“She’s a bonny eno’ lass, I s’pose,” one of them was saying. “Though a bit scrawny for my tastes.”
“Judging by the girth o’ that barmaid in Invergarry, any lass under fifteen stone would be a bit scrawny for your tastes, Bon.” Emma stiffened as she recognized the unmistakable cadences of Sinclair’s murmur. Although she had her back to the fire, she instinctively closed her eyes so no one would guess she was eavesdropping instead of sleeping.
Sinclair’s observation was met with a fond sigh from the man he’d called Bon. “Aye, me Rosie was a bit o’ a handful, wasn’t she? Two handfuls and a mouthful, if ye must know.”
“I mustn’t, but I’m sure the image will haunt my dreams for nights to come,” Sinclair said dryly.
“Don’t try to play the monk with me, lad. I’m sure ye’d like nothin’ more than to warm yerself between a certain pair o’ soft, white thighs on this cold spring night.”
“You heard me in the abbey,” Sinclair replied, his tones clipped. “I told Hepburn if he met my demands, no harm would come to her.”
“Ah, but ye promised to return her unharmed, not unfooked.” Emma was still puzzling over the unfamiliar term when Sinclair’s companion chuckled. “’Twould be the ultimate revenge, wouldn’t it? Sending her back to the auld buzzard with a Sinclair bastard in her belly?”
Emma’s blood froze in her veins as the full import of the man’s words sank in. She might still be an innocent but she was no fool. If Sinclair decided to use her tender young body to slake his appetite for revenge, there would be little she could do to stop him. No one would heed her desperate struggles or her pleas for mercy. Judging by what his companion had just said, his men were more likely to gather around and cheer him on than rush to her rescue.
Emma shuddered, remembering anew the dreadful things she had said to him. Since she was the one who had boldly professed her eagerness to take a strapping young lover as soon as the earl would allow it, he might even be able to convince himself that she would welcome his advances.
She held her breath, waiting for Sinclair to deny his man’s words, to rebuke his companion for suggesting something so abominable. But the taut silence remained unbroken except for the cheery crackle and snap of the fire. Though her eyes were still squeezed tightly shut, she could almost see him sitting there before the fire, his regal cheekbones shadowed by its leaping flames as he weighed the wisdom of his man’s counsel.
No longer able to bear the suspense, she dared a furtive glance over her shoulder. Sinclair was sitting with his back to her, facing the fire and blocking her view of the other man. His broad shoulders and back looked even more imposing from this angle.
She had no intention of just lying there and waiting for his shadow to fall over her, blocking out the moonlight and covering her in darkness.
As she eased back a corner of the blanket, his velvet-edged warning echoed through her mind: If you run, I’ll have to put my hands on you…
She rolled soundlessly out of the bedroll.
If Jamie Sinclair wanted to put his hands on her, he would have to catch her first.
JAMIE GLARED AT HIS cousin over the leaping flames of the campfire. Their hellish glow only emphasized the devilish sparkle of Bon’s black eyes and the impish arch of his thin, dark brows.
Bon was one of the few men who could bear up under Jamie’s most fierce glower. He’d had ample practice, both when they were lads running wild over the grounds of the Sinclair stronghold together and during the half dozen or so years that they’d been riding against the Hepburn and his men. The only time they’d been separated was during those long, bleak terms Jamie had spent at St. Andrews.
If Jamie hadn’t known that Bon was deliberately needling him, he would have lunged across the fire and boxed his pointy ears just as he had so many times as a boy. More often than not, the two of them would end up rolling in the dirt, pummeling each other bloody until someone—usually Bon’s mother, God rest her long-suffering soul, or Jamie’s grandfather—dragged them apart by their collars and gave them each a sound shaking.
Their brawling had tapered off when Jamie had turned fourteen and rapidly gained eight inches in height and two stone in weight on Bon. Since then, Bon had been forced to do battle with his canny wits instead of his fists, wits that were on full display now as he returned Jamie’s glower with an innocent blink of his own.
Jamie should have disputed his cousin’s words outright but he couldn’t deny the truth in them. There were few on this mountain who would condemn him for sampling the auld mon’s bride. After everything the Hepburn had done to his family—including trying to wipe the Sinclair name from the face of the earth—it would be a fitting revenge for Jamie’s seed to live on in the womb of the woman the Hepburn had chosen to bear his own son.
Jamie felt a surprising surge of lust in his loins. For the first time since he and Bon had instituted their little game of wits and wills, Jamie was the first to look away.
Ignoring Bon’s triumphant grin, he picked up a stick and gave the fire a fierce poke, sending a shower of sparks shooting up into the velvety blackness of the night sky. “There’s no need to play these games. I’m well aware you don’t approve o’ me snatchin’ the Hepburn’s bride.”
“And why would I when the only likely outcome is for us to end up danglin’ by our necks from some hangman’s gibbet? Now that ye’ve gone and made off with an Englishwoman, what’s to stop the Hepburn from callin’ the full wrath o’ the British army down on our heads?”
“His pride. You know he’d rather die than ask for help from any mon, be he Scottish or English.”
“Then I wish he’d go ahead and die and spare us all this trouble.” Bon stabbed a finger in the general direction of the bedroll where Jamie had left their captive. “Because I can promise ye that trouble is all that lass is goin’ to be.”
Jamie snorted. “I doubt a prim, stiff-necked lass like that has ever done anything more troubling than dropping a stitch while embroidering a scripture on a sampler.” He spared his cousin a sideways glance. “Besides, she couldn’t possibly be more trouble than that bonny wee dairy maid in Torlundy whose husband threatened to tear off your scrawny arm and beat you to death with it when he caught you sneaking out of his bedchamber window in the middle of the night.”
“Ah, my sweet Peg!” Bon sighed wistfully at the memory. “Now there was a lass worth dying for—both between the sheets and out o’ them. Can ye say the same for the Hepburn’s woman?”
Jamie tossed the stick away. “She’s not his woman. At least not yet. And I can promise you I have no intention of dying for her. Not by the hangman’s hand or by any other means.”
“What makes ye think the Hepburn’ll even be willing to pay to get her back? He’s never had a reputation for bein’ overly sentimental. There are some who say he sold his black heart to the divil along with his soul.”
“Oh, he’ll pay. Not because he has any particular fondness for the lass but because he won’t be able to bear the thought of a Sinclair stealing something that belongs to him.” Jamie felt his lips curve in a grim smile. “Especially this particular Sinclair.”
“And what if Ian Hepburn isn’t as proud as his uncle? What if he convinces the auld buzzard to bring in the redcoats to fight on their side?”
Jamie’s gaze was drawn back to the darkness at the very heart of the fire. Even he had to admit that Ian was the unknown quantity in his carefully calculated scheme. It was difficult to pretend he hadn’t been shaken by the depth of the loathing he had glimpsed in his former friend’s eyes as they had faced each other in that abbey.
He gave his head a brisk shake. “If anything, Ian hates me more than his uncle does. He won’t want the redcoats doing their dirty work for them. He’d rather see his own hands around my throat than a hangman’s noose.”
The sparkle in Bon’s dark eyes was dimmed by the shadow of worry. “I don’t know exactly what it is ye plan to ask of the Hepburn in return for his bride but it’s
goin’ to have to be one hell of a prize to justify riskin’ all of our necks, includin’ yer own. Are ye sure it’s worth it?”
“Aye.” Jamie looked Bon dead in the eye. Bon had always been more brother than cousin to him and he owed him at least that much of the truth. “That much I can promise you.”
LONG AFTER BON HAD retired for the night, Jamie found himself standing over his captive’s bedroll, hoping he would be able to keep the promise he had made to his cousin. If he was wrong about the Hepburn bringing in the redcoats to retrieve her, he may very well have sealed the doom of his entire clan.
He had long suspected that the Hepburn secretly enjoyed the little game of cat and mouse the two of them had been playing practically from the moment Jamie had been born. Jamie could almost picture the auld man at this very moment, gleefully rubbing his bony hands together as he plotted his next move. To a man like the Hepburn the mountain was naught but his own personal chessboard, and the people who eked out their living from its rocky soil pawns to be moved about at both his whim and his pleasure. There was only one way to beat the man and that was to be cannier… and more ruthless than he was. By kidnapping an innocent woman, Jamie had finally succeeded at both.
He scowled down at the bedroll. The girl who slept at his feet was no less a pawn to the earl. He knew that it galled Hepburn beyond measure to have outlived his three sons and all their offspring while Jamie had not only survived, but thrived. Hepburn would stop at nothing to procure a new heir for himself.
Jamie ran a hand over his tense jaw, wondering why he’d been foolish enough to assign himself guard duty when he could have easily commanded one of his men to do it. He glanced toward the other side of the fire where they had bedded down for the night. Although he’d trust most of them with his life, for some reason he was reluctant to trust them alone with Miss Marlowe. Hell, at the moment he wasn’t sure he could trust himself alone with her. Especially not with Bon’s taunting words still fresh in his mind.
She had the blankets drawn up so high that even the coppery spill of curls at the top of her head was hidden. A frown creased his brow. She was a lady, not some sturdy Highland lass. She was probably accustomed to taking her ease in a fluffy feather bed piled high with down coverlets, not on the hard ground with only a thin layer of scratchy wool to shield her from the cold.
He squatted down next to her and drew back a fold of the blanket, seeking to assure himself that she hadn’t frozen to death just to spite him.
There was no coppery spill of curls. Miss Marlowe was gone.
Chapter Five
FOR A DISBELIEVING MOMENT, Jamie could only stare stupidly at the empty spot where Emma should have been.
Not only had she managed to slip out of the camp with him sitting only a few feet away, she had been clever enough to mold the blankets into a rounded heap so that anyone giving them a casual glance would assume she was still safely tucked beneath them.
“Bluidy hell,” Jamie breathed, raking a hand through his hair.
He should have known that anyone who would consort with the Hepburn wasn’t to be trusted. He was a bluidy fool not to have tied her to the nearest tree when he had the chance. That would teach him to try to play the gentleman.
He straightened, his grim gaze searching the murky shadows beneath the nearest stand of cedars. He would have never dreamed such a slip of a girl would be bold enough to defy his warning and brave the night or the wilderness on her own.
He knew only too well just how unforgiving that wilderness could be. A sheltered English lass had no chance of navigating the brutal terrain of the mountain. She probably wouldn’t survive more than an hour before falling into a burn where she would be lucky to drown before she could freeze to death, or stumbling over the edge of a cliff. The image of her fragile young body lying crumpled and broken at the bottom of some rocky ravine troubled him more than he cared to admit.
Jamie knew his only rational course of action was to rouse his men from their bedrolls and send them out to scour the woods for her. But some primitive instinct stayed his hand. The Hepburn had put a price on his head the minute he’d been born. He knew exactly what it felt like to be hunted through these hills; to run until you thought your aching legs would collapse beneath you and your lungs would explode; to never know if your next breath might be your last. He couldn’t bear the thought of his men driving Emma before them as if she was some sort of helpless woodland creature. They could very well be the ones to spook her over the edge of that cliff.
Jamie strode to the border of the clearing and swept aside a low-hanging cedar bough. As his practiced eye scanned the underbrush for fallen needles and broken twigs, a smile slowly curved his lips. It seemed that Miss Marlow had left a trail even a blind man could follow.
EMMA PLUNGED BLINDLY through the forest, her only thoughts those of escape. She knew she had no chance of making it back down the mountain on her own but if she could get enough of a head start on Sinclair and his gang of ruffians, perhaps she could find some hollow tree or sheltered nook where she could hide until the earl’s men arrived to rescue her. She could tell by the steep slope of the land and the number of times she had stumbled over her own feet that she was at least headed in the right direction—down.
This forest was nothing like the wood that bordered her father’s lands in Lancashire. She and her sisters had spent many pleasant hours there when they were children, picking wildflowers or gathering mushrooms for their mother’s table while playing at being pirates or fairy princesses. The sheltering branches of elm and oak were spaced widely apart there, inviting in glowing shafts of sunlight. The mossy hollows and gentle glades seemed more like a park than a wood.
This place resembled the forest in some dark and forbidding fairy tale—a place where time had stood still for centuries and some slavering ogre might spring out at any minute to devour you.
The thickly laced branches over Emma’s head allowed in only grudging flashes of moonlight. As she scrambled down a slick, mossy bank, the rasp of her own breathing echoed in her ears like the panting of some desperate wild thing.
She’d yet to stumble across anything even remotely resembling a road or a path, which was probably for the best. The last thing she wanted to do was make it easy for Sinclair and his men to track her.
Branches lashed at her as she ran, their bony fingers stinging her cheeks and tearing at the fragile silk of her gown. A sob of pain escaped her as her left foot came down squarely on a jagged stone. The thin soles of her kid slippers provided little protection for her tender feet. She might as well have been barefoot. She winced as she splashed through the icy water of a shallow creek, knowing it was only a matter of time before the slippers gave way altogether, leaving her completely exposed to the elements. What she wouldn’t have given for the pair of sturdy old half-boots she’d left tucked beneath her bed at home! Her mother had refused to let her pack them, insisting that the earl would buy her all the elegant slippers she would need once they were wed.
She glanced behind her. It was impossible to tell if she was being pursued or if the sounds she could hear over the rapid throb of her heart in her ears were simply the echoes of her own clumsy thrashing through the underbrush. She wasn’t about to stop long enough to find out.
She had no desire to find out just exactly how Jamie Sinclair might punish her for refusing to heed his warning. Judging from the icy composure he had demonstrated in the abbey and the authority he exerted over his own men, he wouldn’t take kindly to being defied.
Doubling her pace, she dared another desperate look over her shoulder. The moon was sinking in the sky and the shadows themselves seemed to be chasing her, the billowing clouds of darkness threatening to swallow her whole, leaving no trace behind.
She jerked her gaze back to the path ahead of her only to find herself heading straight for the edge of a steep bluff. It was too late to slow her forward momentum. Too late to do anything but make a frantic grab for the slender trunk of the birch tree overh
anging the rocky gorge far below.
The smooth bark slid right through her hands, offering her no purchase and no hope. A shriek escaped her lips as she slid over the edge of the bluff and into thin air.
JAMIE FROZE IN HIS tracks, his ears echoing with a cry so sharp and brief he might have imagined it. Or it could have simply been the night cry of some animal, either predator or prey.
He cocked his head to listen but heard only silence, unbroken except for the mournful sigh of the wind through a nearby copse of pines.
That’s when he realized something was wrong. He had been tracking Emma for nearly an hour, tracking her with his ears and eyes but also with some sense deeper and more primitive than hearing or sight. No matter how far or fast he traveled, he’d known she was there… somewhere ahead of him, out of his reach but still within his grasp. But now that awareness of her was gone. It was as if an invisible thread had been cut, leaving him dangling over a dark precipice with no bottom in sight.
Biting off an oath, he broke into a run, heading in the direction of that helpless cry. He paid no heed to the branches that slapped at his face or sought to trap him in their thorny embrace. He’d gone charging through these same woods dozens of times before, usually with a pack of Hepburn’s men hot on his heels.
This time he wasn’t running away from something but toward something. Unfortunately, that something turned out to be a downward slope that came to an abrupt end when the earth tapered off into nothingness.
Jamie staggered to a halt a few feet away from that deadly drop, his heart plummeting in his chest. He knew that particular bluff only too well, knew more than one man who had plunged to his doom there due to ignorance or carelessness or a fatal combination of both.
The Devil Wears Plaid Page 4
