by Galen, Shana
Stratford was eager to do the same. He had no desire to die slowly at the hand of Colonel Draven. Besides, he liked Miss Neves. She was a sweet girl who must be scared to death at the moment.
Stratford drew back and looked into the dazed expression on Emmeline’s face. Good, he thought. He liked her dazed and bewildered. She looked even more beautiful like that. “Stay here with Loftus,” he said.
She nodded, unusually agreeable.
“Stay alert and ready. We’ll probably need to keep moving tonight. We should put some distance between ourselves and these bandits.” He started away, but she grabbed his sleeve.
“Be careful, Stratford,” she had said.
He had smiled at her. “I always am.”
Now, in the open space before the crofter’s cottage, Stratford felt exposed. He wasn’t exactly the model of caution, but someone had to stand out front and keep the reivers’ attention. A glance at the sky told Stratford the sun was setting. It was late, but this far north, even when the sun set, it didn’t get that dark. That was to their advantage as it meant the reivers couldn’t hide in the darkness. But it had been cloudy with moments of light rain all day, and the sky was overcast and darker than he would have liked.
He stood with his legs braced, hands on his hips. His gaze scanned the brush and the fields all around until he fastened on a slight movement. The movement became a shape, and that shape was a man sitting in the high grass of the field watching him. Slowly, Stratford let his gaze roam over the nearby area. He spotted three more men, for a total of four. He didn’t see Miss Neves, though. They would present her before him, to keep his attention away from the men hiding behind.
And then, as if on cue, a man with a muffler pulled up over his mouth and a hat pulled low over his brow came into view, turning off the main road and walking back toward the house. He held a rope and that rope was tethered to Miss Neves’s hands.
Fourteen
INES
Ines spotted Mr. Fortescue in front of the cottage and breathed a sigh of relief. If Fortescue was here, Duncan was nearby as well. She just prayed Duncan wouldn’t do anything foolish. She worried, more than anything else, that the Scotsman would be hurt.
So much for PED. She wanted excitement and danger and gotten both plus passion, but she did not want anything if it meant she would lose Duncan.
She knew their party didn’t have enough coin to satisfy the men who had taken her. They’d dragged her to their camp, tied her to a tree, and left her alone for the afternoon. When she’d stopped shaking from terror, she had concentrated on listening to them talk. They kept some distance from her, which she appreciated, except that it made it hard to hear them very well. What she did piece together from the snatches of conversation she overheard was that they expected a large sum for her return. If her man did not have it with him, then they would keep her for a few days until he could gather it and pay them.
Ines felt sick at the prospect of having to stay with these men for even a night, but she felt sicker knowing that Duncan would never allow that. He would get her back, no matter the cost. She had already almost cost him his life. She didn’t want to do so again.
And so she felt relief at seeing Stratford Fortescue but also dread. Her gaze met Mr. Fortescue’s, and he gave her a reassuring smile. She kept her gaze on his, knowing that to look for Duncan might give him away. Better if her captors thought their only foe was Fortescue.
The man leading her, a man she had learned was called Graeme, stopped a few yards from Fortescue, and Ines stopped as well. She knew Graeme had sent men on ahead, but she didn’t see them. She wished she could warn Fortescue that Graeme had not come alone.
“I hope ye’ve brought a large purse,” Graeme said, eyeing Stratford up and down. “I’ll want a nice sum for the trouble of caring for yer woman all day.”
Fortescue looked unconcerned. “If you did not want the responsibility for her, you should have left her where you found her. Now, I suggest you give her back before I am forced to do something unpleasant.”
A light rain started to fall, and Ines blinked the water out of her eyes. She was already damp and cold from the rain that had fallen on and off all afternoon, and she dreaded the wet night ahead, especially if she was to spend it tied to a tree.
“I should think ye would be more worried aboot what I might do. I have yer woman, and if ye dinnae plan tae pay me a fine sum tae give her back, I might just keep her. She’s a bonny lass.”
“If that means she is pretty, you are right. But I can’t think she is pretty enough for all the trouble you will cause yourself if you do not hand her over right away.”
Graeme made a show of looking about. “What trouble? Ye are standing here alone. If ye had bothered tae look aboot ye, ye’d ken I have my men surrounding ye.”
“And if you’d bothered to pull your head out of your arse for three seconds, you’d realize you will be dead in the next quarter hour, if you do not release this lady immediately.”
Ines was trying to remain calm, but it was difficult when she still didn’t know where Duncan was. And it was even more difficult when she could see Graeme’s men creeping closer.
“Oh, I have my heid in my arse?” Graeme yanked Ines’s bindings, causing her to stumble forward. “Do ye want the lass or nae?”
Fortescue raised an unconcerned brow. “I said I did, but I won’t pay the likes of you for her. Now give her to me and scurry back to the hole you crawled out of.” Fortescue held out an imperious hand.
“I ought tae kill ye now,” Graeme said as his men moved even closer. Ines’s heart thundered in her chest. Soon the men would have Fortescue surrounded and then they would both be prisoners.
“I would like to see you try,” Fortescue said, seeming unconcerned by the men moving up behind him.
“Ye dinnae believe me? Then maybe ye’d like tae watch me kill her instead.” Graeme yanked Ines to the ground and grabbed her by the hair. She gasped at the bite of pain, her eyes watering.
“You won’t kill her,” Fortescue began.
And then through the drizzle and her tears, she saw Duncan. It seemed to Ines that he flew out of the crofter’s cottage. Of course, he couldn’t really fly. Her eyes must be deceiving her, but the way he moved looked like flying. He leapt, his hair streaming out behind him, his handsome face a mask of rage, his arm wielding what looked like a sword, though she could not remember him having one before.
Fortescue yelled, his arms cutting through the air as though giving some sort of direction or rebuke. And then he sagged, seemed to gather himself again, turned to the man closest to him and delivered a hard kick to his hand, sending the dagger he held flying. Impressive as the move was, Ines could not keep her gaze from returning to Duncan. As he came closer, she realized what she had thought might be a sword was actually a sharpened stick.
Caramba! He was fighting men armed with real weapons with nothing more than a stick! She knew he had a dagger as well. He had a habit of tossing it when they sat waiting for another cart to pass or a merchant to finish a negotiation. He would hold the handle with the tip of his fingers, toss it in the air, and then catch it by the handle again. But where was that dagger now? He would need it against Graeme. Duncan landed, crouched, then turned his head as a lion might when scenting prey. His amber eyes fixed on his target, and he lunged for Graeme.
Graeme didn’t flinch. He met the attack head on. Ines meant to flinch—to close her eyes—but she had to see what would happen. Graeme was on his feet, arms raised for attack one moment, then flat on the ground, the next. Duncan loomed over him, sharpened stick at the ready. Suddenly, that stick looked far more dangerous than any stick had a right to, and Ines could not watch. She had the sudden realization that the rope binding her hands was slack. When Graeme fell, he must have released the end he held. She began to wriggle her wrists in an attempt to free herself. But the knots were tight, and her hands slick from the rain. Around her, men yelled and cried out in pain. Ines tried to focus on
her task, but she couldn’t stop looking about her.
A man grabbed her hands and Ines cried out. She looked up and into Duncan’s leonine eyes. There was no warmth in them now, only hard determination. Duncan pulled her to her feet. The dagger she had seen him toy with on so many occasions was in his hand, and it flashed, freeing the bindings. Ines stared at the crimson liquid that washed briefly over her hands before being rinsed away by the rain, which had begun falling more steadily now.
Blood. Duncan or Graeme’s?
“Go,” Duncan said to her.
She frowned, still staring at the last droplets of pink on her skin. He shook her, and she looked up and into his face, so hard and ferocious. All of that rage, all of that fury—for her. “Go!” he said and gave her a gentle push.
As though a gear in her mind was suddenly turned, she understood. She looked about, found an opening, and ran.
The sounds of fighting followed her as she tumbled into the brush just out of view of the crofter’s cottage. She did not know who was winning, and she could not bear to watch. She heard Duncan and Fortescue’s voices in a quick exchange and knew at least they were still alive. They would stay alive, wouldn’t they? They had fought together in a war against the French. They could hold their own in a fight against a small group of bandits.
Ines rubbed at her sore wrists and tried to catch her breath. She would simply hide here until the sounds of fighting died away. Then she would hide longer until she could discern a winner. If the bandits won, she would stay where she was and hope they did not find her. It was raining harder now, and the sky had darkened considerably. She would not be easy to spot in her dark dress. But, of course, the bandits would not win. Duncan must win. He must or...
Something moved in the brush behind her. Ines hoped she had imagined it, but she heard a rustling, even the rain could not muffle. She tensed, afraid to move and give herself away. One of Graeme’s men must have hidden here. She should have paid more attention to where they’d positioned themselves.
Slowly, she turned to look into the shadows behind her. Something moved, but it didn’t look human. Caramba! There were wolves in Scotland! And then she saw the brown eyes and the patch of white fur, and she sobbed out a cry of relief. “Loftus!” The dog pushed through the undergrowth, his tongue licking her face. Ines much preferred cats to dogs. She thought dogs ill-mannered because they were always licking people they barely knew. But she would have submitted to Loftus’s ministrations for another five minutes. She was so happy to see him. He sniffed her, licked her again, and then his ears pricked up as though he were listening for something.
The fighting. Of course, he had heard it. But if he was here, did that mean Emmeline was nearby as well? Ines couldn’t imagine Mr. Fortescue or Duncan would allow her anywhere near this place. They would have left her behind with Loftus. Loftus whined, looked at Ines, then back at the sounds of the fight. Finally, seeming to make up his mind, he slid back under the brush and toward the fighting. Duncan and Fortescue would soon have another soldier, but where was Emmeline?
DUNCAN
Duncan had to admit Stratford was a better fighter than he would have guessed. The two hadn’t fought together often. Duncan and other members of the troop, usually Ewan and Rowden, were sent in when hand-to-hand combat was required. Stratford was usually positioned with Nash to oversee the strategy he’d laid out, while Nash picked off any men Duncan and the others didn’t disarm in their first sortie.
Duncan supposed he had seen Stratford fight before. No one escaped the war without some blood on their hands. He just hadn’t realized how graceful and controlled Stratford’s technique could be. That was the word for it—technique. He didn’t fight as Duncan did—with wild abandon. He fought with precision and efficiency. Duncan had to admire the style, even as he tore his own way through the last few bandits still standing. There had only been about seven of them. With their leader down, the others had swarmed. Half had gone for Stratford and the others for Duncan. On the Continent, the men of Draven’s had always fought toward each other, until they could press their backs together defensively. Duncan did that now, without thinking. After a few minutes, Stratford’s back pressed into his.
“Seems like old times,” Stratford said, panting.
“Aye, except I had a sword then.” Duncan threw a punch and hoped the man stayed down.
“And I had a pistol.” He grunted as one of their opponents obviously landed a blow. Duncan had one more man to take down, then he would finish off Stratford’s foes. “You still don’t follow plans,” Stratford said, obviously annoyed that Duncan had left his position early.
“Make a better one and I might.” Duncan dodged his man’s right hook.
“The weather is the same,” Stratford said.
“Always wet and muddy, aye. I was so tired of the pissing rain.” Duncan hit his man across from him with his stick, opening a gash on the man’s forehead and causing him to fall to his knees. Duncan kicked him, and when the man went down, Duncan leaned close and said, “Stay down or I’ll slide my dagger between yer ribs.”
The man stayed down.
Duncan turned to Stratford’s last adversary, a big man with dark red hair plastered to his face. He had to weigh two of Stratford, and he had arms like tree limbs. He seemed to have no weapon but his fists, and that was probably all he needed.
This might take a while. The man was obviously besting Stratford, judging by the blood at the corner of his friend’s mouth. When Duncan stepped forward, the man smiled.
And then his smile froze. It only took Duncan a moment to realize why. He too heard the growl. With a smile, Duncan spotted Loftus behind the reiver, crouched low, teeth bared.
“Put yer fists down, and I’ll call him off,” Duncan said. “Otherwise, I’ll let him eat ye for dinner.”
The man put his fists down, his eyes wild with fright.
“Loftus, come,” Stratford said.
Loftus trotted to his side, his eyes still trained on the large Scot. Sensing his opportunity, the man ran. Loftus started to go after him, but Duncan grasped him by the scruff of the neck and held him. “Let him go, boy. He willnae trouble us more.”
Stratford bent at the waist, catching his breath. “How do we know they won’t lick their wounds and ambush us?”
“Because I killed their leader.”
Stratford’s head came up. “Bloody hell.”
But Duncan felt no remorse. The man had touched Ines. He’d abducted her, bound her, and God knew what he had done to her while he’d had her. And he’d probably terrorized countless other travelers or nearby landholders. The man did not deserve to live.
And he knew that was not the only reason. He’d lost his temper, lost control. He had been worried for Ines, but that was not all. He’d wanted revenge, though of course the man he killed wasn’t the one who’d really deserved it.
As Duncan and Stratford caught their breath, the small group of men began slinking away, limping and staggering. Two of them took their leader by the arms and dragged him off as well.
Stratford straightened. “I told her to stay with the dog,” he said.
“And when has Emmeline Wellesley ever done as anyone bade her? Take the dog and find her. The roof of the cottage has a few holes, but we can sleep in here tonight. It will be better than huddling out in the rain.”
“Where is Miss Neves?” Stratford asked, looking about the gloomy darkness.
“Let me worry aboot her.” He knew exactly where she was. He’d seen her run into the brush and duck down. He was pleased she had enough sense to stay there, hidden.
Stratford slapped him on the back and started away, the dog leading him. Duncan started for Ines, covering the ground between them in a few steps. She popped up when she heard him coming. “Is it over?” she asked.
It was so good to see her face, to see her alive and well. His heart ached at the sight. “Aye,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion.
“Did you win?” she asked.<
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“Aye.” He reached her, scooped her into his arms, and began to carry her. She squealed in surprise.
“What are you doing, senhor?”
“Getting ye inside.” And holding her. He needed to hold her in the moment.
He reached the crofter’s cottage, kicked the door open, and carried her in. It was dark and chilly inside, but at least it was mostly dry. He remembered the dry corner where he had waited for Stratford’s signal—a signal he’d forgotten about as soon as he saw Ines fall to her knees—and deposited Ines there. He’d taken off his coat inside because he’d known he’d want more freedom of movement when he attacked, and it had proved a wise decision as it was still warm. He dropped it over Ines’s shoulders and felt around for several abandoned birds’ nests he’d seen.
He’d already brought wood inside. He’d used his dagger to whittle one of the sticks into a sharp lance. The others were still in a pile near the hearth. When he’d gathered the bird nests, he used a foot to shove the wood into the hearth, dumped the dry tinder of the old nests on the top of the kindling, and reached into his satchel for his tinder box. A few moments later, he had a small fire started. With a bit of patience and careful manipulation of his kindling, the fire took hold and didn’t smoke too badly. The activity was what he needed to settle his emotions and calm his racing blood after the fight.
“Come closer,” Duncan said, when he was once again in control of himself. He spotted Ines, still huddled in the corner where he’d deposited her. “Ye look like a wet kitten.”
“You look...” Her eyes shone in the firelight.
Duncan swallowed hard. She didn’t look like a wet kitten at all. She looked like a beautiful woman.
“You look magnificent,” she breathed.
Duncan clenched his hands, steeling himself against the rush of desire her words elicited. Then, against his better judgement, he opened his arms. “Come here,” he said. She went to him, burying her head against his chest. He rubbed her back and pulled her close. She was so cold and felt so small and fragile shivering against him. He wanted to hold her until she was warm and safe in his arms. “Did they hurt ye, lass?”