“I hope so,” came the unsympathetic reply. “Come along. We can’t stay.”
The truth of his words was proven by the sound of someone crashing through the woods. “Mason, do you have her?” a man called.
The Irishman took her wrist and started running. Lyssa followed blindly, anxious to put distance between herself and the scene of such quick violence.
They ran for what seemed like hours but was really only moments. He lost his hat, but did not turn back for it. Behind them, Lyssa could hear the angry shouts of the downed man’s friends when they found his body. Suddenly, the Irishman veered right and plunged them down a steep hillside and into a narrow stream. Water seeped into her fashionable new walking shoes, the leather still stiff. Her feet stumbled as they climbed up the ravine beyond the stream. The Irishman moved behind so he could help her keep her balance.
The plaid caught on a thorn bush. She stopped to untangle it, scratching her knuckles. “Leave it and keep going,” he ordered.
But she couldn’t leave it.
The plaid was now more than a symbol of her clan: It was all she owned.
Numbly, she realized her precious books, including the one she’d hollowed out and used to hide her money, had been burned in the wagon. She had nothing. Her fingers refused to move and the plaid seemed to become more tangled.
The Irishman solved the problem by pushing her hands out of the way and ripping the material. “Go!”
She dared not disobey.
Higher they climbed up the ravine. Once at the top, he kept her running, taking her by the arm and hurrying her faster than she’d ever moved in her life. They followed a rutted wagon road but it didn’t make travel any easier. Her chest hurt from trying to breathe. She had a pain in her side and her feet stumbled over each other, her shoes not made for such strenuous exercise.
Abruptly he ordered, “Here, get down,” and pushed her beneath some bushes. Before she could think, he followed her, covering her body with his own and edging them both closer to the shrubbery’s roots. He even took the time to tuck her plaid close around her body. They lay so close together she could feel the racing beat of his heart against her own.
Lyssa was thankful for the rest. However as her heartbeat returned to normal, she became aware of how uncomfortable her position was. He held her against the muscled wall of his chest, their bodies spooned together. Her arm, trapped under her body, began to hurt. Rocks and small twigs on the ground pressed painfully into her. The earth was rich here with the smells of rotting leaves and moss.
She wiggled, needing to find a more comfortable position. His arm around her tightened. “Hold still.”
“Do you think they are coming?” she whispered.
“If they do, I don’t want the bush to be shaking.”
He made sense. But Lyssa still had to pull her arm free, which he let her do. Lying on her stomach, she cradled her head on her arm and tried not to think about what sort of insects would be crawling around on the ground at night.
Her nose itched. She dared to scratch it.
All was still in the night. Not even the frogs croaked. She waited, expecting something to happen.
Nothing did.
Finally, she could be silent no longer. “What are we doing?”
“Hiding.”
His curt, obvious answer brought out a healthy flash of temper, an emotion she seized to keep other fears at bay. She rolled over to face him, intent upon giving him a much-needed rebuke. He accommodated her by shifting his weight and she ended up on her back. However, once there, Lyssa knew she didn’t want to be underneath him this way.
There was even less space here than in the Gypsy wagon and she found herself practically nose to nose with him…not to mention the fact they were fit together—intimately.
All anger vanished from her mind as the slow heat of embarrassment stole up her body. Her heart suddenly kicked up its beat. His lips were less than an inch from hers and his breath smelled like Cook’s warm buns when fresh from the oven, a scent that could lure her to the kitchen at any time and was disconcerting when connected to him.
However, he was clearly annoyed with her maneuvering. His “Are you settled?” was like a slap in the face.
“I’m trying to be,” she returned. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
He did not mistake her meaning. Tension tightened his body. He raised his upper torso to glare down at her, the movement joining their lower bodies even closer. Lyssa caught her breath at the bold intimacy, realizing it was one thing to tweak the pride of a dandified lord on a dance floor and something else completely to challenge this man, who knew no rules…or boundaries.
But then he slid over as if the contact had been of no consequence and wedged himself closer to the shrubbery roots…and she felt a disquieting stab of regret. Uncertainty was not a comfortable feeling. She didn’t know if it came from the loss of his body heat and the safety his strong presence provided or the possibility that she had insulted him—not that Lyssa was afraid to stand up for herself.
However, as she and the Irishman lay side by side, quiet as hunted rabbits, she remembered that even a so-called gentleman would take advantage of a woman if he thought her beneath him. She’d learned to be wise to the nuances of male behavior and knew how to protect her reputation. She’d even administered a slap or two.
But the Irishman was a completely different species of the male sex than any who had crossed her path before.
This time, he broke the silence, his voice low and deep in the darkness. “If they discover us, I want you to run as fast as you can. Don’t worry about where you are going, just keep moving.”
“What about you? Where will you be?”
“I’ll hold them off here.”
Her pique of temper vanished. “You can’t do that. There are at least two or three or more of them. And they are armed.”
The flash of even white teeth gave his grin a wolfish expression. “Now you are worried about me? Miss Harrell, you could have saved us all the trouble by staying quietly in your bed back in London.”
His criticism hit home—especially when she thought about how completely she’d been gulled by her Gypsy imposter friends. The feel of the tarot card tucked in her bosom only rankled her more. “I doubt if I’m much trouble to you. Not with the reward I’m certain my father is paying.”
“You would be less trouble if you would be quiet.”
Lyssa’s temper flared red. Didn’t he know who she was? Who her father was? The man paying him?
And she was going to tell him. She was going to rise up and give him a piece of her mind—
His hand clamped over her mouth. He lay one leg over hers, pushing her down to the ground while his right hand above her head raised the pistol. His thumb cocked the hammer.
Startled, she listened and heard what he’d heard: the sound of men beating through the bushes.
She edged closer to him. He removed his hand from her mouth and placed his arm protectively around her.
A moment later, their pursuers stood mere feet from when they hid. One man held a lantern, and Lyssa, too frightened to move, prayed she’d pulled in all of her plaid so it could not be seen from the road.
Go on by, go on by, she wanted to whisper to them, and for a moment she thought they would—until the beat of horses’ hooves vibrated through the ground.
Two mounted men rode up and her mind frantically attempted to assimilate the horrid fact that a party of over five men had been sent to murder her. She leaned even closer against the Irishman.
“Have you seen anything?” one man asked the riders.
“Nothing. But hell couldn’t be blacker than this night.”
“A big man like Campion couldn’t hide, no matter where,” said a man with a muffled voice.
“Well, he has, damn him,” the rider countered with no small amount of frustration. He had a deep bass voice that sounded as if it came up all the way from his toes. A voice that would be hard to forget. An English voice.
“Money,” the first rider answered. “Well, we’re wasting our time at this point. How’s your nose?”
“Broken. The bloody sod will pay for it when I get my hands on him,” the muffled voice responded, and Lyssa knew this must be Mason. So, the Irishman hadn’t killed him. Now Lyssa wished he had.
One of the others asked, “What do you want to do, Fielder? Your call.” They all had London accents.
Mason growled out that he wasn’t leaving until the deed was done. “She could have seen me. I’ve no desire to have my neck stretched for attempting murder. And beware, lads, if I go, you’ll all go.”
Even from her position on the ground, Lyssa could sense an instant negative response to his words from the others. No one liked to be threatened, especially murderers. Two of his comrades started to complain, but the man called Fielder, the one with the deep voice, cut them off.
“Are you certain they could recognize you, Mason?”
“How could they not?”
“How unfortunate,” was the only warning Lyssa, or apparently even Mason had, before a pistol shot was fired.
Mason hit the ground with a thud, falling on his back, his left hand outstretched toward where she and the Irishman hid. She could even see his fingers twitch one last time.
She wanted to cry out, to gasp, to react in some way to the horror. The Irishman caught her in time, raising his fingers up to her lips, his own mouth close to hers as if he would swallow any sound she made. They both waited, their bodies tense, the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air.
“Did you have to kill him, Fielder?” the other mounted man complained.
“Couldn’t you see him shaking? He would have broke and turned us all in. Here, you two bury him.”
“With what, Fielder?” one of them asked.
“There’s a ravine down that way. Throw him in it and put some logs over him. He’ll decay before he is discovered.”
Mason’s body was unceremoniously picked up by his arms and legs and carried off.
Once they were alone, the horseman with Fielder said, “We started off with six and now we are down by two, and we still haven’t gotten the girl. Campion is better than we thought. What do you want to do? Keep searching the woods?”
“No,” Fielder responded. “It’s a waste of time. We’ll head back to the inn. Campion needs to get the girl to London as quickly as possibly or else he won’t get paid. After all is said and done, he’s still nothing more than a mercenary. I’ll wager he’ll try and beat us to the inn where the maid and coach wait and then attempt to outrun us to London. He knows it will be harder for us to kill her on English soil.”
“What if he gets by us?”
“He won’t,” Fielder answered with certainty. “We’ll guard the roads.”
“By ourselves?” his companion asked incredulously.
“We’ll hire help,” Fielder answered. “The girl’s hair is a damn beacon. Anyone who sees it doesn’t forget her. They can’t go far on foot. We’ll catch up with them and then we’ll see if Campion feels like such a bloody hero.” There was a clicking sound that she remembered from recently and she realized Fielder had been reloading his weapon.
The two other men tramped back to join the party. “Is it done?” Fielder asked.
“Aye,” was the answer.
“Then get your horses and let’s head to the inn.”
“What about the maid?”
“We’ll pay her off. She did a good job of leaving signs of the path they were taking and deserves her money. She is also smart enough to go running off and keep her mouth shut.”
One man asked what they were going to do with Campion’s horses.
“Sell them,” Fielder said. “He won’t be needing them.” The others laughed with confidence, as if he’d made a great joke. They moved off down the road.
Lyssa’s heart beat in her ears and she tasted fear. The Irishman didn’t move and so she dared not.
They waited for what seemed hours but was in actuality fifteen minutes, maybe less. The Irishman removed his hand from her mouth and crawled over her. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“Seeing if it is all clear.” He rose to his feet. A moment later, he offered her his hand. “Come. We’re safe.” He pulled her up as if she weighed nothing.
Lyssa ran a distracted hand through her hair. It hung loose, a hopeless mess, and she didn’t have a pin to use to tidy it—such an odd thing to think about when one had murderers on her trail…
She reached for her precious plaid and held it out for inspection. There was a hole torn in the corner but it was not completely ruined. She wrapped it around her shoulders, needing something to help her combat the terrible coldness stealing through her.
The Irishman spoke. “Who wants you dead, Miss Harrell?”
She didn’t know, didn’t want to think on it. Instead, she said, “Which maid did you bring?”
“Harriet.”
Harriet. The maid was newly arrived in London and had been so willing to please that Lyssa had championed her. The pain of betrayal ran deep. “You were a soldier?”
“Yes.”
“You seem to know what you are doing.” She had to make her mind work, to make sense of the violence, of what was happening. This was all to have been a lark. An adventure.
She forced herself to stop shaking by clasping her hands together. “I don’t think anyone wants me dead.”
“Obviously you’re wrong. Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble and a good expense to achieve that objective, including using me.” There was a beat silence and then he added, “That was their first mistake.” She understood what he was saying. This was personal to him now.
“Do you think your father could be behind this?” he hazarded.
His suggestion staggered her. “No. I told you earlier, he’d never want to see me dead. He loves me! If anything it would be my stepmother.”
“Your stepmother?” The Irishman shook his head. “Murder is a bold crime. I’ve met her. She hasn’t it in her.”
“Of course,” Lyssa agreed sarcastically. “Every man thinks my stepmother is fragile. Trust me, she is far more resilient than most give her credit.”
“But what does she stand to gain by seeing you dead?”
“A more substantial inheritance for her child?” Lyssa suggested.
“To what purpose? She has all the money she needs.”
“Does anyone ever have all the money they need? The moment my stepmother came out of mourning for her first husband, the duke, she threw herself at my father. No one can convince me it was love at first sight. Consider their age difference. She chose him for his money, and it’s a pity my own father isn’t wise enough to see it.”
“But is she jealous enough of you to stoop to murder?” he asked.
Lyssa threw her hands in the air. “What more proof do you need? Who else would want me dead? I’m not a threat to anyone. Or perhaps you are right about my father. It seems I’ve ceased to matter with the advent of a baby. But then again, he is determined I marry for a title. A son can’t give him that.”
The Irishman put his pistol in his knapsack and adjusted it around his shoulders. “What about your betrothed?”
“We’re not betrothed yet, not formally.” She didn’t like to think about Grossett. Conscious that the Irishman watched her closely, she said stiffly, “He only gains if he marries me. If he wants me dead, he’d be wiser to wait until after I am his wife.”
“You don’t like him much?”
She despised him…but she’d not admit that to the Irishman. “He is my father’s choice, not mine.”
Even in the night, she could see him frown. “You could be more forthcoming, Miss Harrell. This isn’t some game, not anymore. These men want to kill you, and me if I stand in their way.”
Was he criticizing her? “I understand the severity of my position. I’ve told you everything I know. I haven’t any idea why someone would pay men to murder me.”
He crossed his arms. Matching her clipped tone, he said, “Then let us start with what you know. Why did you run away?”
“I told you I want to go to Amleth Hall.”
“Why?”
She hated how with one word he could make her feel she had no choice but to answer…and how vulnerable he made her feel when she did so. As Dunmore Harrell’s daughter she’d rarely explained herself to anyone.
“Amleth Hall is my mother’s family seat. She was the laird’s daughter and a famed beauty. They called her ‘the jewel of the Davidson clan,’ and she was expected to marry well. Instead, when she was younger than I, she eloped with my father who then was nothing more than a shepherd. It was a terrible scandal and her father disinherited her. She never regretted her decision to marry Papa because she loved him with her whole heart. But I know that up until the day of her death, she always missed Amleth Hall and Scotland.”
And Lyssa missed her mother.
“Why didn’t you just ask your father to take you to Scotland? Why this running away nonsense?”
“I did ask him, years ago. Right after Mother died.” Lyssa shook her head. “He’s washed his hands of Scotland. He doesn’t even like people to think he is Scottish—especially now that he has his ‘duchess.’ He refused to take me.”
The Irishman paced a step to the right, then stopped. “Wait a moment. There is more here. Pirate Harrell is known to never refuse his daughter anything.”
“How would you know that?” she demanded.
“Rumors on the street. When a chit is worth her weight in gold, people notice everything.”
Lyssa had always been uncomfortable with the speculation her father’s money brought her. Coldly, she said, “My father is no different than any other. He wants his daughter to do exactly as he says, and when she doesn’t behave—”
“Such as marrying the man he has chosen for her?”
“Such as marrying the man he has chosen for her,” she confirmed, “then like any other father, he can resort to harsh measures.”
Adventures of a Scottish Heiress Page 5