by Mara
“He does no’ like to shoot,” Hugh assured her. “He was never verra good at it, even before he was afflicted with tremors.”
“But why don’t we stay here? Stay locked in—”
“He’ll have no qualms about burning the house down around us.” He strode up to her, grasping her shoulders. “Lass, I’m going to keep you safe, I vow it, but you need to trust that I know what I’m doing.”
She gave him a shaky nod.
“Now, dress to ride in the forest. Something dark if you have it.”
“We’re leaving the coach?”
“The driver’s off the property. Besides, Grey can track a coach, but he’ll never follow our trail on horseback,” he said as he scanned her suddenly empty floor. Was there a bloody system to her clothing that he couldn’t discern?
“Remember that rocky trail up by the waterfall to the north?”
“Yes, you wouldn’t let me ride it when I was younger.”
“Well, we’re going to ride it tonight, and until we’re well away, we’re going to do it really bloody fast.”
Fifteen minutes later found them riding in the woods through fog so thick, it seemed to swirl like an unctuous current in the moonlight.
Hugh had her reins fisted in his hand, and Jane held on to her horse’s mane as it charged up and over the harsh terrain. Branches snatched at her clothing and at her hair until it came free, streaming behind her.
At the first sign that her horse stumbled, Hugh brought her mount forward beside his own, and dragged Jane behind him. Making sure she was holding on tight, he took up a breakneck pace. His surefooted horse proved up to the task, her mount bustling along behind.
Nothing in London could compare with this thrill—her arms around the torso of a Highlander as he rode faster than she’d ever ridden a horse, much less at night.
Though it all felt dreamlike to her, Hugh was very purposeful and alert. All night, like a chess player anticipating his opponent’s moves, Hugh guided them north. Oftentimes, he would ride in one direction, then slow, cock his head, and turn back around.
“How are you doing, lass?” he asked periodically, patting her leg.
Now that she realized the danger she was in, she was overwhelmed by how much Hugh was doing for her. The image of him at the moonlit window, body tense, eyes watchful, ready to do battle, was seared into her mind.
He’d admitted he would risk his life for hers. With that, she knew for certain that he couldn’t have left her before out of callousness, or neglected to tell her good-bye out of indifference. No, Hugh was so much more than what she saw on the surface. And she planned to investigate all the layers.
She hugged him tighter, and all of a sudden she was seventeen again, riding behind him just as they’d always done when they’d explored new places.
“Do you need to stop?” he asked over his shoulder.
“No, I’m fine. I-I’m excited to go to the Highlands at last.”
After a hesitation, he answered, “It’s no’ always like it is in English ballads.”
“What do you—”
“Duck,” he commanded. She did, just in time to skim under a limb. “There are brigands and reivers who are no’ as heroic as you read about.”
“Oh.” Long ago, she’d looked up Carrickliffe on a map, and she remembered it was far to the north on the coast.
“Are we going to your clan?”
“No’ that far. No’ yet.”
She stifled a sigh of relief. After all these years of yearning to go there, now she balked.
“We’ll go to Court’s.”
“Where’s his home?”
“Southern Highlands. If it seems all right, we’ll stay there instead. I warn you, it’s no’ going to be luxurious, but I think it will be the safest place.”
“Is Court going to be there?” Please say no.
“No, he’s probably in London by now. Or he might have decided to stay on the Continent and go on a job to the east with his men.” He muttered something that sounded like: “As long as he didn’t go back for her.”
“What’s that?” she asked, clasping her hands on his hard torso, fighting the urge to rub her face against his back.
“Nothing, lass. Try to get some sleep if you can.”
When he placed his big, rough hand over both of hers and warmed them, a realization hit her like a thunderbolt: she hadn’t been pushed off a cliff. She’d dived, and the ground was approaching, had always been approaching.
She’d just had her eyes closed.
Thirty-one
As Jane bent down to the crystal-clear creek, cupping water to her mouth, a branch cracked behind her. She whirled around, but saw no one in the dying light of the day. She knew Hugh would have announced himself, and he wouldn’t have been finished unpacking the horses for the night. It must be an animal—the forests they’d been traveling through were teeming with roe deer.
She sat on the bank, pulling her skirts up to dip her stockingless legs and a cloth into the chill stream. As she brought the cloth to her face, she reflected over the last four days, during which Hugh had taken them racing through thick woodlands and over craggy rock plains.
The scenery continued to grow more and more breathtaking as they passed ancient Celtic fortifications and sweeping vistas. The leaves were staggering in color—shot through with scarlet, gold, and ochre. Now that they were officially in the Highlands, everything seemed crisper, sharper. Even the air was sweeter. London was dingy by comparison.
Late each night, they’d stopped to camp beneath the trees. Each morning, she’d watched Hugh rise in stages, wincing in sympathy as he clenched his jaw against what must be marked pain. And still he’d set to work, quickly readying them so they could make their way—as he’d told her—toward his brother Courtland’s property.
Over each mile, as she rode beside him, she’d watched him study the land, much as he had done when he’d taken her hunting years before. He used every amazing skill she’d ever seen him demonstrate as a hunter, and she’d realized she was as awed by him as she had been at thirteen.
And now he was her husband .
His intense, focused expression drew her eyes again and again, reminding her of how he’d looked at her those last two nights at Ros Creag. Unfortunately, he’d made no move to touch her since then.
She knew he would deem their last encounter a close call and be thankful they’d dodged a bullet. She deemed it an if at first you don’t succeed encounter.
As she brought her wet towel to her face, she contemplated her future, wondering, as ever, if it would include him. The facts: He found her attractive, and he’d wanted to make love to her. He would die for her. That first night he’d returned to London, he’d been so dirty because he’d ridden for days to reach her.
So why wouldn’t he desire her for more—
Footsteps over crackling leaves sounded just behind her. Before she could whirl around, a hand covered her mouth; other hands seized her, dragging her away from the water and deeper into the shadowy woods.
She dug her heels into the ground, furiously biting at the hand over her mouth, clawing wildly. The man holding her grunted and cursed. Just as his hand moved, she twisted around to see her attacker; cold metal pressed against her throat and she stilled in terror—
“Get your hands off my wife,” Hugh said with a steely calm.
The men froze. Jane frantically blew hair from her eyes and saw Hugh with a rifle, raised and steady, his eyes as cold as ash in the dying sun. He had it aimed at one of the two men who’d grabbed her, the one who had a hunting knife against her neck and a soiled bandanna hanging down around his own. The second man trained his pistol on Hugh. “Let her go, or I’ll kill you.”
Raw fury emanated from Hugh, but somehow he controlled it.
These two must be bandits, some of the very unheroic ones Hugh had mentioned. Why weren’t they hiding their faces with the cloths they wore?
Because she and Hugh weren’t only to be rob
bed.
Rattled by Hugh’s killing look, the man holding her swallowed audibly, his bandanna rising with his Adam’s apple, and pressed the blade harder to her skin. When she felt blood dripping down, she gasped.
Hugh’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, just waited. Jane realized that she’d seen him go utterly still like this before—when he’d been hunting and had a target in sight.
Time seemed to slow. How many times had she seen this uncanny concentration just before his forefinger smoothly pressed the trigger? When she saw Hugh’s thumb brushing his rifle, she realized these men were about to die.
The one clutching her began dragging her away. The knife wasn’t so tight at her neck as they stumbled back. She should hit him…kick him…give Hugh his chance to shoot.
Jane felt the bandit’s rank breath waft over her as he said to Hugh, “Yer bonnie wife’s about to be my—”
The boom of the rifle made her jerk with fright, but the knife was gone. The man lay crumpled to the ground behind her, blood oozing from a hole between his sightless eyes.
She glanced back at Hugh.
Never taking his gaze from the second man’s shaking pistol, Hugh emptied the cartridge from his rifle as if he had all the time in the world. “Pull the trigger, then,” Hugh demanded, impatiently .
Jane screamed when the bandit shot; a bit of dark cloth flew up, but she couldn’t tell where Hugh had been hit. When the man saw Hugh was still standing, he paled and hurled his gun at Hugh before spinning around to run.
Jane tottered on her feet. So close. But Hugh must have been unharmed, because he tossed his empty rifle to the ground and caught the man in three long strides, his movements contained, lethally silent.
Everything’s as silent as he is. The woods hushed by the shot. Or is my hearing weakened from the report? Then she heard a whimper, and didn’t know if it came from her or the wide-eyed man struggling to free himself. But his thrashing was useless—Hugh’s grip was unyielding, his massive hands and forearms clamped around the man’s head.
How can Hugh move so quietly? What an odd grip he’s got on the bandit—
Jane flinched as Hugh’s strong arms twisted in different directions. Suddenly, the thick pop of breaking bone was deafening. The man dropped to his knees, head lolling at an unnatural angle, before his body slumped to the ground.
After a heartbeat’s hesitation, Hugh turned to face her.
Thirty-two
Jane’s slim body shook with ragged breaths. Her pupils were dilated and her lips were pale and parted in shock.
A trail of stark crimson crept from the slice at her neck, and alarm flared in him. “Sìne, I need to look at you,” he said as he cautiously eased closer, fully expecting her to run. He knew what he must look like, and he knew that what he’d done to those two would terrify her.
No response.
“Jane, I dinna do this lightly,” he explained slowly, approaching her. “Those men would have killed you.” Eventually.
Nothing. Her face was drawn, white with fear. When he stood before her, he prayed she wouldn’t run. Doona flinch from me…. He couldn’t take it if Jane feared him.
He eased a hand to the slash on her neck, brushing his fingertips to it, then nearly sagged in relief to find it was a mere graze. Before he could stop himself, he put his arms around her. As he clutched her to him and lowered his head to hers, he groaned at the feel of her, warm and safe in his arms, but her body was quaking. “Shh, lass,” he said against her hair. “You’re safe now.”
“Wh-what just happened?” she whispered. “I don’t understand what just happened. Were they bandits?”
“Aye, of a sort.”
“Are you hurt?” There was a burn mark and a small hole through the outside of his pants leg.
“No, no’ at all. Do you think you can ride tonight?”
“But what are we going to do with the b-bodies?”
“Leave them. They will no’ be found for some time, if ever.” He drew back so he could look down into her eyes. Running his hands up and down her arms, he said, “We must leave this place immediately. Can you get dressed while I see to the camp?”
She nodded up at him, and he forced himself to release her, knowing he had work to do, and quickly. Keeping a close watch on her as she dressed and daubed a wet cloth to her neck, he packed up their gear and re-saddled their horses.
When Jane was ready, she said, “Can I…can I ride with you?” She glanced down as if embarrassed to ask.
Without hesitation, he lifted her into his saddle, then swung up behind her, wrapping an arm around her. He exhaled a long breath, pleased she still wanted to be near him.
“Try to rest—I’ll ride through the night.”
She gave him a shaky nod.
Eager to get her away from this area, he redoubled their already punishing pace. After an hour of hard riding, they reached a craggy, dry creek bed. When they had to slow to cross, she murmured, “Thank you. For what you did back there—for what you’re doing.”
“Say nothing of it.”
“Apparently, you’re more of an expert at this than I’d imagined.” When he was silent, she continued, “Which makes me wonder, in light of this and Lysette’s death, how much of an expert Grey is.”
He ground his teeth.
“You’re not a mercenary, and he’s not a businessman.”
“No.”
“Care to explain?”
Finally, he answered, “I canna tell you, even if I wanted to.”
“Do you want to?”
“I…doona know.” Part of him did—to get her look of disgust over with.
After long moments passed, she asked, “Are you angry with me?”
“God, no, why would I be?”
“Because I got you into this situation.”
“Lass, you are no’ at fault here. I am. I should have been more aware—”
“No, I wasn’t saying I thought I was at fault—neither of us is. I was saying that I’m sorry you had to kill because of me. I fear you’ll feel badly about it.”
“Should I no’?”
He felt her shoulders stiffen. “I will truly have my feelings hurt if you regret doing something noble and necessary to save my life.”
Noble? He felt a deep welling of pride, and discovered then that noble was exactly how he wanted to be around her—exactly how he hoped she might see him.
She’d watched him kill with his hands, but she understood he’d had no choice. Necessary. The thought came from nowhere: She could accept that I’ve killed. Without judging me.
But could she accept the way he’d done it?
In the papers and in literature, assassins were regarded as cowardly and were universally reviled—even those from one’s own country. In the last three major Continental wars, every army that captured snipers executed them summarily—there were no prisoners, no exchanges. Not that there would have been bargaining for gunmen like Hugh anyway….
None of this mattered. Hugh couldn’t tell her of his involvement without divulging others’.
“Hugh?”
“I could have let the second one run for his life.”
“What if there were others in his gang? Or h-he might have wanted revenge for the death of the other. Or he could have caused a commotion, and then Grey would know we’ve been here.”
Hugh might have considered these factors, but he hadn’t. There’d been no thoughts in his head when he caught the second man—nothing but the need to kill him for daring to touch her.
“You don’t feel guilty, do you?” Jane asked.
“It dinna exactly improve my mood.”
She twisted around, wriggling over his leg and against his arm so she could face him. Irritation was clear in her expression. “You act as if you’d had to shoot orphans and kittens! You killed killers .” She frowned, her voice growing soft. “Do you regret having to do that to save me?”
His arm tightened around her. “No, lass, never. I relished it.”
She blinked at him. “To see how brave you are? To see you just stand there while the man shot at you?”
“It was no’ bravery. The odds were slim that he could have hit me in a place that would put me down before I could get to him. And I meant that I dinna want you to see blood and death. I doona want that memory to follow you. To hurt you.”
“Ifit was a memory that could hurt me, I simply wouldn’t allow it to pervade my life. I don’t want you to think I’m glib, or cold.” She seemed to be choosing her words very carefully. “But I believe when the load gets too heavy, we have to shuck some weight from our shoulders. And Hugh”—she gently laid her hands on his forearm locked across her middle—“it really seems that you need to lighten your load.”
