by L. L. Muir
Rory looked across the low flames at Mallory. He had forgotten she was there. It had taken but a look in Bridget’s direction and the rest of humanity had disappeared.
The woman was again wrapped in her dark cloak. With her black hair also blending with the night, there was only the brightness of her face visible. But there was some other brightness about her. She was a bit too happy for a woman being escorted to Edinburgh against her will. It made him wonder if Connor had been the one to place that smile on her mouth…
Rory flew to his feet. So did Connor. Their eyes met over the rising smoke and Connor gave his lifelong friend a silent command to keep his mouth shut.
Through gritted teeth, Rory asked, “Connor, will ye take a wee walk with me?”
“Nay, Rory. I am ready for my bed, I think.”
Without any time for arguing, the darker man turned from fire and began making a pallet. All the women suddenly took wide-eyed interest in the dying flames. The way the color drained from Mallory’s face gave Rory pause. The woman was frightened to be sure. But was it because Connor had already bedded her?
Perhaps she was simply frightened that he would try.
Rory turned to watch Vivianne. A similar fear flashed behind her eyes, and Ian looked unusually nervous as he spread a blanket out behind her.
What the devil is going on?
Bridget’s head bowed. She barely moved enough to breathe. Rory decided to play along for a moment, see if someone would break. He went to the saddles and removed a blanket of plaid, then went back to stretch it on the soft grass next to Connor’s.
“Mallory?” he said softly.
Mallory jumped at his voice.
“Mallory, do ye trust me now?”
“Yes, sir.” It was a grudging admission.
“Then you will sleep next to me.”
Rory was pleased as a muddy pig at the reaction his announcement drew. Mallory’s Yes, sir, was drown out by a shouted, She’ll be doin’ no such thing! from Connor. Mallory just shrugged her shoulders and stretched out on one half of Rory’s blanket. Her attempt to keep from smiling failed horribly, so she turned her back to Connor, likely to spare the man’s feelings.
But Rory had guessed correctly. The deed had not been done after all.
Vivianne nervously awaited her assignment.
“You will sleep next to Connor, lass. Ye’ll need a bit of warmth, but with all these travelers about, ye’ll need his protection even more.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ian was on his feet, holding onto her fingertips for as long as possible, but she didn’t seem nearly as disappointed as he.
“Ian, you will take the first watch.” Completely ignoring Bridget, he turned once more to Mallory. “Yer cousin will sleep between you and Vivianne, Connor and I on the ends.”
Finally, Rory found enough peace to sleep. With his hand manacled around the wrist of a lass who wanted to be near him, if only for protection, he was able to put two days of riding behind him—along with a night of listening to Bridget breathe…and whimper, and squeak, and snore. After filling his lungs but a handful of times with the cooling air of night and the scent of another less-disturbing woman, he was able to give himself over to oblivion.
He should have expected to dream of Bridget, of course. Even more ridiculous were his attempts to control those dreams. He looked on with mixed feelings when a priest declared them man and wife, but knowing it was only fantasy he wasted no time in ordering her to his bed. She ran to him, smiling, and only at the last moment did he see the blade in her fist, rising above her head, then plummeting toward his heart.
He could only watch it come. He couldn’t step aside, or it would end as it had with Matilda. There was no surprise at her betrayal—after all, she was an Englishwoman. But this time there was pain. It tore at his stomach, making him moan.
Buckets of blood poured onto the church’s flagstones but he was happy to see that, unlike his other betrothed, Bridget had not tripped and fallen on her own weapon. She hadn’t so much as soiled her wedding gown and stood impatiently before the priest, demanding that someone bring her another groom.
The faceless Baron Braithwaite came up the aisle, stepped over Rory and the puddle of his life, and swaggered to the altar.
Bridget turned and handed her dagger to Mallory. “I won’t be needin’ this anymore. This is the husband I wanted, is it not?”
Rory, lying and dying behind them, was the only one to notice the baron reach back for the jeweled dagger in his belt. As he raised the blade over Bridget’s head, Rory tried to cry out, but made not a sound. All other heads were bowed and as the baron’s arm descended, and Rory tried to yell again.
A hand slapped over his mouth and he struggled against the darkness that enveloped him.
“Cousin Rory, ‘tis I, Jamie.”
What was Jamie doing in this dream?
He shook the boy’s hand from his mouth. “Jamie, lad, go home. He’ll kill ye as well,” he whispered. His voice was back. He needed to get to Bridget, but he could see nothing.
Jamie chuckled. “Cousin, I believe ye’re dreamin’. Can ye wake now?”
Rory bolted upright. Would to God it was a dream. Would it to God.
Mallory coughed at his side. Bridget lay just past her cousin and Rory listened intently until he could at least see her torso rise and fall in the pale light from the stars.
She lives! She lives!
He thanked God, then wondered—if he weren’t dreaming, how was Jamie there?
He got to his feet. “Come away, cousin. Let’s not wake the rest.”
Connor leaned against a tree; the watch had already changed once and Rory had slept through it. He was still tired—dead tired—but he dreaded finding himself back on the floor of that church.
His friend pushed away from the tree as he and Jamie approached.
“Did ye tell him, Jamie?” Connor frowned.
“Not yet.”
“Then what were ye hammerin’ on about—”
“Never mind.” Rory pushed the other two deeper into the trees. The last thing he wanted was to tell Connor about the dream. He hoped to forget the entire thing by morning. “Tell me Jamie. What has happened?”
“It’s The Kennison, sir. He changed his mind about trustin’ ye to see to his sister. He came back two mornings after ye left and demanded a guard of Grahams to help him find her…and ye.”
“How far behind us, lad? How much time do we have?”
Jamie motioned for them to follow him back to the road. Once there, he pointed to a fire burning steadily in a clearing on the opposite side of the narrow valley.
“That be Kennison’s fire, sir. I’d say ye have only until your women wake and start their cacklin’.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Go and lie down, Jamie. Rest that bruised head of yers. Sleep for a mite while we discuss this.” Rory pushed the lad in the direction of the community pallet and got no arguments.
He turned back to Connor to find the man pacing. “What think you, Connor?”
The man stopped and slumped his shoulders as Rory had never seen him do before in his life. “If we were wise, Rory, we’d leave this minute and let Jamie turn the lasses over to Kennison in the morning, before he can string us up in the branches like chimes in the wind.”
Rory was afraid his friend would say that, and disappointment filled his gut and rumbled like a bad meal. The suggestion made sense; his disappointment did not. He’d been grumbling all day over his task and should be happy for the relief of such a burden. Although, to be fair, it was not the escorting duty that burdened him but the struggle keep his hands, eyes, and mind off Bridget Kennison.
Turning Bridget over to her brother would ensure that accursed dream would never come to be. She’d not be able to hurt him, and God willing, no one would feel the need to harm her.
Sleep. He’d had far too little sleep if he was entertaining such thoughts. Even the English lass who truly hated him hadn’t bee
n able to harm him, so how could Bridget Kennison?
She could break his heart, he supposed, if he were foolish enough to fall in love with her, but he wasn’t prone to foolishness. He was drawn to her with a pull like nothing he’d ever experienced, but loving her wasn’t possible.
No, she couldn’t hurt him. And the dream would burn away like the morning mist with the rising of the sun, he was certain of it.
So why did the image of Kennison taking his sister back to England make his gut clench? Was he afraid of a whelp from England? Surely not; the idea made him laugh. But something had seized his chest when Jamie first said the brother had changed his mind and was coming for her. Had that first Englishwoman made a coward of him?
Or had the second?
“Rory,” Connor said, interrupting his thoughts. “Please tell me ye’re not feeling particularly wise.”
His friend was still slump-shouldered, but now he clasped his hands before him, pleading. Had Connor fallen for Mallory? She was a clever woman, like Bridget, and unlike Rory, Connor had no aversion to Englishwomen. Perhaps there was true affection between them.
If we were wise, Rory, we’d leave this minute…
“No, Connor. I admit to feeling unwise at the moment.”
His friend grinned and straightened. “That’s good, cousin, for if we give one lass back, we’ll have to give them all back.” Connor’s voice dropped. “And we are honor bound to see them safe to Edinburgh…”
~ ~ ~
Bridget nudged Mallory awake, then whispered directly in her ear before turning to do the same to Vivianne. Taking advantage of Rory’s absence at one end of the pallet, the three backed quietly, but quickly away from Ian, whose soft snoring masked their retreat. Thankfully, Vivianne and Mallory did not argue to stay with the men who had clearly made an impression.
“And just where would the three of ye be off to, Miss?”
Bridget swallowed a scream and turned to find the young version of Rory standing with his arms crossed and one hip cocked. His lopsided grin glowed in the moonlight. She had no time to ask after his head, but he looked well-recovered.
“I need to step into the trees for a moment and I’m not going alone,” she whispered. “Not that you should expect a lady to discuss such things.”
And before the boy could argue, she pulled her friends away, coincidentally in the direction of the horses. Once they were in the shadows, she turned to watch the young man collapse onto Rory’s end of the pallet.
~ ~ ~
Rory took one last look at the distant fire and imagined Phin Kennison sleeping soundly, unaware that the sister he sought was within five minutes’ walk from his camp.
“The question is,” Rory said quietly, “how fast will the Kennison woman be able to travel without opening her wound again.”
Connor tipped his head to the side. “The Kennison woman? Is that how ye think of her then? I must tell ye, I find myself forgetting Mallory Kenton’s English blood. The lass is simply…too fine to ignore. When we deliver them to Edinburgh, I may just escort her all the way home again. That is, if the lass doesn’t prefer to stay in Scotland permanently. I thought ye might feel something similar for Bridget.”
“My decision has naught to do with the women,” Rory lied. He looked back toward the Englishman’s camp, ignoring what Connor had very nearly admitted. “I’m thinking of the boon the Kennison has promised the Grahams for completing our task. I’ll not let it be lost. If the young lord suddenly has his sister back, he won’t believe the debt is owed.” Rory moved back into the trees. “We must hand over the lasses only after we are in the city. And be clear about it.”
He fought against the image of Kennison leading Bridget away, toward a waiting ship. Would she look back? Just once? Would it kill him if she didn’t? Would it destroy him if she did?
“Ye’re not thinking, my friend.” Connor hurried off the road and stopped Rory with a hand to his shoulder. “Even if the Englishman spared Ian and I, he wouldn’t let you live. Surely ye haven’t forgotten the Kennison woman has nearly had her throat cut—while in yer care. And if word ever reached yer clan…”
Something slipped and slid in Rory’s chest. Doom and excitement vied for the space around his lungs. He suddenly understood one thing; that cut had sealed his fate. Bridget’s neck could destroy him. For a wee while at least, he’d have to keep her near until that wound healed. He had no choice.
“I had forgotten,” he admitted too cheerfully.
“Forgotten her wound? Or forgotten yer clan?”
Rory chose not to answer. “Let’s away.”
Quick and quiet, Connor fell into step beside him as they picked their route back to camp. Twigs snapped ineffectually beneath their boots. The pliant summer leaves, stirred by their shoulders, made no more noise than the moonlight bouncing off the dew covered ground.
The dead fire was but a taste in the air and a black mass near the center of the clearing. Along one side spread a length of darkness bracketed on one end by Ian’s form, and by Jamie’s on the other. It was impossible to discern womanly shapes from the shadows between, but as he neared, Rory realized why.
The women were gone!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Like three angry mountain cats in a closed space, Rory and his friends spread to the distant corners of the clearing while they awaited Jamie’s return. Connor sat quietly with his back against a tree. The only sign of his frustration was the ritualistic touching of his weapons. Further to the left, and a safe distance away from those weapons, Ian braced his hands on two trunks and hung his head, his back to the clearing, as if he were poised to push the trees over when bad news arrived.
Rory was sick.
He wished he could blame it on fatigue, but his dizziness had more to do with the back and forth of the emotions that had driven him mad since finding the women gone. His first reaction was anger; at Bridget for leaving, then at himself for ever letting the three women get within whispering distance of one another.
Hadn’t he known they’d run if he didn’t keep them separated?
Confusion had followed. The lasses had left their horses behind, no doubt because the animals had all been hobbled together, and getting them apart would have been next to impossible in the darkness. But how far had the fools hoped to get without their mounts?
Rory had charged down the road in any case. Ian and Connor had searched the forest paths. Even with the aid of lit branches they’d found no trace of the direction in which the trio had fled. If they’d realized their horses’ shoes had been marked, they might have taken horses from some other travelers. And getting caught…
It was a combination of fearful possibilities that started Rory’s head to spinning. Had their English birds been snatched by other hunters? Or animals? Could Ian and Jamie truly have slept through their struggles or screams?
Immediately following that discussion, the men had spread out and made the most menacing of wolf howls, but if the women had been hiding nearby, they hadn’t been duped into returning to camp for protection.
Rory imagined them huddled in the brush, waiting for dawn, or slung over the backs of horses being carried away just a wee bit further than where he’d given up the search. Were they floating in the nearest loch where they’d sneaked away to bathe, or struggling in those depths with heavy skirts, dragged to their graves by coin-laden cloaks?
Damn them!
Why couldn’t they be pale nervous wenches whose hiding place would be given away by a whimper or a sniffle?
Yet another possibility had occurred to young Jamie that now had them waiting in a quiet clearing, trying to keep from killing each other to help pass the time.
“Perhaps,” the lad had suggested, “they heard what I said and ran off to the English camp.”
They’d not considered looking in that direction. With as adamant as Bridget was to get deeper into Scotland, and deeper into trouble, running into her brother’s angry arms was hardly likely.
Unl
ess Rory had hurt her feelings beyond repair…
Dear Lord!
He’d treated her with no warmth since that evening on the plateau. Unfortunately, distancing himself from her had won him no points for chivalry, neither had it washed her from his mind. She might not have left camp at all had he simply tried to woo her as his friends had done with Mallory and Vivianne. Instead of hiding her face behind the curtain of her hair, she might have smiled kindly at him as they sat before the fire, might have ridden happily before him on the same horse.
Days had been wasted for the sake of stubborn pride… His stubborn pride.
There was also a chance that, after a bit of testing, they might have realized they were not attracted to each other after all.
And it might not snow in the Highlands this winter.
Rather than walking into Kennison’s camp to ask the man if he’d seen a trio of familiar women of late, they elected to send Jamie to spy. Even if the lad didn’t see the lasses, he’d surely be able to hear Bridget’s brother berating them.
And so Rory sat, leaned back against his own tree, crossing and re-crossing his ankles, prepared to pummel the first man to mention it.
He heard footfalls and supposed Ian was coming at him to expend his own frustration. But when he sprang to his feet, it was Jamie who stood before him, panting in the eerie blue glow that precedes the dawn.
“’Tis only I, cousin.”
Rory cared little for the lad’s sober tone. It did not bode well for the report to come. Either Bridget was not with her brother and continued to be lost in the vastness between that clearing and the whole of Scotland, or she was back beneath her brother’s wing, well and goodly lost to himself.
He imagined his face was a mirror image to Connor’s as the man flew to his side. Ian’s expression was hidden as he came forward and lowered his head to listen, his hands now braced against his own folded arms.
Three fools, then.