by L. L. Muir
She would simply have to wait for darkness to fall before she tried to discover what was going on within those crumbling walls.
Chapter Ten
With the lass locked safely away and the key to the brig secured around the captain’s neck, Connor stood at the port rail and tried to convince himself he owned no responsibility for the foolish stowaway.
Protect her?
He’d seen to that. And as soon as they reached Glasgow, he’d arrange for the girl to be returned to her parents as quickly as possible. He needn’t deliver her in person. And hopefully, spending the next few days in a small cell would cause enough ruin to her reputation to make her happy.
At the very least, it would protect all Scotsmen on board from her attempts at seduction, whether or not they would welcome such protection.
He almost wished for the chance to pull the lass’ father aside and give him a piece of his mind. But he did not intend to get more deeply involved, for he had another young woman to worry over.
He gripped the railing and stared at the dark line in the distance that was Scotland’s shore. “Please, Mallory. Please do nothing dangerous this night.”
Mallory retreated into the woods away from the meadow, the castle ruins, and the people inside. From the voices she’d heard, she suspected there were at least two young women and perhaps half a dozen young men, the former of which seemed to be captives of the latter. Whether or not they were being held against their will was yet to be determined. But either way, she could not simply go along to Glasgow and leave the girls to a questionable fate.
She possessed a short sword, dagger, passable beard, manly costume, and a fearlessness earned through her own captivity. So how could a competent and well-equipped woman like herself turn her back when a truly despicable man like McMurtry might be orchestrating a mass kidnapping? Even if she were on her own, even though she might end up as a captive herself, Mallory had to find a way to help, if she was needed.
Bridget and Vivianne would do no less.
It didn’t mean that she had to be foolish, however. And the wisest course of action was to wait until nightfall. If the men could see she was alone, she would be no help to anyone. But in the darkness, her disguise would work better, and she could claim any number of men were out there in the woods, waiting to descend.
Bluffing was becoming a talent. She hoped it would serve her well once more.
After settling on the soft ground between two thick roots, she’d tipped her head back against the wide tree trunk and watched the sky fade between the branches overhead. It had been a long day since she’d awakened at the coaching inn, thus, when her aching sides and numb legs succumbed to gravity and finally relaxed, so did her eyelids. With her horse secured to the next tree, she put aside all her worries for the moment and slipped into a light sleep.
In the black of night, Mallory awoke to the sure knowledge that someone stood beside her, but it was just her impatient horse, no doubt waiting for her to lead him to a barn and remove his saddle. The poor beast wouldn’t be getting much rest that night, however, if all went well.
The animal’s heavy head swung sideways and nudged her. She lifted a hand and stroked his cheek. “Sorry, my fine fellow, but it is high time the two of us stopped indulging ourselves. We’ve been the worst sort of fools. But since our impetuousness has led us here, we must now think of the others.”
She climbed to her feet and brushed at her dark britches to see if the moisture from the ground had seeped into her clothes, but it had not.
“There are at least two young ladies inside that fortress,” she told the horse. “And you and I will see them rescued—if they do indeed need rescuing. We shall prove that all this chasing about hasn’t been for naught. And we shall return home victorious.”
Mallory realized it was the first instance she’d wanted to return home at all since she’d laid eyes on the handsome form of Connor McGee. But it was high time she forgot about him, and high time she forgot about this foolish scavenger hunt. What seemed like great fun had turned into real danger when she and her friends had been kidnapped. And though it had ended quite happily for Bridget and Rory, the only happy ending waiting for her would be to return home, disappointed but safe.
She should never have run away from Falstone to get Connor to chase after her. If he didn’t want her as his wife, the fear of losing her wouldn’t have convinced him otherwise. It had been a childish ploy that backfired and now she was paying for it. Oh, she and Vivianne might have been clever by leaving a false trail, but if the Highlander had truly wanted to find her, he would have tracked her down by now.
It was time to stop hoping. Time to stop playing foolish games. And if the young people inside the castle ruins were playing similar games, she might be just the one to set them straight and show them how dangerous those games can turn.
Mallory hid her small, sheathed knife in her boot and led her horse a bit closer to the castle ruins—near enough for a quick escape if necessary, but far enough so any snorts and sneezes from the animal wouldn't prematurely alert anyone to her presence. After a reassuring pat, she left the beast in the darkness and moved carefully through the trees toward the edge of the meadow now lit with the orange glow from a fire inside the crumbling keep.
At least the small band had not disappeared while she’d dozed.
Before stepping away from the shelter of the shadows, Mal watched the building. A single guard walked atop the far tower that, surprisingly, still had a roof intact. The man’s profile moved close on the right, paced to the left, then disappeared again. No one moved along the perimeter of the meadow.
For ten long minutes, she ignored the small noises in the woods at her back, refusing to be frightened away by her own imaginings, focusing her attention on what lay ahead of her. Still, there was no hint of other guards. Had she misjudged what was happening inside those walls?
Surely, any villain like McMurtry would be as diligent as Connor and his friends had been about posting guards…
With her dark beard and tricorn in place, she was nearly invisible, but still she crouched low as she crossed the meadow and sidled up to the wall. She waited and listened again. A breeze shushed through the tall grasses, and when it had passed, the rumble of low voices came from within the ruins themselves.
She moved to the left end of the wall and peeked around the corner. A search for the edge of the far tower proved the guard there would be hard-pressed to see her unless he leaned out. And judging from the rest of the place, leaning anywhere might bring the remainder of the castle down. So, she dismissed the guard and moved to the first opening along the rear of the wall.
A meager glow of firelight defined the edge of two large openings. The first was still the distinct shape of a doorway while the second might have been formed from the blast of a large cannonball. She stopped at the former and peered inside. The floor was a patchwork of shadows, some grass, some rock, but no people. Light filled a large arch in the inner wall, and from there, the voices rumbled back to her. When she realized she was listening to at least three different conversations, she feared she might have underestimated the size of the party.
It would be excusable, surely, if she returned to the horse and slunk away, claiming that the task was beyond her. But she simply couldn’t do it. She knew what it was like to be kidnapped and to not know if she would survive the ordeal, to fear for the lives of her friends, too. She’d suffered the knowledge that, if one must die, it would be much easier to be that one than to bear the death of one of those friends.
Mallory would spare those girls of such horrors if she could. So, with that thought clenched between her teeth, she inhaled deeply and slipped to the inside of the wall, then picked her way across the hazardous floor to the arched hallway. At the far end, shadows danced around the edges of the stones, then shrunk back into the crevices as the light brightened.
Mal slid her sword silently from its sheath at her hip, and as she inched down the hallway, she
tried to imagine where the men would be positioned according to their conversations.
“Padruig! I told ye, nae more wood! He forbade fires to begin with. I allowed a small one, but now, we’ll be drawing attention all the way to London.”
All other conversations ceased.
“She says she’s cold, Sim. And just look at ‘er? Shiverin’ like a leaf, she is.”
“And I say take that log out before it catches, ye eejit. She says she’s cold because she wants yer arms around her.” That one snorted. “Ye see?” Then he laughed. “Never mind about yer arms now, laddie. Her blush will keep her warm for a while yet.”
The voices that joined in the laughter were too numerous to count, too numerous to intimidate with the threat of a small army waiting in the trees. She would have to try something more drastic.
She lifted her knee and retrieved the small blade from her boot, then inched along again, taking small steps, testing the rubble beneath her feet before trusting it. Something brittle crunched beneath her weight and stole her choice for stealth from her. She lunged to the end of the wall and faced the mob, weapons at the ready.
Her hasty plan had been to press the tip of her sword blade to the throat of the nearest man and threaten to kill him if the others did not cooperate. Unfortunately, the nearest man stood a horse length away, armed with a small wicked blade of his own. And beyond him, another eight fellows clamored to their feet, variously armed, variously alarmed. Three of them rushed out of the room through a rear doorway, no doubt to circle behind her. She had to think quickly.
“You fools!” With the sword she gestured to the healthy fire burning in the hearth. “Why not light the ramparts afire while you’re about it?” She rolled her eyes and sheathed her long blade before taking the smaller knife in her right hand. “I warned him he’s been gone too long, that you lot would have come undone by now.”
She ignored their weapons and began wandering among them, headed for the fire, presumably. But her intent was to put herself between the men and their two female captives.
“He sent me ahead so we could settle the wager,” she continued. “And what do I find?” She pointed in the direction of the front meadow. “Not a guard on the ground.” She shook her head sadly and was pleased to see most blades dip toward the floor. “A single man on the tower, and the rest of you huddled around the valuables instead of guarding them as you should.”
The oldest man among them, whose eyes narrowed and whose sword point remained trained on her while she moved, took a large step forward to bar the path between her and the girls. “He sent ye, did he?” His nose curled. “And just who would that be, miss?”
He stepped forward quickly and reached for her beard. She lifted the knife to defend herself, but by the time it made contact with the meat of his palm, he was already pulling the disguise away. He bellowed and pulled his hand tight to his body. The beard sailed over his shoulder as he took a step backward and raised his sword between them.
Her voice! No matter that she’d tried to keep it low, it had risen naturally with her feigned outrage! And now she was caught!
She spun in a circle as she pulled out her sword again. She’d been a fool to put it away in the first place, but she’d hoped the movement might get them to drop their guard.
A chorus of voices gasped all around her, but when she paused, she found all eyes were on the hallway from whence she’d emerged. And standing in the space, taking up the entirety of it, was a tall, kilted man with hair nearly as black as her own. If not for the beads dangling from his plaited beard, she might have mistaken him for Connor McGee at first glance.
His eyes glanced down the length of her, then locked with her own for a heartbeat before he looked away, his brows dipping low with the weight of his displeasure with the entire room.
“Who do ye think sent her, ye clarty besom?” He pointed to the fire. “Put that out unless one of ye wish to be hung on the spit.”
The four younger men hurried to the wide hearth, bumbling and bumping into each other in their haste to do the tall one’s bidding. The older one put away his weapon and grasped his bleeding hand, a belligerent but slightly cowed look on his face. “Trust no one says ye, so I trust no one. She offered no proof—“
“True enough,” said the newcomer, “true enough.” He frowned at the two girls who sat alone on a long wood bench, clinging to each other now that their handsome young captors had left their sides. “See if one of our guests will put her sewing skills to use on yer hand, and set three watches, three men each. If that’s Martin on the tower, tell him he’ll sleep the night through, and he’ll be the only man to eat on the morrow. Do ye hear?”
The three who had fled when Mal entered appeared behind their leader, then winced when they realized what was happening.
The big man spun to face them. “Suddenly aware of yer duty, are ye? Then ye can take the first watch.” He didn’t wait for a response and turned to face the girls again. “Well?”
The pair of them burst into tears. Whether those tears were real or feigned, they were of no use to anyone, and there seemed no end to the tension in the room.
“I will do it,” Mallory said. It was that or try to run, and she refused to recreate the scene from earlier in the day when the blond had run out into the meadow only to be dragged back again. Besides, she wasn’t going anywhere without those girls, so she might as well make herself useful. And she needed time to formulate a plan.
A better plan.
A good plan.
A plan that would not fail.
The leader watched her with his hands resting casually on his hips. There was no telling what he was thinking, and she didn’t want to hazard a guess as to why he had corroborated her lie. But there was no doubt; the man would expect her to pay a price for his help.
Mal nodded at a man who looked like a rabbit ready to bolt. “You there. I need the large bag you’ll find on the back of my saddle. My horse is just inside the trees, to the east—“
“And ye’ll find mine close behind.” The tall one lifted the tail end of an eyebrow. Was it a challenge? A warning that he’d been watching her before she’d ever entered the ruins? Or was he only reinforcing her lie once again, convincing the others that they were…together?
May God help me.
“I see murder in yer eyes, Sim,” the man said to the bleeding one. “I am weary from the ride from Glasgow, but if ye’d like to challenge me for the right to lead this ragtag lot, come at me and welcome. If ye manage to kill me, I can rest all the sounder.” He looked around the room. “That goes for the rest of ye. Question me orders and ye’d best be prepared to fight for this.” With a finger, he flicked at the edge of a chain hanging around his neck. “Who wears the chain gives the orders. Aye?”
Every boy agreed.
He nodded, satisfied, then turned to look Mallory in the eye. The lift of one cheek was the only warning that she wouldn’t like what was coming next. “Stitch him quickly, my love, so we may retire to our room.” He pointed at the portion of the ceiling that was still intact above their heads.
Dear God, if you planned to help me, I beg you to be quick about it!
Chapter Eleven
Mallory had never stitched so slowly in her life, and given the fact that her needlepoint usually did more damage than good, that was saying something.
First, she insisted that the wounded man have a drink to dull the pain. Next, she removed her tricorn in order to sharpen her needle by running it through her hair. And while she did so, the men remaining in the room watched each and every stroke as if they’d never witnessed such a thing. Despite how uncomfortable their rapt attention made her, however, she knew the attention she would suffer above stairs would be more so.
The big man moved away from the wall to pound his impatient fist on the make-shift table, and she quickly explained what she’d been doing.
“Ye’ve forced me to reconsider,” he said. “At this point, I wouldnae care if ye stitched him wit
h a dull spoon. Get on with it.”
Mal took a deep breath and concentrated on unkind thoughts to steady her hands. She refused to reveal how frightened she was at the prospect of being alone with him, and she was equally loath to let the other men know that her earlier boast, of being sent by their leader, had only been bluster. A pair of shaking hands would give away both.
Goodness, but her pride would cost her dearly. But at the moment, her pride and wits were all she had to work with. Her sword skills would be no threat to a man who looked as hard as a shield in the middle, and it seemed none of his men were important to him, so threatening one of them might only elicit an unpleasant frown--or worse, a hearty laugh.
Sim’s glare told her he blamed her for his pain. She considered reminding him that he should have kept his hands to himself, but all uncharitable thoughts escaped like butterflies as she prepared to insert the needle into the young man’s flesh.
She paused, looked up into his face, and grimaced. “I am sorry.”
He snorted. “Sorry ye’re about to pain me again, ye mean?”
“Sorry for the first time.” She offered a small smile and bent to her task, taking the first stitch. Other than a small gasp through clenched teeth, he remained so silent that, halfway through the job she looked up to see if he had fainted without her notice.
Across the crude stone and plank table, he sat upright beside a lone candle and stoically giving her his complete attention—as if her needle demanded much more respect than her weapons had. He blinked at her a time or two, nodded once, then flashed a faint smile before his face cleared of all expression once more. And just like that, with the inner stuffing of his hand still threatening to slip out, she was forgiven.