Highland Heat

by Jennifer Haymore

  “Aye, I did,” said Tibbets.

  What on earth were they talking about? She’d had her nose pointed down the entire time, as far as she remembered, staring at the words she’d been writing.

  “Well, I think she needs some humbling, don’t you?”

  “Oh, aye,” Tibbets said, his tone almost gleeful, “I do.”

  “Then feel free to humble her all ye like, Tibbets.”

  “Happy to.”

  “Just don’t kill ’er,” Bindly said matter-of-factly. “Mr. Dunn’ll need ’er living if he’s to get his ransom.”

  Tibbets laughed. “I’ll be gentler than usual, then.”

  “Make a habit of killin’ the whores you bed, do ye?” inquired Forester mildly. He seemed to be the only sane one of them. She’d appeal for his help if she could speak.

  On the other hand, he didn’t seem overly invested in her safety, either.

  “Aye, now and then,” Tibbets answered.

  A cold sweat broke out over Grace’s skin. The way these men spoke so offhandedly of human life—of her life—made her insides twist into painful knots. She struggled against her bonds, succeeding only in chafing her wrists further and tightening the twine wrapped around them.

  Panic seemed to crowd her brain, roiling and dark, and so forceful she could think of nothing but her fear and the need for her to escape, everything else be damned.

  Bindly and Forester left, and as their footsteps faded away, she sensed Tibbets approaching her. He sat beside her with a sigh, his hip pressed against hers.

  She struggled again, the ropes tying her to the post crushing her chest until she gasped with the effort to take in air. She felt wetness on her hands—blood dripping from where the twine had dug into the tender flesh.

  “Shh,” Tibbets said, pressing hard on her leg. “Calm down, now. You’re a skittish one. Didn’t you hear? We won’t be killin’ you. Mr. Dunn’ll give you back to your brother in one piece. If Sir Robert sends Mr. Dunn his blunt, that is. Do ye wager he’ll send it? Or is a spinster slut no’ worth his fortune?”

  She didn’t know if the major and her father would send the money. But she did know they wouldn’t sit idly by and let Mr. Dunn and his henchmen torture her.

  “Here now.” Tibbets’s voice bordered on gentle, which almost scared her more than his nasty, lascivious voice. His hands went around to the back of her head. “I’ve some porridge left from the men’s breakfast. No screamin’ now,” he warned. “Or ye’ll be sayin’ goodbye to some of those pretty white teeth ye’ve got.”

  She whimpered—half fear, half agreement—and he untied the gag. Then he released the blindfold. As she blinked moisture back into her eyes, her gaze flitting between piles of old hay and a rusty stall door, he pushed a cold spoon against her lips, so hard it knocked against the teeth he’d just threatened to loosen. She opened her mouth obediently, and he shoved in a lump of cold, gelatinous porridge.

  She immediately choked on it—her body rejecting the texture and flavor. Turning away just in time, she spat it out, coughing and gagging as her stomach heaved in protest.

  Tibbets grabbed her shoulder, making her cry out, and turned her back to him. “Not fine enough for you, milady?” he spat. Spittle struck her on the cheek, and she flinched away.

  “It’s just…just…” Her voice cracked and wavered, and she couldn’t get any more words out, even though she tried to push them through her closing throat.

  Tibbets shoved the bowl of porridge aside, then reached up and shook her until her teeth rattled and white spots burst in her vision. “Think yer better than me, do you? I’ll show you wot’s better.”

  He pushed himself on top of her, as though he were sitting on her lap. He reeked, his sweat a pungent tang that crawled down her nose and took residence in her throat.

  He wiped away bits of porridge from her mouth, then he grabbed her face in both his own and smashed his lips to hers.

  Grace’s body erupted in movement, straining against her bonds, her body undulating as if she were an unbroken filly attempting to buck off her rider. Tibbets’s hand went around her throat and squeezed as his tongue dived into her mouth. She coughed and choked and heaved, but his hand only tightened around her throat; his tongue only delved deeper.

  Then she clamped her jaw down as hard as she could. Her teeth snapped shut over his tongue.

  With a yowl, he surged back. Seconds later, his lips were covered with blood. He hit her. So many times she lost count, and only when her mind was hazy with pain did he stop to once again flip up her skirts. He knelt over her, fumbling with his trousers, muttering about how he intended to hurt her until she regretted living. She could see only through a strange blur, but she could tell his eyes had turned wild, his chin covered in blood, his greasy black hair framing his sinister face.

  She didn’t stop struggling, and now she opened her mouth and screamed with every ounce of strength she had.

  She’d promised herself she’d fight to the death if she had to, and that was what she was going to do.

  —

  Duncan turned to the earl. “Did you hear that?”

  The earl shook his head.

  The two men had hobbled the horses on the road leading to the colliery and had stayed at the fringes of the forest as they’d approached. So far, the place had been quiet, unnaturally so, even for a Sunday.

  Duncan held out his hand, indicating that the earl should stop. They both froze in their tracks, listening.

  There it was again. It sounded like an animal dying.

  Or a woman in great pain.

  Bloody hell. It could be Grace.

  Duncan didn’t wait. He ran, leaping over fallen branches and dodging tree trunks, in the direction of the sound. It grew louder quickly. It sounded like it was coming from a building that appeared to be the stables.

  He sprinted to the building, only half aware of two figures approaching from the opposite direction. He burst through the stable doors, then ran toward the stall at the far end. The sound was ear-splitting now. He’d never heard a horse sound like this, no matter how much pain it was in.

  It was Grace. Someone was hurting her. He knew it.

  And then he saw a man’s arse. He skidded to a stop, his mind refusing at first to take in the scene before him. The man was on his knees, his hands held out, clutching. There was a woman behind him, visible by the dark material of her cloak contrasting with a light blue skirt at the fringes of her silhouette. The material flailed about—clearly the woman, Grace—was struggling with everything she had, and the man fought to hold her down while he…while he…

  With a mighty roar, Duncan leapt toward the man, at the same time pulling his dirk from his kilt. The man turned just as Duncan was on him, and neatly dodged the blade aimed for his back. Duncan tackled him to the dirt floor beside Grace.

  The man was fast, but Duncan was bigger and stronger. And far, far angrier. He forced the man to roll onto his back. Holding his enemy’s arms back with one hand, Duncan slit his throat with a deep slash of his dirk.

  He jumped to his feet and turned to face the door, blocking Grace from whoever might be entering. A short, dark-haired man stood at the stall door. Beside him stood a taller, fair-haired man who’d wrapped an arm around the earl, trapping him, a dagger held at the side of his neck.

  Duncan settled into a fighting stance, keeping his body between Grace and the men.

  “Drop yer blade!” shouted the short man. “Or that one dies.” He gestured to the earl, who stood rigid, his skin death-white, his eyes wide—blue eyes, just like Grace’s.

  Duncan held his dirk out and let it slide through his fingers. It clattered to the ground. Behind him, Grace whimpered. Duncan took a step toward the doorway, but the fair-haired man jerked the earl backward, making a strangled sound burst out of the earl.

  “Stop.” The shorter man pulled a pistol from his coat and aimed it directly at Duncan. Duncan froze, his mind careening through all the options he had at this point. One
misstep and the earl would die. One misstep and he’d get shot. If he didn’t continue to block Grace from these men, she might get shot instead.

  So he held his ground until the short man said, “Turn around. And get on yer knees.”

  Duncan turned slowly, and nearly collapsed when he saw Grace’s ravaged tear- and bloodstained face. Fury roiled in him like a thousand angry wasps.

  But he wouldn’t do anything stupid. He sank to his knees, keeping his eyes locked on hers, trying to console her, to reassure her without words.

  Both men took a few steps closer to him, but Duncan’s every sense was attuned to the man holding the earl.

  “He’s a big ’un,” the one with the gun said, then he spat. “Tibbets, you damned fool. We could’ve used you about now.”

  Tibbets must be the man Duncan had already killed. The rapist. Duncan didn’t let his eyes slide in that direction—it was surely an ugly scene—his trousers halfway down, revealing a limp cock in a bed of straggly hair, his upper body bathing in a sea of blood. Still, it was too clean a death for what that man had been doing to Grace.

  Duncan closed his eyes in a long blink and looked at her. She was so bonny, even beaten and dirty, even with tears leaking from her eyes.

  He would get her out of this. No matter what, he’d get her to safety.

  The fair-haired man forced the earl another step closer. Duncan flexed his hands at his sides, his every muscle vibrating, poised and ready for action.

  These men had hurt Grace. They were going to die.

  “We need to tie ’im up,” the man with the gun said. “Put yer hands behind yer back,” he ordered Duncan.

  It was now or never. If he couldn’t use his hands, it’d be over. In one motion, he jumped to his feet, spun around, and grabbed the fair-haired man’s dagger arm. Duncan twisted his body around the earl and the man as he wrenched the man’s arm back. The dagger fell from his fingers. With his free hand, Duncan thrust the earl away, and he went stumbling off to the side.

  A cracking noise rent the air as Duncan dislocated the man’s arm from his shoulder, and the man screamed. Duncan thrust the man in front of him just as the shorter man raised the gun to fire.

  Duncan saw a burst of motion from Grace’s direction as she flailed out, kicking the short man with all her might from the side, right at his knee joint.

  With a yell, he fell. At the same time, a boom exploded in the stall, and Duncan’s body jerked backward. He landed hard on his back, his Achilles ankle twisting as he went down. The fair-haired man landed directly on top of him.

  Heat and pain spread through Duncan’s chest.

  For Christ’s sake. He’d just been shot. So had the man on top of him, if his groans and spasming body were any indication.

  The man suddenly went still, and Duncan tried to push him off, but he seemed inordinately heavy. Duncan cast around with his arms. Holy bowels of hell, that hurt. But with his fingertips, he found the hilt of the dagger the man had been holding. He hefted it up—it felt like it weighed twenty stone—and turned his gaze to the man who’d shot the gun. He was struggling to stand, clearly injured, and pride flushed through Duncan, combating the pain a little. Grace had done that.

  The man stumbled to his feet, straightening on one leg and heavily favoring the one Grace had kicked, and Duncan, from his awkward position beneath the body, threw the dagger with all his might. It spun through the air and landed in the fleshy part of the man’s chest. The man looked down, mouth gaping, then stumbled backward and collapsed to a heap on the floor, right in front of Grace.

  Duncan gazed up at the timbered ceiling. Pain crashed over him in relentless waves.

  Well, that was that, then. Between this and the arm injury at Waterloo, nobody would call him Unbreakable Mackenzie ever again.

  Chapter 27

  Oh God. Duncan had been shot. He’d been shot. Was he going to die? Was he already dead? He lay motionless under Forester, who was also still as death. A stain of red bloomed under Forester’s shirt. Bindly lay beside her on one side and Tibbets on the other. Both of them were gruesome in death, eyes open and glazed.

  “Papa,” Grace cried out. Her father stood in the corner of the stall, looking petrified with fear, but her voice seemed to bring him back to the moment.

  “Grace?” he said in a rasping voice.

  “There’s another one,” she whispered. “At least one more. Mr. Dunn. He’ll be coming. He might have a pistol. Please untie me, Papa.”

  Her father looked toward the stall door. Then he looked down at Duncan. A hard determination settled over his features. Without saying a word, he went to the center of the stall, where Duncan had dropped his dirk. He picked it up off the floor and strode out of the stall, disappearing as he turned into the stable’s wide corridor.

  Grace wrenched her gaze to Duncan. “Duncan?” she called. “Can you hear me? Please, Duncan, please answer me.”

  There was no answer. Duncan didn’t move an inch, and a great sob welled up in her throat. She wanted nothing more than to run to him, help him. But she was still bound to this damned pillar, absolutely helpless.

  “Duncan?” she said, but her voice was no more than a ragged whisper.

  She bowed her head and wept.

  A moment later she heard footsteps, and she raised her heavy head to see her father…safe and sound, thank goodness. He still gripped Duncan’s dirk, but now Grace saw that a sheen of blood covered the blade.

  “Mr. Dunn?” she managed, her voice so breathy it was almost inaudible.

  “Taken care of,” her father said briskly. He knelt before her to begin to untie her, his face ravaged by all that had just happened, but Grace stopped him.

  “Please,” she whispered, “please go check on Duncan. I need to…need to know if he’s…breathing.”

  Her father hesitated, then gave her a quick nod. He rose and knelt beside Duncan before pushing Forester off him. When he did so, Grace gasped in horror. Duncan’s shirt and coat were bathed in blood.

  The earl bent down, his ear poised above Duncan’s mouth. Slowly, he nodded, then flicked a glance to Grace. “He’s breathing.”

  “Oh thank God.”

  “But he’s been shot in the stomach. I can’t tell how serious it is. He needs a doctor.” He raised his eyes to Grace once again. “I’m going to untie you, then I’m going to go find some help. I don’t want to leave you alone, but—”

  “You must,” she told him. “You must find some help. I’ll stay with him. Just, please, find someone to help us.”

  Her father nodded, then came over to untie her. Once again, her shoulders screamed with pain when they were released from their uncomfortably strained position, but she ignored them, instead half crawling, half stumbling through streams of the other men’s blood, to where Duncan lay.

  Her father checked on the three men. Tibbets, Bindly, and Forester were all dead. He threw an old horse blanket over Tibbets, hiding his private parts.

  A few moments later, the earl hesitated at the stall door. “Be safe. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.” He stepped back inside, pressed the hilt of the dirk into her hand, then disappeared from sight once again.

  Laying the dirk on the floor beside her, she turned to Duncan and smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen over his eyes. “Duncan?” she murmured.

  Still no response.

  She glanced down at his blood-soaked coat. The blood seemed to be originating from a spot below his ribs on his right side.

  What should she do? She’d no idea. Claire was the one who knew something about healing. All Grace knew she’d learned in Waterloo, and that had been so overwhelming she’d hardly taken a thing away from it. But she thought she did remember that one was supposed to apply pressure on a bleeding wound.

  She pulled off her cloak and pressed it above his hip, hoping and praying the wound wasn’t severe enough to kill him.

  Then she bent down and kissed him. His lips were soft and warm, and she felt the faintest whisper o
f breath against her mouth. When she lifted her head from the kiss, his eyelashes were fluttering.

  “Duncan?”

  “Grace?” his voice was low and raspy. He opened his eyes to a squint, then widened them. He struggled but finally rose to a seated position. “Grace?”

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Grace didn’t want to think about the effort it took him. He gasped in pain.

  He rubbed his hand up and down her back. “Grace, love. Will you ever forgive me?”

  She buried her face in his shoulder. “Forgive you? I haven’t anything to forgive you for.”

  “For letting them take you. For letting them”—his voice broke—“hurt you.”

  Grace closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think of Tibbets and what he’d planned to do to her. He’d hit her and hurt her…but he hadn’t hurt her in the worst way, the way that he’d planned to.

  “No,” she whispered. “They didn’t hurt me.”

  “I…saw…” His whole body shuddered in her arms.

  “He wanted to hurt me, but he didn’t,” she told him. “If you’d been a few moments later…” She let the words hang in the air. She wasn’t sure how she ever would have recovered if Tibbets had succeeded in raping her.

  She knew she would recover from this…but only if Duncan did as well.

  He was clutching her, and she gently disentangled herself from him, then pressed him back down to the floor. “You’ve been hurt. You don’t want to make it worse.”

  He stared up at her, blue-green eyes full of physical and emotional pain. He reached up and clasped her hand.

  “My father is finding us help. We just need to wait,” she told him.

  He turned his head to the right and left, taking in the three bodies. “Are they dead?” he asked in a rasping voice.

  She nodded.

  “Good.” He blinked hard several times, as if trying to focus, or stay conscious. “Grace?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you still love me after this?”

  Duncan had killed three men in front of her eyes. For the first time, the truth of who he was and what his life as a Highland Knight would entail truly sank in, and along with it a kind of pain and fear she knew would reside within her as long as she lived.