The Renegade (The Renegade, Rebel and Rogue)

by Christine Dorsey

  Zoe had been tempted to go with Fox. She loved him and enjoyed his visits immensely. But she’d declined.

  Miss Phelps thought it ill-advised for her to travel so far. Her exact words had been, “The harsh road will surely kill my dear Zoe.” Fox had questioned that judgement, but though Zoe had wished more than anything to accompany her brother, she was forced to agree with Miss Phelps. After all, the sainted woman had taken care of Zoe for all these years, keeping her alive longer than any naysayer thought possible. How ironic that she should end up on a journey where the south of England was simply a starting point.

  Zoe’s attention was so absorbed by the sights around her, the oak forests and meadows, sights she’d only heard of from Fox, that she forgot for nearly an hour to worry about her breathing, or the state of her heart. She didn’t even give her health a thought when the coach swayed to a stop before an inn on the outskirts of a small village.

  Church bells pealed through the late afternoon air, vying with the sounds of children playing and chickens squabbling about. Zoe slid from one side of the coach to the other gazing from the windows till the door opened with a jerk. There stood the Scot, hat in hand.

  For an instant Zoe forgot to be frightened by him, forgot the circumstances. He stood in the waning light, the sun catching the glints of copper in his dark hair. The shadows tracing the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes looking very green.

  Then he grimaced, his slashed brows lowering, and it all came back to Zoe in a rush. The wild Scot. The kidnapping. Her need to save Fox. And her own ill-health.

  Zoe moaned as she climbed from the coach. Her limbs ached. Her heart raced. As her feet settled on the dusty lane, her head felt light.

  “What be the matter with ye now?”

  The Scot offered his arm and Zoe had no recourse but to lean upon him. “I fear... oh my, I think I shall swoon.” Zoe actually felt her knees buckle and her body begin to sag.

  But she didn’t fall. Nor did he scoop her into his arms as she thought he might. As Fox had done the few times she’d been foolish enough to venture too far in the gardens with him.

  Instead she felt her hand gripped, and a strong arm wrapped round her waist. He was walking her along the dusty dirt road that ran beside the hedgerow away from the inn. Her feet began to move of their own accord, and Zoe looked up at him in surprise.

  His strides were long and it was all Zoe could do to keep up as he walked toward a stone bridge. It crossed a brook that babbled its way alongside the road before swerving across to meander through a field of clover. Once they were on the bridge the Scot stopped. His hand loosened on hers and his arm no longer held her upright.

  Nor did it need to.

  To Zoe’s surprise and pleasure her head no longer felt like it was about to take flight toward the bank of mauve-tinged clouds. Nor did her legs wobble. She let her hands rest upon the stone railing and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the sweet smells of hay and lavender.

  “Feeling a bit better are ye now?”

  His smile was smug. “Perhaps a bit.”

  “Lookin’ better too, I’d say. The color in yer cheeks is becomin’.”

  His words flooded more pink to the area he’d described. “No doubt too much blood. It’s been awhile since I was bled.”

  “Aye, the rigid vessels.” Keegan scooped a stone off the road and tossed it into the stream. “Ye seem to be gettin’ along fine without the blasted bleeder to me.”

  “Are you a physician now?”

  “Nay.” Keegan shrugged. “Just wonderin’ what causes ye to be so sick, when ye don’t seem sick.”

  “Well, I am.” Zoe turned to face him squarely. “Miss Phelps says ’tis a miracle I’ve lived this long.” She lifted her chin. “And I shan’t live much longer.”

  “Ye say it as if ye’re proud of the fact. As one who came within hours of meeting his own demise I’d say ’tisn’t something to relish.”

  “I don’t. Goodness.” Zoe crossed her arms. “Don’t you think I’d like to be healthy like other people? To do all the things they do? To see some of the places I’ve only read about?”

  “I don’t know. Do ye?”

  “Of course I do.” Zoe unfolded her arms, then self-consciously brushed out her skirt. “But I can’t.”

  Keegan shrugged again. “Well for the moment ye must be pretendin’ ye can.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve sent François in to see about our rooms. The innkeeper is t’ think we’re man and wife.”

  “But—”

  “Simply act as if we are when he’s about and there’ll be no problem.” Keegan patted the pistol in his pocket knowingly.

  “What if I refuse? What if I say simply kill me now?” Her chin tilted at a defiant angle. After all, she was bound to die anyway. True she’d never thought this was how she’d succumb, but...

  “Ye don’t do as I say and it will be more than ye I’ll be hurtin’.”

  “Who...?” Realization of who he meant dawned and Zoe’s eyes widened. “But surely you wouldn’t kill the innkeeper. He’s an innocent.”

  “That be up to ye now.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m a desperate man, Lady Zoe.” When the color drained from her face, Keegan continued. “Play yer part and no one gets hurt.” Keegan’s hand clamped under her elbow as he started back toward the village. For the sake of his peace of mind he ignored her mumbled reference to her dear brother. He didn’t wish to delve into that tangle of worms. The woman obviously adored her brother, which to Keegan’s way of thinking proved her a poor judge of character.

  Of course that was hardly her only flaw. He’d never known someone so preoccupied with their health. The woman was obsessed. No doubt that harpy Miss Phelps was to thank for that. Unless there truly was something wrong with her.

  Keegan glanced down at the woman by his side. She was a tiny thing, and pale to be sure. Delicate was the word he’d use to describe her, like a rose, soft and pink. But a rose with thorns.

  The inn wasn’t the worst he’d ever been in; it wasn’t the best either. But then he wasn’t exactly flushed at the moment. It was only thanks to Kate’s generosity that they weren’t spending the night under the stars. Keegan could just imagine his little English rose’s reaction to that.

  Though Keegan had sent François inside earlier to relay his needs, by the look of the innkeeper no preparations had been made. He leaned his ponderous belly over the stained bar, watching an increasingly belligerent squabble between two patrons. Nor was François anywhere to be seen. If Keegan knew his valet, he’d given the orders then retreated to his own room with a bottle of the inn’s best wine.

  With his hand firmly on his captive’s elbow Keegan approached the innkeeper. He reluctantly tore his attention from the argument, which to Keegan’s discomfort appeared to concern the recent uprising of the Jacobite Scots. The sympathies of the crowd of yeomen seemed squarely in the corner of the man professing his hatred of the “popish barbarians.”

  Pride made Keegan’s anger flair; reality cooled it.

  He smiled at the innkeeper whose bulbous nose bore the purplish hue of a man too used to imbibing his own ale. “ ’Tis a heated argument, they’ve got going,” Keegan said, doing his best to soften the edges of his Scottish brogue.

  “What? Oh, well, ol Webster’s got a right to be angered. Fought against the Scots in ’17. Lost his leg to the bastards.”

  “Too bad,” Keegan acknowledged. “Is the room my wife and I require at the ready?”

  “Eh?” The innkeeper reluctantly dragged his focus back to Keegan. “Should be soon. I sent my girl to see to it. You can wait over there.” He pointed a sausage-like finger toward a bench before yelling his agreement to a sentiment shared by most of the crowd.

  Needless to say Keegan disagreed, which was to say he didn’t think all Jacobites should be disemboweled. However, by the expression on his captive’s face, Keegan guessed he was a minority of one.

  Using his body t
o block her from the room’s view, Keegan settled her onto a bench. He didn’t think she was about to blurt out who he was. But then he wasn’t certain she wasn’t. He caught her eye and gave her what he hoped was a menacing look. If she realized how potentially volatile the situation was, how vulnerable he was at the moment, she gave no indication.

  Her large grey eyes remained fixed on his, only flaring slightly when someone in the crowd mentioned Keegan’s name.

  “Escaped in the night he did. Broken out by an entire regiment of them blood-drinking heathens. They’re waiting at the ready right now. Gonna sweep over England killing innocent women and children in their sleep.” This pronouncement was followed by loud guffaws and chants of “Kill the bloody Scots.”

  Keegan swallowed and didn’t move, though his natural inclination was to race from the inn as fast as he could. There must be twenty men in the taproom, and though most were old, he’d noticed a dozen beefy young men, farm workers most probably. One or two he could possibly handle. Twelve irate yeomen he could not.

  Luckily no one appeared to be paying him much heed... especially without his regiment of heathens in plain view. But there was Zoe. If she realized how easily one word from her could ignite the crowd she showed no sign. But the apparent ease with which she sat, her head slightly bent to one side, made her all the more dangerous in Keegan’s eyes.

  He considered leaving. He even reached down to take Zoe’s hand. He was certain the coachman had unharnessed the horses. The man himself was most likely well into his third pint by now. But the air in the inn was becoming stifling. Even before the innkeeper called out to him.

  “You’ve come from London town, ain’t you now. What be the word on the street?”

  “Yeah, tell us.”

  “Is the duke calling the troops to arms?”

  “Is there panic like before?”

  Keegan took a deep breath before turning to face the crowd squarely. It gave him the added advantage of blocking Zoe from their view. “I saw no such thing,” he said, slowly, before turning back to Zoe. “But I haven’t been about much. My wife has been ill.”

  “But you had heard of the rebel’s escape. All London is talking of it. He cheated the hangman. One of the leaders of the revolt he was.”

  That was news to him, or at least it had been until his trial. Keegan gave a noncommittal snort, then turned to help Zoe to her feet. Unfortunately she chose that moment to jump up and move to his other side.

  “I’ve heard of him,” she announced in an unfamiliar bold tone. Keegan very nearly swallowed his tongue.

  “Aye... yes, but these gentlemen aren’t interested in idle female gossip,” Keegan said while draping a seemingly protective arm about her shoulders.

  “Well now we’re always interested in news from London. Fellow riding toward Brighton brought us word of the escape.”

  “We have nothing t’ add to his story. Is that room ready yet,” Keegan said, doing his best to circle Zoe toward the stairs. She wouldn’t budge.

  “From what I heard, your informant is greatly exaggerating the circumstances of the Scot’s escape from prison. Talk in London claims him to be alone... or to have kidnapped someone.”

  “Kidnapped? Now why would he go and do a fool thing like that?” one of the patrons asked. He appeared to be a country squire with his old-fashioned bag wig sitting askew on his head.

  “Exactly,” Keegan agreed. “It makes no sense. Come along now dear.” His arm tightened the circle about her, managing to turn her about without being too obvious. At least Keegan hoped so. He gave her a glare meant to say keep your mouth shut. She looked back, her grey eyes all innocence.

  That’s when she tossed another comment over her shoulder. “I heard he has a vendetta against the brother of the woman he kidnapped.”

  “You don’t say?”

  By this time most of the inn’s patrons were on their feet, moving toward Zoe... and Keegan en masse. They were like rabid dogs, anxious for any tidbit of information about the escaped Jacobite. And Zoe had plenty of firsthand information to tell them.

  Their questions came fast and heavy now.

  “Who did he kidnap?”

  “What was the feud about?”

  “Where was he taking her?”

  “Has the poor woman been violated by the dastardly villain?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so,” Zoe assured the crowd who now had Keegan and Zoe surrounded with the banister at their backs. “Despite his foul deeds I don’t think the man is all bad. But he should be brought to justice,” Zoe was quick to add.

  By this time Keegan had his hand over the carved handle of his pistol and was calculating how long it would take him to dash to the door. That is if he could make it to the door.

  “What does the Jacobite look like? Has anyone seen him?”

  “Nay.”

  “Yes.”

  Keegan and Zoe answered as one, then turned toward each other, their gazes locking.

  “ ’Tis time we retire, wife,” Keegan said, grinding his words out between tightly clenched teeth.

  “But they have a right to know the truth. Don’t you agree?” With that Zoe jerked out of his startled embrace. “He’s a big man, so the gossips say. Brawny. Not unhandsome. With dark hair, the color of mahogany, glinted through with copper.” Every eye in the tavern was glued to Zoe as she spoke. “I hear tell his eyes are green like the sea at eventide. And his voice is deep, with a touch of the Scottish burr that he does his best to hide when traveling incognito.”

  “That be enough of your stories now my love,” Keegan said in a falsetto that had even him grimacing. It also turned a speculative eye or two his way.

  “Now what way would this vile person be heading, do you think? North?” The innkeeper’s already narrow eyes became mere slits.

  “No one knows,” Zoe said. Then her tone turned conspiratorial. “Some think he’s bound for his homeland. The Scottish Highlands. Others think France his destination. Or the New World.” She took a step forward, nearly out of Keegan’s reach. “Who knows, he might be in this very room.”

  She leaped forward, but Keegan was quicker. His hand snaked out, grabbing her arms and jerking her back against him as the collective crowd seemed to grasp what she was trying to tell them. Anyone still in doubt knew the truth when they saw the pistol aimed at the poor woman’s lovely throat.

  “Anyone move and I’ll kill her.”

  “The Scot, by God, it’s the Scot.”

  “Aye and this be my captive, the Lady Zoe Morgan. Unless you wish to have the fair lady’s demise on your heads you’ll clear a path for us to the door.”

  “We can’t let you leave.”

  “Oh but ye can, I assure ye. Now move.”

  At first the group, as if of one mind, stood rooted to the floor. Then with a nudge of the muzzle into Zoe’s soft neck and the expected gasp from her, movement began. First one, then another of the tavern’s patrons shifted to form a narrow gauntlet for them to pass through. Dangerous, to say the least.

  It appeared the best he would get.

  And time was not on his side. Already he could sense a reluctance in some of the men to let him go. Naught had been mentioned of a reward, but that possibility existed and Keegan doubted Zoe’s life would stand for much compared to a bag of gold.

  Truth be known, he had no desire to kill the chit. Despite her obvious desire to see him swing at the end of a rope.

  Not trusting the quickness of his hostage’s feet, Keegan grasped her about the waist, keeping the gun pressed to her side. Then without another word he strode through the group. At the door he paused, motioning her to open it.

  “Now, Zoe,” he hissed when she faltered. “Or I swear I’ll kill ye.”

  “Stop him!” she yelled, and Keegan was too amazed to do a thing. “I shall die anyway.”

  That was all the brave men of the inn needed. They surged toward Keegan.

  “Damn!”

  Jerking the door open he shoved Zoe i
nto the night, then turned and fired the pistol.

  Five

  He had maybe two minutes. Which was how long it would take this rustic crowd to figure out he’d used his one shot for nothing more than to create havoc.

  He could only hope the report was affecting them the way it did Zoe who was holding her ears and looking dazed. But then not much affected other people like it did Zoe. He grabbed her hand, ignoring her protests that she was now deaf, and raced behind the tavern. It had started to rain. A heavy drizzle thickened the air and slimed the cobblestones, reminding him of that fateful morn at Culloden.

  Keegan forced that thought from his mind. He didn’t need a reminder of the dead faces of his brothers, the tortured body of his father. Not now. Now was for finding a way the hell out of here before the enraged surge of drunken humanity burst through yon door. He’d seen the fowling piece behind the bar, and could imagine the innkeeper would love to earn his place in village history by bringing down an infamous Jacobite like Keegan MacLeod.

  “Ouch? Oh, my ankle.”

  “We haven’t time for yer complainin’.” The ripe smell of straw and manure assaulted Keegan as he rushed into the stable, practically dragging a limping, and despite his admonition, complaining, Zoe behind him,

  “I think ’tis broken. Nay! Oh, no, I can’t possibly...” A sharp intake of breath severed Zoe’s protest as she was unceremoniously yanked up onto a horse behind the Scot. Her first instinct was to fight her way off... that is until she started to slide and realized how far up she was. Zoe didn’t need her captor to growl, “Hold on,” for her arms to clamp madly about his waist.

  Then Zoe squeezed her eyes shut as the huge animal thundered out into the rainy night.

  At least she wasn’t deaf. For sounds assailed her. Shouted orders to halt. The clatter of hooves over stone. The Scot’s pounding heartbeat. Or was that her own? Pressed against him as she was, it was hard to tell one from the other. Except that what she heard sounded strong and steady, and hers definitely was not.