fatal.

  Bradley’s mount galloped closer, and Samantha realized that if he gained on the train, he’d be coming for her, and only one of them would survive the encounter.

  She’d found her gun where she’d dropped it, but Alison stayed her hand. “I know a way to keep your neck out of a noose,” she said, her blueberry gaze surprisingly steady through the tears. “But we’ll have to … to get rid of the body.”

  Samantha’s racing heart shriveled, but she and Alison stayed low as they rolled Bennett’s limp body the few feet to the door.

  “You’re dead, Sam!” Bradley, unable to reload his pistol on horseback, was reaching across his saddle for his rifle. Which gave the women no time to pause. No time to hesitate.

  Together, they pushed Bennett through the door, and the force of the train, the wind, and momentum pulled him sideways down the iron steps. The broken sounds his body made when he hit the earth nearly killed Samantha, but Alison slammed the door just as Bradley’s rifle had found purchase on his shoulder.

  Samantha could tell his shot went wild, and waited a few eternal seconds for another.

  Alison gathered her wealth of skirts and knelt on a seat, peeking through the window. “He’s stopped.” She breathed in obvious relief. “He’s stopped for your—for the body.”

  It was only then that Samantha began to shake. Great, bone-rattling tremors coursed through her. All warmth leached out of her, and she slumped into a seat knowing her freezing limbs wouldn’t hold her weight for much longer.

  Resolutely, Alison Ross claimed the seat across from her. A bone structure as sharp and perfect as hers was only accentuated by pink blush and rouged, full lips. Emeralds swayed and twinkled in her ears, catching the light as she leaned toward Samantha.

  “He called you Sam,” she noted in a sweet voice that contrasted with her sharp tone. “That’s your name?”

  “S-S-Samantha,” she managed through rattling teeth. “H-his brothers. T-they’re going to kill me. I’d rather hang.”

  “You told me you grew up on a cattle ranch. Was this the truth?”

  Samantha nodded, wondering if she’d ever be able to breathe again. Assaulted by the picture of Bennett’s handsome face marred by a perfectly round hole between his eyes.

  “You can shoot, obviously. Can you ride, herd cattle, work figures?”

  She nodded again, before the absurdity of Alison’s question registered. “W-why are you being kind to me? My—my husband almost—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. It was too horrible.

  In spite of everything, a corner of Alison’s painted mouth lifted at Samantha’s expression. “Where I come from, in my country, saving a life is no small debt. Also, in my savage part of the world, from the time we’re very, very young one law is paramount to all others. Tha an lagh comraich.”

  “Comraich?” Samantha blinked rapidly at the lovely, obviously wealthy woman. Either she’d gone mad, or Alison was speaking in tongues.

  “It means sanctuary.”

  Shaking her head, Samantha tried to understand the woman. That word had no meaning to her. What was Alison talking about, her country? She didn’t look or sound at all like an immigrant. Was she not American? Had she not said she had a fiancé in San Francisco? That her family had been wealthy ranchers and she was forced to travel east to settle a land dispute?

  “I don’t know what you’ve been through, or what has happened to bring us to this place, but I think we can help each other,” the elegant woman was saying.

  “I’m lost” were the only words Samantha could conjure. Hopelessly, incredibly lost. Adrift. Misplaced. In every conceivable way.

  Alison’s gaze gentled. “Tell me, Samantha, have you ever been to Scotland?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wester Ross, Highlands, Scotland, November 1880

  Of all the things Samantha feared after agreeing to this farce, finding herself in the arms of another man so soon after the death of her husband hadn’t been one of them.

  It really should have been, she thought, as she tried to gain her breath whilst crushed to a body hard as stone by arms as unyielding as the iron shackles she’d crossed an ocean to escape.

  She should have dreaded this very thing, most of all. The wicked response of her traitorous body to the proximity of a strong and dangerous man.

  She’d thought she’d prepared for every contingency, every dangerous pitfall.

  Of course, in all the frenzy of the past few weeks, she’d never once considered the treachery of a proper woman’s footwear.

  High-heeled boots were the devil’s contraptions … or perhaps one of the many punishments a wrathful God cursed upon modern descendants of Eve.

  Either way, if Alison hadn’t insisted she wear these damned things upon disembarking onto the platform of Strathcarron Station in the Highlands, she’d have been sure-footed when the little urchin bastard had snatched her handbag.

  It wouldn’t have mattered that she’d been staring, openmouthed, wondering—like a dim-witted idiot—just what a fierce Celtic barbarian was doing at a railway station at this hour.

  Or, rather, in this modern day and age.

  For hell’s sake, she’d not even had a chance to step down from the steaming, wheezing train onto the platform when the handbag was wrenched from her grip by a sprinting little wretch. Which was why she’d toppled from the highest rung of unstable folding stairs with an indelicate shriek, and landed in the miraculously awaiting arms of said fierce barbarian.

  A barbarian … dressed like a gentleman?

  That couldn’t be right, as he was no gentle man. The steady strength crushing the air from her lungs rendered that quite obvious.

  “I’ve got ye, lass.” Something about the way the Highlander uttered the word “lass” instantly turned her insides to liquid. Even in such a setting, his baritone was supple as silk against naked flesh.

  Writhing in his grip, Samantha pulled away enough to look up at him and changed her mind, yet again.

  He was no barbarian. And certainly no gentleman.

  He had to be a Celtic god.

  Men worshiped metal and money these days, and he was crafted of both in equal measure. Also, there was no denying that the suit stretched over shoulders as wide as the Rocky Mountains must have cost incomprehen
sible amounts of cash.

  More than she’d ever …

  “My handbag!” Reminded of money, she squirmed in his grip, surprised that he didn’t set her down right away. All the cash she had in the world was contained in that lovely burgundy bag, along with other priceless documents.

  Identity papers.

  “Doona fash, lass. Yer handbag will be recovered and returned to ye.”

  She’d have asked him what the hell “fash” meant, if his eyes hadn’t stunned her mute. Samantha had never in her life seen anything so verdant or so shockingly, absorbingly beautiful. Not the quaking leaves of the sparse aspens on the Nevada homestead where she’d been raised, or the brief spring grasses that quickly faded to gold, then brown beneath the relentless desert sun.

  Not even the apparent ever-lush landscape of her new country.

  Scotland.

  She could still scarce believe it.

  How did a man come by eyes so impossibly green? Set like precious gems in features crafted by the same celestial hand that pulled the treacherous Sierra Nevada from the wild, willful earth.

  It wasn’t only his spectacular height and breadth that set him apart from the scant crowd—if one could call it a crowd after experiencing the crush of humanity at London’s Charring Cross Station—it was his uncommon magnificence. Samantha tried to find a different word. Something less dramatic, less ostentatious, and simply couldn’t.

  He was, in a word … Magnificent.

  Though his suit was the very picture of elegance, the shoulders barely contained within were anything but.

  Having only just had her first gowns hand-altered for her in Chicago at Alison Ross’s expense, Samantha wondered if his tailor made as much fuss over the girth of his arms as her seamstress did over her own extraordinary height?

  Samantha had been raised around her share of rough-hewn men with muscles built by long days of labor, and she’d taken the time to appreciate them.

  Hell, she’d been married to one.

  Damn, but the Highlander holding her was born into the world with more than his fair share of physical allowances.