Bernadine took the footman’s proffered hand and gingerly stepped down from the carriage. She was still feeling weak and woozy after her faint and was looking forward to nothing so much as taking off her uncomfortable frock, putting on her favorite nightdress, and crawling under the sheets with a saucy novel.
Nothing soothed the soul quite like the antics of Miss Fanny Fosterkew, the favorite literary heroine of Bernadine’s readings. When Bernadine had last left Miss Fanny, she was just about to leap off her horse in pursuit of the highwayman who had stolen her mother’s prized locket.
Bernadine couldn’t wait to find out who the highwayman was. She had her suspicions, but the author, a Mr. P. L. Richards, was known for leading his readers to a conclusion only to offer the exact opposite of what they were expecting. It was one of the main reasons he was Bernadine’s favorite writer. She did so love a surprising adventure!
Bernadine’s father was silent behind her as they walked up the stone steps and were let into the house by a sleepy-looking footman. The hallway was dark, most of the house already abed, and Bernadine and her father’s footsteps echoed in the quiet.
“I am sorry,” her father whispered behind her, his voice barely audible.
“Pardon, Papa? I did not hear you.”
She had, of course, heard him, but she wanted to hear him say it again. Louder. Like he meant it.
That evening had taught Bernadine that she had gone far too long without bringing up the subject of her father’s prejudices. She should have persisted after he dismissed her complaints before. If she had, perhaps tonight would not have happened. Perhaps they would not have made such a scene. Perhaps she would not have lost any hope of striking up a conversation with that intriguing Scotsman.
“I am sorry, Bernadine,” her papa told her, his voice louder, though still lacking its usual strength. “I…I embarrassed us both tonight, and for that I am deeply, deeply sorry.”
“Are you sorry for what you said, or merely for the consequences of your words?” she asked. It was uncouth of a young lady to speak so plainly with her father, but then, she and her papa had never had a normal relationship. How could they, when he had raised her practically as a son, rather than a daughter?
She saw his eyes narrow, no doubt hating the scolding he was being given by his daughter, but instead of a reprimand, the words that came out of his mouth were even more contrite than before. “For both. I…I should have kept my opinions to myself. Should,” he corrected, “keep them to myself from now on. These are changing times we live in, and I would do well to adapt to them, I think. Would you…would you help me?”
Her father looked insecure, for the first time in her entire life, and it melted her heart.
“Of course I will, Papa. Together we will turn you into the most loving, open-minded man the ton has ever seen.”
“Ha!” Her father barked out a laugh, and Bernadine smiled, pleased that she had brought levity to such a grave conversation.
“I am not sure I will ever get quite that far, but with your help perhaps I can stop being such a deuced curmudgeon,” he said.
“I think that is entirely possible,” Bernadine replied, leaning in and kissing her father on the cheek. He smelled like peppermint and pipe tobacco, and the scent calmed her. He was a flawed man, but a good one at his core. She hoped that in time, other people would see that as well.
“Good night, Papa,” she said, drawing away and turning toward the staircase.
“Good night, dear Bernadine. I don’t deserve you, but I’m happy to have you all the same,” he said, a sad smile on his face as he walked down the hallway toward his study, no doubt to pour himself a large glass of something potent.
Bernadine only wished she could partake of the same substance, but then, that was not what ladies did. And so, she walked to her room, eager to drown her sorrows in Fanny Fosterkew’s antics.
* * *
Donnan motioned to the men behind him, all of whom were cloaked in black. He slowly tiptoed down the curved path leading toward the back of the large house. The Nibleys’ carriage driver had been only too happy to tell him exactly where the lass slept, after Donnan greased his palms, of course. He had learnt his target was the window, four floors up and third from the left. Donnan knew it was the right one as he had got a glimpse of Bernadine at the window before everything got dark.
Between the payment to the driver as well as to the small crew of fellow Scotsmen, most of them familiar faces from back home, it was turning out to be one of the more expensive nights of Donnan’s life, but if his plan succeeded, the expenditure would be well worth it. The lass would be well worth it.
Turning, Donnan regarded the men behind him. Though none were quite as strong as he, they all looked more than able to give him a leg up so that he could climb to the window.
Wordlessly, he handed the men one end of a thick hemp rope, the other end of which was tied to his sporran, which was, as always, affixed to the front of his kilt. The plan was for him to scale the wall, an easy enough feat for a man of his size and stature, and then, once inside the lass’ room, tie his end of the rope to the window. Then, the lads could keep the rope steady as he and the lass climbed down and made their escape.
After checking that he had the bit of cloth soaked in alcohol in his sporran to muzzle the lass, Donnan checked the knot on his sporran and nodded at the men.
“Shandt be more than a few minutes, lads,” he whispered before turning toward the wall.
The climb turned out to be an easy one; ivy covered much of the brick wall, and between that and the generous bit of plaster between each brick, Donnan had no trouble finding hand and footholds that carried him up to the fourth-floor windows.
Climbing sideways to the right was slightly more of a challenge but having grown up around the rocky masses in Scotland, spending his youth scrambling through them with naught to protect him, Donnan was used to difficult climbs.
He had barely broken a sweat by the time he was gripping onto the lass’ windowsill. The pane was open, no doubt letting in a soft breeze to lull the lass to sleep. Donnan reached an arm through the window, carefully opening it. It gave a small squeak, and he paused, straining to hear if the lass had stirred.
All he heard was the soft, slow breathing of a person in deep slumber, and so he continued his mission, slowly and carefully climbing through the window. He took the rope from his sporran and tied it to one of the hooks on the windowsill; testing the knot to be sure it could hold their combined weights. When he was satisfied, he turned around, taking in the room for the first time.
The space was mostly dark, but the nub of a candle was still burning on a table next to the bed, allowing Donnan to gaze upon the outline of Miss Bernadine Nibley in deep sleep.
Her blonde hair, plaited to the side, had fallen over her shoulder, and some of the strands had escaped and were now caressing her cheeks. A leather-bound book was open and resting on its front on the floor beside her, most likely having fallen from her hand when she dozed off.
One arm was stretched out over the bed, the hand curled softly inward. Donnan longed to reach out and touch that hand, to hold it while she slept. She looked so sweet, so calm, so angelic, and he suddenly wished he could stay the whole of the night, watching her in this calm state.
Suddenly, Bernadine made a sound, a soft, little mewl as she drew her arm in and readjusted her position, turning to the other side. Donnan froze, but she seemed to still be asleep, her breathing not having changed.
As he gazed at her, he wondered how such an angelic creature could be related to the horrible man that had called him a savage, a brute, a thief and a drunkard earlier that day. How could such a man have created such beauty?
But Donnan reminded himself that time was of the essence. He needed recompense for his egregious wrongs, and it would not be in his favor to get caught now. Striding toward the bed and taking the bit of cloth from his sporran, Donnan grabbed the lass under her back with one hand and placed the
other over the lass’ mouth.
Donnan watched the lass’ eyes to see if they would stay closed, but after a few pokes and prods did nothing to stir her, he knew she was out for at least thirty minutes, if not more. He had put rather a lot of alcohol on the cloth just in case.
The lass was light in his arms as he lifted her. He turned, and his boots landed not on the hard wood floor, but on something much softer. Looking down, Donnan realized that the lass kept a pair of shoes by her bed.
He stooped down and collected them in one hand, tucking them into his belt as he carried her to the window. The journey to Scotland would be long and cold and she would need something to cover her feet. What she really needed were boots, but he did not have time to look for those, so the slippers would simply have to do.
As Donnan approached the window and saw the rope still secured to the sill, he began to wonder exactly how he was going to climb back down with the lass in his arms. After shifting the lass from one shoulder to the other, Donnan finally decided it made the most sense to carry her over his left shoulder and navigate the rope with his right arm.
It was difficult work, climbing out of the window and slowly making his way back down, not least because Donnan was far more worried going down than he had been coming up. Before, he had had only himself to think of as he climbed. Now, however, there was a small, beautiful woman slung over his shoulder, her life in his hands, as it were.
Finally, they reached the ground and, his men took Bernadine from his arms. She slouched in Seamus’ arms, still fast asleep, while Donnan stretched his arms above his head, trying to release the tension that had built up there from the descent.
“Do we leave the rope, Donnan?” one of his men asked.
“Aye. I want her faither to ken what’s happened. I want him to ken she’s been taken away in the night,” he said, adjusting his kilt and looking over at the lass as he spoke. He felt an odd spark of jealousy shoot through him as he looked at the lass in Seamus’ arms.
I should be the only one allowed to touch her. She’s mine.
“Help me get her onto me saddle, Seamus,” Donnan barked at the man as he stalked over to his horse. He had settled her in front of him, her head lolling on his shoulder, her hair tickling his chin. It was a good feeling, to have her against him. He liked it very much indeed.
Once all his other men had saddled up, they began their journey back home. They were out of the city and still Bernadine did not wake. Donnan began to worry that he had drugged her too much, that he had harmed her, but then, just when he was perhaps thinking of stopping somewhere to splash some water on her face, she stirred.
And when she opened her eyes and turned back to him, she screamed so loud she scared the horses.
Chapter 4
Bernadine awoke to the feel of dew on her face. The sun was not up yet. The sky a soft grayish blue that told of dawn soon to come, and she could feel sleep lulling her back into its warm embrace.
She resisted its pull, throwing the plaid off her and sitting up. They had camped on a hill somewhere in Yorkshire the night before, after a grueling two and a half days in the saddle. Bernadine was a skilled horsewoman, but even she was sore after so many hours of gripping her thighs to her horse’s flank. She had started out riding sidesaddle, as was proper of a woman of her station, but eventually had resorted to the astride position after her left hip began sending shooting sparks of pain up her side and spine.
The men had given her quite the look when she switched positions, one of them even muttering about how much he wished it was him between her thighs, not the horse, but Bernadine ignored them. Had been ignoring them, in fact, for the entirety of their journey so far, excepting the occasional withering looks she sent their leader’s way.
They were going to Scotland, apparently. To Laird Young’s castle, more specifically, Laird Young of Velruit being the gargantuan Scotsman who had kidnapped and drugged Bernadine in the middle of the night after Lord Hammilton’s ball. After she realized that her screams were going unnoticed, the gigantic man had introduced himself with his full title.
Donnan, as he insisted she call him, was sleeping a few feet away, his long sable eyelashes resting on his cheeks, his chest moving slowly up and down with each intake and outtake of breath. Bernadine had to admit that for all his faults, kidnapping and drugging her being perhaps the most egregious, he was a handsome man. She might hate him, but she could admit the obvious. It was the first thing she had noticed about him, and after spending days in his company, it rang only more true.
His hair was so dark it looked almost black, until the sun hit it and its deep auburn highlights were revealed to the world. His face was tanned from so much exposure to the sun, and while society told her that this ought to make him look less attractive, it had the opposite effect. The tawny color of his skin brought out the blue in his eyes, a blue that changed hue depending on his mood. Since they had left England, it had been a calm, almost teal color, but she had seen it go stormy during the ball, when he had first heard her father’s insults.
Her father. As Bernadine wandered ways off to relieve herself, she wondered what her Papa was doing. Was he even now sending out a search party to find her? Had he figured out who had taken his daughter from him?
Bernadine began to cry as she thought of him fretting over her, worrying that something truly awful had happened to her. Though kidnappings were rare among their set, they did happen, and the results were almost never favorable. Society misses had been raped, killed, and left for dead; their bodies abandoned on the side of the road once they had served their purpose. Occasionally, ransom could be paid, and the woman returned, but Bernadine was beginning to suspect that in her case, the matter would not be so simple.
Donnan was clearly well off and had no need of her father’s money. What Bernadine had not yet figured out was what he did want. He had not laid a hand on her, had made no comments to her that suggested that rape was in his plans.
Not knowing what was in store for her frightened Bernadine. She knew she could fight him off if he tried to overpower her, knew her father would hand over all the money to his name if it was asked for, but she could not prepare for what she did not know. Therefore, Bernadine had begun thinking seriously of escape. And it looked as though this was the perfect morning for it.
She was the only person awake, alone in the pre-dawn silence. Everyone else was still fast asleep and would probably stay so for some time. After all, Donnan had told them the night before that they would not depart before nine o’clock, a reward for the hard riding of the day before.
I could do it now. I could escape, and it would be hours before anyone was up to realize I was away.
Quickly, she began thinking what she would need to journey back to England. It would take her a few days more than it had taken them to reverse their steps, her knowledge of the land was not nearly as good as the Scots’. She would need food, a vessel for water, and something to protect herself in case she came in contact with any other unsavory characters on her way.
Bernadine had caught a glimpse of the dirk, a small, sharp knife, tucked into the boot of Seamus McTavish, one of Donnan’s men and the soundest sleeper of the lot. Bernadine knew this, because she had awoken to his snores more than once the night before. Despite shoving and shaking him in an effort to halt the noise, the man had continued sleeping, not even reacting to her pokes and prods.
The food sacks and water vessels were in a large bag, resting near the horses. The horses were tied to trees nearby and seemed to be if not sleeping, then at least not feeling energetic enough to react to Bernadine’s active presence.
Which meant that Bernadine could tiptoe to Seamus, grab his dirk, then run to the food sack, grab her provisions, and be saddled and on her way in a matter of minutes.
It was practically what she had been training for her whole life. Her father had named her Bernadine, a man’s name, mostly because he wanted her to have the strength of a man, and he had raised her to t
hat idea, teaching Bernadine how to hunt, how to ride astride, how to run fast and nimbly over rough terrain. She was the strongest girl she knew, more than capable of this feat.
I can do this.
Checking the area in front of her for large twigs and sticks that might snap with her footsteps, Bernadine made her way slowly, quietly, to Seamus, her hand slowly reaching out as she approached his feet. Her hand was on the dirk, the blade nearly out of the boot, when she felt two large hands grip her by the waist and pull her roughly away from Seamus and off to the other side of the ground.
* * *
Donnan cursed himself for being so foolish. He should have known the lass would try something like this. She was a fierce one –she had made that clear the night he tried to kidnap her – and he couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid as to think she would willingly follow him out of the country and all the way back to his castle without a fight. Clearly, she had taken the threat he had made about tying her limbs together as a jest rather than truth.
Daring the Highlander: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 3