Even though she’d doubted she’d ever find the courage, she’d put together an escape kit just in case. She’d managed to obtain a pair of young man’s breeks, along with a tunic, an oversized coat, and a tricorne to top it all off. Unlike many women, Glenna was completely at home in a man’s set of clothing. She’d lived half her life that way already. As she’d done so long ago, she’d sewn the waistband of the breeks into one long pocket, which held every penny she’d saved. Not a lot, but enough for a short journey, she imagined.
She’d shut down the bar two hours earlier and watched the drunken madman totter down the street, talking to himself, headed north. Did the man never get tired of hearing his own voice? She knew the road he was on, and her mind had been busy, putting together some kind of map to help her understand where she’d need to go. Now she waited, fidgeting, wanting to pace the narrow line of her room, but needing to keep silent. The planks of the building creaked on windy nights and the windows rattled in their frames, but there was barely a breeze tonight. When Glenna listened hard, she couldn’t hear a sound in the entire place, and there was no noise outside, either. She sat leaning against the door of her room for an hour, waiting, listening.
She couldn’t wait forever, or else she’d lose Hamish. An hour had to be enough. Without a sound, she tiptoed down the stairs into the main part of the tavern and slipped behind the bar. She tugged a set of keys from the box where the cash was kept, then snuck into Frank’s office, the bedroom where he’d first introduced himself, so to speak. She jiggled the smallest key into the top drawer of the desk, and sighed with relief when it turned and lifted the lock. The room was dark, so she couldn’t see inside the drawer, but her fingers closed around cool, smooth metal. She pulled Frank’s pistol out and stuck both it and a load of shot into the back of her breeks.
Then she slipped silently into the street, clad as a boy, and started to run.
At first her head swam with exhilaration. She was out! She was free! And Dougal, Dougal would be there, so happy to see her! She headed down the same road as the former soldier, but ducked into the trees at the side as soon as she heard Hamish’s drunken shuffle ahead of her. She slumped a little, knowing the rest of the journey would be slow, tracking this imbecile on his mission. All she wanted was to race blindly ahead, listening for Dougal and the others—how quiet could an entire army be? But there were too many variables, too many roads the strange man could take, so she had no choice but to follow him.
The following days flowed like molasses to her mind, though she almost lost him once when he hitched a ride on a wagon. Glenna had raced behind, hoping the ride would be cut short, but the driver seemed to be going exactly where Hamish wanted him to go. She watched, close to panic, as the rickety wagon disappeared down the road. Out of desperation, she ran to the nearest cottage and banged on the door. A bearded man opened it and frowned down at her.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, lowering her voice so she sounded more like a man. “I’ve a favour to ask. I’ll pay ye for yer trouble. It’s only I need to catch up to yon wagon that just headed up the road. If ye could find it in yer heart to loan me yer horse—”
“Loan you mah horse? Are you crazy, boy?”
She nodded. “It’s important, sir. An’ like I said, I can pay.” She held out a few of her treasured pennies to show she was telling the truth.
The man squinted thoughtfully, his concern about her stealing the horse battling with his need for money. “Tell you what. I’ll ride down there with you behind. When we catch up the wagon, you can pay me and you’re on your own then.”
“Oh, sir,” she said, relief spilling out in her voice. “’Twould be such a blessin’.”
He did as he’d said, letting her slide off the old chestnut as soon as the wagon appeared ahead of them. She paid him what she could, then dove into the trees so Hamish wouldn’t see her. Not that he was looking, and she didn’t think he’d recognise her anyway, but she hoped to keep hidden for as long as she could. They’d reached a broken piece of the road, its path pitted with holes that slowed the wagon’s fragile wooden wheels, and Glenna had no trouble keeping up. In fact, she had to be careful she didn’t overtake it. Eventually the wagon went one way and Hamish went the other, and they were back to his slow, dull walk.
Then she heard it: the distant crack of musket fire, the booming of artillery, and her stomach flipped. The familiar noises of war sent terror roaring through her heart, but the possibility that Dougal might be in the thick of that very battle was something for which she could hardly bear to hope. She became even warier now that Hamish slowed, cutting into the trees just ahead of her. But Glenna was a creature of the forest, as she had been in the Highlands. There was no tree or shrub she couldn’t use to hide behind, and her feet were as quiet as those of the squirrels around her. Hamish appeared not to care about the noise he made, and she realised he was probably right. Who would hear him over all the gunfire?
Smoke hung in the air ahead, like a curtain she’d have to step through in order to see the show. Hamish didn’t hesitate, but plunged through the swirling screen. She couldn’t afford to lose him. He had led her all the way here, and now it was imperative she make sure he didn’t accomplish what he’d set out to do. But first . . .
Her initial view of bright red coats, the colour always worn by the despised English, frightened her. Then she saw the swish of tartan beneath, and the red and white socks spattered with mud, and recognised her countrymen. So it was true. Scots fighting for the English. It made no sense to her, but her frown softened easily into a smile rich with anticipation. She would just have to ask Dougal all about it as they snuggled under a blanket sometime soon.
She stood behind a wall of Highlanders, as she had as a drummer boy so long before, only now she was a different person with a lifetime of experience behind her. As her eyes grew accustomed to the smoke, she scanned the soot-smudged faces of the soldiers, though it was hard to distinguish them in the heat of battle.
Then he was there. Glenna’s mouth went bone dry and she almost forgot where she was. The rest of the battle noise was gone, sucked away as she watched him, the grace of his long fingers working the musket, loading, firing, shifting his aim, firing again. He looked up after a shot, checking, and she almost fell to her knees at the sight of that familiar, beloved profile, the sky blue eyes where she’d so often seen herself reflected. Barely able to breathe, she took a step toward him, then stopped, suddenly cold. If she’d found him so easily, so would Hamish. She ducked back, scouring the trees. Where was he? Like her, he’d been dressed in dull forest colours, not offering up a red target. While she primed her pistol, she studied every blade of grass, every rock, until she spotted him, squatting by a shrub only ten feet in front of her. He was staring at Dougal’s broad back, a wide grin on his face.
Everything seemed to move very slowly after that. She saw Hamish get to his feet, saw him raise his pistol and extend his arm. He closed one eye to aim. The man’s lips were moving, as they always were, quick and raging, spitting out his hatred for the man she loved.
“No!” she screamed, and fired, shooting Hamish through the side of his head.
The sound of a woman screaming turned the soldiers’ heads and she looked back, meeting Dougal’s eyes. He stared, frowning, looking unsure until she slid the tricorne off her head. Then his eyes widened and the broad red shoulders dropped, though his fingers still curled through the musket’s trigger. He tilted his head to one side and mouthed “Glenna?” just as she was grabbed roughly from behind. The momentum spun her around until she faced the man she’d hoped never to see again.
“Goddamn crazy bitch,” Frank roared, ripping the pistol from her hand. “What the hell did you just do?”
He practically lifted her by her arms, shoving her back against a tree while he shoved his shoulder hard against her, his mouth only an inch from her own. One hand hooked her throat, squeezing until stars flew in her vision.
“You just killed a soldier, m
y dear Glenna,” he said, stuffing the pistol into the back of his own breeks. “For whatever reason, you just committed a capital offense. I don’t think anyone in the world will blame me for what I’m gonna do to you now.” He brought his other fist up under her ribs, knocking the wind out of her with one painful whoosh. “That’s for the jewellery.” The hand was gone from her throat and Glenna bent in half from the impact, gasping for air. Frank slammed his linked fists on the base of her spine, forcing her to her knees. “And that’s for blackmailing me. Don’t worry. I’ll be going after Sarah next. And this . . .” She saw one booted foot pull back and braced for an impact she was helpless to avoid, but it never came. Instead she heard a grunt and the man’s body toppled backward.
“Glenna?”
Dougal squatted beside her and touched her face carefully with his fingertips, as if uncertain she was real. She closed her eyes and tried to clear the whirling stars pinging around in the dark, tried to fight a surge of tears, wheezing in whatever breath she could find. When the ability finally came to her, she smiled and met Dougal’s incredulous stare.
“Aye, Dougal, ’tis me,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“But how—”
She pointed at Hamish, or what was left of him, crumpled a few feet beside them.
“Hamish?” He sounded incredulous. “Ye shot Hamish?”
The air was coming a little easier now, the stars dwindling out of her vision. “Had to. He was going to shoot you.”
Cannon boomed nearby, shaking the earth, and Dougal dropped from a squat to his knees. He leaned closer, taking her face in his hands, drinking her in as she did the same. They didn’t speak with words, but their eyes were full of each other, oblivious to the carnage going on around them. Tears spilled down her cheeks and he wiped them away, then kissed the place he’d just dried.
“God, Glenna,” he whispered into her ear, and she shivered with joy.
“Ain’t this sweet?” They both looked up and met the mouth of Frank’s pistol barrel. “Sorry to interfere with what looks like a beautiful reunion, but this here bitch is mine. I paid for her. She ain’t going nowheres with you or no one else.”
Dougal looked at her, and her eyes told him everything, though she knew he’d never been able to read her thoughts, at least not in the way he could with men. Her chin wobbled uncontrollably, and in that instant she relived the rapes, the confinement, the misery.
“Is that right?” Dougal asked, rising slowly to his full height. Frank swallowed but held Dougal’s ferocious glare. The pistol wavered, shifting from her to him.
Dougal didn’t say a word, only stared at Frank, and Glenna felt an irrational terror that he was going to nod, agree that goods bought and paid for did, in fact, belong to the owner, and walk away. But no. That was only the past few years talking, what they had done to her, how they had destroyed the belief she had in herself and in Dougal. She watched the unblinking blue eyes bore into the smaller man, saw Frank squirm under the scrutiny, and with amazement she realised Dougal was seeing inside Frank’s mind.
So now he knew. Now he saw Frank’s story and much of her own. Moving faster than she could have imagined, he seized Frank’s wrist and twisted it so the pistol dropped to the ground. Frank went with it, collapsing onto his knees with a cry. One twist more and she heard the bone in his wrist snap.
“Ye’d no right,” Dougal growled, his voice soft and deadly. “No amount o’ money or muscle could make this all right, Mr. Hill.” Glenna stared, incredulous, knowing she’d never mentioned Frank’s name to Dougal. She watched his power build before her eyes, a potent strength pulsing through and from him, a physical force that seemed to burn the air. It was almost as if he glowed from within, and Glenna felt an impossible urge to grab hold of him, share the magic she could almost see.
Frank was crying now, his broken wrist cradled in his other hand. But his pathetic, pleading expression meant nothing to the man before him. Dougal slid his short sword from his belt and held its point between Frank’s red-rimmed eyes.
“I have seen yer crimes, Mr. Hill. Yer thoughts betray ye. If the world were fair, ye’d hang, only I can see too many people in yer wee town would let ye go. Ye’ve paid them well enough o’er the years.” His eyes were like ice now, his face more ferocious than she’d ever seen. “I believe ye deserve to die slow, Mr. Hill, yer belly slit an’ yer beatin’ heart left to the forest beasts. But no’ everyone gets what they deserve, do they?” He leaned close, his mouth only a couple of inches from Frank’s tear-tracked face. “My Glenna deserved respect, as did the other girls ye destroyed.”
Dougal’s mouth tightened further. One of his hands gripped Frank’s shoulder, holding him in place while the other thrust sharply forward, as if he punched Frank in the chest. But it wasn’t Dougal’s fist that plunged into Frank’s heart. He yanked the blade back out and wiped the blood on his jacket, then shoved Frank’s dying body backward with the heel of his boot.
“I’ve no time to watch ye die slow,” he grumbled.
Out of habit, Glenna stood and reached for Frank’s pistol, still lying on the ground by Dougal’s feet. She had just closed her fingers around its handle when her arm exploded. She flew back at the impact and crumpled at the foot of a tree, then stared with disbelief at the blood gushing down the sleeve of her dark coat. Dougal was on his knees beside her again, his hand, already wet with Frank’s blood, pressed hard against her wound. Another shot rang out, hitting a tree over their heads, and a vague thought came to her that a Frenchman’s bullet had caught her. Their troops must be advancing closer, now that the Highlanders were without their lead grenadier.
“No, Glenna!” he yelled, all the strength of his hatred channeled into desperation.
She wanted to hold him, tell him the pain was nothing, assure him she’d be all right. After all, it couldn’t be possible that after all this their time would be so short. But oh, it burned. He crushed her against his body when she started to shake. She didn’t look up when another pair of boots came alongside, but the voice broke through. A voice she recognised from years before.
“Dougal? What’s this? Who’s the boy?” John Wallace, the man she’d thought dead so long before, from that awful day when he’d pulled the black slip of paper from the beaver skin hat, peered down at her, and his eyes widened with shock. “Aidan?”
“’Tis a long story, John. Even longer than yer own. This is Glenna. The English took her from me years ago and she’s only now found me again. I canna let her die, John.”
John pulled off his jacket and yanked his shirt over his head. He tore one stained white sleeve off at the seam and wrapped it tightly around her upper arm. “Clearly not.”
She looked up at Dougal, her eyes almost crossing as she fought the pain.
His eyes filled with tears as he met her gaze. “Glenna is the reason I breathe, John.”
Her eyes flicked to John, and she remembered Joseph. How both had died when she and Dougal had lived. John met her gaze and she saw sadness, such a deep sadness.
He nodded. “Then go, Dougal. Take her an’ find a healer. But dinna let the bastards find ye. If the army catches up, ye’ll have no need of yer breath anyway.”
The men looked at each other over her head. “Thank ye, John. Keep ye well.”
“Ye as well, my friend.”
And they were up, Dougal cradling her in his arms as he tore through the brush, coming out on the roadside and not stopping to check for directions. His expression was set, his eyes focused somewhere else. Now she was here, in his arms, pressed against his warmth, and yet she craved his voice, his touch, his smile. She breathed in his stink of battle-weary uniform and sweat and lost the fight to stay conscious.
CHAPTER 40
Leaving the World Behind
Dougal ran farther than he’d ever run, barely noticing her precious weight as it stole the strength from his arms. It didn’t matter. His arms could fall off if they wanted, just so long as he saved her.
Glenna! He
glanced down at her grimy face, the angel eyes closed now, but she still breathed. He shifted her so her breath stroked his neck like a feather, tickling and reassuring and filling him with a strength he’d never known before. Hang on, Glenna, he thought, unable to speak through his straining lungs. He heard the promising shush of running water ahead and ran straight for it. When at last he reached a stream, he laid her gently beside it, then collapsed beside her on all fours, breathing hard. She lay still, her frail figure almost swallowed up in the man’s coat she wore. Sweat dripped from his brow, landing in the grass beside her, and he crawled to the water to flush his face and cool his burning throat. Then he crawled back and stared at her unconscious body a moment longer, swallowing hard with disbelief. She was here. She’d found him. So there had been a reason for him to survive all along.
His fingers pried open the bits of sleeve around the injury and he nodded, fairly confident the bleeding had almost stopped. His trembling fingers fumbled with the knot John had tied, then gently removed both the tourniquet and her coat. She moaned as he moved her, but the little sound only encouraged him. He would have been more concerned if she hadn’t objected to the pain.
The sleeve of the linen tunic beneath was almost black with her blood, but he was right. The bleeding had stopped for now. He cupped his hands and dipped them into the stream, then poured the cool water on the messy wound. She jerked awake at the sudden cold, but he spoke softly, reassuring her, then brought more water. He cleaned her arm as well as he could, inspecting it as he went along, murmuring sweet words, though she remained only slightly alert. She had bled a lot, but it didn’t look as if anything major had been struck. He was fairly sure the bullet had passed straight through, which was good. Still, she would need help from someone far more experienced than he.
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