The men appeared to be as downcast as Sara, and she hoped that in the gloom they would pass them by without notice. But Betty’s great height attracted attention wherever they went, and from no one more readily than a group of soldiers, none of whom were as tall. It began with a few harmless remarks about Betty’s height and some more concerning the wilted condition of the young dandy who trudged at her side. “Ignore them,” Sara hissed under her breath, but when the remarks of one particular Scot, MacDonald by name, increased in abrasiveness, Betty’s temper got the better of her judgement.
“Little men should be careful to play with naught but puppies.” His companions’ roar of laughter only served to make MacDonald” angry. But Betty would not be bullied, and the increasingly spirited exchange captured the interest of more and more of his comrades until he was determined Betty should back down.
“Leave my sister alone,” Sara said at last. “She suffers enough from her height without having to endure ridicule from men who should make it their duty to defend her.”
“The wee dandy has a sharp tongue, too,” one of the men called out. “Mayhap ye should hie tae the back until they turn off.”
MacDonald might have abandoned his quarry if Sara had not spoken, but he was facing a man now, someone he could fight. His accumulated anger spilled over, and he planted himself squarely in front of Sara.
Sara didn’t know what to do. She knew the male code required her to confront her challenger, but she cared nothing for a silly code formulated to guarantee a fight even when calmer thinking prevailed. She tried to walk around MacDonald, but he grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. Before the totally stunned gathering, Betty stepped in front of her mistress and delivered a punch to the soldier’s jaw that sent him sprawling in the mud. It happened so fast MacDonald thought Sara had hit him, and he sprang to his feet, dirk in hand.
Two of his companions were quick to restrain him; it took two more to keep Betty from knocking him down again.
“Letting a wee bit o’ blood sure enlivens a gloomy day,” laughed one of the men, eying Sara speculatively, “but I be thinking there’s a better way to amuse ourselves than carving up the bantam. He’s bonnie enough, but he be the wrong sex.” He ran his hand over Betty’s bosom. “The lass is oversized, but a lass none the less.”
“Don’t you touch her,” Sara commanded, suddenly so furious she forgot to lower her voice.
“Oich, are ye aiming tae stop us?” the man asked, sinister amusement glinting in his eyes.
“Yes,” replied Sara, having not the faintest idea what she could do.
“Run away, get help,” Betty urged, struggling so valiantly two more Highlanders were needed to hold her. “You can do nothing alone.”
“That’s right, wee laddie. Run away. We’ll be right here when ye return.” He slipped his hand inside Betty’s bosom. “I dinna foresee moving along quite yet.”
A month earlier Sara would have fainted, but the last month, especially the last week, had toughened her, and she didn’t consider leaving Betty for more than the second it took to realize what would happen before she could return. Without pausing to consider, she turned on Betty’s assailant.
“Let her alone,” she commanded, striking his hand from Betty’s heaving breasts and putting herself in his path. Without so much as a pause, the soldier seized Sara by her clothes and flung her from his path. He was now more angry than MacDonald, and determined to have his pleasure.
“Mayhap we better move along, Gordie,” began MacDonald, appalled at the turn of events.
“No’ afore I’m done,” he retorted.
“Behind ye!” someone shouted, but not before Sara had brought her sheathed sword down on Gordie’s head. He staggered, but he kept his feet and turned to meet his assailant.
“I told you to leave her alone,” Sara hissed, but she was firmly captured in the embrace of a handsome young Scot fully as large as Gordie, who now picked up her sword and jerked the blade from it sheath.
“If ye mean tae play with a man’s weapon, me bonnie lad, ye ought tae learn how tae use it.”
“I will,” growled Sara, furious that she didn’t know the sword was supposed to be taken out of the sheath before it was used. “I’m sorry I didn’t run you through.”
“No’ sae fast,” chuckled the handsome blond who still held her in his grip. “Wait till ye grow spurs afore ye commence ta crow.”
“I’ll show you my spurs,” Sara flung at him, struggling with all her might to break his hold. Suddenly the laughter in her captor’s eyes died, and a look of bewilderment took its place.
“There’s something here that no’ be right,” he said. “From the feel o’ him, this laddie be a lassie.”
Betty had watched the soldiers’ attention shift from herself to her mistress with growing alarm. Now her fear gave her the strength to break away from her bemused captors. She rushed upon the blond Scot and broke his hold on Sara before he could recover from his surprise. She knocked him down, and fell on top of him. “Run!” she urged Sara. “Get away while you can.” Sara refused to leave Betty, but before she was able to do anything, she was captured by Cordie.
“Let’s have a look at ye,” he barked, grasping her by the hair and pulling her head back. He gazed at her closely. “I should ha known ye were too bonnie tae be a lad. Ye be worth a dozen o’ the other.” He impatiently ripped opened her greatcoat and tore at the lace that covered her chest. Almost at once his fingers closed on her tightly bound breasts. With a crow of triumph, he whipped about to face his comrades.
“Ye can have that long-necked quiz, but I lay claim tae this one. I’ll lay ye a wager she’s still a virgin.”
“When my husband plunges his sword into your heart, you’ll find that’s one wager you’ve lost,” Sara spat at him.
“By the time I’m done with ye, he won’t want ye,” laughed Cordie.
“You dare not lay a hand on a lady born and bred,” disclosed Betty. “And wife of a Scottish lord into the bargain,” Betty added in the pause that followed her stunning announcement.
“We’d best proceed no further,” said the blond Scot, who had finally gotten from under Betty.
“Stick with your Amazon,” declared Cordie, suddenly dangerously unfriendly. “This one be mine. And a mighty tempting morsel she be,” he said, bringing his face close to Sara’s.
“But one you’ll never sample,” Sara said defiantly, spitting straight in his eyes. She was almost able to break away, but he held on to her coat and both of them went down, tumbling in the mud of the road, the man determined to subdue the termagant who had excited his lust, and Sara just as determined to avoid it. The noise around them subsided quite unexpectedly, and Sara found herself being stared at in bewilderment by still another tall, handsome young man, this one astride a horse.
“Have you come to take your turn with us now that we’re fairly caught?” she demanded, cold fury holding back the panic in her voice. A passageway opened and the handsome young man rode forward.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“They be meaning to pleasure themselves upon us,” Betty hotly informed him, breaking away from the men who held her and giving the one closest a resounding box on the ears for his trouble. “Her young lord will have their blood when he hears, even if they are in some foolish army.”
“No maid has need of a husband to protect her from my army.”
“And who are you to be talking so bold?” demanded Betty wrathfully.
“He is your true king, Charles Stuart,” a young man next to the prince informed the young ladies.
“And it was my express command that no one be mistreated. Release them at once, and find me the men responsible for this outrage. I will not have my subjects terrorized by my own soldiers.” For a moment there was some confusion while MacDonald and Cordie were thrust forward.
“Why should we believe a laird’s wife would be traveling on foot like a common farmer?” asked the young man.
“We were trying to escape the notice of your army,” snapped Sara, buttoning her coat to cover the torn lace over her bosom. Then added in a less strident tone, “And because our money was stolen. We are trying to reach the home of my maid’s aunt, where we could remain until my husband is able to come for me.”
“And who might your husband be?”
“Milady’s husband is Lord Gavin Carlisle, son of the Earl of Parkhaven.” The young man’s lazy attention narrowed quite suddenly.
“I know Lord Carlisle, and he’s not married,” he said, coming closer and staring intently at Sara. He did not fail to notice that she wore a wedding band.
“We were married quite recently,” Sara told him, suddenly embarrassed over the circumstances of her marriage. “He went off to Scotland to bury his mother, and I meant to join him. We were forced off the stage at Lancaster and had to leave our baggage.”
“Then you shall travel with us,” announced the Prince. “You,” he said, pointing to the blond Scot, “see that her baggage is reclaimed.”
“But Cumberland be behind us.”
“Then see that he doesn’t find you. Fraser, since you know her husband, I will leave them in your care.”
Ian Fraser was off his horse and lifting Sara into the saddle before she could object. Betty soundly cuffed Gordie as a parting salutation, and hurried MacDonald on his way with the threat of similar treatment.
“There’s no man alive I can’t best,” she announced. “Only bleeding cowards set upon a lone female like a swarm of bees.”
No one disagreed with her.
They rode into Shap without further conversation, but after Fraser had garrisoned a house for Sara and had seen to it that she was comfortably situated, he went off to find the Prince. Not long afterwards he returned with their baggage.
“’Tis time ye were properly dressed,” he said seriously. “Lord Carlisle wouldna want his wife tae be gawked at by an army of rough Scots.”
“Then Lord Carlisle should take better care of his wife,” Sara replied hotly. She hadn’t intended to mention her differences with her husband to a virtual stranger, but her experiences over the last few days had destroyed the last of her reserve. She knew just how narrow was the line that separated the wife of a wealthy nobleman from an ordinary female left to the mercy of anyone strong enough to overpower her.
“I’m sorry I canna take ye directly tae Estameer,” Fraser said, letting his eyes rest pleasurably on the now properly clothed Sara, “but Cumberland is at our heels, and we might have an engagement any moment now. I canna leave the Prince at such a juncture.”
“Do you mean we might find ourselves in the middle of a battle?” exclaimed Sara, unable to believe the incredible things that continued to happen to her.
“No’ a battle exactly,” Fraser responded with a arrestingly warm masculine chuckle. “Something along the order of a fracas.”
“I don’t consider shooting pistols a fracas.”
“Broadswords,” Fraser corrected. “We Highlanders use the claymore almost exclusively.”
“I don’t find that any comfort, though it’s certain the sword achieved no harm in my hands.”
“Ye willna find it so with us,” answered Fraser.
Sara found herself liking this man, but he couldn’t compare to Gavin. None of them can, she thought, thinking of the Stuart prince and the handsome Scot who had imprisoned her arms. They might be as tall or as strong or as handsome, but her heart didn’t leap when she thought of them or her pulses race when she looked upon them. Only Gavin had the power to overset her common sense; only Gavin could have caused her to undertake this insane journey.
Though she had no desire to stay with the army a minute longer than necessary, she realized it provided her with an unparalleled opportunity to study large numbers of men at close quarters. She had met very few men in her life, and her ideas had been dominated by her youthful memories of young Gavin. It hadn’t taken her long to discover that men were quite a different matter from boys, regardless of how handsome and daring, and that if she was to understand her husband, she had better learn all she could about men. From the admiring look on Fraser’s face, she guessed she would have ample opportunity to observe him.
She smiled to herself as she snuggled deeper into the bed. Fraser’s friendliness and charm had already made one conquest.
“To my way of thinking, that young man is a proper kind of gentleman,” Betty had told Sara as she prepared her for bed. “There’d be no carrying on with mistresses or dashing off to Scotland if you had him for your husband.”
Sara steadfastly reminded herself that Gavin’s rejection of their marriage had nothing to do with her, and that his rage was directed against his father. She had had plenty of time to think back on their wedding night, and she reminded herself that he had come to her bed, that he had slept with her, and that he had wanted to stay. Behind the bitterness and the fury there must have been some warmth of feeling for her. There had to be.
Sara was roused at dawn by the noise of the army readying itself to march. Men hitched horses to ammunition wagons, wheeled guns onto the road, and cooked what breakfast they could come by over open fires. It was a cold, damp morning, and the leaden sky promised more rain.
Sara and Betty hurried into their clothes, quickly swallowed the food prepared by their sullen hostess, and waited in front of the cottage for someone to come for them. But when the troops began to move away, Fraser still hadn’t appeared. When it seemed they were going to be left behind, Sara ran into the road and stopped one of the wagons.
“Stand away,” called the driver gruffly. “I havena room for lightskirts.”
“Even a heathen Scot can tell my mistress is a lady!” Betty informed him, incensed that he should impugn Sara’s character.
But the man’s highland upbringing hadn’t engendered any respect for the arrogant lowlanders or their proud ladies. “Ye’ll have tae walk like the rest o’ us, if ye want tae reach Glasgow.”
“I don’t mind walking if I must,” said Sara, “but I can’t carry these trunks.”
“Then leave ‘em behind. Ye can have little need for a lot o’ fancy clothes.” Sara planted herself in the wagon’s path, prepared to block the progress of the entire army if necessary, but just then the Prince came riding briskly through the ranks, upsetting everyone and creating disorder around him on his way to the front. He pulled up next to Sara.
“Mr. Fraser has not come for us, and we have no means of reaching Penrith,” she explained.
“Why have you not taken her up?” he demanded of the driver. “Put the ammunition in another wagon if you must, but make the ladies your first concern.” The dour Scot was not pleased, but he could not disobey his Prince. So Sara and Betty were soon settled in the wagon and bouncing along the cut up road, much more uncomfortable than they had ever been on the stage.
It rained heavily all day. The bad roads became even worse, and tempers flared out of control. Sara was miserably cold. She huddled shivering inside her cloak, wondering how soldiers with their limbs exposed by their kilts could stand such misery. Lord George Murray, brother to the Duke of Atholl and commander of the Prince’s army, went up and down the ranks shouting encouragement all during the miserable day.
But there was too much work to be done for the men to worry about the cold. The four-wheeled wagons began to mire in a road already churned up by thousands of horses and men, and before the middle of the day, the main body of the army had left the ammunition train behind.
Their progress came to a complete halt when they reached a stream where they had to make a sharp turn and climb a steep hill upon crossing. Wagon after wagon entered the stream, only to become firmly stuck. By the time Sara’s wagon entered the stream, the banks were a deep morass and the men exhausted and irascible.
“Wait,” she called to the driver. “We’ll climb down.”
“Milady, you’re not going to drag your skirt through that muddy water?” exclai
med Betty, aghast.
“The wagon will never make it with us.” Betty looked like she meant to argue, but the handsome blond Scot of the day before unexpectedly scooped Sara up in his arms, meaning to carry her ashore. Betty immediately blocked his path, a sword hastily snatched up from the wagon in her hands.
“I would like tae help,” he offered apologetically.
“Like you helped yesterday, I suppose?” Betty growled, stabbing the sword point in his chest. “I can take care of my mistress without your help.”
“But I have her already.”
“You’ll not have your breath if you don’t put her down.”
Sara felt foolish, dangling helplessly in the big man’s arms, while he and Betty argued over who should carry her a distance of only a few feet.
“Put that sword down, Betty. I can’t have you starting a war over me. I accept your offer and your apology,” she told the Scot, “but I would much prefer to walk, even through water.” However, the Scot carried Sara across the stream. It was with ill grace that Betty allowed it, and she didn’t let him off without a dire warning. “Touch my mistress once more, and you’ll not see Scotland again.”
The little drama had momentarily obscured the fact that their wagon had become stuck in the stream. While exhausted soldiers rested against tree trunks or sank to the muddy ground, the driver whipped his tired horses to no avail. Without a word, Sara waded into the stream and put her shoulder to the wheel. Betty, loudly decrying the cruelty of a world which required such sacrifices from women, waded in after her.
That was too much for the men. Exhausted though they were, their pride would not allow women to do work they themselves could do. Silently they went into the water up to their middles; the wagon was out of the stream and up the steep incline in a matter of minutes.
“We can walk,” Sara said, when the driver stopped for them to climb up again.
“Ye shall ride,” commanded Lord George, coming up behind them unexpectedly. “We have no’ time tae wait on ye.”
They only made four miles that day. Darkness came upon them well before they reached Penrith, and they were forced to spend the night in open country in plain sight of enemy patrols. There was a farmhouse nearby, and in spite of the overt hostility of the inhabitants, Lord George commandeered it for Sara.
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