“Ye don’t believe such hobgoblin twaddle?” Despite his protestation of disbelief, Reverend Fletcher wheezed and hugged his prayer book, terror etched upon his thin features.
Jacques extracted an impressive wooden dueling pistol case from within the cubicle, and after setting the guns upon the seat between him and the vicar—still gaping and gasping like a bass freshly delivered from a pond—proceeded to load first one gun, then the other. “Can you hazard a guess?”
“What be this devilishness?” His suspicion gaze vacillating between Jacques and Seonaid, distrust creased Reverend Fletcher’s contorted face.
Una rounded on him. “Shut up, ye jabberin’ crow.”
“Seonaid?” Jacques prompted softly.
She shut her eyes.
“Soon.” Even as Seonaid answered, shouts reverberated outside and the chaise slowed.
A crooked smile tipped Jacques’s mouth. “I’d say now.”
Hands folded and eyes squeezed tight, Reverend Fletcher ducked his head. Prayer certainly couldn’t hurt, even if from the likes of him.
Releasing a stifled squeak, Mrs. Wetherby toppled behind Seonaid in a dead swoon. Just as well. They’d not have to soothe her or listen to her histrionics.
“Fletcher, have you any experience shooting?” Jacques held up an ivory handled pistol.
Fervidly shaking his head, the rector’s Adam’s apple scuttled up and down like a terrified mouse scampering along a branch. “I be a mon of God. I have nae need for a weapon other than this.” Hand trembling, he lifted his Bible.
“While I appreciate and admire your faith, that won’t impress the knights of the road who’ve stopped us.” Jacques tucked the gun into his waistband, then arranged his jacket and greatcoat, concealing the butt.
A muffled shout rang out.
“Stand and deliver.”
Chapter 7
“Let me do the talking, oui?” Jacques met the eyes of everyone, except the insensate Madame Wetherby. “No one else is to speak unless spoken to, and then say minimal. You understand, non?”
Keep things as calm as possible and no one gets hurt.
Except a thief or two. If his plan played out.
“Aye.” Reverend Fletcher gave a nervous twitch. “I shall pray.”
At Jacques’s stern glance, he mumbled, “Silently.”
“Ladies, keep your weapons hidden. Don’t use them unless you’re set upon.” Jacques waited for their consent. “Pull your hoods up, and keep your heads lowered.”
Peering out the window, he swore inwardly. Four highwaymen. Maybe more hidden in the trees, like giant, unyielding sentinels, paralleling the road.
“Mademoiselle Ferguson, remove Madame Wetherby’s jewelry and other valuables on her person.” He glanced at Fletcher, then Una. “They usually want easily accessible valuables, so give me whatever jewels and money you have on you.”
Face drawn, but her bearing composed, Seonaid swiftly complied. She passed him her reticule as well. Her jewels lay secured in the hidden compartment where they’d been since the day she’d worn them at the Hare’s Foot Inn.
He stuffed everything into Madame Wetherby’s larger, black velvet bag.
Pray God the bandits only sought plunder, not to ransom the passengers or ravish the women. Rage heavily dosed with dread twisted Jacques’s gut. Even he couldn’t stave off four armed curs.
Beautiful, young, and wealthy, Seonaid was most at risk.
The highwaymen had lain in wait for them, had known precisely where to stop the chaise, which meant they made a regular habit of this activity in this vicinity.
Seven kinds of fool was he for not anticipating something like this. But these knights of the road were bloody brazen, robbing a coach in broad daylight on a well-traveled road.
He chanced a peek out the window.
Cloths covered the lower parts of their faces, but he recognized two thieves’ boots. His years as a spy taught him to note footwear. To escape detection, people changed their clothing but regularly forgot to switch their shoes or boots.
If those two had been at the Hare’s Foot Inn, the other robbers likely completed the foursome. He’d been right about the scurrilous bâtards.
And these pilferers had seen Seonaid’s emeralds that first day. Would they remember them or would they be content with snatching the heavy purse and picking through their stolen treasures later?
His countenance rebellious, Fletcher stuffed a smallish silver cross behind his collar. “It nae be valuable.”
“Valuable or not, you don’t want them to find that,” Jacques said pointing at the vicar’s neck. Idiot. The token would get his throat slit. “Trust me. These robbers were at the inn. They might have seen you with it there.”
Thrusting his chin at a stubborn angle, Fletcher opened his mouth to argue.
Mrs. Wetherby moaned and pressed a hand to her forehead.
Seonaid bent to reassure her. “Relax and take a few deep breaths. Monsieur de Devaux has things well in hand.”
“Vicar, you do understand they’re in a hurry, non? Knights of the road have been known to cut off fingers when a passenger doesn’t remove a ring quickly enough to suit them.” Jacques extended his hand and eyed his fingers. “Imagine what they might do to get to the trinket around your neck.”
He squelched a laugh at Fletcher’s audible gulp. Scant seconds passed before he slapped the cross in Jacques’s hand.
“Oh dear.” Seonaid met Jacques’s questioning gaze. “Mrs. Wetherby fainted again, and I haven’t any salts.”
“Inside the coach,” a gravelly voice called as the door was violently yanked open. It slammed against the chaise’s bright yellow side. “Get out.”
“We’ll have to leave her here. I’ll go first.” After giving Seonaid a reassuring smile, Jacques exited the conveyance.
Hanging high in the cloud dotted sky, the sun peeked through the trees, causing an occasional blinding glare where it reflected off the remaining snow mounds. A bird called a warning from the treetops. A moment later, another answered, followed by an alarmed squirrel’s raucous scolding.
“Over there, guvna.” Jerking his pistol’s barrel toward two other highwaymen, the thief gave Jacques a rough shove in their direction. His disdainful, miry brown eyes glared at Jacques above the soiled cloth.
Same chap from the inn, all right.
The driver and outrider lay spread eagle, face down on the road. No shots had been fired, and neither appeared injured, but from this distance, Jacques couldn’t be positive. Did they still have their weapons? He required his men to carry arms at all times.
A surreptitious glance ’round answered his question.
Merde.
Two pistols lay near the chaise’s front wheel.
Slowly looking from thief to thief, Jacques seized the opportunity to scrutinize the highwaymen and his surroundings.
Good, just the foursome.
They’d probably contrived this scheme the first day they’d been stranded at the inn.
A hefty fallen tree blocked the way, and snow-smattered steep embankments along the sides of the narrow road prevented the chaise from going around the obstruction. Various sized boulders, many as massive as the coach, marred the landscape and towered over the muddy route.
“A woman has fainted in the chaise. I have her jewels and reticule.” Madame Wetherby would rouse soon. Hopefully, she’d have the good sense to stay put.
“We be searchin’ her, just the same.” The thief who’d ordered them from the coach spoke.
Though his lower face remained covered, Jacques didn’t doubt a lewd grin skewed his mouth. Hopefully, Madame Wetherby would remain unconscious and wouldn’t remember the indignity.
“Who’s in charge?” Jacques displayed the small bulging bag.
“I be takin’ the bonnie baubles, guv.” A hefty fellow, possibly the ringleader, detached himself from the chaise’s shadow.
Poised to shoot if resistance came from inside the carriage?
A few moments later, the passengers, except Madame Wetherby, hovered on the road’s sludgy edge. As Jacques directed, the women kept their heads lowered, and Fletcher, a sickly shade somewhere between pond scum green and death gray, clutched his Bible and appeared about to cast up his oat cakes.
A pair of highwaymen trained guns on them while the other two sorted through their takings.
“Where be the bonnie lass’s green gems?” Eyes squinted into an angry scowl, the largest brute strode toward Seonaid.
Jacques slipped his hand over her ice-cold fingers, and flinched when she squeezed his hand tightly. Utterly terrified, but you’d never detect it from her stoic composure. Damn, but that took extreme self-discipline. He’d known men who’d crumpled under less pressure.
Double damn that the bandits were determined to have all of the loot. This wasn’t quite to plan. No quick robbery and escape as he’d anticipated.
Best let them have the rest and hopefully, the highwaymen would be on their way. They risked discovery the longer they waylaid the coach, and with each passing moment, the threat increased for everyone. Panicked and desperate footpads made stupid, impulsive decisions.
Deadly ones.
The hairs on his nape rose. He didn’t like the way they eyed Seonaid either.
One thief’s tethered horse shifted her weight uneasily and nickered. Another mount jerked his head and snorted. Grazing his jaw with his fingertips, Jacques lifted his eyes to the treetops. The birds and squirrels had grown silent.
Una had noticed the knights of the roads’ unsavory regard and had positioned herself partially in front of her charge while Fletcher, hugging his prayer book and trembling like a tree leaf, answered questions put to him by another robber.
Pray God he possessed a whit of common sense and revealed nothing of import.
Again, the band’s leader demanded, “Where be the rest of her pretties?”
“Tell him, Jacques.” Though barely audible, Seonaid’s voice was steady.
“There’s a secret compartment beneath the chaise’s boot.” Jacques motioned to the area. “I’ll show you. You’ll not be able to find it alone.”
As promised, he produced the rest of their valuables, including the last of his funds, and his father’s gold pocket watch. The latter stung the worst. He’d nothing—not a damn thing—left of his family’s legacy, save le Manoir des Jardins.
Snickering, the road agent roughly snatched Jacques’s pin from the folds of his cravat.
“That’s everything, gentlemen, I assure you. We’ve nothing else of worth.” Boldly crossing to the women huddled together, he took Seonaid’s elbow. “We shall be on our way then.”
How, with a tree blocking the road?
“Nae so fast.” The apparent leader shook his shaggy head and pointed at Seonaid. “She be quality. Might be she could bring a handsome ransom.”
Merde.
What they’d do to her in the meanwhile didn’t bear contemplating.
Inhaling sharply, she stiffened and adjusted her stance, her hidden blade at the ready. Desperation simmered in the glance she hurled to Jacques, cramping his lungs.
Given her set jaw and squared shoulders, Una too, was prepared to fight.
Itching to snatch his pistol from his waistband, Jacques calculated the odds. His men couldn’t get to their weapons in time to help. He had one shot on him and another in the chaise. Useless, the latter. Too far away. He bore a knife as well, but could Una or Seonaid each fend off an attacker?
Fletcher?
Jacques spared the reverend a fleeting glance.
No help there. He wasn’t likely to whack them with his Bible. Tucking his forked tail between his knobby knees and trotting away on cloven hooves was more his nature.
Jacques counted it a bloody miracle Fletcher remained upright this long. A skirmish would have him toppling face first into the mire.
Swearing inwardly again, he searched the lane. The most traveled road to Craigcutty, and not a single, bloody rider or carriage had come upon them.
“The lass be stayin’ with us.” His voice belligerent, the biggest brute’s lascivious gaze rested upon Seonaid.
“Och, she isnae, and she be nobody but a governess dismissed from her position and returnin’ to her village.” Una grabbed Seonaid’s arm and propelled her to the chaise. “Ye’d git nae ransom from her pauper family.”
The thief laughed, a humorless guttural rumble. “Nae accordin’ to the gabby vicar. She be Laird McTavish’s kin.”
Hands fisted, Jacques spun to face Fletcher. Would he suffer eternal damnation for corking a reverend? Even a craven, hypocritical, judgmental fraud?
“Ye canna hold her,” Fletcher croaked. Posture rigid, he sliced Jacques a guilt-ridden peek and shook his head. “McTavish will be furious. I told ye so ye’d ken the foolishness of yer ways, darin’ to waylay the laird’s sister and his new rector.”
Imbécile.
“Wheesht.” Snarling, another robber gave Fletcher a vicious shove. “Quit flappin’ yer lips.”
“Non, you boasted about your insignificant position, you pompous, self-seeking fils de—” Barely preventing the foul oaths tapping against his teeth, Jacques strode to Seonaid. “I’ll not leave her.”
If he killed the leader, would the others flee?
“He be a French nobleman, and he be courtin’ the laird’s sister.” Fletcher dared step forward and pointed his Bible at Jacques. “Maybe ye can ransom him too. Let me go, and I’ll take the note to Laird McTavish myself.”
A low hiss escaped Seonaid, and she impaled Fletcher with a glare of such utter abhorrence, he flinched. “So help me God, you’ll rue the day you ever agreed to shepherd Craigcutty’s parishioners.”
“Be ye cursin’ me?” The planes of his face settled into sinister creases, self-righteous ire radiating from every pore. “Och, ye better take care yerself, else people may start to question yer strange ways. Ye never explained how ye ken about the highwaymen stoppin’ us. Awful peculiar, if’n ye ask me.”
A threat if Jacques ever heard one. He’d also apprise McTavish of Fletcher’s oddness. The man was dangerous and demented too.
One knight of the road scratched his craggy cheek. “Heard tell McTavish has a sister with the second sight.”
Una wrapped an arm around Seonaid. “Och, yer aff yer heid. Complete flummery. I’ve ken the lass since birth, and she nae more sees such rubbish than the reverend here sees demons and fairies.” She angled forward, peering at Fletcher, and in sotto voce asked, “Tell me, Vicar, do ye see wee folk?”
“Dinna be absurd.” His perpetual scowl deepened into harsh grooves. “There nae be such thin’s.”
Una’s brows peaked skeptically. “Ach, but there be devil’s handmaidens?”
Fletcher sputtered, and Jacques choked on a laugh.
A glint in the woods caught his eye. Then another. He casually perused the area past the chaise. An answering flicker glittered beyond a tree.
They had company. Lots of it, too.
A bird’s trill rent the stillness, and Seonaid slowly lifted her head, her clever gaze honed and focused.
He nearly missed the almost indiscernible, pleased twitch of her mouth.
Mon Dieu.
Jacques scoured the trees.
McTavish.
Chapter 8
When the bird tweeted again, and another familiar chirrup immediately echoed, Seonaid nearly shouted in glee.
Yes!
As a child, she had been taught the clan’s signal.
Ewan and the others lurked in the forest.
Neck bent, she peeked toward the towering pines and bit her lower lip to prevent her instinctive smile.
Aha. There behind a trunk, a familiar maroon tartan.
Dugall? Duncan?
She relaxed the grip on her dagger. Better dead than repeatedly violated, which, as sure as horses neigh, would’ve been her fate.
Raucous shouts exploded around them.
Jacques sho
ved her and Una to the ground. “Get down. If you can, crawl underneath the chaise, and stay put until the skirmish ends.”
“I can fight too.” Seonaid brandished her dagger.
“Non. You cannot. You’d distract me, chérie. Go.” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips, then spun to attack an enraged robber.
Her ire evaporated. How was she supposed to respond to that?
Una shook Seonaid’s shoulder. “Lass, close yer hangin’ jaw and move yer wee bum.” She prodded her again. “Now.”
As Seonaid scurried to the coach, her clan stormed the road in a flashing jumble of plaids, trews, buckskins, and blades.
The fray lasted mere moments. Three highwaymen lay dead, and Alasdair and Duncan McTavish, Ewan’s cousin and uncle, held the struggling fourth bandit between them.
Ewan, unrumpled and scarcely breathing heavily, spun in a slow circle, his hand resting upon his sword. “Seonaid?”
Dugall, her far too handsome and giant younger brother, spotted her crouched underneath the coach and gave her a cocky smile. “There she be.”
“Here, Ewan. I’m here.” Dropping her blade, and with tears streaming, she bolted into his open arms. “I cannot believe you’re here. Please, tell me. How is Father?”
Gripping her upper arms, he leaned back, searching her face. “You ken?”
“Aye.” She gave a shaky nod, mindful of Fletcher hovering nearby, his ears practically twisting in an effort to overhear them. Turning her back, she spoke quietly. “Three days ago. Is he?” She swallowed and clasped his forearm. “How badly hurt is he?”
Ewan’s astute regard swerved to Reverend Fletcher before gravitating to her again. Cupping her elbow, he steered her to a more private area a few feet away.
Dugall joined them, and after giving her a bone-crushing hug, chucked her chin. “Lass, you gave us quite a fright. Dinna be surprised if Mother is miffed with you for a wee mite. You’re her last daughter, you know.”
Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4) Page 7