by Amy Jarecki
I would wring his neck.
Onward Don rode, wracking his brain for a solution, until the flicker of a flame caught his eye.
Chapter Ten
After eating a meager meal of bread and cheese while sitting on a soggy log in front of the fire, Mary watched the dragoons erect a tent. Balfour lifted the flap, his features made darker by the night’s shadows. “’Tisn’t anything like my cottage, but at least it will keep you dry, my love.”
The man had made her eat with her wrists bound and yet he referred to her with such an inappropriate endearment? “I’m not your love,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
“Yet.”
The dragoons stood around the fire staring at her with blank expressions. Surely one of them had a conscience. Or did they all blindly follow orders regardless, even if they went against every moral code in the Highlands? Then she remembered the massacre at Glencoe and knew her answer.
No.
As she moved toward the tent, her gaze darted across each uncaring face, hoping she was wrong, hoping she’d find sympathy. One man looked away, then another. They all seemed more worried about spending the night in the drizzling rain.
Balfour made an exaggerated gesture with his palm, looking like an eager dog. “Stay atop the furs and you’ll be toasty dry.”
She met his feigned kindness with a scowl. “You sound like you care.”
“Oh, but I do.” He bowed. “I wouldn’t want the mother of my heir to catch cold.”
Mary winced. The mere thought of lying with the lieutenant made her stomach roil. The man had completely lost his hold on reality. “You will never touch me.”
She bent down and started into the tent.
Stopped by his brutal hand grapping the nape of her neck, Mary jolted with a shriek. Jerking her up, the cur grasped her chin and forcefully twisted her face toward his. “I beg to differ.”
She shivered to her toes. Heaven help her, his eyes were black and filled with hate.
With a surge of revulsion, Mary forced her bound wrists between them. But that only made him grip tighter. Scowling, he crushed his mouth over hers. Her stomach heaved as his tongue licked her lips, probing as if he wanted to stick the vile thing into her mouth.
Pushing as hard as she could, Mary finally broke his hold. Quickly shuffling to the tent, she ducked inside and regarded the blackguard over her shoulder. “Never try that again.”
He chuckled—a sickly, ugly cackle. “That’s a promise I cannot make.” He bent down and poked his head inside. “Sleep well, for I want you to wake refreshed on the morrow.”
Mary eyed the cutlass hanging from his right hip. “Would you release my hands? I would sleep more comfortably.”
“I think not—at least not until I am lying beside you.” He shrugged. “Besides, once you drift off to sleep, those bindings shouldn’t be a worry.”
Repulsed, Mary yanked the flap closed. At least Balfour was right about one thing. The fur was dry and it felt a wee bit warmer now that the canvas blocked then wind and drizzle.
“We’ll change watch every two hours,” the lieutenant’s nasally voice came through the thin material. “And keep an ear to the ground. I don’t think Miss Mary’s kin will have caught wind of her whereabouts as of yet, but one never kens.”
“Aye,” said another voice. “And she doesn’t seem too pleased with your wedding plans either, sir.”
“She will be,” Balfour snapped. “And that’s none of your concern. If you want your back pay, I suggest you lot keep your opinions to yourselves. I will marry the lass and she’ll be well cared for. Once she realizes it is a fortuitous match, she’ll come around. Mark me.”
The conversation beyond the tent did anything but settle her nerves.
Lying on her side, Mary curled into a ball and tried to think. It didn’t matter if the lieutenant lived in a castle, she wouldn’t be happy. She hated him and everything he stood for. Worse, he’d been collecting taxes and intimidating every crofter on her peninsula for the past two years. In no way would the man suddenly turn over a new leaf and act as an upstanding, respectable husband. Even if he playacted at being pleasant, it wouldn’t last. Aye, she had witnessed too much of his evil side.
Mary rolled to her knees. Holding her breath, she peered through the gap in the tent. The fire had fizzled with the increasing rain.
God save her. How on earth could she manage her way out of this mess? Where was the Castleton guard now? As Balfour had plainly said, her kin probably had no idea they were traveling inland to his home—and how many people on the peninsula knew he was from Invergarry? Mary hadn’t a clue—not that she’d ever asked the lout. Who on earth would stop and drum up idle chat with their enemy?
Scrubbing her fingers across her lips, Mary wiped away the filth of the lieutenant’s mouth. Gracious, his horrid lips had practically crushed hers. She wanted to spit and wash her mouth out with peppermint tonic. Why did her first kiss have to be the most vulgar experience imaginable? If she hadn’t been so shocked by Balfour’s actions, she would have bit him. How dare he force her? And in front of his men? Good heavens, that man was evil with a capital E.
Then Mary’s blood turned icy cold. Surely he wouldn’t force her to lie with him? Surely he was jesting? He couldn’t marry her on the morrow. Could he?
But then, if he knew of a way to marry her without her consent, after the ceremony he’d be within his rights to force her.
And that’s what he was laughing about.
Mother Mary, help me.
The lieutenant had no intention of pretending to be nice—to turn over a new leaf. He was the bully she knew him to be and he would feel not a lick of remorse when he took her, willing or nay, to his bed.
A flash of unwanted heat spread down her arms.
Oh God, if she didn’t escape this night, there may be no other chance. She would be violated and ruined—and then she would have nowhere to go. Her life would be over. And if she didn’t bow to Balfour’s whims, only heaven knew what would happen. Mayhap Da would take her in, but she would be a burden to him for the rest of her days. No one would want her, even if she did find a way to escape from Balfour’s clutches. Is that what he meant when he said she would learn to like him? She would realize how better off she would be, trapped in an unwanted marriage, bearing his hideous children?
She crawled to the back of the tent and carefully ran her hand down the rear canvas. Just her rotten luck, the thing had been lashed closed.
Of course, otherwise, Balfour would have posted a guard on this side as well. At least she hadn’t heard anyone move back that way, nor had the lieutenant given an order to do so.
Not giving up, she sank her fingers down past the edge of the fur.
Wet moss.
Running her hand along the edge, the canvas was pulled taut, but beneath it was earth. Could she loosen the tension enough to slip under? Reaching to the corner, she found a metal spike. Would the tent collapse if she pulled it out?
Rocking back, Mary held her breath and listened. Rain pattered against the tent. The river rushed in the distance. Wind whistled and tossed the creaking branches overhead. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears so loudly, she feared everyone in the camp could hear it. Were the dragoons asleep yet? Should she wait a bit longer? If she stuck her head out the front flap, the guard would know she was up to something for certain.
Frozen in place, Mary took only shallow breaths, imagining the scene beyond. When her heart finally slowed enough to calm its deafening thrumming, she made her move. Carefully, she levered the spike back and forth until the tension eased a wee bit. Then she slid her hand under the canvas and lifted. It relaxed enough to create an opening no more than a foot, but perhaps enough for her to slip beneath without being noticed.
The rain pattered louder on the canvas.
Good, the noise would make her movement all the more unnoticeable. She had to be a ghost…slip out and tiptoe to the river and run. Taking one last deep inhale, Mary lay flat a
nd slid out the back of the tent. With the rain, darkness shrouded everything. Once outside, she crouched, peering side to side. Rain splattered her face, but not a human sound came from the camp.
Picking up her skirts, she tiptoed over the mossy earth toward the rush of the river, looking back over her shoulder every few steps.
Mary’s heart raced again. With every step, she feared a dragoon would lunge from behind a tree and capture her. Swallowing her fear, she pushed onward. By the time she reached the riverbank, her legs were pumping faster. But now she was far enough away not to worry as much about snapping twigs. Now she needed to run.
And run she did, as fast as her legs would carry her.
A stitch in her side cramped and she pushed her hand against the pain. She would drop of exhaustion before she stopped.
Somewhere there must be a boat, mayhap a horse. Anything to speed her flight.
With her next step, Mary’s right foot sank into mud. Of all the miserable luck, the blasted thing stuck as she tried to pull it out. Bracing her left on the bank, she tugged hard.
With a loud sucking noise, the foot gave way as rainwater and mud poured toward the river. Falling, her bound wrists flew up and smacked her in the face. Trying not to cry out, her feet flew up and her backside landed, whisked to the raging torrent by unforgiving and slippery mud.
Mary closed her eyes and prayed. This was the end. She couldn’t swim and with her hands bound, she had no chance.
The entire world went calm, serene. At least she would not be forced to marry Balfour MacLeod.
Ice cold water soaked her feet. Her legs.
She prepared herself for the end.
Fingers as hard as iron gauntlets gripped her arm. Mary’s eyes flew open.
She’d not go back to the camp.
No. Chance.
Fighting with her entire body, her arms, her legs, she struggled to break away.
“Easy, lass,” a deep voice grumbled.
Mary craned her neck and her heart launched into a myriad of fluttering palpitations. A familiar face grimaced with exertion as he pulled her from certain death.
Using her legs to help her ascent, he pulled her from the torrent.
God has sent me a savior.
Once on her feet, Sir Donald glowered. “I kent I’d find you in more peril than a MacGregor standing on the gallows with a rope around his neck.”
Why on earth did his growl sound like the chimes of angel’s bells?
***
“Keep quiet,” Don growled in a low voice while he cut her wrists free.
“How did you find me?” she whispered.
“An old fisherman saw the lieutenant manhandle you in Glenelg—said you rode west with a retinue.” He helped her stand and gestured to the pony. “Come, I’ll give you a leg up. We must haste.”
“Only one wee garron?” she asked, putting her foot in his interlaced palms. “Ragnar may be sturdy, but he’s still only a pony.”
“Quiet, I said.” Don helped her onto the horse’s back, then mounted behind her. “He’ll have to do until we can find other transport.”
She stroked the garron’s neck as if greeting a long lost friend. “Did you see your galley moored in Glenelg?”
“Aye, and I tasked Sir Coll and Sir Kennan to recapture it and meet my brother in Trotternish.” Reaching around her, he gathered the reins. Lord, she’d been beaten, bruised, slid down an embankment of mud and Mary’s hair still managed to smell like a bouquet of lilacs in spring.
She leaned against him, turning that heart-shaped face to his, blinking as the raindrops sprinkled her eyes. Even in the dark, her lips enticed, ever so pouty and delicious. “Oh, no. Lieutenant MacLeod posted guards in your boat—said you’d be dead if you tried to ambush.”
Don ground his molars as dread crept up his neck. He knew the redcoats wouldn’t let the galley sit on the shore unguarded. Leaving the capture in the hands of a couple of Highlanders bore too much of a risk, yet he’d had no choice. Nonetheless, he’d never forgive himself if one of them was hurt. Thank God Coll MacDonell was the best man with a sword Don had ever seen. And Kennan wasn’t far behind. Still, he should have told them to go for reinforcements first.
“Will they be all right?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Aye,” Don said with more surety than he felt. Even if he headed straight for Glenelg right now, the battle would be over. And Coll MacDonell was itching for a fight—no way would he have exercised the good sense to turn back—unless...
Don could only pray the chieftain didn’t move too soon. If they listened and set up a watch like any well-trained Highlander, Coll and Kennan would have known the odds before they boarded the ship.
“You don’t look so certain.” Studying him in the darkness, Mary placed her fingers on his cheek. Fingers soft as petals plied his face—made him want to close his eyes and lean into her succor.
Don jerked his head away.
Damnation, he’d have a mob of redcoats on his arse by the time the sun rose and he was leaning into the lass’ warm palm? “Mark me, they will not suffer at the Government’s hand. And I will see to it they do not.”
He grumbled under his breath. The kiss MacLeod had forced upon Miss Mary hadn’t escaped his notice. At least it looked forced—and it was all he could do not to shoot the rutting weasel between the eyes right then and there.
Digging in his heels, he cantered the horse to the shallows and dashed across the river.
Mary leaned forward over the horse’s neck and helped the gelding gain speed. At least she wasn’t a simpering wench who cried for home. They needed to put as much distance between them and the dragoon’s camp as they could before dawn. And the damn pony was already near exhaustion.
After they’d crossed the open lea and rode under cover of the forest, Don slowed the horse to a walk.
Mary settled against him, the softness of her bottom pushing right where it shouldn’t. Don groaned and tried to shift his hips away but the curve of the saddle slid him right back flush against her bum. Heaven Almighty, what a wonderfully soft, well-formed pair of buttocks. He clenched his teeth, his eyes crossing while he tried to think of anything but the young maid’s arse.
“Where are we headed?” she asked, using a normal speaking voice for the first time that night. It sounded a tad lower than most women’s voices, sultry. The tone only served to stir his errant cock to life again. Curses. He clenched his every muscle taut. For God’s sake, he was a war hero, not a ravisher of maidens.
Closing his eyes, Don drew in a deep inhale before he answered. Met with the heady scent of woman, the fire deep in his groin swept through his chest. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed the comfort of a woman’s arms? Too bloody long. But he wasn’t about to make a mistake with Mary of Castleton—one that could take his dreams and tear them to shreds. Besides, after MacLeod’s manhandling, she may never want to kiss another man again.
“Cameron lands are due south,” he replied. Perhaps his idea to leave Miss Mary with Lady Isobel was sound.
“South?”
“Aye. With luck, the lieutenant will think we’re headed back to Castleton—tracking in the Highlands is a skill possessed by few. The only problem is the land between here and Achnacarry is nothing but rugged Highlands—filled with peaks and lochs. The going will be slow.” Why on earth Don liked the idea of trekking through the mountains with Mary and one wee pony, he had no idea. Too many things required his attention. Too many things had to be pulled together to make this shipment and secure future trade with the American merchants—and he wouldn’t be on hand to oversee a one of them.
As they rode on, one question had needled at the back of his mind since he’d started tracking the lieutenant and his retinue west. “Where was MacLeod taking you?”
Shaking her head, Mary shuddered between his arms. “To his family lands in Invergarry.”
“Family? I figured he was headed to Fort William to put you up on contrived charges or some harebra
ined notion like that.” Don refused to mention he’d feared the worst.
“I would have preferred to go to the gallows than endure what he had planned for me.” She shuddered again. Miss Mary kept her gaze forward, her shoulders as tense as a rabbit snare.
No one had to tell him the woman was afraid for her life. Don glanced over his shoulder. He should have faced the bastard back at the camp when he’d had the chance. “Did he…ah…did he force you?”
She drew her hands over her face. “You mean, did he violate me?”
He gulped. “Aye.”
“Nay, unless the vilest kiss imaginable is considered doing…uh…that.”
“The bastard,” Don cursed through clenched teeth. Pulsing rage coursed through his blood. He shouldn’t have hesitated back at the camp. He’d had the swine in his sights. He should have taken the shot as soon as Mary ducked into the tent. But if something had happened to the lass…
“He was taking me to Invergarry to force me to marry him. ’Tis why I slipped out of the rear of the tent. Come morn I would have been Mrs. MacLeod—ruined for life.” Crossing her arms, Mary curled against Don’s chest, shaking furiously. “Please-please keep him away from me. I’d rather die than marry that man.”
Don practically blew steam out his ears. The bastard forced Miss Mary to kiss him and then planned to wed her without consent? God’s bones, no wonder the lass was shivering like a frightened kitten. Before he thought, Don pressed his lips to her temple and closed his eyes. Dear Lord, he needed to protect this lassie like he needed to breathe. “As long as you are with me, I’ll not let anything harm you. That man will pay. One way or another, his misdeeds cannot be allowed to pass.”
“Thank you.” She smoothed her fingers over Don’s arm. Even through his cloak and doublet, her touch drove him wild with longing. Again he growled through clenched teeth. He must block his inappropriate urges from his mind. Good God, the lass had been through a terrible ordeal and needed comforting, not a lusty rogue who hadn’t bedded a woman in far too long. “I think he’ll follow us. He’s not one to give up,” she said, her voice even deeper than before.