Kilt Trip

by L. L. Muir

  After a furtive, final glance at her Highlander, she hurried into the shadows and fumbled about for her escape, a door she prayed would be there. She ran her hand lightly over the wall, dreading another splinter from the cracking wood. Finally, she found the thin line of light that marked the edges. The handle was a simple loop of leather and she pulled. She stepped out into the evening light and turned to her right, spurred on by the sound of Braithwaite’s voice calling out to the Scotsmen.

  She peeked around the corner of the barn, judged the distance to the carriage house…then she was plunged into darkness when a black cloth was placed over her head from behind.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The door to Grandmother's chamber flew open and Vivianne held out an arm to stop it from bouncing back at her. Her eyes were wide as she searched the room, then wider still when she found Bridget lying on the bed, partially hidden by the heavy red drapes.

  So, she'd been found. No doubt the baron would find some reason to take offense and threaten not to marry her, but she couldn't allow that to happen any more than should could have allowed Rory to take her away.

  Vivianne stepped back into the hall. “Please go tell the others that I’ve found her. Asleep in her grandmother’s bedroom.” She returned and closed the door behind her. “We haven’t got much time. I’m certain the baron will want to come see for himself, so tell me quickly. Were you able to bid Rory farewell?”

  Bridget nodded.

  “Then how did you manage to get up here?”

  “Phinny. He wrapped a cloak around me and promised to keep the baron occupied while I crept back into the house and up the stairs. I’m sorry if I worried everyone.”

  Viv bit her lip and looked away. “No one was worried. Some of us were hoping Rory had taken you with him.” Her brow furrowed sharply. “You should be warned. I believe the baron was trying to sneak into your room when he caught Ian coming out of it. Once the Scots are gone, I worry he will do as he pleases.”

  Bridget shook her head against the pillow. “Phinny will be here.”

  “And if the baron doesn’t fear Phinny?”

  “He’d better fear him, at least until the marriage is…official.”

  There was a quick knock on the door before it opened. Grandmother bustled into the room just ahead of Braithwaite.

  “You see?” she said. “Of course no one noticed her. She’s half hidden by the curtains.” She put a deliciously soft hand against Bridget’s cheek. “You must be exhausted. I think you should stay in here with me. It will be lovely spending some time together before we lose you to the baron.”

  “Of course, Grandmother.” From the corner of her eye, Bridget noticed the baron’s disappointment, and she gave a quick prayer of thanks that Ian had been the one to discover the man’s intentions before she woke up to an unwanted visitor in the night.

  Grandmother shooed everyone from the room and sent a maid to collect a sleeping gown for her. When the old woman had gone to see the rest of the guests settled, Bridget was able to have a quiet moment. Braithwaite was not happy, but he was appeased. And there was no need to go sneaking about any longer. Rory was gone. Out of her life. She would never see him again, but still…

  She would never doubt he loved her.

  It was the hardest thing Rory’d ever been asked to do; trust an Englishman.

  “Leave her to me,” Kennison had said. “Can you not believe my sister would be safe in my own care?”

  His heart was still warring with his head when Kennison’s man had reported back from the docks. Hadn’t it been convenient a ship had been located so quickly? Too quickly?

  He’d barely had the chance for a fare-thee-well. How he wished he could have said more. He was such a fool. He’d given her ample reason to doubt him since they’d met, why would she trust him now, when he hadn’t given her hope of seeing him again?

  Once this business was done, he’d take a good long while explaining just what he’d meant. If he could only believe he’d get that chance, he’d be able to keep from going mad on his mad errand.

  Trust the Englishman. Trust him. He had no other choice.

  The following weeks were a torture unto themselves.

  During the day, they shopped for gowns, slippers, and fascinators, and the hours flew by like small flocks of birds. But the evenings dragged along with the enthusiasm of a dying man dragging his own coffin to the graveyard.

  Braithwaite never missed the evening meal. He was the perfect gentleman so that Bridget could never reasonably avoid him without seeming petulant, at least to those who didn’t know his true nature. Tradition dictated their rituals. Bridget, Mallory, and Vivianne were expected to entertain the others after a late supper. Phinny and Braithwaite escorted them to a few small parties, but most nights they remained in the duchess’ home.

  If the baron went out late at night, she never knew it, but she suspected he must be torturing someone, somewhere, if he was able to remain pleasant in mixed company.

  But after a fortnight of such pleasantry, she began to wonder if there was any chance she was remembering that fateful day too harshly. After six months of struggling to keep those memories from surfacing, she braced herself with an extra glass of wine, retired to her grandmother’s room, and finally allowed herself to examine those memories again.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Seven months earlier…

  Phinny had business with Braithwaite's neighbor and since the baron had professed the desire to show Bridget his estate, Phinny took her along and left her with the baron for the afternoon. Since it shouldn’t take long for her brother to strike a deal with the neighbor over a handful of breeding horses, she'd looked forward to a few hours away from home in the company of a handsome and pleasant man.

  Since grandmother had moved to London, she'd not traveled farther than to Mallory's or Vivianne's homes. So, in spite having no intention of allowing Braithwaite to court her, she could indulge him for the favor of being indulged herself.

  His home, Falstone, had been stunning, tempting her to reconsider as he probably expected it to. Surely she'd live like a queen and want for nothing. But soon she'd discovered how he was able to live so comfortably.

  The first unpleasantness had occurred at the home of his pigman. Bridget had been charmed by the report of new litter of piglets. And, rather than alight from the open carriage, the baron had ordered the pigman to bring her one of the tiny animals.

  She'd laughed when the squirming piglet was held up for her inspection, but when the frightened thing began urinating on the Baron's knee, the man lost his composure. He used his whip to turn the thing away, striking the pigman’s protective arms and knocking the hat from Bridget’s head. She'd been lucky her face hadn't been struck.

  With no apology, the baron turned the whip on his horses and urged them back to the path. Unfortunately, the pigman's small daughter was stumbling down the trail. The baron’s growl was the only warning before he intentionally pulled on the left leads to steer the frenzied animals toward the girl. The child looked up, frozen by the sight of eight legs rushing toward her.

  Her parents screamed. Bridget stood and snatched at the leads in Braithwaite’s right hand, pulling as hard as she could. The baron grabbed her gown and yanked her back onto the seat, but in doing so, he turned the horses away from his target. Still, the wheel brushed very close.

  Looking behind them, her heart leapt to see the child screaming but unharmed as her father scooped her into his arms.

  The baron didn’t look back, but soon slowed the vehicle to a stop at the top of the rise. Bridget looked from him to the pigman and back again, but still, the baron did not turn. Eventually, the pigman handed his daughter to her mother, picked up Bridget’s lost hat and walked to the baron’s side. His jaw popped again and again as he stared at the ground and waited for the baron to speak.

  “I apologize for my horses. They may be too spirited. I trust the child survived?”

  The man never looked
up, but his head nodded once.

  “Fine.” The monster passed the hat to her, then raised his whip.

  Both she and the pigman flinched, and the baron snorted in amusement before he told his horses to walk on. Through the dust cloud at their backs, Bridget watched the man run back to his family.

  “Forget them, Lady Bridget.” He didn’t spare her a glance.

  For the longest time, Bridget stared at the man, waiting for him to explain himself. Eventually, she realized there was little here for him to explain. He was detestable. She was fortunate to have seen it.

  When their path rejoined a road, the horses veered north.

  “My lord, I wish to return now, to wait for my brother.”

  He smiled pleasantly, as if nothing significant had happened. “I've decided there is more you need to see.”

  The road darkened as they went, not only from a sense of foreboding or the progression of the afternoon sun, but from the loads that had travelled down it.

  Coal.

  It hung in the air—that nasty persistent taste of something left better buried in the ground.

  They passed half an hour at least before they came upon a deserted encampment. Two grimy tents seemed moments from collapsing in the breeze, and a fire smoldered beneath a tripod bereft of its pot.

  Off to the left, a small pen held four small animals too filthy to identify.

  “Remain seated.” Braithwaite walked to the pen and prodded one animal with his whip. It began to wail. A babe. They were all babes!

  Taking a cue from the first, the others took up crying, and by the time Braithwaite resumed his seat in the carriage, the poor babes had created quite a chorus.

  How long before he'd allow her to tend to them? She had no idea. He was surely testing her in some way, and hadn't approved of her last burst of emotion, so she waited. Other than being hungry and filthy, the babes weren't in danger. If he could stand their crying, so could she. Or at least she hoped so.

  Suddenly a man arose from a large hole in the ground at the far end of the camp. She hadn't noticed it before, but it had to be a coal mine. Her brother’s estate hadn't needed coal production to remain viable, but she'd heard horrible things about such places. Braithwaite's elaborate home instantly lost its luster. But why was he showing her more of his bad character, rather than trying to repair the damage done at the pigman's home?

  She couldn't imagine what he could be thinking. He couldn’t possibly expect her to entertain his suit after showing his true colors.

  The miner glanced at the pen, then hurried to Braithwaite's side.

  “How much today, Jones?”

  The baron showed no intention to perform introductions, and since she couldn't bring herself to look long into the man's sooty face, she was grateful.

  “Nearly as much as yesterday. Not bad, with one man out.”

  Jones didn't have the humility of the pigman; he looked the baron in the eye and didn't bother with 'my lords'.

  “Why one man out?” The baron sat straighter and gripped his whip.

  “Jameson's wife's birthin'.” The now-cautious man took a step back, though that whip could reach much farther.

  “Which is his?” Braithwaite took up the leads and shook them out. The nervous horses began to dance.

  Jones paused and rubbed his neck, then dropped his eyes to the ground. “Last one,” he mumbled. “There are blue flowers by the door.”

  The whip cracked and Jones jumped back. As the team dragged the carriage away, she watched the man walk to the pen, shake his head, and climb back in his hole.

  By the time she'd turned back in her seat they were entering a small village. No one was about. No children, no dogs. Weeds grew unchecked around the main well, and in doorways, as if the place had either been deserted, or the crofters had no time to spare for them.

  Then she remembered the hole. How many men were down there? Didn't someone have to tend to the animals? Tend the fields? But if no one could even be spared to tend the children...

  As they neared the end of the row of cottages, a door flew open and a man spilled out. He wore nearly as much soot as Jones, but the color seemed to have become engrained in his skin. His hands were pink and clean, but only in places, and he laid his hands on the carriage, trying to stop it with his own strength.

  “Stop, please. My wife needs a doctor. The child. It won't come.”

  Braithwaite pulled the horses to a halt.

  “I'll carry her.” The man ran back toward the door.

  “Hold, Jameson. You return to the mine and we'll take care of your wife.”

  The man frowned and shook his head. “I can't leave her. Surely...”

  When the baron remained in his seat, the man came back to the carriage. His hands gripped the side.

  “Surely, my lord, you will allow me to stay at her side. Can I not come with you? I will work twice as hard tomorrow. You have my word.”

  “I have your contract, I don't need your word. Get back to the mine. We'll see to your wife.”

  Still the baron sat.

  “You must take her to the doctor. I'll bring her out—”

  “You, sir, have broken your contract.”

  A horse and rider came up behind the carriage and stopped behind Jameson. The latter cringed as if the man were the devil himself.

  “Marlowe, I will have a pound of flesh, if you will.”

  The devil on horseback looked at Bridget, then back at the baron with a crooked brow.

  “Never mind her. I'll have a pound.”

  A scream burst from the cottage.

  Bridget could sit still no longer. She jumped to her feet, but found herself back on her rump, no air in her lungs, and the baron's arm across her chest.

  “Don't bother, Lady Bridget. The woman will die from the child. Nothing can save her.”

  “I might—”

  “Silence!” He looked up at Marlowe.

  The devil nodded and shook out a rope. He swung it around and caught Jameson around the neck as he fled toward the cottage. When the man tried to free himself, the rope went under one arm and could not be pulled tight around his neck.

  The woman screamed again.

  Bridget screamed and fought against Braithwaite's arm, but he brought his other hand around to strike her in the face.

  For a moment, she wondered why she couldn't move, but the pain in her mouth spoke of the force behind his fist. A moment later, her lip was numb, as was her jaw, and the baron was taking up the leads again, whistling while he drove from the cottage.

  Something caught and was dragging behind them. When she heard a distant groan, then another, she realized it must be Jameson. Braithwaite wasn't trying to hang him, he was exacting a pound of flesh, not from a whip, or a knife, but from the road itself.

  “Stop! Stop!” She begged, but still the horses pulled. She could only imagine what the hard ground and rocks were doing to Jameson. “Stop. I beg you! I will give anything!”

  With her swollen lip, she supposed he might not have understood her, so she gathered all the courage she could summon and pinched the man’s arm with all her might. She sat forward, forcing him to listen to her.

  “What do you want? What will it take for you to stop this madness? The man will be no use to you dead, will he?” Finally, he looked at her. The evil in his smile warned her to recoil, but she ignored it. “Won't the child be of more use to you later? When it's grown?”

  He stopped the carriage and leaned back as if they had all the time in the world for a leisurely conversation. “What do you want, Lady Bridget?”

  “I want you to take that man back to his wife.” She took a deep breath. “I want the woman taken to a doctor.”

  He nodded, as if he intended to grant her every wish, so she intended to keep wishing until he stopped her.

  “I want those babies to have the care of their mothers. I want the mine closed.” Dare she say it? Surely he wouldn't be surprised if she demanded such a thing. He knew her much be
tter that she'd apparently known him. “And I want you to apologize to your pigman for trying to kill his child.”

  He snorted and sneered, then whipped his horses back into step.

  “Stop! Jameson is still being dragged.” Behind them, she could see Marlowe on horseback, keeping pace with Jameson, waiting for his next order. “Cut him free,” she shouted.

  “Lady Bridget, the man will hardly obey you. You wanted Jameson taken back to his wife; I'm obliging you.” He whipped the horses as he turned them. Jameson's cries embedded themselves in her brain, as did the quiet stretches between, when she feared he was dead.

  It was an eternity before they were once again before the cottage. She pled with Braithwaite the entire time. He only laughed. But finally, the wheels rolled to a stop.

  Marlowe was off his horse, untying the rope from the carriage, then bending over Jameson while the baron held her to her seat, watching her, then watching Jameson over his shoulder, as if he couldn't decide which spectacle excited him more.

  “A pound, do you think?” he shouted to Marlowe.

  “Aye, my lord. A pound and more. He's dead.”

  It wasn't the pronouncement, but the coldness in Marlowe’s voice than frightened her.

  A newborn babe cried out, as if in defiance of what had just occurred outside its home.

  She dared a look at Braithwaite. He frowned at the doorway. With his attention so distracted, she slid from his grasp onto the ground. She rounded the carriage to find him entering the doorway and she followed close on his heels.

  The air inside was choked with coal smoke, and sweat, and what she would come to remember as the sickening smell of blood. It was everywhere, as if someone near the bed had made a fountain of it. If it had been the only horrible thing she'd witnessed that day, she might have considered swooning.

  Braithwaite stepped to one side to give her a better view of the bed.

  Upon wet red linens lay the body of a woman frozen in her anguish. Her eyes and mouth were wide, her face perfect and smooth on one side, spattered with blood on the other. Her hair was molded away from her face by sweat, the details of her clothes indiscernible from the bloody linens. In one hand she held a long knife, the other was pressed against the side of a high round belly which was slit from her upper left side across to the right. A babe's head protruded slightly, also drenched in blood.