The young redcoat gave them another smiling nod, then turned and ambled away.
“I hope she fairs well,” Ian muttered as he and Daegus heaved Alasdair up into the back of the wagon.
“Aye,” Alasdair said as he collapsed into the hay. He rolled to his side, thankful to have made it.
Daegus threw a blanket over him. “Get us moving, Ian, and be quick about it. Go back the way we came, aye?”
Alasdair closed his eyes, relaxing with the thought that after a few days of healing, he’d join his dear love in Cape Wrath. There, they would decide their next move. France, maybe. A smile twitched his sore mouth. Aye. Isobel had mentioned settling in France. He could tolerate that for a while if he must. At least he would be with Isobel and Connor.
He risked a deeper breath, flinching with the effort. A home in Scotland would come to pass, eventually. He blew out the air and relaxed even more. He owed Temsworth a great debt, and he’d see it paid if it was the last thing he did. A peaceful drowsiness overtook him. Aye. He owed the duke a lion’s share of pain before he snapped the man’s neck, and he intended to see it served in full.
Chapter Eighteen
Isobel broke off a small chunk from one of the oatcakes Euna had sent along for the journey. She savored the dense crumble of oats, herbs, and coarse flour held together by rich goose fat. Euna didn’t have much, but the kindly old woman had shared all she had, and she loved her for it. Euna had also promised to see to a proper burial for Auntie Yeva when the time came. A peaceful place close to the loch where Auntie could spend eternity looking out across the water. Isobel’s throat tightened with the need to cry, but she daren’t give in to it. She didn’t have time to mourn. Not yet.
Alert to her surroundings, she knelt upstream from her horse and refilled her waterskin. A handful of the clear water washed the bite of oatcake down. She had to portion out the food with care to make it last. There wasn’t time to set a snare and hunt, and she wouldn’t waste ammunition in search of meat. Euna had packed dried meat along with the oatcakes. She’d be able to find spring greens and edible roots as well.
God willing, maybe she’d find nesting birds. Eggs would be a welcome treat. She stood and stretched away the stiffness of hours in the saddle. Connor loved oatcakes. She would eat as few of those as possible and still be fine without hunting. The lead and powder she carried were reserved for the men who had stolen her son.
“Best be on our way.” She scratched her horse’s whiskery nose, then saddled up, thankful for the freedom of Morley’s borrowed clothing and the loss of her long, cumbersome braid. Short hair, wild and curly, barely brushed across the tops of her shoulders. A threadbare jacket over a worn shirt. Faded plaid. Patched trews beneath her kilt to hide her feminine legs. Scuffed boots. Hat pulled low over her eyes. She’d even gone so far as to keep her face as dirty as possible to hide her lack of a beard. She looked a thin, vagrant man, or so Euna had promised. Good. All the better to find Connor without giving away her identity.
The way she figured it, the ruffians would think her too afraid to follow them. That played in her favor. She snorted out a bitter laugh. Fools. They had no idea of the strength and determination of a mother’s love.
With an inkling that Temsworth would more than likely order Connor taken to Hestlemoor rather than London, she had headed in that direction. Instinct had rewarded her. While working for a night of shelter from the incessant rainy weather and a hot meal from an elderly pair of crofters, she had learned of a trio of men traveling with a young boy who they had claimed was deaf and dumb. Two of the men had been wounded. Said they had been shot by highwaymen. It had to be the scoundrels she sought. She had shot the one man, and Morley had wounded the other. Her rage burned at a constant, low simmer. She’d ensure the next wounds she meted out were fatal.
She spurred her horse to a faster trot. Daylight slipped away too fast. By her reckoning, the men had a two-day lead—or at least they had at the time they had stopped and paid for a meal from the same pair of crofters who had fed her. She prayed the rains had slowed them. If they hadn’t chosen the longer but easier route, then crossing the belly of the glen would delay them. The land had become a marshy muck of treachery that made the act of moving forward a chore. She had to close the distance between them. It would be much easier to spirit Connor away if she reached him before they imprisoned him in Hestlemoor.
The lingering soreness of the beating she’d taken at the hands of the miscreants kept her weariness at bay. She only stopped long enough to rest the horse. If not for the beast needing a bit of ease, she’d ride nonstop until she reached her son. She kept one hand across the pair of pistols tucked into the front of her belt. The weapons had belonged to Morley’s father, but the kind lad had silently insisted she take them. Three men and two pistols. The thought forced her to clench her teeth against such misgivings. It didn’t matter. That merely meant she would have to kill the third bastard with Euna’s butcher knife she carried inside her boot.
The faintest whiff of burning wood floated on the wind. She brought her mount to a halt, lifted her nose, and sniffed the air again whilst turning in a slow circle. There. Past the burn gurgling along the edge of the woods, deeper in the valley below. A wispy tendril of smoke rose from the stand of trees like a spirit rising from the grave.
She resettled herself in the saddle, studying the smoke as it disappeared across the horizon. Someone had made camp for the night. Could she be so blessed as to have found those she sought?
Urging her mount forward, she took in the lay of the land, noting all its secrets and possibilities. Outcroppings of limestone pushed up through the greening of the glen. Thick clusters of pine and oak sprouted here and there across the way. No caves, and no place to hide. If the camp up ahead held Connor, she would have to steal him away and ride hard.
“So be it,” she affirmed as she dismounted. She daren’t ride any closer. Whoever camped could have guards about. A sheltered mound of stones beside the stream provided a place for her horse. After tethering him loose enough so he could pull away if she failed to return, she hugged his shaggy neck. “Ye are a good lad, and I love ye for helping me.” In a short amount of time, Thunder had become a fine, loyal friend who wouldn’t leave her unless he found himself abandoned.
Pistol drawn, she eased into the woods as silent and soft-footed as a cat on the hunt. A childhood spent running with the lads when she should have been improving her stitchery, and music skills aided her now. The mouthwatering scent of roasting meat teased across her nose.
The flicker of firelight from between the trees waved her forward. A murmuring of voices spiked with an occasional deep laugh. Several voices. Over three. Her hopes faltered, but she hurried to shore them up. Maybe Temsworth had sent reinforcements to help the trio kidnapping Connor. That would explain the extra men. She drew up behind the broad trunk of a sprawling oak and peeked around it. Her heart fell. This was a small encampment of soldiers—not the blackguards and Connor.
Her stomach rumbled out a loud, long angry growl. The sound echoed through the quiet wood.
The men closest to her froze. The man directly in front of her hiding place turned and stared into the trees, squinting as he peered into the shadows. “Did the lieutenant not say he would stand first watch? What sort of beast might that be? God help us if anything ill happens to him.” The redcoat eased down sideways and picked up his long rifle without taking his eyes off the woods.
A stick snapped behind her. The fine hairs on the back of her neck tingled with the realization someone was there. She eased back the hammer of her pistol.
“I do not recommend that, sir,” the stern voice behind her warned.
At least the soldier thought her a man. Isobel disarmed the weapon and lifted it into the air. “Precautions, ye know?” she said in the deepest voice she could manage without sounding the fool. The old crofters had believed her to be male when she spoke. Hopefully, this Sassenach would as well.
“Into the camp,�
�� the man said as he snatched the pistol out of her hand, then reached around her and yanked the other one out of her belt. “Move.” The soldier nudged her in the middle of her back with the end of his weapon.
She didn’t have time for this. Both hands held aloft but head slightly bowed, she strode into the camp with the swaying gait of a man and kept her gaze locked on the fire. Her mouth started watering again. The spitted rabbits propped at an angle over the flames looked well-roasted and ready to eat.
Her captor stepped around her, positioning himself between her and the fire, blocking her view of the succulent rabbits. “Who are you, and what is your business here?”
The best way to tell the most convincing lie was to weave it as close to the truth as possible. It was a lot easier to keep the facts straight that way, too. “Name’s Jamie Ferguson, and I be looking for that missing duchess and her boy,” she said. “Lots a gold to be had for the man that finds them.” She jerked a thumb toward the fire. “Smelled yer smoke and thought might be them that stole her and her bairn away.”
Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, her interrogator studied her.
With stolen glances out from under the ragged brim of her hat, Isobel studied him right back.
He wasn’t overly young, but neither was he old. Average height and build. Judging by the immaculate state of his dress and the general softness and pallor about him, the man had spent little time out of doors. This redcoat wouldn’t survive a day in the Highlands were he not surrounded by troops to provide for him.
“How long has it been since you last ate, sir?” the Englishman asked.
Isobel made a derisive shrug as though she couldn’t care less if she ever ate again. A Scot had pride, after all. A man would admit no weakness—especially to an English. “Ate a bit of oatcake today.”
“Fields, fix the gentleman a plate.” Her captor gave a polite nod and returned her weapons. “Lieutenant Frances Pewterton, at your service, sir.” He motioned toward the fire. “It appears we both seek the same thing from this savage land. Perhaps we might join forces since I am quite sure you know this uncivilized country a great deal better than I or any here in my detachment.”
She cast a sideways glance at the lieutenant as she accepted the small pewter plate of roasted meat steaming alongside a crust of bread. What the lieutenant suggested might work to her benefit if she played this just right. The soldiers could overcome the trio of blackguards, and she could get Connor away before the lieutenant, or his men were any the wiser. She swallowed hard to control her excitement at the possibility and the fortuitous turn of events.
Struggling to remain calm, she chose her words carefully. If she were a poor Scot on the hunt for reward, that would be her primary concern. “Say I do agree ta help ye,” she said around an overlarge bite of meat and bread. “What of the gold?”
Lieutenant Pewterton waved away her question as he accepted his own plate of food and selected a delicate morsel with his little finger held up in a dainty pose. “The reward would still belong to you, my good man. My men and I operate under His Majesty’s orders and are therefore not eligible to benefit from the duke’s generosity.”
Isobel nearly gagged. The duke’s generosity. Indeed. She shoved the last of her bread into her mouth to keep from saying something that might give her away.
“So, what say you, sir? Do we have an arrangement?” The lieutenant withdrew a small flat-shaped bottle from inside his partially unbuttoned coat, removed the cork, and held it out. “Shall we drink on it?”
She could use a drink. Isobel agreed with a downward jerk of her chin. “Aye.” She accepted the bottle, expecting whisky. Instead, a fruity, cloyingly sweet liquid assaulted her tongue. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and handed back the bottle. “What be that stuff?”
“My family’s finest brandy,” the lieutenant said, preening with pride. He held out the bottle again. “Would you care for another taste?”
She held up a hand and shook her head. “Nay.” She motioned in the direction from which she had just come, then rubbed her belly. “I’ll be fetching me horse and taking a shite before I settle for the night.”
The refined Englishman rewarded her with the taken aback look she sought. The British thought Scots to be crude, uncivilized brutes. To maintain her hidden identity, she fully intended to act the part.
“I shall walk with you,” Pewterton said, passing the bottle of brandy to the nearest soldier and brushing his fingertips as though he’d somehow soiled them. He jerked as though startled and turned back to her with a wide-eyed stare. “Of course, I shall give you the privacy you require to attend to your necessities. You have my word.”
While the man was polite to a ridiculous fault, he was not stupid. He didn’t trust her yet. Isobel shrugged and motioned for Pewterton to follow. She tromped back through the woods, her long-legged stride outpacing his with little effort. She waited beside her horse for the man to catch up.
“Egads, what a beast,” Pewterton said with a hand pressed to his chest. Mouth ajar, he approached the animal as though he’d never seen a horse before. “Wherever did you obtain such a sturdy monstrosity?”
Sturdy monstrosity? She glanced at the black, white-socked shire, wondrous in his stature and great hairy feet. How dare the redcoat call Thunder something as insulting as a sturdy monstrosity. She turned back to the lieutenant, not about to tell him her horse had been given to her at Tor Ruadh. “Sold me land and bought him for me quest. Named him Thunder. Fine warhorse, he is.”
“Your quest?” A confused look puckered the man’s pale brow.
“The woman and the boy? The gold?” Maybe partnering with this redcoat had not been so wise after all. The man now seemed a bit the dullard. She decided to test the waters further to get Pewterton’s mind off the horse. “I talked with crofters north a here, and they said three ruffians came through naught but two days ago. Had a boy with them. A boy fitting the description of the missing lad.”
“Do tell.” Pewterton stepped closer, arching his sparse brows as though excited to learn a grand secret.
“Aye.” She nodded. “Said the boy didna talk at all. Seemed sore afraid, too. Does that no’ sound like a lad that’s been stolen away?”
“But what of his mother? The duchess?” Eyes wide, the lieutenant clasped his hands in front of his chest. “Did they mention the young man’s mother?”
She looked around as though fearing to be overheard. “Crofters said they heard them men talking like they’d done the poor woman in.” That little white lie might help in protecting her identity.
“The scoundrels!” Pewterton fisted his hands and stood taller. “Pray tell me the crofters could tell you what direction those blackguards took.”
“Headed for Foxshire Pier. Place is notorious for wicked doings. South edge of the bay, west a Gretna Green.” Isobel prayed the fictitious destination would take them close enough to Hestlemoor to head off the fiends and retrieve Connor. “Mean to sell him to pirates, me thinks. Bastards of the sea always looking for innocent, young cabin boys. If ye ken my meanin’?”
Horror registered on the man’s face. “How dreadful.” He swallowed hard, and his stunned gaze settled on the ground. “And the ill-fated duchess. Who can say what horrible demise that poor delicate creature met with?” He shook his head as his voice dropped to a whisper. “And we may never find her remains to see the dear lady properly laid to rest.”
Poor, delicate creature? She had never heard herself described in quite that way, but at least that meant the esteemed Lieutenant Frances Pewterton didn’t have a clue as to her identity.
“Aye,” she agreed, struggling to sound as sympathetic to the duchess’s fabricated plight as much as possible. She bowed her head. “God rest her soul.” She crossed herself and blew out a heavy sigh.
Pewterton stomped his foot. “We must ride forthwith. That poor, motherless child must be recovered without delay.”
She couldn’t agree more but turned away to hide her exciteme
nt. She busied herself with untethering her horse from the bush. While she wished they could ride hard and fast through the darkness, she knew the animal needed at least a few hours rest. “I agree with ye, but me horse is weary from a long day’s ride. He needs rest before we set out.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The lieutenant’s attention returned to her mount. He risked a step closer, his head tilting to one side as he studied the animal. “He is a fine specimen now that I look closer.” He brushed his fingertips across his chin, his forefinger tapping thoughtfully. “Perhaps, some of our horses’ feed might help strengthen him for the journey.” He turned to her with a benevolent smile. “When we return to camp, I shall have Atchison see that he’s well-fed.”
“Thank ye.” She gave the reins a gentle tug and headed into the trees. Lieutenant Pewterton was most certainly the oddest Englishman she had ever met. Generous. Concerned about others. Worked hard to do the proper thing. She smiled. The man should have become a priest rather than a soldier.
Pewterton cleared his throat and lengthened his stride to hurry ahead of her. “I shall return to camp now whilst you take care of your other matters.” He tripped over a small rotted log but righted himself before he hit the ground. With a sheepish smile, he held out a hand. “Shall I take your horse for you?”
“Nay. I thank ye.” Isobel granted the man a less stern scowl. “The urge has left me.” She shook her head and rubbed her stomach as she continued walking with a manly swagger. “Happens every time I go without me parritch for a while.”
“Very well, then.” He made a mannerly bow. “I shall hurry on ahead anyway and send Atchison back to help with your horse.”
She didn’t answer, just watched the unusual man head off through the woods at a stumbling run. “I hope the rest are fiercer, or I may have to protect them,” she muttered under her breath.
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 22
