by Lauren Smith
Hands shaking, she accepted it, taking a large drink. She gasped, choking. It was not water but whiskey. The men laughed at her reaction as she tried to catch her breath and returned the flask to Fergus. He took it back and handed her a flagon.
“This is water,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied, her voice raspy. She gulped down the water until Fergus snatched the flagon from her.
“That’s enough. We dinna want you to become sick again.”
Lydia touched her wrists, which had been rubbed raw by the thick ropes.
“May I please have these removed? I won’t run away. I haven’t the faintest idea where I am.”
“See, Reggie?” Fergus snorted. “I told you she was a proper English lady.”
“Cut her loose,” Willie commanded in a deep, curt tone that sent chills down her spine. “You canna run. And if you do, we will find you, and you willna like us when we bring you back.”
Lydia nodded. She was not a fool. Running away would only get her killed, or exposed to the elements with no ready source of food, water, or shelter.
Reggie pulled a small but dangerously sharp blade from his boot and cut the ropes around her wrists. Her skin was raw and bleeding in a few places. Lydia bit her lip to hold back a whimper. These men had very little kindness in them, and they would have no sympathy for her pains, but she needed to find out what she could about them.
“Excuse me, but why did you take me?”
“For a pretty English bird like you, those fancy gents you were traveling with would do anything to get you back. They’ll pay a hefty price for you,” Willie explained.
“But how will they find me?” she asked.
“We left a note where we snatched you. It tells them where to meet us tomorrow and how much we want for you.”
They must have been prepared to take the first traveler they came upon that they could snatch up from amongst a party who dared to stop at the side of the road. It was a clever enough plan, but they had chosen poorly. She wasn’t entirely sure that Rafe and Brodie would come after her. She hoped they would, but now that Brodie was rid of her, perhaps he would be glad she was gone and think nothing more of her. What then? Would these men let her go, or would they kill her?
“Go ahead and sleep,” Willie ordered. “We’ll wake you when it’s time.”
Lydia lay down on the ground, shifting to find a position that was somewhat comfortable, which she soon learned was impossible. As she lay there, she listened to the men whisper in the dark, their words little more than the soft hisses and clicks of a language she didn’t understand. It must be Gaelic. She finally drifted to sleep, dreaming of Brodie and wondering whether or not he would come after her.
Brodie scanned the edge of the forest. It had been nearly fifteen minutes, and there was still no sign of Lydia.
“Rafe, I’m going after her,” he called out.
Rafe waved a hand at him to indicate he had heard. Brodie, his hand on the knife in his coat, started toward the woods. He moved slowly, studying the way the branches had broken as he followed the trail Lydia had left. He paused at a clearing near a small stream. Dozens of footprints were imprinted deep in the soaked grass, and one of Lydia’s blue hair ribbons lay on the ground, ravaged with mud. Beside it lay a folded bit of paper. A hasty note had been scrawled on the paper.
We have your woman. Meet us at noon tomorrow at the Boar’s Head Inn on the main road. Bring two hundred pounds or she dies.
Brodie crushed the note in his fist. A blood rage swept through him, so powerful that if the men who had taken her had stood before him at that moment, he would have swung a broadsword as his ancestors had in the past and taken their heads clean off. Instead, he drew a steadying breath and made his way back to the coach.
“Rafe!” he bellowed. Rafe was leaning against the coach, his arms folded.
Rafe pushed away from the coach, his lazy, sardonic manner vanishing. “What? Didn’t you find her?”
He pushed the crumpled note into Rafe’s hand. “She was taken.” Rafe smoothed out the note and read the message aloud.
“Bloody Christ,” he growled. “So, do we meet them?”
Brodie stared at the four horses for a moment. “No. Here’s what we’ll do. Free one of the horses. I will follow their trail. You will continue down the road to the Boar’s Head and wait for me. If they arrive and I dinna come, you pay whatever they ask and wait for me to join you.”
“I’ll go with you,” Rafe said.
“No, you can’t. I need to ken that you will protect Lydia and free her from those men if they reach the inn before I can catch up to them.”
“You don’t think there’s any chance they’ll be on the road ahead of us?” Rafe asked.
“Would you, if this was your plan?”
“No, I wouldn’t. I would stay off the main road and hide a safe distance away, somewhere I felt comfortable I wouldn’t be attacked, or where I felt I would have a decent chance of seeing anyone coming.”
“They willna see me coming,” Brodie said in a dark tone that matched his rage. If they harmed her, he would kill every one of them.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” Rafe asked. “You know I like the kitten, and if they hurt her . . .”
“They’ll be dead,” Brodie vowed.
“So long as we agree on that.” Rafe’s voice was as cold as a loch in winter.
“Take a pistol.” Rafe reached into the coach and pulled out a pistol from underneath the coach cushions, which Brodie accepted with a frown. He would have preferred at least two pistols so he wouldn’t have to take the time to reload in the midst of a fight. “Mr. Withers, release one of the front horses. We have need of it.”
As soon as a horse was made ready, Brodie mounted it without a saddle and took off into the evening light. He could follow her trail even in darkness as long as the moon was out.
Once he found her, he would deal with those bastards who had taken her. He whipped the long reins over his body to strike the horse’s flanks and urged it onward, leaning forward as he rode into the growing gloom.
12
Lydia stirred just before dawn, her entire body aching, as though she had slept on a bed of rocks. She rubbed her cheek against her pillow, only to wince as something hard and cold dug into her face. She came awake with a start and stifled a moan as she found she had indeed slept on a bed of rocks.
The sky overhead was a murky gray that still bore hints of the passing night. The campfire was nearly dead, with bits of logs aglow with burning embers and the smell of the smoke teasing her nose. On the opposite side of the fire, the three Scottish bandits were lying on thin pallets on the ground, seemingly asleep.
Rubbing her eyes, Lydia sat up. The movement caught Willie’s attention.
“Don’t move, lass,” he warned.
“Would you prefer I relieve myself here?” she whispered.
Willie kicked Fergus’s stomach. “Wake up, you arse. She needs to piss.”
Fergus rolled over and scowled up at the sky. “So?”
“I said git!” Willie kicked him again. Fergus got to his feet, grumbling as he grabbed Lydia by the arm and dragged her to the nearby woods.
“Go and piss,” he grunted.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot go with you watching me,” she said, meeting him stubborn stare to stubborn stare.
“If ye really need to go, you’ll go, me watchin’ ye or not.”
Lydia crossed her arms. “Are you so backward that seeing me would arouse you?” It was completely uncouth to say that, but she wanted him to know how foul he was being.
“Fine. I’ll turn my back, but don’ do anything stupid like try an’ run. Ye willna get far, and I’ll take more’n a might of pleasure dragging ye back.”
Lydia wanted to tell him exactly what she thought of him, but she had a feeling it would end with another slap. Instead, she turned and headed for the nearest clump of bushes. She saw to her needs quickly, and when she returned she held out a hand
. “Your flagon, please.”
“What for?”
“I wish to wash my hands.”
He passed her the flagon from his hip, and she poured water over her palms before drying them upon her dress. She didn’t feel as clean as she wished, but it was better than nothing. She plucked a few larger leaves and twigs off of her gown.
“Let’s be getting back,” Fergus snapped.
Just as they returned to the small clearing, Fergus tensed and stopped dead in his tracks. Lydia, who’d been focused on the ground so as not to trip over a root or rock, walked right into him.
“Oof!”
“Shush!” he hissed, and slowly pulled out a long dagger from his coat.
“What is it?” Lydia asked in a whisper. Fergus ignored her, and his head swiveled back and forth as he surveyed the campsite, where the other two men were still sleeping.
Smoke billowed up from the dying fire as a fresh breeze stirred the embers to life. Suddenly, through the haze, she saw a man running toward her. Lydia’s heart leapt into her throat as she saw Brodie bound from the trees opposite her and Fergus. He was sprinting, his feet a blur as he charged the sleeping men on the ground between them.
“Willie! Watch out!” Fergus bellowed. Willie and Reggie bolted up, pulling daggers from their boots.
Brodie skidded to a stop, raised a pistol, and fired a shot. Reggie sank to his knees and toppled over.
“You bastard!” Willie rushed at Brodie, and the two clashed in a clang of knives and fists.
Both she and Fergus stood their ground as the two brawny Scots fought like ancient Celtic warriors. But Fergus soon shook off his shock and grabbed Lydia from behind, pressing a dagger to her throat.
“Not a sound,” he warned in a deadly tone. “Or I’ll cut your pretty neck to ribbons.” He dragged her back deeper into the woods. She was still able to watch Brodie battle the other man through the trees.
Willie dealt a glancing blow to Brodie’s shoulder. Blood soon stained the fabric of his clothes, but he didn’t stop. He kept fighting, pushing Willie back toward the fire. He caught Willie’s fist in one hand, and the other held the blade now aimed at his heart.
Holding Willie’s wrists, he forced the man back through sheer brute strength. When Willie’s feet touched the burning fire, stirring up sparks, he hissed and tripped. Brodie fell with him, both men rolling until they came to a sudden halt, with Brodie lying beneath the other man. Lydia nearly screamed, but the knife at her throat kept her silent.
“Ha! Willie got him!” Fergus hooted.
“No, please no . . .” Brodie couldn’t be dead. Not because of her. He couldn’t be.
Tears blurred her eyes as Willie shifted and rolled off Brodie. As she blinked the tears away, she realized that it wasn’t Willie who had moved, but Brodie. Willie fell onto his side, and she saw that a dagger was buried in Willie’s chest, hilt deep.
“No!” Fergus yelled.
Brodie scrambled to his feet, pulling his own dagger again as he searched for the source of the cry. When he spotted them, he started forward slowly, his blade at the ready.
“Not another step!” Fergus shouted, and he pushed the knife deeper into Lydia’s throat. She couldn’t help it—she yelped at the prick of pain, and Brodie froze.
“Release the lass and I willna kill you,” Brodie called out.
“No!” Fergus snapped. “Ye killed my brother!”
Brodie retrieved the pistol he had dropped and calmly began to reload it in the clearing. “You wish to join him?” His movements were slow and eerily calm as his gaze moved between them and the pistol as he worked to reload it.
Fergus took another few steps into the woods, keeping her in front of him. After a tense minute of her and Fergus watching Brodie, he faced them again.
“Let her go, man. Or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.” He calmly raised the pistol level with their faces.
“You’d better let me go. He’s a crack shot.” Lydia honestly had no clue how good of a shot Brodie was. Likely he was good, but she did not wish to test that by risking her own life.
“All right!” Fergus hollered. “I’m letting her go.” He released his hold and pulled his knife away from her throat. Lydia took a few tentative steps forward before she was sure she was free. She dashed toward Brodie, who opened his arms, and she leapt into them without a thought. He swept her up and spun her behind him, putting himself between her and Fergus. She clutched Brodie with relief, but when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Fergus running toward Brodie, his dagger raised.
Without thinking, Lydia shoved Brodie out of the way. Fergus crashed into her, and she felt a blinding pain in her left arm.
Brodie stabbed his blade into the other man, sinking it deep into Fergus’s chest. The man stumbled, caught the blade, and pulled it out. The look of surprise on his face lasted a few seconds before he fell to his knees and collapsed.
Lydia stared down at the knife wound on her arm.
“Are you hurt?” Brodie saw the bloody gash on her upper arm.
She raised her eyes to his and tried not to gasp with the pain.
“Christ, hold still, lass. You’re bleeding.” He pulled a handkerchief from his coat and lifted her arm.
Lydia gasped as he pulled the fabric of her sleeve away.
“I’m sorry. I wish you didna have to feel that, but there’s no time for gentleness.” He examined the wound and then wrapped a handkerchief around her arm. “Hold that tight.” He knelt at her feet and lifted her skirts. She was in too much pain and shock to question what he was doing. He cut part of her petticoat off and used it to wrap around the handkerchief and cinch it tight.
“That should do for now, but we need to find a doctor.” He glanced at her body. “Can you walk? I have a horse waiting. It isna far.”
“Yes.” She gladly followed him when he offered her a hand, placing her good hand in his outstretched one.
By the time they reached the horse hidden a good distance away, her legs were trembling and she was beginning to stumble. Brodie caught her just before she collapsed in his arms.
“Hold on to me, lass.”
“I’m so—sorry.” She buried her face against his chest as tears flowed down her face.
“You have nothing to apologize for, lass, you hear?” He brushed a kiss to her hair and then against her forehead. “It is I who should apologize. I shouldna have let you go off alone, modesty or no. I kept telling you how beautiful Scotland is, lass. But I forgot to remind you that it’s dangerous.” He held her for a long moment in the thicket, until she found her panicked breathing had eased.
“Now, can you ride?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” He grasped her by the waist and lifted her onto the horse’s back before climbing on behind her.
“Sorry there’s no saddle. Lean back against me. You can rest while we ride.”
She leaned back as he suggested and started to close her eyes. “How far are we from the coach?”
“Quite far, lass, but we aren’t going that way. Those men meant to trade you at an inn farther up the road. I dinna know how far away it is. Rafe wanted to come with me, but I feared I wouldna find you in the dark and might be too late. So I sent him to the inn with the coach to pay your ransom if I couldna catch up to you first.”
Lydia hadn’t realized how exhausted she had been until she was safe in Brodie’s arms. Funny that she would think of being with him as safe, given that he had also abducted her. Yet here she was, resting against him, grateful that he was the one who’d found her.
She tried not to think about the men he had killed. She did not mourn them, yet at the same time she couldn’t help but see them as desperate men doing what they felt they must to survive. She felt oddly guilty that Brodie had taken their lives to save hers. Would he hate her for it? Perhaps he didn’t care at all. Perhaps that was life in Scotland.
During the ride, she somehow managed to drift in and out of a light sleep. Th
e horse’s quick canter was at first jostling, but it soon became a soothing rhythm. At one point she thought she was dreaming, but she realized she was half-awake as Brodie sang a song to her in Gaelic. The language was soft, seductive, and exotic in a way that made her feel homesick for a land that wasn’t even hers.
“We’re here, lass.” Brodie gently stirred her awake as they neared a small coaching inn, with a faded painted sign that read “The Boar’s Head Inn.”
Rafe, who had been standing outside the door, rushed toward them. “Bloody Christ!”
“Take her inside and find a doctor,” Brodie said.
“Come on, kitten.” Rafe carefully helped Lydia to dismount. “Who is the doctor for?”
“I got stabbed . . . but only a little,” Lydia replied, raising her wounded arm, giggling at the absurdity of it all.
“Only a little? Hell’s teeth, you’re in shock, my dear,” Rafe muttered. “Best to get you some warm food, a bed by a fire, and a stout glass of brandy.”
“That sounds lovely,” she agreed, and let him escort her inside the inn.
Brodie dismounted and walked his horse over to the stables, where a young groom took charge of his beast.
“Give him a few sugar lumps when you’re done brushing him down. The horse has earned it.”
“Yes, sir.” The lad clicked his tongue and led the horse away to be looked after. Brodie remained inside the stables a moment, and when he looked down, he noticed that his clothes were covered with blood and dirt, as were his hands. He turned his hands over, and they suddenly trembled.
He had killed three men. Killed them with so little thought except that they had taken Lydia from him.
Was he truly a monster to kill without hesitation like that? Lydia would fear and despise him now, he was certain of it. She would always look at him and see a man who took lives, brutally and bloodily. What she thought shouldn’t matter. But it did—it mattered far too much.
He remained in the stables contemplating his actions another ten minutes before he returned to the inn. The valets were downstairs, but Rafe and Fanny were missing.