Isobel pushed herself to her feet, then lobbed the spent pistol at the vile devil’s head. Without looking back, she clawed her way up the embankment. Spotting another rock, she scooped up the fist-sized stone, turned, and fired it at the man as he gave chase. Movement to the left caught her eye. The horses. The bastard had said they’d already tied Connor to one. Clutching her skirts up to her knees, she raced across the rough landscape. “Connor!”
Gagged and a rope wound around his body, her son lay draped belly first over a horse. His muffled cries ripped through her heart.
“I’m here, son.” She shoved her foot into the stirrup and latched hold of the rear lip of the saddle. A sob escaped her as she fought to launch herself upward. Auntie. Sutherland. How could she leave them behind? But how could she not? She could only save Connor. Her grip on the saddle slipped, and she fell back to the ground, stirring the horses into stomping around her. Rolling, she clambered to her feet and lunged for the stirrup again.
“Ye’re not headed anywhere, m’lady.” Fingers dug into her hair and yanked her back. A different man, one side of his face marred with a scar that engulfed the entire side of his head, clamped his other hand around her throat and shook her. “That boy be pure gold to us.”
Isobel wheezed in as much air as would pass through the tightening grip around her throat and jabbed her elbows into the demon’s gut. She struggled to hit him even lower, praying to connect with his man parts.
The bastard laughed and dragged her away from the horses, plowing through the clumps of primrose riddled with clusters of wild grasses. He bounced her across the rocky outcroppings of limestone and threw her down between Sutherland and her aunt.
Auntie grappled toward her, pressing tight against her. The pitiful old woman trembled and clutched at Isobel, as though she couldn’t find her. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out. Blood streamed from her nose and the corners of her mouth. Her eyes looked glazed.
A bloody and beaten Sutherland made a futile attempt at dragging himself in front of them. His right arm hung limp and useless, and one of his eyes had already swollen shut. “Forgive me for failing ye,” he gasped.
“Forgive me,” Isobel answered in a croaking whisper as she squeezed Sutherland’s shoulder and clutched an arm around Auntie. How could she have missed the approach of these devils? How had they taken her unawares?
“Kill’m slow, he said.” The scarred man sauntered back and forth at their feet, peering down at them with his one good eye like a scavenger sizing up fresh carrion. The man gave the perception of being the leader. He possessed an air of cruel authority.
The man Isobel had shot pointed in her direction. “I got a few things in mind for that one right there.”
The shortest of the four men jerked his head toward the horses. “We shouldna drag this out. Too close to Fort William. Could be soldiers about. Duke said we might run across soldiers since he filed them charges to make it look all proper and such.”
“Could just shoot’m and make up some story about a slow kill to get the extra gold,” said the fourth man. He scratched a hand across his belly. “Save us time and trouble. I mean to be eating soon, so let’s be quick about, aye?”
The scarred man stepped closer and kicked Auntie’s foot. She had gone still and remained motionless. “This one’s near dead anyhow. Gone before sunset, I’d wager. I seen that look before, and she’s older than dirt anyway.”
Isobel clenched her teeth to keep from screaming, praying the cruel bastard had no idea of what he spoke. She hugged Auntie tighter. “Leave her alone!”
The bloody cutthroat, still clutching his wounded arm, jerked his chin toward Isobel again. “That one is mine. Do what ye will to the others. Just gimme a bit a time wif her.”
The short man waddled forward, pulling his dirk from its sheath. “No more shots. Like I said. Troops o’ redcoats could be about, and there be a few crofts not so far from here. We passed’m, ’member?” He pointed the lethal tip of his long dagger toward Isobel. “That cow done fired one shot what echoed across the loch. Three more shots would draw somebody’s attention sure enough.”
The wounded fiend eyed Isobel and grabbed his crotch. “The shot I gots for her willna draw attention. I’ll gag her so she canna manage naught but a whimper.” He shoved his way between her and Auntie Yeva, kicked the old woman aside, and grabbed Isobel up by the hair.
Sutherland lunged toward the devil, but the youngest of the four yanked him back, and the man with the dirk sank the knife deep into Sutherland’s side. “On yer way to meet yer Maker, my fine friend,” the blackguard said as they shoved Sutherland back to the base of the tree.
The villain with his hand fisted in Isobel’s hair dragged her less than a pace away. “Well done! Ye can stick this fine partridge wif anything ye want when I’m done sticking her wif me tadger.”
She rolled, curled around his leg, and bit into his thigh, grinding her teeth as hard as she could through the threadbare weave of the man’s filthy trews. The heartless monster might succeed in whatever he planned, but he’d do so with a great deal of pain. She’d not go easily.
He howled and stumbled backward, tangled in her skirts. His fists rained down on her as he kicked and flailed to beat her off his leg.
Isobel ignored the pain and bit harder, blindly groping upward to grab a handful of the crotch the man seemed so eager to share. Bollocks well in hand, she squeezed, digging in her nails as she twisted.
The man screamed louder, thrashing and rolling from side to side to free himself.
The coppery taste of blood spurred her on. She held fast and ground her teeth until a slamming kick into her ribcage knocked the wind from her. Tumbling aside, she clutched her middle, gasping for air.
“Enough!”
Still fighting to breathe, Isobel stole a glance sideways. Which of the hired monsters had saved her?
The disfigured assassin pulled his pistol and aimed it at the man she had bitten. “Go! Fetch the horses whilst the rest of us finish this.” He shifted the aim of the pistol to her. “You! Get o’er there wif the others.”
She dragged herself back to Auntie and Sutherland, gathering the unconscious old woman into her arms. If they were to die, at least they would die together. The agony of leaving Connor vulnerable and alone in the cold, cruel world tortured her worse than anything else ever could. She didn’t fear death nor anything else these men might do to her. All she feared was leaving her son. And Alasdair. Her precious Alasdair. A defeated sob escaped her as she pressed her cheek to the top of Auntie Yeva’s kerchiefed head. She had failed them all so miserably.
The brute with the pistol jabbed the gun at the man with the dirk. “Finish’m, then catch up. We got miles to make before nightfall. Done wif this waste o’ time.”
“Hold up now and wait for me,” the man with the dagger said as he grabbed a handful of Sutherland’s hair and pulled back his head to bare his throat. “This willna take long. I’ll slice open all their gullets quick as a minute.”
Gunfire split the air, and the man about to cut Sutherland’s throat fell face forward across him.
“Christ Almighty!” The youngest of the group crouched low and jerked about, searching for the source of the shot. He took off in a long-legged lope for the horses.
“Aye! Outta here now!” The scarred man followed close behind.
As both men ran to meet the horses the third man had gathered, another shot rang out. One of the men yelped but didn’t go to the ground. They launched themselves onto their mounts and spurred the beasts onward, disappearing over a nearby ridge. The leader had latched on to the reins of Connor’s horse and pulled him along behind.
As gentle as she could, Isobel lowered her aunt to the ground and forced herself first to her knees and then to her feet. She staggered to Sutherland and latched hold of the dead man sagged across him. With a fervent prayer that Sutherland still lived, she pulled as hard as she could. The brute didn’t budge. The devil weighed too muc
h for her to move. She fell back to the ground, praying whoever her savior had been would indeed be an ally and not a British soldier. They sorely needed a bit of good fortune.
She crawled back to Auntie. Her aunt’s motionless form ground salt into her already raw emotions. Auntie couldn’t die. Not like this. She scooped up her limp hand and pressed it to her cheek. “I am so sorry, Auntie. Please…please dinna die.”
Footsteps. Crunching louder. Closer. She lifted her head to face whatever fate had seen fit to plague her with next.
A tall, young lad, face still smooth with the soft fuzziness of a boy not yet grown into a man, marched toward her. He held a flintlock rifle in one hand and a glinting dirk in the other. He wore a woven sack slung across his body, and a brown knitted tam covered most of his rusty curls. Thankfully, he also wore a kilt. At least he appeared to be a Scot, but she decided it better to be wary just in case. Alasdair’s associate had mentioned a hefty reward. She didn’t know who she could trust.
“I thank ye for saving us from those scoundrels,” she rasped out.
The boy edged closer. He moved carefully. His soft brown eyes studied her as he sheathed the dirk, took hold of the dead man across Sutherland, and yanked him aside. Gaze still watchful and tapping Isobel with repeated glances, the boy rolled Sutherland to his back. With a light touch to each of the man’s wounds, the lad frowned, then straightened, gave Isobel a wide berth, and crouched down beside Auntie Yeva.
“My name is Ailsa MacNaughton,” she said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. She had been christened Isobel Ailsa Lileas MacNaughton. “I thank ye and am in yer debt.”
Her champion remained silent, touching a finger to the sticky blood at the corner of her aunt’s mouth. If possible, his severe frown deepened with even more concern.
“What is yer name?” she asked, tension returning, threatening to steal away what little sanity she still possessed. She needed to know where this man-child’s alliances lay.
Without a word, the lad stood, drew his dirk, then flipped it, and held it out to Isobel, haft first. He fixed her with an intense look as though willing her to understand as he motioned first to his own chest, then pointed back in the direction which he had come. He nodded at Isobel and repeated the motion along with some additional hand gestures she didn’t understand. He peered at her, bending closer and fixing her with an expectant, unblinking stare.
“Please be saying ye mean to fetch us some help.” Isobel balanced the dirk across her knees and folded her hands as though pleading in prayer.
The lad smiled and gave her a slow, exaggerated nod as though she were a simpleton. She felt like one. She felt a complete idiot, but at least God, in His blessed benevolence, had sent her this silent guardian angel. “God bless ye, boy. Please hurry. Fetch help as fast as ye can.”
Chapter Sixteen
Alasdair hunched over his ale, the slant of his tam pulled forward to keep his face in the shadows. He scratched through his beard and stole a glance around the pub. Not a soul paid him any mind. Good. He’d bide some time in this dimly lit corner whilst Ian confirmed the information they had ferreted out in Kinlochmore. A rumor. But rumors sometimes held precious kernels of truth. According to what they’d learned, the duke had taken up temporary residence in Scotland and was looking to hire a few men for an undisclosed task. Edinburgh had been named as the place where the man would be until he’d settled certain affairs.
Settled certain affairs. Alasdair blew out a disgusted breath, then washed away the foul taste of the matter with a deep draught from his tankard. He thunked the vessel back to the table and motioned for another. The weary barmaid nodded, then strolled back to the bar at a snail’s pace to fetch it.
He’d settle Temsworth’s affairs for him. The only question at present was how to accomplish the task. A duel would be the most honorable but also carried considerable risk. If caught, imprisonment and then hanged for murder. And since the duke had named him in the charges of kidnapping as well as possible charges of treason, if he killed the bastard and didn’t make it look like an accident, he’d most assuredly be the first suspect accused.
The scowling barmaid sloshed two tankards down on the table. “I brought ye two. Ye be running me ragged.”
He didn’t make eye contact with the cross wench, just tossed three coins instead of two on the table. “For yer troubles.”
“Hmpf.” She slapped a hand atop the coins and slid them off into her hand. Without another word, she sauntered away with a happier sway in her step.
Ian appeared, pulled out a chair, and settled into it with a satisfied grunt. “He’s here, all right. Not even staying at the inn. Rented a place and staffed it like he intends to live there a while.”
“Interesting.” Alasdair shoved one of the full tankards toward Ian so he wouldn’t have to wait for the lazy barmaid to take notice of him. “He plots something besides the trumped-up charges against me. Why else would he be in Edinburgh and send out word for hired men?” An uneasiness churned within him. He should have sent more than just Sutherland to escort his precious Isobel to Cape Wrath. Sutherland was a fearsome warrior, but could one man overcome an attack of several?
“We’ll have to find a rougher pub than this to discover any darker plans the duke may have.” Ian took a long, slow drink, then frowned down at the dented pewter mug as he lowered it. “If he’s already hired the men—we’ll not find out a thing and just stir suspicions with our questions.” He stole a covert glance about the room. “Do ye really wish to chance such a waste of time?”
His brother’s impatience with this sorry business matched his own. Again, Alasdair scrubbed his fingertips through the wiry curls of his beard. “Nay.” He pulled in a deep breath and allowed it to hiss out between clenched teeth. “Where is this residence he’s rented?”
Ian gave him a lopsided grin. “Not that far from yer own here in Edinburgh. Remember Kincaid Place?”
He returned Ian’s grin. Aye. He remembered Kincaid Place well. The house and grounds abutted his own estate to the east. It was as large as his own, taking up the remaining parcel between his land and Caldtoun. He’d never been inside the place but knew the lay of the land well enough. He’d ridden past there many a time. “Reckon the man’s still hiring?”
Ian shrugged. “There’s but one way to find out.”
A familiar red flashed to his left. Alasdair hazarded a side-eyed glance in that direction. Redcoats. A pair of them. He kept his gaze lowered and tapped the table once.
Ian hunched over his own tankard, even going so far as to prop his elbow on the table and rest his fist against his cheek as he shifted to sit with his back to the soldiers. “I see them,” he said in a low murmur.
“Soon as they light somewhere, we’ll leave.” Alasdair watched the pair with stolen looks from behind his mug.
“Just say the word, brother.” Ian bowed his head, pretending to doze off.
The pair of soldiers seemed more intent on finding a place to sit rather than checking out the other patrons. They settled on a bench across the room and pounded their fists on the table for service. As soon as the buxom waitress strolled over to the Englishmen and blocked their view with her generous girth, Alasdair rose and headed for the door. Ian followed.
Once outside, he hurried away with long strides, putting as much distance between himself and the pub as possible. Ian strode along beside him, occasionally tossing a cautious glance behind them.
Focus locked on the ground, Alasdair ignored passersby. Time to finish this sorry business and return to his precious Isobel.
“To the horses then?” Ian asked as they turned down a side street toward the stables.
“Aye.” Alasdair slowed his charging pace and attempted to appear more casual. “And then to Kincaid Place to seek employment.” His squint tightened as he formulated the plan. “The man should have need for a pair of experts to manage his horses, aye?”
“If he doesna know this yet, I’m sure we can convince either him or his man
of such.” Ian dipped his chin in approval.
They gathered their horses and headed southward, selecting a roundabout route to Kincaid Place. “I dinna think it prudent to ride past my property or Château Delatate. Even with the beard, I could still be recognized.”
“Aye,” Ian said. “This isna the best way to carry out an assassination, but I reckon we must work with what we’re given.” He shrugged as they neared their destination. “At least when ye lived here, ye kept to yerself when ye were nay in the courtroom. Not so many folks got close enough to recognize ye with the beard.”
They slowed, then dismounted, casually walking their horses around the walled-in perimeter of Kincaid Place. Alasdair memorized every detail. Stone block wall. Judging by its height, the barrier had been built more for decoration than keeping out intruders. There was a fancy iron gate at the front of the sprawling house and a wood gate at the rear. This was the entrance they sought. The gate meant for servants and deliveries.
He lifted the latch and pushed, fully expecting the attention of a guard at any moment. None came. The gate swung inward, revealing a cobblestone courtyard that reminded him of his own. He took the lead, pulling his horse along behind him. Ian followed.
Alasdair stopped and looked around, easing farther into the deserted area between the main house and the stable. He couldn’t believe they still hadn’t been met by anyone asking them their business at the estate. He shook his head and cocked a brow at Ian. Uneasiness raked cold claws down his spine. “This isna right. No member of the aristocracy, especially a duke, would leave his home so unguarded.”
“You are right, my good man,” remarked a voice from the shadowed doorway of the stable. “I thought you would never get here. I say, what kept you?” A tall man, slender but muscular and sleek as a feline, stepped forward. “Alasdair Cameron, I presume?”
“James Gordon,” Alasdair lied. He’d not reveal his hand so easily. Instead, he shared his seldom-used middle names. “And yerself, sir?” Alasdair knew damned good and well the man in front of him was Temsworth. He recognized him from ten years ago when he’d gone to London and made the sorry decision to leave Isobel in the bastard’s clutches. The duke had not aged well.
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 19
