Hoofbeats, distant but steadily advancing, came toward the knoll. Catherine could see them much more clearly now. Their bonnets were blue, their waistcoats and jackets red with buff facings and white buttons. Dark-green-and-blue lengths of plaid were draped over burly, stooped shoulders, the colors and patterns matched with the pleated tartan they wore belted about their waists. Across each barrel chest was a crossbelt and sword. A brace of claw-butted pistols were sheathed in each man’s belt, and a long-snouted musket was slung across each saddle.
“Catherine—” The warmth in Cameron’s voice dragged her attention away from the advancing soldiers. “If you looked any more relaxed you would frighten away the devil himself.”
“Why should I trust you?” she asked slowly. “Why should I even believe you?”
He shrugged and leaned back on one elbow. “Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe those eight men are your salvation. Heaven only knows we have beaten you every day, tied you hand and foot every night, starved you, mistreated you in every way imaginable. Why, indeed, should you trust us now?”
His sarcasm stung, and she felt tears stinging her eyes. “What if they recognize you?”
“It has been fifteen years,” he reminded her softly.
How could anyone forget him, she wondered, having felt the power of those accursed eyes? She said nothing, glancing instead at the coach where Deirdre stood partially shielded behind Aluinn MacKail. The Highlander had donned his black and gold frock coat, as had Iain Cameron, and both had pulled the wide-brimmed hats low over their foreheads to throw shadows over their features—shadows the younger man needed most of all to hide the bruises from his broken nose.
“They look about as much like servants as I do,” she bristled.
Cameron was pensive for a moment, then curved his lips in a faint smile. “I shall trust your judgment in that, but since we are a little pressed for alternatives, I guess we will just have to make sure the Watchmen have something else to look at. Put your arms around my neck.”
“What?”
“I said—” He curled a muscular arm around her waist and brought her down beside him on the blanket. “Put your arms around my neck. I am going to kiss you, Mistress Ashbrooke, and the effect would be far more convincing if you appeared to be enjoying it.”
“You will do no such th—”
His mouth moved swiftly to cover hers and smother the protest at the same time that his body shifted to pin her firmly beneath him. Her skirts flew up in a splash of lace petticoats, but the absolute authority of the hand that was suddenly pressing over her windpipe quickly brought her efforts to dislodge him to a standstill. Having won her attention, his lips slanted purposefully over hers. His tongue thrust insolently past the barrier of her teeth and lashed boldly around the recesses of her mouth. She was forced to submit, she had no choice, yet the temper she had so painstakingly held in check over the past few days snapped like an overdrawn bowstring, and she was determined he was not going to amuse himself again at her expense.
With a devious little gasp she parted her lips wider and pretended to melt beneath his lusty ministrations. She ran her hands up and around his shoulders, deliberately raking her fingers into the thick, glossy waves of his hair. She began kissing him back, her efforts matching his thrust for thrust, her lips as energetically demanding as his.
She expected him to flinch warily back and was not entirely disappointed, but his retreat was effectively—and painfully—sabotaged by the sharp points of her fingernails digging into his scalp. Her teeth bit down with malicious relish on the meat of his tongue, and she could have laughed aloud at the sound of the strangled cry that broke from his throat!
Her smugness was short-lived, however, for in the next instant his hand slid down the arch of her neck and brazenly cupped itself around the swell of her breast. It had become her custom—since it was hot in the coach and no one of importance was likely to be seeing her, whether at her best or her worst—to forgo the discomfort of lacing herself into a tight corset or stomacher. Thus there was very little protection between her flesh and the palm of his hand, and shocked by the intrusion, she renewed her efforts to twist away. He did laugh, for his weight was solidly above her and her squirming only mimicked the frantic urgency of rushing pelvic thrusts.
A warning cough from the vicinity of the coach forced an abrupt end to the contest as Alexander ended the assault on her mouth and turned to glance at the road, a hand raised to shield his eyes from the noon sun. The eight horsemen had reined to a halt nearby; two were in the act of dismounting.
“Good God!” Cameron feigned surprise in his best upper-crust London accent. “Where the deuce did you fellows come from?”
The tallest and burliest of the pair had his eyes fastened on the slim length of Catherine’s calf where it was exposed by the mussed petticoat. “We was aboot tae ask ye the same thing. Isna verra often we see such a fine coach on these roads.”
Alexander stood and extended a hand to assist Catherine to her feet. She was slower to catch hold of her wits. Her lips were throbbing from the roughness of his assault, her breasts tingled as if all the skin had suddenly shrunk away. She could feel the hot eyes of the Highlanders on her, and when her hand fluttered to her throat she discovered why. Sometime during his groping Cameron had loosened the laces of her bodice and, without the support and modesty of buckram underpinnings, had exposed more soft white flesh than would have been acceptable in a brothel. The two Watchmen stared. Even the men on horseback craned forward, their mouths agape.
“Sergeant,” Alex said, calmly capturing Catherine’s hand before she could repair his mischief. “Permit me to offer introductions. The name is Grayston. Winthrop Howell Grayston, esquire, at your service. And this fetchingly disheveled creature is my wife, Lady Grayston. We were trying to snatch a bit of a rest before we tackled this nuisance of a hillock. What were you saying about these roads? They certainly are dreadful, I must agree. I say … you wouldn’t happen to know of an easier way down, er … Sergeant—”
“Campbell. Robert Campbell, an’ this mon is Corporal Denune. I mout be askin’ where ye’re bound.”
“Fort William,” Alex supplied readily. “We were in Glasgow, y’know, on business, and thought we might like to see some of the countryside. Would have gone by sea, but dear Lesley gets so noxiously ill on ships of any kind, don’t you, my dearest?”
The unsubtle pressure on her wrist forced a pinched smile to her lips.
“Been safer, nonetheless,” the sergeant grunted. “These glens are crawlin’ wi’ rebels.”
“Rebels? Here? But we’re less than ten miles from the fort.”
“Aye, an’ scarce ten minutes ride f’ae the borther o’ bastard Cameron land. Be north o’ here—” He thrust a filthy finger over his shoulder and spat messily onto the grass. “Lochaber. Worst o’ the lot, them. Just as like tae kill ye as let ye pass.”
“Good heavens! They wouldn’t provoke an attack on us, would they?”
“Might. Dung farmers, the lot o’ them. Murtherin’ sods wha’d steal ye blind an’ take yer lives f’ae the pleasure o’ drawin’ bluid.”
The sergeant’s eyes were small and ferretlike, and when they flickered over Catherine she was hard-pressed to restrain a shudder of revulsion. She did not like the looks of any of these Watchmen. They were unshaven and unwashed. Their tunics were crusted with filth, their hair shiny with grease, their hands as black and callused as the bark on a tree. She thought of Cameron’s warning and did not even care to contemplate the horror of feeling those hands, those coarse, pest-ridden bodies pulling and tearing at her.
“Thieves and rebels,” Alex was saying, dabbing a finely worked lace handkerchief across his brow. “I daresay the conditions in this country worsen by the hour. London, my sweet, definitely beckons us home.”
The sergeant agreed with a slow nod of his head. “Ye’ve heard the rumors, then?”
“Rumors?”
“Aye. There were a battle at sea, atween the
French an’ English. The Stuart pup were on board one o’ the ships an’ managed tae slip away in a storm. Rumor says he’s tryin’ tae land somewheres in the Hebrides. Rumor says he’s expectin’ tae be met by a grand Heeland army. Faugh! Only army he’ll find is maggots. Maggots an’ dung farmers who’d attack their own mithers f’ae a handful o’ coppers.”
“A battle at sea, you say?” Alex had grown very still. “When was this supposed to have taken place?”
“Did take place. Two weeks gone. Only supposin’ tae be done is whither or no’ the daft Stuart pup could swim.” He guffawed loudly and poked his companion in the ribs. The corporal responded with a vaguely sinister smile, for his attention was distracted, divided between the deep V of Catherine’s bodice and the rich-looking coach with its full boot of luggage.
“What kind o’ blatherin’ fool,” he grumbled in Gaelic, “comes all the way from Glasgow wi’out an escort?”
Both men glanced at Cameron’s face to see if he understood, but Alex was dusting his sleeve with the lace handkerchief, frowning over a speck of soil.
“Aye,” said the sergeant in English. “Well then, we’d best be biddin’ ye good day. Mind what I said an’ watch yer backs. Have ye a few stout weepons tae protect yersel’s wi’?”
“Weapons? Goodness … I believe the driver may have a fowling piece of some sort. Yes, I’m sure he does. It seems to me he tried to shoot a grouse with it the other day, but missed. I prefer the bow and arrow for hunting, myself. Gentleman’s weapon, what? Builds strength in the upper torso.”
The sergeant smiled wanly as Cameron flexed a biceps by way of illustration. Even Catherine stared in amazement; he had transformed himself so convincingly into a buffoon, the two Highlanders were openly contemptuous as they exchanged another muttered observation in Gaelic.
“Is there a problem, Sergeant?”
“Problem?” The Watchman grinned through teeth that were chipped and coated with green rot. “Nae problem, yer lairdship. We was just thinkin’ … the lady mout feel better if we was tae keep ye company the rest o’ the way tae the fort. Rough country here tae there. We wouldna want tae fret about ye out here on yer own.”
Catherine was increasingly conscious of the lurid whispers being passed between the men on horseback. They were alternating their stares between herself and Deirdre, gesturing among themselves as if they were already casting lots to see who would be the first in line. Some were making ready to dismount, others were sidling their animals closer to the coach and reaching down to unhamper their swords and muskets.
Cameron seemed blithely unaware of the danger.
“That’s very thoughtful of you, old sport, but we couldn’t possibly take you away from your duties.”
The sergeant clamped a fat, stubby hand around the butt of the pistol tucked in his belt. “Still an’ all, we’ll stay. The men could do wi’ a wee rest … an’ mayhap a share o’ what the lassies have tae offer.”
“The lunch?” Alex half-turned to frown down at the picnic basket. “I’m afraid there isn’t much left, but of course you are more than welcome to—”
“We werena speakin’ o’ the victuals, ye daft bastard.” The sergeant laughed and drew his gun out of his belt. It flew out of his hand in the next instant, blown into the air by the impact of a lead ball plowing through the hairy wrist. A second explosive retort had one of the Watchmen nearest the coach screaming and slumping out of the saddle, and with both guns empty, Aluinn MacKail flung them aside and drew his sword from beneath the canopied boot.
In a blur of motion Alex spun Catherine around and away from the soldiers, propelling her toward the trees with such force that she stumbled and fell. He dove for his own guns and rolled onto his feet again, his shots tearing out the side of the corporal’s throat just as he was shouting the order to attack.
Iain Cameron dropped to one knee and shrugged his guns free of the feed bag he had been holding. Of the two shots he fired, one caught an Argyleman high in the shoulder, jerking him back in his saddle and causing him to lose his grip on his musket—which Aluinn was there to catch. The second went wild, the lead ball ricocheting off a boulder before it spat into the dry earth only inches from where Alex had snatched up the corporal’s musket and was taking aim at a charging Highlander.
A piercing shriek from Deirdre warned Aluinn as a broadsword came slashing in an arc toward his head. The steel missed his neck and shoulder, slicing harmlessly through a layer of gold braid on his sleeve, but Aluinn was hit solidly by the horse’s swinging rump. He lost his grip on the musket and crashed painfully into the spoked wheel of the coach. Deirdre flung herself out of the coach as the soldier wheeled his horse around for another attack, but before she could reach the musket Aluinn had dropped, the Watchman was reeling out of the saddle, his hands clutched over the eruption of blood and tissue from his chest.
Alex lowered the smoking Brown Bess and reversed the barrel for the stock as a horseman came swiftly at him. Using it as a club, he smashed the broadsword out of the rider’s hands and sent the terrified horse swerving toward the coach. Still off balance and slightly dazed, MacKail saw the horse and rider coming straight for him, at the same time that he saw Deirdre step clear of the boot and raise the heavy musket to fire. The recoil sent her staggering back in a choking fog of smoke, and Aluinn shouted a warning. Another soldier was charging in from the opposite direction, leaning over his saddle, his arm hooked, his hand reaching for Deirdre’s throat. Aluinn launched himself at the horse and managed to grab a fistful of the rider’s kilt. His weight dragged the Watchman out of the saddle and they went down hard together, grappling even before they hit the ground, a cocked pistol sandwiched between them.
Alex dispatched the last of the attacking troop with a mercifully swift and clean stroke of his sword. He was pulling the blade free from the man’s gut when the sergeant, his bloodied and shattered hand cradled against his chest, lunged for Cameron’s back. The tip of his sword arced past the broad shoulder, nicking an earlobe. Alex spun and reached into the top of his leather boot, and with the flick of a wrist sent his dirk flashing through the air to embed itself in the base of the sergeant’s throat.
The ferret eyes widened and the hairy fingers clawed at the white-boned hilt of the knife where it protruded from his severed windpipe. He staggered back several paces before his foot tangled in the corner of the picnic blanket and he toppled sideways onto the ground, landing squarely on Catherine’s feet and ankles. She screamed and tried to free herself as a spray of blood splattered the length of her skirt, but he was too heavy, and she screamed all the louder, covering her ears now against the sickening hiss and gurgle of air escaping the hole in his throat.
Alex quickly lifted her clear of the twitching body. She buried her face against his shoulder and clung to him, refusing to let go even after he had carried her well away from the carnage and set her down safely by the stream.
“You’re all right,” he assured her, his hand skimming her calves, her ankles, her knees in search of any broken or wrenched bones. “Catherine … you’re all right how. It’s over.”
She gazed blankly up into his face, saw the blood dripping from his cut earlobe, and emitted a tiny, airless gasp. Her eyes rolled back and her lashes fluttered closed; she collapsed in a soft, limp, warm bundle in his arms.
He swore under his breath and deposited her gently on the bank of the stream. A shout and the sound of running footsteps had him standing and bracing himself again, only to see Iain rushing up behind him.
“I couldna stop him! He were out o’ range afore I could reload an’ fire!”
Alex straightened and stared hard after the rider galloping away in the distance. He glanced at Shadow and knew the stallion could catch the escaping militiaman, but the pursuit would take time—time better spent on removing themselves from the scene.
“He will be long gone before anyone can reach him. Aluinn … Where the hell is Aluinn?”
There were two bodies tangled together in
the red dust of the road, both of them liberally smeared with blood, only one of the them showing any signs of life. MacKail was struggling, with Deirdre’s help, to push himself to his knees as Alex and Iain ran up. His hand was clamped protectively over a wound low on his shoulder; his face was streaming sweat, and his teeth were clenched against the pain. Alex helped lower him onto the step of the coach, then quickly determined where the shot had entered and exited the bloodied flesh. Deirdre, standing pale and shaken to one side, began tearing long strips of cotton from her petticoat to fold and wad in place over the torn flesh. The wadding became soaked almost at once, despite the pressure Alex applied, and she chewed her lip worriedly.
“He’ll need a doctor—and soon—to stop it proper.”
Alex turned his head and shouted. “Iain—collect the guns and all the spare shot and powder you can find; we may need it. Unsaddle the horses and set them free, then unload those trunks from the boot. In fact, dump everything we haven’t a use for except blankets and water.”
“The coach will slow you down,” Aluinn gasped. “Take the women and the horses and get the hell out of here.”
“And leave you to play the hero? Not bloody likely, my friend. And besides,” he added grimly, “you’re not the only casualty.”
Deirdre looked up and her face drained to a sickly gray. “Mistress Catherine?”
“For someone who insists she has never fainted before in her life, she is giving a good imitation of it over by the stream.”
“I must see to her,” Deirdre cried, jumping to her feet.
“No,” Alex ordered, taking her by the wrist. “I’ll see to her. You stay here with Aluinn and keep pressure on these bandages.”
“Alex—” Aluinn grabbed a fistful of Alex’s sleeve. “Alex, wait. Something … something’s not right.”
“What do you mean not right? What else could possibly be wrong?”
Aluinn shook his head to clear it and to try to hold back the nausea. “I don’t know. Something …”
The Pride of Lions Page 16
