Kilt Trip

by L. L. Muir

  When Rory had been forced to flee England in a hurry, Brian had helped him escape, only to turn around and demand a payment far larger than Rory had been worth--to anyone but Connor. Rory had repaid him, and ever since, it had been much easier to jest about Blue Brian than to talk about the events that led to their acquaintance.

  The Irishman nodded his head at the road behind him. “Round Rob McMurtry’s got them. He and ten others.” Brian’s arms folded slowly in front of him. “Two are faring well. They’ve no’ been touched.”

  Rory kept a roar from escaping his chest. He needn’t ask which two were faring well.

  “And the other?” Ian asked the question Rory could not.

  “She’s a bit of fresh, isn’t she? Round Rob has little appreciation for her, but there’s another man who has.” Brian turned his attention back to Rory. “She refused to give her name, and the other two did likewise. She said only that Alistair Graham will pay her ransom. I am to remind him of Phineas’ Boon, whatever that might me.”

  “Alistair Graham was my grandsire, Brian.”

  “I remembered that. These birds were taken from ye, then; I knew it the moment I saw yer face.” Brian held up a staying hand. “I was left with the horses last night, Rory. If I’d known the women were yers, I’d have stopped them, or at least warned ye. I owe ye that much, I do.”

  The four sat in silence, waiting for Rory’s ruling on the matter. Should he let the man live and worry over a knife in his back? Blood would be shed, and not soon enough, but it needn’t be Irish blood.

  “Alistair Graham is dead, Brian. Ye’ll find no ransom in the Borders.”

  “Indeed, indeed. Shall I make my way to Edinburgh, then?”

  “Aye, Brian. And be quick.” Rory turned his horse as the man passed, wary of offering a wide back in which to sink a blade.

  “I owe ye a boon, then. I’m that grateful.” Brian paused. “Just send word, Scotsman.”

  “Nay, Brian. Ye owe me three. For kidnapping me, for kidnapping our women, and for letting ye live. But I’m done with boons. Get ye to Ireland and stay.”

  “Oh, there’s no fun to be had at home, laddie, for either of us.” Brian started his horse to walking. “Call me a liar, Rory Macpherson. If ye’d have stayed home, ye’d have never met the likes o’ me.”

  Rory was sure Blue Brian had never before uttered such truth. There was, indeed, no fun to be had at home.

  But he wasn’t home yet.

  Beside him, Connor put his sword away and gave a sly pat to the rest of his arsenal; scratching his calf while two fingers verified his skean du was in its place, slapping his outer thighs, where two blades hid in his breeks, rubbing his left elbow, where another short dagger was strapped beneath his upper arm. Finally, he rolled his shoulders to check the weight of the flat blade strapped to his back beneath his jack. The only weapon truly visible was his longsword, its black belt lost against his blacker clothes.

  All in all, Connor McGee was a distraction, with a glove tucked here, a scarf tied there. It took more than a minute to take in the sight of him—more than a minute for one’s eyes to distinguish black against black. It was no wonder he checked his weapons compulsively, to be sure they weren’t lost in all the darkness.

  The ritual no doubt relaxed the man as much as it relaxed Rory. One day soon, he’d miss the well-armed Scot.

  “Round Rob’s a dangerous man.” Ian piped up. “He’s from Glasgow. He likes the taste of an English coin between his teeth, they say. And if he gets closer to home, he’ll be even more dangerous, aye?”

  “Aye.” Rory suddenly felt exposed in the middle of the deserted road. “At least one of them followed us long enough to know our women were English. They’ll know us if we run straight at them.”

  “Eleven is not so many.” Connor cleared his throat. “But I don’t want the ladies harmed in the fray.”

  “Yes, well. I’m sure we all feel the same.” Rory nudged his horse to a canter.

  Ian and Connor gave him a sharp look that had him blushing, no doubt. But it was time to put pretense aside.

  “Too bad we can’t send Kennison and his men in first.” Ian laughed. “They’d be so busy with English captives, we could sneak in and get the women away before ye could say Round Rob.”

  “No.” Connor’s horse stopped at his outburst and he had to prod it into motion again. “I don’t want that Englishman anywhere near them.”

  Rory would have laughed at his friend, but they shared the same fear, that Kennison would pluck a certain lady from his grasp.

  “Could we find a different Englishmen to send into Rob’s grubbing hands?” Ian’s frustration made his horse sidestep nervously. He leaned down to pat the animal’s neck.

  Suddenly Rory remembered other Englishmen recently on the road to Edinburgh. Three to be exact.

  Rory chuckled at the picture forming in his mind. “I’ve an idea, lads.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bridget vowed never to wear a man’s trousers again.

  When she was led into the trees to see to her needs, with a watchful guard in tow, she whispered her gratitude to God for the privacy afforded by a wide skirt. On the other hand, it was the first time she’d ever prayed for a man to be struck blind, but she could no longer find a kind thought for any of them.

  They returned to camp and the guard reunited her with the other women. She couldn’t guess the time—mid-morning or midday—but they were each given a bannock to eat while the horses rested. All two legged creatures were allowed to walk and stomp the feeling back into their legs and backsides just as long as the females did so in a small space.

  Cranky appeared at Bridget’s side. A disturbing smile stretched across a dirty face. A number of blackened teeth distracted her so it was a moment before she felt the pressure of the man’s hand on her hip.

  Her impulse was to pull away, but hadn’t she promised not to resist if she was allowed to remain with her friends?

  She tried to keep her thoughts from her face, but her cringe must have been clear for the man’s countenance turned red and accusing.

  Or perhaps not. There was a good-sized, hard circle between his hand and her hip—a hardness he tried to define with his fingers.

  Heaven help them, they were about to lose their dresses, too! And after finding coins in them, this lot would never believe their underthings would not require searching. If she could only get Cranky to keep quiet!

  She forced a shy smile and lowered her eyelids. “Please, sir. Don’t tell. Can you keep my secret?”

  His nostrils flared. He glanced slyly around the clearing, then back at her. “How much?” His voice was low. His hand flattened against her, twitching slightly as if it took great control not to start searching the fabric even with all his fellow villains looking on.

  “A lot more if it’s not divided among twelve,” she whispered. Following his gaze over her shoulder, she realized he was studying Mal and Viv. She bumped his arm to draw his attention back to her. “My friends had only what was in their cloaks, sir. They are not so wealthy as I.”

  They’d been so careful to only sew coins where they’d not show, inside the inmost layers. They’d never considered they might be felt. The plan had seemed so clever six months ago. Every possibility had been prepared for: if they lost their cloaks, they’d have enough coin in their gentlemen’s made-to-suits; if they had to leave those behind, there were more coins in their gowns. They’d never imagined losing all three. But they’d also assumed the road to Edinburgh would be traveled by reasonable men. Oh, she’d been prepared to brandish her sword, and even slap away a blade or two, to put a man in his place if necessary. But she’d never considered the need to fend off an entire band of thieves.

  “Surely, we’ll be safe among the throngs of travelers going to and coming from major cities,” she’d reasoned months ago. After all, the road to London was always occupied, was it not?

  The road to Edinburgh hadn’t been as populated as expected, bu
t if they’d remained closer to it, they might not have been plucked away from that road by a dozen animals, the foulest of which held her so tightly she could hardly breathe without tasting the unpleasant odors clinging to him.

  “I’ll keep yer secret, lassie, until the pirate returns with yer ransom. I’ll have m’ share of that before ye and I settle up.” After one last pat on her hip, Cranky walked away from her, finally, thankfully.

  Mallory and Vivianne came to her. When her cousin took Bridget’s hands in her own, she realized how badly she was shaking. Mal likely thought her condition was due to Cranky’s touch, not to his words. She only hoped that by the time the villains realized no ransom was coming, and the nasty one was ready to “settle up”, she would have gotten her friends to safety.

  Hopefully, herself as well.

  She fought the fear expanding in her mind, but it leaked out of her eyes in hot, salty tears. “You can never forgive me for putting you in such danger,” she told them. “Promise me you won’t.”

  Mallory wrapped her arms around her.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Viv pushed them apart. “We’ll get out of this, Bridget. You know we will. And then won’t we have a story to tell for the rest of our lives?”

  “That’s right.” Mal lifted her chin. “Don’t you try to take the fun out of it. I’m scared witless, but Connor and the others will come for us. I know it.”

  “And if they can’t find us?” Bridget stared them both down. “We have to find a way to escape, and soon. Preferably before they start shredding the rest of our clothes.”

  Mal’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “That’s right.” Bridget nodded once. “That man felt a coin on my hip. I’ve convinced him to be greedy, to not tell the others. And I’ve promised you don’t have any more coins, so don’t feel for them, or look to see if they show. He’ll be watching. Just forget they are there.”

  She pulled Viv closer and hugged the women tight, her head moving between the other two so she could whisper without anyone reading her lips. “You must both do as I say. If ever the time comes that I tell you to run, you run and don’t look back, do you hear?”

  Mal and Viv shook their heads, but Bridget held tight.

  “I mean it. If I tell you to run, you go and find our Scotsmen as fast as you can. Then we’ll all live to tell our stories.” She pushed them away and walked slowly to the tiny stream pushing through the mud on a small slope. She scooped water onto her face and into her mouth to wash down the dry bannock, along with the tears stuck in her throat.

  If she could get her hands on a sword, she’d do what she could to let her friends escape. A long stick might do...or a willow whip.

  “Oy!” came voice from the direction of the road. “We’ve got visitors!

  All attention turned toward the voice, but still kneeling at the water’s edge, Bridget’s attention was on the dagger hilt protruding from the stocking of the young man standing guard over her. Her heartbeat clanged in her head as she reached for the dagger. She could have leapt for joy when her hand returned, unnoticed, and no longer empty.

  She slid the weapon deep into the cleft between her bosoms, praying she’d remember to bend carefully.

  “These Englishmen are having a time of it, trying to find the road to Edinburgh.” One of her captors walked into the clearing, leading three brightly colored horsemen, followed by three more captors. “I told them we’d be happy to have them join us, for the price of their weapons, of course.” An unusual, but familiar black tabard crossed the boisterous man’s chest.

  A red feather caught Bridget’s eye—a familiar feather, bent, but stubbornly clinging to a red hat. Below it, a full black beard was a combed contrast to the rags the man was wearing. His scarlet clothing was ripped and puckered as if they did not fit the wearer. Mounted, with his hands behind his back, the man rolled his shoulders, and the sound of rending cloth made his audience laugh.

  Connor--wearing all the garb Mallory had been wearing when he first saw her, including the whiskers!

  Ian, for it had to be Ian, hadn’t bothered to don more of Vivianne’s green ensemble than the green hat and blond beard, but with a clean white shirt, he was passing fair for an Englishman. Or rather, an Englishman with a great deal of Viking blood in him.

  What could they be thinking?

  Bridget didn’t bother standing. She knew her knees would be no support if it were actually Rory under the blue hat, the blue vest from her velvet made-to-suit, and the red beard that had come from her own precious hair. She’d never seen him in trousers before. Perhaps it wasn’t Rory after all.

  She couldn’t look at his face. She couldn’t. Whatever strength she had left to fight these foes would dissolve if she allowed herself to hope that someone else could do her saving for her.

  She turned her head sharply away, afraid of how happy she would be to see him, afraid of his displeasure at needing to come after her. No doubt he thought she’d run away from him, which she surely would have if they’d not been snatched up in the darkness.

  “I protest this outrage.” The decidedly English outburst had sounded like Ian, though his beard hadn’t moved much when he’d said it.

  Oh, my! The disguises weren’t nearly as believable up close as she remembered them.

  The fat one stepped forward, but kept a safe distance, even though his new captives’ hands were tied behind their backs.

  Some rescue party. Now Bridget would have three men to save as well.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Rory willed Bridget to look at him, yet, as if in reaction to his silent demand, she turned away. She had recognized Connor and Ian. She knew he was there, to rescue her, and still she would not spare him a glance.

  Why?

  Was she punishing him for not protecting her from the bastards? Whether or not that was so, he was there to make amends. Could she not see that? Could she not gaze at him, let him look briefly into her eyes to see she was unharmed?

  His chest nearly caved in upon itself. Had they harmed her in truth? Was that the reason she knelt on the ground apart from the other two?

  His frustration was easily hidden behind a mat of hair that smelled wonderfully, and disturbingly, like Bridget Kennison. It had soothed him for the past hour. Now the taste of her was not enough. He had to get his arms firmly around her and quickly.

  If they’d broken her spirit, they were dead men, all. If they’d touched her, they would wish for death, but it would be slow in coming. If only she would look at him, she would understand that she would be safe now—that she’d always be safe, if he had his way.

  Round Rob McMurtry looked at their mounts, damn him.

  Rory swung his right leg over his horse’s head and slid to the ground. He was immediately surrounded by blades aimed at various and important parts of his body. Unkind, that. But if he kept a good number nervous, Connor would be able to cut his hands free on one of his many hidden blades.

  “Here now. Ye’ve taken enough from me today.” Rory stomped toward a small man who paled and stepped back. Four hurried closer and were joined by two others. The attention of seven were upon him. What was Connor waiting for?

  Rory spared a glance at his friend only to find the tip of a long blade at the man’s throat, dipping well into the black beard. And at the other end, Blue Brian.

  Damn all Irishmen!

  “It seems I’ve returned just in time, Rob.” The pirate grinned.

  Slowly, the plump man circled wide around the horses as if he expected Ian or Connor to jump on him if he got too near. Wise man. He came up behind Brian, his brow smooth, but his face dark red.

  “Why are ye not riding south, pirate?”

  “That be a waste o’ time, Rob.” Brian’s eyes never left Connor. “I heard on the road that Alistair Graham is dead. And what’s more, I heard that Phinny’s Boon, whatever it is, has already been collected.”

  In a camp of eighteen, it was impossible to tell how many bodies had gasped—all three wome
n, of course, but hopefully enough men that Rob would not have noticed the gasps coming from his new captives.

  There was only one way Blue Brian would know auld Phineas Kennison’s boon had been collected, and that was from the man’s namesake. It seemed Kennison’s English coins would find their way into the pirate’s pockets after all.

  Rory realized it was his own fault. He’d sent the pirate to Edinburgh, right on Kennison’s heels.

  How could a man as stupid as himself have lived so long?

  Rory braced for the rush of Kennison’s men sure to break through the trees around them. If he truly cared for the women’s safety, he should be hoping for just that. But the image of Kennison leading Bridget away still ripped at his insides. As foolish at it seemed, he couldn’t see himself recovering from that injury, though no one would see the blood.

  Long moments passed while he listened, but nothing could be heard over the trickle of the wee burn, and the wheezing of Round Rob.

  Rory glared at Brian, a silent promise of a painful death.

  Brian winked. Ever-so-slightly, the blackguard had winked!

  Rory looked away. Was the man there to aid them? If Brian would only leave Connor be, they’d get on fine, but another man would be a help if only to keep the women from the fray.

  “So, what do you suggest now, Irishman?” Rob moved once again, continuing his wide circle, wheezing his way toward the women.

  Rory turned to watch him over the back of his horse, ignoring the blades now behind him.

  “Are these men worth a ransom, do ye think?” Rob stopped next to Mallory. He lifted her hair away from her neck while she glared daggers at him. He looked quickly toward Rory and his still-mounted friends, then smiled when he noticed Connor’s reactions.

  “Nay.” Blue Brian shrugged a shoulder. “The only ransom any would pay for Rory Macpherson was already paid by Connor McGee, here.” Brian used the sword to lift the black beard from Connor’s face and slide the disguise down the blade and eventually into a large pouch at his waist. “None would ransom Connor.” He nodded in Ian’s direction. “And I’d wager the McDermotts would welcome the quiet if we but stilled the lips of their lad, Ian. Have ye e’er heard him sing?”