Antagonism glittered in Ross’s eyes.
Yancy gripped Skye’s reins against the urge to plant the man a facer, niceties be damned.
“Listen, and listen well, Ross. I’m in charge here until Sethwick says otherwise. You and your niece will do exactly as I say.” Yancy pointed at Miss Farnsworth. “She’s at the root of the reason I am here in the first place, and though it may have escaped your attention, she could, even now, be in danger.”
Miss Farnsworth’s eyes widened, and her face drained of color, though to her credit, she steadily returned his gaze.
He set his hat firmer atop his head and gave Ross a dismissive stare. “I don’t have the time or patience for prideful posturing. Do you understand?”
Ross’s face reddened, and he opened his mouth to retort, but a quelling glare from Miss Farnsworth had him snapping it shut.
Yancy would wager the cur bit his tongue or gnashed his teeth in fury.
Miss Farnsworth shifted slightly in her saddle. The once-perky feather on her hat drooped over the rim like a dead lizard. “Forgive us. Isobel is in danger. What must we do?”
Yancy offered her a reassuring smile. “I don’t believe they discovered Miss McTavish is here—”
“Unless that idiot”—Gregor jabbed his large hand toward Ross—“wavin’ his arm like an oversized, pished crow alerted them.” Palpable contempt radiated from him as he glowered at Ross.
Yancy firmed his lips. “Yes, there is that possibility, but we don’t dare separate. We’ll all ride in the loch’s direction. Once out of sight, Harcourt, you head for the keep, hell bent for help, and alert Sethwick.”
At one time a member of England’s Diplomatic Corps, the monarchy possessed no better tracker than Sethwick.
The grass dipped and swayed with the wind’s renewed onslaught, and the rain dripped steadily from the sky, soaking the ground and making it easier for tracking if the need arose.
“Ross, take your niece and return to the castle as rapidly as possible,” Yancy ordered. “And stay there.”
Miss Farnsworth angled her head. “I shall make straight for the chapel to pray for Isobel’s safe return.”
“Ah, that means we have the privilege of sneakin’ his lordship to yonder pile of pebbles.” Alasdair grinned and winked at his twin.
Shouts, followed by a terrified scream, sailed across the howling wind. A riderless horse charged from the forest.
Chapter 14
After Lord Ramsbury’s party halted on the opposite side of the moor, Isobel breathed the minutest iota easier. Thank God, he’d seen her waving from atop the outcrop.
No one could call him a dullard. A lesser man might not have pondered her actions. But Lord Ramsbury wasn’t an ordinary man, and the Regent hadn’t appointed him War Secretary for nothing.
Then that slowtop, Mr. Ross, had flailed his arms and alerted anyone watching the riders to her presence. Oh, to be able to thwack him, stupid, stupid man. He possessed the common sense of a turnip.
No help for it. She must dash to freedom and warn Lord Ramsbury of the murderers’ intent. If her parents had a single notion she had been scaling outcrops and avoiding renegades, they would forbid her to venture beyond the bailey from now until hell sprung wildflowers.
It made no difference. Ramsbury would see that she never ventured out alone again.
Isobel feared certain discovery when the Scot called Baines tethered the mare to a branch a few feet from the cave. Emira had smelled her and wrenched her head in Isobel’s direction, but the surly intruder had been in a hurry and hadn’t noticed.
Emira raised her head, her eyes rounded and alarmed.
“Shh, girl. It’s me,” Isobel whispered. The mare mustn’t give her away.
Scrambling and sliding her way to the rock base once more, Isobel abandoned her bag of supplies. They would slow her. Her dagger nestled in her half-boot, she managed to mount the horse. Tension churning her stomach, she cautiously guided Emira along the path. Every step the horse took resounded as deafening as a peal of thunder.
Her ears flicking back and forth, the mare lifted her head and bunched her muscles, as if she, too, sensed danger.
Isobel’s means of escape lay along a path leading through the woodlands harboring the rogue Scots. By the grace of God, maybe they wouldn’t notice her straightway. She would be much closer to the rock run than the opening where she had left the mare tethered when she’d arrived.
Rivulets of rain bathed her face. Her hair had come loose and drooped in a tangled half-knot at her nape. The wind wrapped sopped strands around her neck, and several tendrils stuck to her face.
She shoved them behind her ears and peered into the trees.
A rabbit streaked across the trail.
Emira’s ears stiffened, and she jerked her head, stepping backward a few feet.
Isobel’s unsteady pulse ran amuck as she soothed the mare.
The meadow paralleled these woods. The intruders, intent on intercepting Lord Ramsbury, would have their backs to her. A couple of minutes would see her past the danger and give her a head start if the clansmen gave chase.
They would.
These blackguards meant to kill her loved ones and to abduct Lydia.
Guilt, sharp and piercing, clawed her belly. She’d put those from the keep in danger. Except, if she hadn’t ridden ahead, she wouldn’t have stumbled upon them. Perhaps her obstinacy might prove beneficial, after all.
Wiping the rain from her eyes, Isobel’s terror and racing pulse reduced her breathing to short puffs.
She would give up her desire to travel if she knew where the intruders had tethered their horses. The two or three minutes it took for them to race to their mounts might give her the time she needed to escape.
Though she risked capture, she must warn Lord Ramsbury. Mouth dry as the Sahara in the summer, Isobel strained her ears and eyes while gently urging the skittish mare onward.
She traveled no more than a few cautious yards into the trees before two bellowing Scots dropped to the ground from overhead. The hulks lunged for her.
Shrieking, she kicked one man in the chest, knocking him on his bum.
The other lurched toward her horse. Several more swung to the earth—giant hairy baboons, every one.
Yanking Emira’s reins, Isobel strained to urge her past the shouting throng.
Men grabbed at the terrified horse, and the mare struck with her front leg. Eyes rolling, Emira reared.
Isobel clutched the horse’s mane as the panicked beast bucked. Wrenched from the mare’s back, Isobel flew through the air. She landed with a strangled screech atop one of the heathens.
The air knocked from her, she lay stunned. The scunner beneath her clamped his arms around her waist. She couldn’t breathe. He reeked to high heaven, and she gagged.
With a furious squeal and kick of her powerful rear legs, Emira stampeded from the thicket. Pine needles and dirt churned in her wake.
Isobel’s mind raced as she kicked and twisted. She screamed, and then screamed again. Surely, her shrieks and the mare charging from the woods would alert Lord Ramsbury. Emira would run to the keep, and an alarm would be raised when she arrived riderless.
Isobel clawed at the trunk-like arms encircling her. Like a creature possessed, she flailed her fists, connecting with her captor’s chin and face as her elbows damaged his ribs and stomach.
He grunted and cursed, yet his hold merely tightened.
She gasped against the pain. Her ribs would sport bruises if they didn’t crack from the pressure. Rearing up, she slammed her elbow into his ballocks.
“Gawd dammit, ye bitch.” He tossed her aside, and moaning, clutched his groin.
Hearty guffaws and gleeful hoots echoed round the thicket from the ten fierce men facing her
.
Isobel scrambled backward until a tree’s solid trunk halted her. She tried to gather her wits, to commit as much to memory as she could.
Two swarthy Highland travellers stood beyond the Scotsmen. Expressions somber, their dark gazes swept her. A shimmer of kindness, or perhaps remorse, glinted in their eyes.
The tinkers had collaborated with the rebels.
She frowned. For certain, she’d seen these men before. Did they recognize her?
“Get the horses. Now.” The man named Angus plowed toward Isobel, sword in hand.
Two men scurried to do his bidding.
I’m going to die.
Petrified, Isobel swallowed convulsively.
Contorted in rage and marred by a ragged scar from his reddish-brown beard to the corner of his left eye, the man named Angus’s countenance rivaled that of demons she’d seen depicted in religious books.
Surely, she faced the devil himself.
His emotionless ebony gaze bore into her. Grabbing her hair, he hauled her to her feet.
Excruciating pain lanced her scalp, and Isobel cried out. She clutched at the large hand meshed in her hair.
“Shut up.” He gave her a violent shake and slapped her across the mouth.
Her head spun dizzily. Black spots danced before her eyes. Coppery bitterness met her tongue, even as a trail of blood trickled over her chin. She fought to stay conscious.
His hand fisted in her locks, the leader swung his baleful glare to the men. “Dunbar, be she the Farnsworth lass?”
Isobel bit her tongue to stifle her gasp, but a small sound escaped.
Oh, my God.
The leader threw her a piercing scowl.
She and Lydia vaguely resembled each other. Yet, anyone acquainted with either of them wouldn’t mistake one for the other. Isobel averted her face. If the travellers recognized her and gave her away, she was as good as dead.
“Dunbar, git yer arse up.” Angus pointed his sword at Isobel. “Be she the right wench?”
The man she’d landed upon struggled to stand. Hunkered over and holding his crotch, he glared at her. He shuffled to her and leisurely took her measure from boots to hair.
“Aye, Angus. She be the right size, and she be a verra bonnie lass.” He licked his lips, a lascivious glow in his pale-green eyes.
Isobel darted a glance at the others from the side of her eye.
To a man, they ogled her, lust engraved on their coarse features.
Trembling, she dropped her gaze.
Dunbar dared to grab a handful of hair and run his fingers through the strands. “She has dark hair too.”
She snatched her head away and glowered at him.
Wet, her hair appeared darker, but Lydia possessed rich sable hair.
“What of the woman out there?” Angus pointed his short sword in the moor’s direction.
Dunbar met Angus’s stare and shrugged.
“I dinnae ken. Maybe she be one of the Fergusons? Craiglocky be full of young, bonnie women.” His lecherous gaze raked over Isobel once more. “We could take the other wench too. We’d have a hoor ‘til we reach Dounnich.”
Base desire tinged his words.
Angus thrust his sword threateningly, the point resting on Dunbar’s Adam’s apple. “We be takin’ one woman only. And she better be the lass MacHardy paid for. Ye ken what’s at stake.”
Dunbar motioned to Isobel. “This one. She be wearin’ black like I be told she would.”
A traitor at Craiglocky? Her gaze clashed with Dunbar’s. “Who told you there—?”
“I told ye to shut up.” Angus swung his beefy fist.
Chapter 15
Isobel.
Yancy swung Skye toward the scream, intent on charging straight into the woods, caution be hanged. Moments later, eight roaring Scotsmen erupted from the trees.
Their plaids identified them as Blackhalls and MacGraths.
He threw off his hat. “Draw your weapons.”
Unbuttoning his coat with one hand, he quickly freed his sword with the other. Seconds later, one shaggy cur toppled from his saddle, an arrow deep in his chest.
Mouth gaping, Yancy speared his attention to Miss Farnsworth. I’ll be damned.
Stern concentration written on her face, she let fly with another arrow. Her nostrils flared as she hit her mark square on, and a man toppled to the ground.
Swords drawn, Alasdair and Ross flanked her while Gregor and Harcourt took positions beside Yancy. The men awaited his orders.
“Ross, Harcourt, get her out of here.” Yancy jabbed his sword at Miss Farnsworth. “Miss Farnsworth, go. Now. We’ll hold them off.”
“I can help.” She took aim once more, and with remarkable precision, sent a third Scot to hell.
“Dammit, woman, do as I say.” Yancy was having none of it. He already had one defiant woman to rescue. He didn’t need another.
Alasdair laid a hand on her arm. “Go, lass. I canna fight if I ken ye are in danger.”
Biting her lip, she gave a sharp nod.
“God keep you safe.” Her gaze swept everyone. “All of you.”
Harcourt grinned crookedly at Yancy. “I’m not leaving.”
The Scots bore down upon them.
Ross grabbed Miss Farnsworth’s reins and handed them to her. “Lydia, get movin’.”
With a final glance at the men charging across the moor, Miss Farnsworth and Ross spun their mounts about and thundered away.
Hunched low in her saddle, she glanced back at them. “We’ll send—”
The raging wind stole the rest of her words.
Sword raised, Yancy tore his attention from the oncoming menace and met Harcourt’s calm gaze. “I don’t trust Ross. Do you?”
Harcourt’s brows shot to a vee, and he twisted in his saddle to stare at his cousin’s retreating form.
“Blister it, I don’t either.” Sheathing his sword, he gave a sharp salute. “Try not to get yourself killed, Yancy.”
“Five to three. Seems unfair to me, brother.” Gregor waved his blade at the approaching men.
Not the best odds, nevertheless Yancy had wagered and won against far worse.
“Aye, but dinnae be mad at the lass for dispatchin’ three of the bloody scunners.” Alasdair winked at his twin. “She be tryin’ to help, not ruin our fun.”
Emitting battle cries wild enough to cause the hair on the back of Yancy’s neck to stand straight up, the McTavish brothers surged forward.
In the following frenzy, Yancy came to appreciate Sethwick’s kinsman all that much more. While he fought with a monstrous brute, they each cut down a bull of a man.
“Come on, Sassenach,” the Scot Yancy battled taunted. “Ye be nae match fer a Blackhall.”
“Perhaps, not in brute size.” Yancy nicked the behemoth’s forearm. “But since one of my ballocks is larger than your brain, the outcome is certain.”
The Scotsman growled and swung his weapon wildly.
Yancy’s slighter build enabled him to maneuver much quicker, and though repelling each of the Scot’s mighty blows threatened to dislocate Yancy’s shoulder, he waited for the opportune moment.
Sword raised high, a smug sneer splitting his broad face, the Scot lunged. “Say a prayer before I send ye to hell.”
“Better that you say one.” Yancy swiveled and sliced his blade neatly between the man’s ribs.
Astonishment swept the Blackhall’s face before his eyes glazed over. He crashed to the sodden earth, sending muddy spray in every direction.
Yancy spun to assist the McTavishs.
Both now battled on foot, their opponents every bit as huge as the enormous, grinning twins.
Dismounting, Yancy snatched his dirk and
prepared to enter the fray should Alasdair or Gregor need help. He needn’t have bothered.
Less than a minute later, the remaining assailants lay staring into the tumultuous sky, rain pouring into their sightless eyes.
Dripping wet and spattered with blood and grime, the brothers laughed and embraced. With a final pat to the others back, they trudged to their horses.
Yancy scraped his sopping hair from his forehead and turned to do the same. They had been lucky. The Blackhalls and MacGraths had earned their reputations as merciless fighters.
A coarse shout sounded.
He spun around. A wounded Scot pointed a pistol at Gregor’s back.
“Gregor!” Yancy bolted toward the MacGrath.
Gregor whirled to face Yancy then dove to his left. The ball slammed into his side. He convulsed and collapsed.
With a flick of his wrist, Yancy sent his blade sailing into the renegade’s bullish neck.
Burn in hell.
Before the dead man plunged, face first, to the dirt, Yancy sprinted to Gregor.
Anguish chiseled on his face, Alasdair crouched above his brother, pressing his hands to Gregor’s crimson side.
Gregor lay ashen and unconscious. The nasty gash paralleling his hairline oozed blood. He’d collided with a rock when he fell.
Yancy dropped to his knees. “Is he . . .?”
Alasdair shook his head. Voice unsteady, he managed to mutter, “Nae, but I need to get him to the keep.”
Yancy yanked off his coat then his waistcoat. He unwrapped his cravat. “Here, we can use the waistcoat as a bandage and tie the neckcloth around his ribs.”
Once they’d secured the makeshift dressing, Yancy removed the blanket and basket from Alasdair’s saddle. He helped hoist Gregor onto the horse’s back.
Yancy retrieved Gregor’s mount. “Will he follow you, or do I need to tie him to the halter?”
Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Page 11