by Amanda Scott
“But I don’t want to go with you!”
“Sakes, mistress,” he said, “I expected you to be thrilled by my daring rescue. You cannot want to molder away at Dundreggan, putting up with that sappie-headed bletherskate, Alex Chisholm, whilst you wait for your brother to collect you and bury you alive at Ardintoul.”
Although she had been bemoaning this exact fate less than a quarter-hour before, Bab disliked the alternative more. Watching his men lead the other women off down the trail, she said curtly, “Do you want to ruin me?”
“I want to marry you, my sweet, to add to my consequence in the shire, and if you will but consider a moment, you will realize my cleverness. Even if her ladyship does not believe that I am the Black Fox, the rumor will quickly spread that the Fox fell tail over top in love with you and carried you off.”
“Patrick does not believe in the Fox. He will kill you for this.”
“Then he will hang for his crime,” Dalcross retorted. “My father is the Sheriff of Inverness-shire, after all, and I am his deputy.”
“Nonsense, even I know that Chisholm serves as Sheriff of Inverness.”
“He has not for almost a year. I assumed you knew that he had retired.”
“I didn’t know any such thing,” she said. “Nor do I know it now.”
“Well, it is true.”
“I do not pay much heed to politics,” Bab admitted, “and news from Inverness rarely reaches us at Ardintoul.” Sarcastically, she added, “Does Sheriff Dalcross know that his only son goes about claiming to be the Black Fox?”
He smiled enigmatically but said only, “My father wisely allows himself to be guided by me, so in due time, I expect to succeed him as sheriff. I warrant you will enjoy the increased status of being the sheriff’s lady.”
“By heaven, if you succeed in this wretched plan, I will kill you myself!”
“We hang women, too, my sweet, but you may try your worst. I believe I can defend myself, whatever you do.”
“Does it not occur to you that, even if your plan should succeed, an unwilling wife might prove to be an uncomfortable one?”
“She will soon learn to conform to my wishes, however,” he replied, reaching to take her reins from her hands. “If she does not, I will make her sorry.”
Bab ground her teeth but said no more. As he turned their horses, it occurred to her that had anyone suggested half an hour before that she would be wishing for her brother’s presence now, she would have laughed, but she could think of no grander sight than that of Patrick or Wild Fin Mackenzie leading an army of Kintail men to rescue her. It would not happen, though. They were in Stirling, days away.
Francis Dalcross rode ahead, leading Bab’s bay gelding by its reins, leaving her nothing to do but think. A knot of fear had settled in her midsection, but she strove to ignore it, refusing to let him see that she felt anything other than fury.
She was no coward. For as long as history had recorded such matters, the MacRaes had guarded the Mackenzies and fought for them, serving them without being servants to them. Just as Patrick served Fin Mackenzie as his constable and friend, her father had served Fin’s father and had died at his side in battle. The MacRaes did not sire weaklings, and she was true to her breeding.
As they rode, her thoughts raced, but although her mind was willing and able, the result was small. She knew the lands and tracks of Kintail through and through, but she had rarely visited the Great Glen or its environs—only twice in her life, in fact—and she had never been on this path before today. She and her mother had not traveled by road to Stirling. Instead, they had gone from Kintail down the west coast to Dumbarton in a sea galley rowed by strong oarsmen and aided by lugsails and a stiff wind from the north. From Dumbarton, they had hired horses and men-at-arms to take them to Stirling Castle.
So far, at least, she knew how to get back to where Dalcross had caught her. Although he turned uphill through dense woodland that soon hid the path from view behind them, she still did not worry, because she knew the path followed the glen. She could easily find it again, and since Lady Chisholm had said they would stay with friends in the next glen, she was sure she could find them again too, if she could just get away from Francis before he got her totally lost.
His horse was large, well muscled, and undoubtedly fresher than hers, which was tired from days of traveling. They had not changed horses, because Chisholm had insisted that the slow pace would not tax even the oldest nag, that a few hours’ rest each night was all they needed, but she knew that horses did not rest any better than humans in strange surroundings. Thus, she judged her chances of outrunning Dalcross to be small and tried to imagine instead how she could outwit him.
Her usually quick mind seemed sluggish. She knew she was tired, but she knew, too, that if the men who had attacked the Chisholm party rejoined them, even the slimmest chance to escape would disappear. She would have to think quickly.
Dalcross clearly knew where he was going. Near the top of the ridge, where patches of snow still lingered amongst the bluebells, he followed a deer track for a time before he dismounted to lead both horses through a narrow, rocky pass. The mountains here were like a maze and as steep as the mountains of Kintail.
“Hold tight, my sweet,” he said. “I don’t want you to fall, and this next bit is steep. Even if these rocks are not icy, they will still be slippery from the rain.”
They had left the trees behind. Melting snow banks were larger and more precipitous, because the pass was barren and boulder-strewn, but at last, from the other side, she gazed down on a glen much like the one they had left, albeit with fewer trees and more heather. The slopes were purple with it, dull now under the gray sky but doubtless splendid in sunlight. She could hear a burn rushing below.
“It is beautiful here, is it not?” Dalcross said.
“It’s cold. Where are we?”
“ ’Tis my own place. No one else kens its existence.”
Scornfully, she said, “Surely others have been here.”
He shrugged. “I have never seen another human here. It is my place.”
She hoped that meant his men would not join them, because he would have to sleep sometime, and she could escape then. Looking around, memorizing the landscape, she searched for distinctive boulders and trees. Although she often had to think to remember which was her right hand and which was her left, let alone to tell north from south, Patrick had long since trained her to find her way in the mountains, where getting lost could amount to a death sentence.
When they were out of the loose, tumbling scree, Dalcross mounted again and led the way down through a scattering of trees into foliage that grew thicker as they neared the burn. For a time the greenery was so thick that Bab could glimpse only flashes of light on the rushing water, but then the trees and bushes thinned and she saw a thatched cottage near the water’s edge ahead.
“I thought you said no one else was here.”
“There is no one,” he said. “I built the cottage myself for my own pleasure.”
The look he gave her then made icy fingers tickle her spine. He was not as large as Patrick or Fin, but he was larger than she was, and she had no weapon. She had only her damp cloak and the other clothing she wore, because Chisholm’s sumpter ponies carried all her baggage. She did not even carry her riding whip, not having needed it in such plodding company.
Dismounting, Dalcross dropped her reins to the ground while he tied his to a bush near the cottage entrance. Then, without bothering to pick hers up again, he turned toward her, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
She sat still until he reached for her. Then, giving sudden spur to her horse, she grabbed a handful of its mane and leaned forward, spurring hard to urge it on.
His hand flashed up, catching the bridle and yanking the gelding to a halt before it had taken two steps. With his other hand, he grabbed her wrist and gave it a vicious twist.
Stifling a cry of pain, she snatched her hand away, but he caught her waist in bo
th hands and lifted her from the saddle. Instead of setting her down, he slung her over his shoulder as if she had been a sack of meal and strode to the cottage.
His bony shoulder bit into her side and stomach, bruising her, but she struggled nonetheless, screaming and pounding his back with her fists.
Ignoring her blows, he carried her inside and dumped her onto a pallet of furs and fleeces, knocking the wind out of her.
The cottage had no windows, so Dalcross loomed over her like a dark, evil shadow outlined in the dim light from the doorway behind him.
“Before you strike someone, you should consider the likely penalty,” he said grimly as he unbuckled his sword belt and cast it aside. “If you ever raise a hand to me again, mistress, I will beat you until you scream your remorse to the four winds, and then I will beat you some more. Do you understand me?”
“Aye,” she said. “What I do not understand is why I liked you at Stirling. It is a penance just to know that Patrick judged you more accurately than I did.”
“Get up.”
She glowered at him, not moving.
“Do as I bid you,” he snapped. “You have already given me cause to punish you, and I do not let such things pass. Do not add to your offense.”
The threat made her shiver this time, but as she sat up, she said, “You will do as you please, I expect, since there is no one here to stop you.”
“I’m glad you understand that,” he said, bending to grab her forearm and jerking her to her feet.
Fighting increasing fear, she looked him in the eye and said, “You will have to force me, Francis Dalcross. I will never submit to you willingly.”
“I’ll enjoy forcing you, lass. I’ll also enjoy schooling you to obey me,” he added, catching her by the shoulders and pulling her close.
Seeing his intent, she ducked her head, but he caught her chin, forcing her face up, and then brought his mouth down hard against hers.
Bab struggled to free herself, but he just held her tighter, and when she raised a knee sharply, he sidestepped it, leaned back, and slapped her across the face.
As she put a hand to her stinging cheek, he jerked loose the strings of her cloak, pushed it from her shoulders, and reached for her bodice. Clutching the material in both hands, he tore the gown and the shift beneath it, baring her to the waist. Then, grabbing her by the shoulders again, his grip cruelly tight, he shook her and said harshly, “If you ever try that trick again, I’ll strip you naked and take my whip to you.” Then his mouth crushed against hers again.
“Release her,” a deep, unfamiliar voice snapped from behind him, “or her soft lips will be the last thing ye touch in this life afore I send ye to the devil!”
Dalcross whirled around. “You!”
“Aye, ye spawn o’ Satan, ’tis me, indeed.”
With her attention on Dalcross, Bab had not noticed that the light from the doorway had dimmed, blocked by the figure of a man whose head nearly touched the lintel and whose shoulders barely fit between the upright posts. Cloaked in black, his face hidden beneath a hoodlike mask, he held a menacing basket-hilt sword in his right hand, and his eyes flashed through the holes in his mask.
“Did this snaffling gallows bird dare to hurt ye, lass?” he demanded.
“No,” Bab said, regaining her wits as relief and unfamiliar heat surged through her in equal measure. She was safe now, come what may, for her rescuer could only be the true Sionnach Dubh, the greatest swordsman in all Scotland—perhaps in all the world. She had heard tales about him since her childhood, but she had believed he was only a legend. Clearly, amazingly, he was real.
Chapter 2
With one hand still clutching Bab’s arm, Dalcross snarled at the newcomer, “My men are all around this house, but if you leave at once, you may escape them.”
The Fox laughed, an infectious sound from deep in his throat that sent more of those odd feelings coursing through Bab’s body. “Ye always come to this place alone, Francis Dalcross,” he said. “Your men followed Chisholm and his party, and my men are following yours. All of them, that is, but for the ones who came here wi’ me and now guard this wee glen against undesirable intruders.”
“Do you mean to murder me then?” Dalcross demanded, his voice unsteady. He glanced at Bab, and although she still watched the Fox, she could see enough of his expression to know that Francis wondered if she knew he was afraid.
No longer fearful of him, she focused her attention on her rescuer, trying to judge his size and detect any other trait that might reveal something of the man beneath the cloak and mask. His accent was common to the area, albeit not as heavy as some, and he still blocked the doorway, so the dusky light in the cottage revealed as little about him as his voice did. She could not even tell the color of his eyes.
These thoughts flashed through her mind in the moment of silence before the Fox said easily, “I expect I could kill ye, Dalcross. Ye deserve it for the things ye’ve done in the name o’ his grace the King. I willna do it, but ye’ll benefit from another wee lesson in manners, so come away outside wi’ me, and I’ll give ye yet one more chance to best me wi’ yon Italian pig sticker ye call a sword.”
“By heaven, you’ll soon be sped yourself then, you insolent cockerel!” Snatching up his sword belt, Dalcross whipped the weapon from its sheath, making Bab gasp and look quickly at the Fox to see if he had anticipated such a move.
He simply stepped back out of the doorway to wait outside, clearly unconcerned about any trick Francis Dalcross might attempt to pull.
When the latter strode out to confront him, Bab followed, remembering her torn gown only when the breeze kissed her bare skin. Then, dismayed to think that both the Fox and Francis had seen her bare breasts, she clutched the remnants tightly together. Her cloak lay on the floor behind her, but she left it there, not wanting to miss a second of what transpired outside and wishing she had a pistol so that she could shoot Francis if he even looked like he might hurt the Black Fox.
Both men held their swords at the ready now and circled, narrow-eyed, each clearly measuring the other’s fighting state. The Fox had swept his dark cloak back over his right shoulder to keep it from tangling his blade, but it still seemed to Bab as if it might encumber him. She wished he would take it off.
She could see now that he was well built, that his powerful torso tapered to a slim waist and strong thighs. His black boots were nearly knee high but fit so snugly that she could see the lines of his muscular calves. He moved lightly, with feline grace, his steps muffled on the soft, damp ground.
Suddenly Francis lunged.
Bab clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle the cry that rose to her lips, but the Fox parried the thrust with ease, and although Francis fought hard and with evident skill, she soon saw that the Fox was more proficient. She had often watched Patrick at practice and recognized in the Fox the same easy grace and dexterity.
Just as that thought passed through her mind, Dalcross leaped forward and forced the Fox’s blade aside with a deft flick of his wrist, and then thrust toward his heart. She barely had time to gasp at the move, however, before it was deflected.
The Fox employed no offensive tactics until his opponent began sweating heavily. Then, abruptly, in a few flashing flurries, it was over. The sword that had looked like an extension of Francis’s hand one moment went sailing through the air the next, whipped adroitly away by his opponent, whose own sword point now pressed against Francis Dalcross’s throat.
Scarcely daring to breathe, Bab could not look away.
“Don’t,” she said quietly. “Don’t kill him.”
“I am no killer, lass,” the Fox said just as quietly. “However, this shameless varlet dared to rip your gown.” His sword tip dipped lower, touching the top button of Francis Dalcross’s doublet. “Dinna ye move now, varlet.”
The blade slid inside and up, slicing through threads, while Dalcross stood stiffly, his brow beaded with sweat. Then the sword slipped down to his belt and breeks. In moments
, the sharp edge had reduced his fine clothing to rags.
“Ye’ll step out o’ your boots now if ye please,” the Fox said politely.
Dalcross glowered at him but dared not argue with that gleaming blade.
When he had removed his boots, his nemesis said, “Now strip off what’s left o’ them rags and set them tidily by yon boots.”
“I’ll not stand naked before the lass!”
“Ye had no regrets about baring the lass, so ye’ll bare yourself, or I’ll bare ye, choose how. She can turn away if she doesna want to gaze on your puny body.”
Bab could not have turned away unless her own life had depended on it, but although she could see them both easily enough, her gaze was fixed on the Fox, not on Francis Dalcross. Her rescuer did not look at her, however, until Dalcross had obeyed him and stepped naked away from the pile of clothing.
“Now, then, start walking, varlet, and give thought to your bad manners and to them ye’ve stripped o’ their goods and turned out o’ their homes just for living as they ha’ done for hundreds o’ years. See how ye like bein’ without, yourself.”
“You cannot—”
“I can. I do.” Flipping a silver coin through the air toward the man, he added, “Take that. Mayhap ’twill buy ye a shirt from someone wiling to sell ye one. Meantime, the lass and I will look after your horse. Now, move along, or I’ll assist ye wi’ the flat o’ me blade as I did last time.” He hefted the weapon threateningly.
After Dalcross bent hastily to pick up the coin and dashed barefoot to the cover of the thicker foliage near the burn, the Fox moved to recover the fallen sword. Only then did he say to Bab, “Ye’d best collect your cloak, lass, for unless ye’ve a needle and thread by ye, ye’ll need it to cover yourself. Ye canna safely ride a horse if ye ha’ to clutch your dress like that.”
