The Master Of Strathburn

by Amy Rose Bennett

  The pass turned out to be more of a challenge than Jessie had initially anticipated. The path’s uneven surface made it treacherous going and on one occasion she needed to scramble between fallen, jagged-edged rocks. She was relieved that she had not ridden Blaeberry along this obviously long neglected route. Mrs MacMillan had been right; she had warned Jessie that it would be a difficult ride, even for horses used to the rugged terrain. Walking meant it would take Jessie much longer to reach the lodge and Grantown, but if it meant Blaeberry remained safe, it was worth it.

  When Jessie at last emerged from the pass and skidded down a small gravel scree to the mountain burn below, she was both relieved and exhausted. The combination of poor sleep from the night before, little sustenance and extreme physical exertion had left her weak and shaking. She dropped to her knees by the rocky stream and with trembling, scraped hands, splashed icy water onto her face before drinking her fill.

  Her thirst quenched, she sat back on her heels and looked down the twisting, wind-blasted glen. The idea of walking for perhaps another hour across rough moorland to reach the hunting lodge at the far end seemed beyond her at this point. She knew she needed to eat and rest for a while before she continued on. A little farther down the slope beside the burn was a small cluster of rowan and larch trees; the copse’s foliage was a bright, welcoming blaze compared to the bleak grey rocks and expanses of bruise-coloured heather and coppery deer grass. It would be the perfect place to take shelter.

  Jessie rose unsteadily and on still shaky legs, picked her way along the edge of the burn toward the trees. She was only a few yards away when misfortune struck—she stumbled over a rock hidden in the grass and her right ankle twisted beneath her. She cried out as a tearing, agonising pain assailed her. Damnation, this was the last thing she needed.

  Somehow, even though her vision was blurred by tears, Jessie managed to limp the rest of the way to the copse, her ankle protesting with every ungainly step. When she reached the trees, she collapsed on the edge of the burn, then gingerly removed her leather boot and woollen stocking to assess the damage. To her dismay, she could see her ankle was already beginning to swell. Hell. It was well and truly sprained. Gritting her teeth, she thrust her ankle into the frigid water and prayed the cold would ease the swelling.

  With clumsy, trembling fingers, she opened her leather satchel and removed a little of the food she’d packed for the next few days—a nugget of sharp crumbly cheese and a hunk of dark rye bread. Although she didn’t feel like it, she forced herself to eat. She was so tired and disheartened. What else could possibly go wrong?

  Simon might find me. No, she wouldn’t think about what would happen if he did. With any luck, he probably wouldn’t even notice she was missing until later on this afternoon or even perhaps this evening. She trusted Mrs MacMillan’s assertion that Simon loathed hunting and that he hadn’t set foot up here since the age of fourteen.

  For now she was safe. She had to be.

  When Jessie could no longer stand the bone-chilling iciness of the burn, she removed her ankle and inspected the swelling. Damn, damn, damn. As far as she could see, the cold water hadn’t helped at all. Trying, but failing to stifle whimpers of pain, she pulled on her stocking, every little tug sheer agony. There was no chance that she’d be able to get her boot on, so she shoved it into her satchel. For the moment, getting to the hunting lodge also seemed like an impossible feat. She bit her lip and willed herself not to cry. ’Tis a sprain, Jessie. Nothing is broken. You will live.

  She hobbled into the copse and carefully lowered herself onto a cushion of leaves, before leaning back against the black trunk of an ancient rowan. The wind had picked up and torn scraps of cloud scudded over the snow-capped peaks to the north-west. At least it didn’t look like it was going to rain. Jessie gathered her scarlet cloak around her and closed her eyes. She would rest for just a little while …

  * * *

  Jessie awoke with a start, her heart beating a wild tattoo. For a moment she had no idea where she was other than she seemed to be face down in a pile of autumn leaves. Then it all came back to her with heart-sinking clarity; her flight from Lochrose and the long journey ahead that she must now manage with a badly sprained ankle—indeed, it still seemed to throb at the slightest movement. Sucking in a deep breath, she braced herself for the inevitable stab of pain and slowly sat up, her body stiff with cold.

  She judged it to be late afternoon by the degree to which the light had faded. She must have been asleep for hours. Looking beyond the copse she noticed ponderous grey clouds had gathered over the mountains and a clinging, damp mist was beginning to form in the glen. She should get up and keep moving before rain fell, but the thought of it was almost too much. The leaves above her and the moorland grasses shivered in a sudden gust of wind.

  Jessie stiffened. Something had moved in the corner of her vision. She turned her head slightly to the left. On the other side of the rowan tree, partly shielded by a clump of bogmyrtle was a small, female roe deer. The doe was staring directly at her, its huge brown eyes wide with fear. A shred of mist drifted between them.

  And then there was a deafening crack. Splinters of bark exploded around her and a searing pain shot through her upper arm. Jessie screamed. And then her world turned black.

  * * *

  Robert’s heart froze, his blood turning to ice when he heard the scream—the terrified scream of a woman. The roe deer he had been stalking for his evening meal had bolted away at the same moment that the raw sound had split the silence. Through the drifting ribbons of mist he could see no other signs of activity in or around the small cluster of trees. No horses or other voices.

  What the hell had happened?

  Beside him, in the shelter of the long grass lay his squire, Tobias, equally as stunned. The lad’s face had blanched to the same shade of white as the snow-dusted Cairngorms behind them and his mouth had frozen to a round ‘O’. ‘Who was tha’, milord?’ he whispered.

  ‘Christ knows.’ Robert slung the still smoking musket over his shoulder and in the next instant he was on his feet, half running, half leaping through the spent heather toward the copse where the deer had been. He splashed across the shallow burn into the trees and stopped dead.

  There at his feet lay the young woman he had seen with his brother this morning, her scarlet cloak covering her body like a blood-red shroud.

  Jessie.

  Her eyes were closed and her face was deathly pale but for a trickle of blood at her left temple. Oh God in heaven, what have I done? Icy fear gripped Robert’s gut anew. He prayed his flame-haired goddess wasn’t dead.

  He dropped to his knees in the leaves and felt her neck. Relief surged when he detected her pulse, still beating strongly beneath his fingers.

  With swift efficiency he then untangled the cloak to check the lass’s body for injury. He quickly ascertained that the gunshot wound she had sustained was a fairly shallow graze to her left upper arm. The sleeve of her brown gown was torn and stained with blood. He gently probed the wound but there was no bullet. Thank God. Looking up, he could see it had lodged in the rowan tree behind her. The blood at her temple came from a splinter of rowan bark that had superficially pierced the delicate flesh close to her hairline. He also noticed that her right boot was missing. Curious.

  ‘She’ll be all right, lad, it’s just a graze.’ He addressed Tobias over his shoulder. The lad had entered the copse whilst Robert had been conducting his examination. ‘We’ll need some water from the burn.’

  Tobias’s voice shook. ‘I … she … who … ? What the hell is she doing here?’

  Robert ran a hand through his hair. ‘I have no idea.’

  Tobias moved closer and dropped to his knees beside Robert. ‘Isna … isna that the lass ye told me aboot, the one tha’ was wi’ yer brother? What are we going to do with her?’

  ‘Yes, I believe it’s the same woman,’ replied Robert, shooting Tobias a glance. ‘And to answer your second question, again I have no id
ea.’

  Just at that moment, Jessie began to stir. She moaned and her eyelids fluttered.

  Robert leaned closer and took one of her hands between his. She was so cold. ‘Open your eyes now, lass. There’s been an accident but everything’s going to be all right.’ He hoped his voice held the right amount of reassurance. The last thing he wanted to do was scare the poor girl to death.

  Jessie’s eyes flew open. He immediately noticed that they were honey brown, like the deep amber of whisky—and more beautiful than he’d even imagined this morning. She gasped and struggled to sit up, to push away from him. She was obviously terrified. But she was hampered in her efforts by her injury. She cried out in pain and clutched at her upper arm.

  When she pulled her hand away, it was covered in blood.

  * * *

  Blood.

  There was blood on her hand and an excruciating pain, like burning, in her left arm. Jessie stared at the bright red smear across her palm and fingers with incomprehension for a moment before rising panic constricted her throat and stole her breath. What on earth?

  Her gaze darted to the strange man bending over her. Not Simon, thank God. Deep blue eyes stared straight into hers, but try as she might, she couldn’t make out what the man was saying. She felt muddled, light-headed, like her head was full of stuffing. This must be what it’s like to be in shock…

  Another man with a mess of red hair suddenly appeared in her line of vision. He passed a flask to the blue-eyed man. ‘Here ye are, milord.’

  Jessie swallowed. Tried to drag in enough air to speak. ‘Wha’ happened?’ Her voice, when it emerged, sounded hoarse, foreign to her own ears.

  The blue-eyed man spoke again and this time she understood. ‘You’ve been the unfortunate victim of a hunting accident,’ he said gently with only the barest trace of a Scottish burr. ‘Your left arm is injured, but not too badly.’

  At his words, memory flooded back. There’d been a deer. And a loud crack. A gunshot. Jessie attempted to sit up again and gasped as a hot bolt of pain seared through her arm making the simple action almost impossible. The movement also reminded her that her ankle was sprained, although at this particular moment, the throb of that injury was far less.

  The man seemed to notice her struggle also. He grasped her gently behind the shoulders and helped to ease her into a sitting position. When she was upright, he dropped his hands but didn’t move away.

  ‘You shot me.’ Her voice emerged as a ragged whisper. As Jessie’s gaze skittered over the stranger again, she noticed he wore a plain brown coat and tight-fitting buckskin breeches. A musket hung from his shoulder. Perhaps he was a hunter. Or a poacher…

  The man drew in a deep breath and wiped a hand down his face, looking more than a little contrite. ‘Aye,’ he admitted, meeting her gaze. ‘I’m so incredibly sorry. My companion and I, we were deer stalking. The deer I was after was in the copse with you, and in this mist … Well, you were neatly camouflaged I’m afraid.’ His wide mouth suddenly tilted into a rueful half smile. ‘I’m obviously not as good a marksman as I used to be if I’m missing deer and shooting young ladies instead.’

  Even though he’d shot her and she had no real reason to trust this man or his redheaded companion, Jessie felt that she could at least take him at his word about what had occurred. For one thing, his explanation seemed to make sense. She remembered the deer. And she’d deliberately worn colours that would hide her amongst the autumn-hued landscape. He probably wouldn’t have noticed her in amongst the deer grass and the crimson leaves of the rowan tree.

  But what if her fragile trust was misplaced? He may have shot her by accident, but ownership of firearms was illegal for most Highlanders. So what on earth was this man doing up here, stalking deer on Lord Strathburn’s lands in the first place? Who was he?

  Despite his assurance that she would be all right, unease fluttered wildly in her belly. She was all alone and injured. Vulnerable in the extreme. She tried to reassure herself that not everyone was like Simon—a cold, lascivious predator. Nevertheless, common sense dictated she should at the very least be wary of this man and his hunting companion.

  She glanced at the hunter’s face again. He was kneeling very close to her, his deep blue eyes steadily watching her, obviously gauging her reaction to what he’d just told her. A strange frisson passed over her skin like a shiver of wind passing through the deer grass as it suddenly occurred to her that he was handsome despite his rough appearance. His dark brown, almost black hair was tied back off his face revealing a strong angular jaw line shadowed with the beginnings of a dark beard. Winged eyebrows, chiselled lips … she couldn’t have said why, but she suddenly had the odd sensation that he seemed vaguely familiar.

  The stranger spoke again, his pleasantly deep voice interrupting her perusal. ‘Can you tell me your name, lass?’

  She considered his question and decided there was no reason not to share the information. She swallowed. Her throat was still so parched and tight she could barely speak. ‘Jessie … Jessie Munroe.’

  The man noticed her need for a drink as well. He immediately produced the flask the redheaded man had given to him. ‘Just water,’ he said as if to reassure her again that he meant her no harm.

  Jessie took it with shaking hands and sipped at the contents gratefully. Cold water slipped down her throat, easing the dryness. ‘Thank you,’ she said, handing the flask back.

  The blue-eyed man took a swig for himself and then poured a little water over his blood-streaked fingers. Oh, dear Lord, it was her blood. Jessie swallowed down a sudden wave of nausea.

  The man recapped the flask and Jessie noticed that now the blood was gone, he had large, strong looking hands; despite the fact his knuckles were scarred, his fingers were long, almost elegant with well-shaped nails. They were clearly not the hands of a crofter or brigand cattle reiver. More the hands of a gentleman, perhaps a soldier. Although the man’s plain clothes and stubbled jaw belied the station of gentleman … he was a conundrum to say the least.

  It occurred to Jessie that she should ask the stranger for his name, but just as she began to clear her throat to ask her question, the man spoke again.

  ‘Well, Jessie—you don’t mind if I call you by your first name do you?—we’re going to have to move to somewhere more sheltered. Night will be here soon and it looks like rain.’ At that very moment, an ominous grumble of thunder sounded in the distance and a sudden gust of wind sent a flurry of gold and scarlet leaves down onto them.

  The blue-eyed man called out to his redheaded companion, who had been standing back at the edge of the copse all this time, watching them. ‘Tobias, fetch the horses will you?’

  ‘Aye, milord,’ replied Tobias in a distinct Scottish burr before he disappeared into the gathering mist and cloud.

  The huntsman turned his attention back to her. ‘There’s an old, abandoned hunting lodge not far from here that we can use.’

  Not only was this man stalking on Lord Strathburn’s hunting grounds but he also seemed to think nothing of using the earl’s hunting lodge. It was a trespassing offence to say the least. Jessie suddenly wondered how the stranger knew of its existence.

  Her surprise at the comment about the lodge must have shown on her face as he asked, ‘Do you know of it?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s owned by the Earl o’ Strathburn. These are his lands.’

  The huntsman did not seem at all rattled by her revelation. ‘Well, there’s no possibility of us taking you anywhere else at present given the weather that’s setting in,’ he said with a wry smile, glancing toward the lowering clouds. ‘And I’m sure that like me, you’d prefer not to spend the night battling the elements.’

  He sought and held her gaze directly again. ‘But before we move, Jessie, I’d like to take a closer look at your injured arm. You’ve lost a little blood and the wound may need bandaging.’ His eyes now held a light of earnest concern. ‘I assure you, I have nothing but honourable intentions.’

  �
��Aye, all right,’ she said, steeling herself for his ministrations. She supposed that if his intentions were dishonourable, she would already know—if he meant to have her, now would be the perfect opportunity. Also, if he really intended her more physical harm, why would he bother to attend to her arm?

  The man laid aside his musket, then, still on his haunches, leaned toward her. He was very close. She watched his face because she couldn’t bear to look down at her injury. His winged dark brows descended into a slight frown as he gently separated the torn edges of her sleeve to check the wound underneath. At these close quarters, she couldn’t help but notice other things about him as well. The skin at his throat and underneath the stubble was tanned, like he’d spent a considerable amount of time in the sun. She noted a long, straight nose and high cheekbones. Definitely handsome, she decided. An elegant ruffian.

  He was a dark, handsome stranger that had shot her and was now her rescuer. If she hadn’t been in so much pain she might have smiled at the irony of the situation.

  ‘Jessie lass,’ he said gently when he’d finished his inspection,’ I’m going to have to cut your shift to make a bandage to help stop the bleeding. Then I’ll have to cut away your sleeve so I can bind the wound properly. Would that be all right?’ he asked.

  She nodded faintly. She really had no other choice.

  The huntsman pulled a dirk from his belt then carefully lifted her woollen skirt and cambric petticoats to expose her shift. Using the dirk, he swiftly tore off a decent sized strip of linen. Part of her knew she should have minded, but at that moment, she was too weary and in too much pain to care overmuch if he saw her lower legs or ruined her clothes.

  Although he was gentle, she couldn’t help but gasp when he cut away her sleeve. There was quite a lot of blood, more than she had thought there would be. She closed her eyes, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. Gritting her teeth, she willed herself not to faint as the man proceeded to wrap a firm bandage around her arm. The slightest touch or movement triggered sharp flashes of white-hot pain. By the time the bandage was securely fastened, Jessie was shivering and a sheen of cold perspiration had broken out all over her skin.