With a stern look, Alasdair handed the reins to Connor. “Ye are one of us now, Connor. A man sworn to protect his women. A warrior and a mercenary.” He thumped his fist on his chest. “Guard them well, aye?”
Connor thumped his little fist to his chest and dipped his chin in a solemn nod. “Aye.”
Isobel blinked hard and fast, tears of love and pride threatening to overflow. Protect him, she prayed. The same prayer she’d sent up with every beat of her heart since the day of Connor’s birth. Her gaze shifted to Alasdair. And him, as well. I beg ye, she added.
Chapter Ten
Alasdair flexed his right hand and worked his arm back and forth. That blasted burning grated on him, and worst of all, the bullet had ripped his favorite jacket. His bloody shirt stuck to the upper portion of his chest. It was naught but a graze wound. Damned worrisome but not too painful. He still couldn’t believe the fool Sassenach had pulled off the shot.
“Ye’re bleeding!” Isobel’s exclamation as her horse came abreast with his shattered the peacefulness of the quiet glade, bringing everyone in the group to an abrupt halt. Her mount bumped against his as she stretched over and yanked his jacket aside. She peered at his chest with a sharp-eyed scowl. “How bad are ye hurt?”
“Less than a wee scratch.” He moved out of her reach and waved for the others to follow. “Come. We need miles betwixt us and Stirling. As many as possible.”
She rounded her mount in front of his and blocked the narrow path threading between a cluster of gnarled oaks. “Ye will stop this instant, and let me see to yer injury.”
“Ye can tend it later.” He nudged his horse forward. “Miles. Now, Isobel.”
She squared her horse in front of him again and brought him to a halt. “So, ye’re damned and determined to leave a trail of blood all across the Highlands so they can track us with ease?”
“She makes a fair point, cousin,” Sutherland observed as he leaned forward and propped both hands on the lip of his saddle. “Why not stop for a bit? It’s been quiet since we rid ourselves of the wagon, and there’s at least an hour betwixt us and Stirling.”
“Aye, brother,” Ian chimed in. “Let her clean ye up. Yeva and the boy can stretch their legs whilst Isobel staunches yer wound. Ye forget, they’re not used to hours on the back of a horse like we are. It would be a kindness to let them walk about for a while.”
He bit back the words he longed to hurl at both his cousin and brother. It would be rude to say such in front of the women. “As soon as we come upon a burn, we’ll stop, aye? The two of ye can see to the watering of the horses whilst the others tend to the stretching of their legs, and Isobel cleans up this pitiful scrape that appears to be nettling the lot of ye.” He glared at her, daring her to argue. As a wee lass, she’d been stubborn as hell, and it appeared the trait had only strengthened with age.
“Agreed.” She rode ahead, leading her horse for higher ground beyond the oaks.
He snorted when she brought them all to a stop mere moments later. The wily woman had always possessed the ability to find water. It was as though her soul was attuned to the soft gurgling of a woodland spring no matter how hard the Highlands attempted to hide it. She slid to the ground and handed her reins to Sutherland before Alasdair could protest.
“I shouldha known water was near when ye agreed so readily.” He dismounted, another hitching pain a bit higher along the ridge of his shoulder, making itself known. He flexed his arm, rotating it back and forth. Sure enough, the bastards had nicked him twice.
Isobel nodded toward his chest, then bent and ripped several long strips from the bottom of her chemise. “Off with yer things, aye? Once I get ye bandaged, I’ll rinse the blood and mend the tears in yer clothes before we continue on.”
“We’ve no time for anything other than a quick bandage. I’ll tend to the rest once we reach Tor Ruadh.” Granted, the English didn’t know the Highlands, but that didn’t mean they needed to tarry and make it easy for the damned redcoats to find them.
“There’s nay a need to be surly,” she said in the same scolding tone he’d heard her use with Connor.
Alasdair yanked off his jacket, waistcoat, neckcloth, and léine, then strode forward, bare-chested with his kilt belted around his waist. “I’ve had no sleep and been shot twice. I believe I’ve earned the right to be a mite surly, ye ken?”
Isobel’s eyes widened as she took in the sight of him. Twin patches of scarlet highlighted her cheeks. “Uhm…twice shot?” She cleared her throat and appeared to shake herself free of the dazed state. “I thought ye said they’d grazed ye but once?”
Alasdair twisted to peer at his shoulder. Aye, they’d gotten him twice, but both shots had merely ripped open the skin as the bullets missed their mark. “Twice. But both appear to be clean cuts. They’ll not trouble me any worse than scratches.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She hurried to the nearby burn cascading down a small rise of stones in the hillside. She tore free another strip of cloth from her chemise and wet it.
“Ye keep that up, and ye’ll have no chemise left. It’s foolish to ruin yer clothes over nothing more than a few wee scrapes.”
She ignored him, continuing with the chore of wringing out the material and draping them over her arm.
He seated himself on a downed tree and propped his hands on his knees. Connor and Yeva meandered along the mossy embankment. Sutherland and Ian stood with the horses farther downstream. It was a peaceful enough place, he supposed. At least it was until he’d allowed weariness and a bit of nagging pain blacken his mood.
He pulled in a deep breath and blew it out, a sense of guilt stinging his conscience. They had made it this far. He should not let the enemy taint his outlook on the success of spiriting Isobel away and securing a future with her. She was back in his life. That was reason enough for nothing less than pure joy.
He scrubbed the scowl from his face and forced a more pleasant demeanor. “Forgive my surliness, mo ghràdh. I know ye’re trying to help.”
She dabbed the cool cloth across his flesh, her touch light and tantalizing. She stood so close. The scent of her wrapped around him like a lover’s embrace, the subtle, inviting warmth of her as tempting as a siren’s song. The way the front of her bodice brushed against his arm as she stretched around him to wipe the blood from his back drove him mad. Lord Almighty, he could hardly draw breath without groaning.
“I dinna blame ye for being cross,” she said quietly. Her hands settled softly atop his shoulder, and she bowed her head. “They nearly killed ye today because of me. It is I who should beg forgiveness.” She frowned as she touched the cloth to the oozing cut on his shoulder. “I am so verra sorry. Does it pain ye much?”
It didn’t hurt him nearly as much as his poor throbbing cock, but he couldn’t very well share that. He shook his head. “Nay, love. The pain is nothing. Dinna fash yerself, aye?” He caught hold of her hand and brushed a kiss to it, then peered up into her face. “Our future is nearly secured, mo chridhe.” He kissed her hand again and smiled. “We’ll reach Tor Ruadh in a few days’ time. Once there, I’ll draw up the divorce agreement. Alexander can send for a courier from Fort William. I’ll petition the courts for yer freedom on the grounds of desertion and cruelty.”
“All know about Temsworth’s cruelty, but none will ever admit it.” She pulled her hand out of his and stared down at the bloodied rag in her other hand. “Ye know as well as I the courts willna find in our favor. He is a duke, Alasdair. A man of power feared by his peers.” Her gaze lifted to his. The storm of suffering in her eyes tore at his soul. “Such a petition will only stir his ire against us even more. He’ll hunt down all who dare help me. He’s a vicious man who thrives on the blood of his enemies, and he willna rest until he’s tracked us down and had his revenge.” She shook her head. “We must hide until someone else draws his attention away.” She returned to tending his minor wound. “We must hide to keep ye safe.”
“I dinna hide.” He pulled her t
o stand between his knees and prayed she wouldn’t pull away. “I willna rest until I make ye my wife good and proper—as I shouldha done ten years ago.” He smoothed an errant curl from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I willna rest until ye bear my name, dear one.”
“And if he kills ye?” she whispered, allowing the cloth to drop from his shoulder, then framed his face between her hands. “Ye would risk leaving me unprotected and shattered with the loss of ye?” Her frantic gaze searched his face as she leaned closer, pressing her sweet softness against him. “I canna bear the thought of living without ye.” She surprised him with a frantic kiss. “I beg ye, m’love, dinna leave me alone.”
“Have ye so little faith in me?” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. She eased away.
“I have faith in yer heart and the goodness of yer soul.” She laced her fingers in his hair and pressed her forehead to his. “But I know the extent of the evil he is capable of. Ye do not understand the darkness within that man.”
“Someone approaches!” Ian called out from farther down the hillside.
Alasdair snatched her up by the waist and sat her over on the other side of the downed tree. He pointed to a trench left from the tree’s roots. “Stay down there. I’ll fetch Connor and Auntie.” He bounded across the stream and grabbed them up, toting one under each arm as though they weighed nothing more than sacks of grain. He lowered them to the ground beside Isobel. “Crouch down. Stay hidden until we discover what’s about, aye?”
“Dinna leave me here without a weapon.” Isobel held out a hand, her look determined yet pleading. She clutched Connor close, and Auntie huddled behind her.
He understood and wished he could deny her, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to do so. He handed her his sgian dhu but held tight to the blade until she looked him in the eyes. “Dinna use it unless there’s no doubt we have all fallen, aye?”
She nodded, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “Swear to me ye willna fall. Swear it.”
“I willna fall, my love.” He reached down and lifted her up by the shoulders. Covering her mouth with his, he kissed her with a thoroughness that fueled his determination. He tore away, bounding down the hillside to join Ian and Sutherland, where they crouched behind an outcropping of moss-covered boulders overlooking the worn path winding up the hillside.
“I saw a glimmer of red through yon trees. Farther to the south, but I am certain of what I saw,” Sutherland whispered. “Appears to be a lone rider.”
“A single rider?” Alasdair squinted, straining to see through the thick stand of trees. “That makes no sense. Why would they send a lone rider after us? That’s not the Sassenach way.” The only movement he detected was the subtle breeze setting the lush greenery of the forest dancing. He stared harder, easing his way to a standing position behind the boulder. He balanced his pistol atop the rock and pulled back the hammer. As soon as the rider passed through the trees, whoever it was, would find himself the proud recipient of a lead ball between the eyes.
“Hold fast, Alasdair,” Ian hissed as he rose to stand beside him. “Listen.”
The softest whistling filtered through the woods, a lilting Scottish tune Alasdair recognized from his youth. The rider had to be a Scot. Mayhap, even a MacCoinnich. Alasdair lowered his pistol and shoved it back in his belt whilst keeping his focus where the rider would eventually appear.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ian said as he pushed off the boulder and straightened. “It’s Crestshire.”
Lord Edward John Cunningham, second earl of Crestshire, commander of Fort William, and the childhood best friend to clan chieftain, Alexander MacCoinnich, because the man’s wise father had seen fit to take the unorthodox approach of having his Sassenach son foster with a Scottish clan. Lord Crestshire was one of their few allies among the English, an ally who might help with this rather difficult situation.
Alasdair moved out from behind the safety of the boulders and waited.
With a grin and a shake of his head, Crestshire brought his horse to a halt. He dismounted and held out his hand. “Alasdair Cameron. Bare-chested and bloody as the wildest Highland Scot. What would the esteemed courts of Edinburgh say about their favorite solicitor if they saw you now, my friend?”
“They’d say I needed a drink.” Alasdair closed the distance between them and took Crestshire’s forearm in the firm grip of friendship.
“I should say so.” The commander peered at the wound on Alasdair’s shoulder, his eyes narrowing. “Might I ask who shot you?” He nodded at the bloody scratch. “Or should I say, attempted to shoot you.”
“His Majesty’s finest in Stirling.” Alasdair watched Crestshire close, waiting for the man’s reaction. Crestshire had always been a good friend but was still loyal to king and country.
Crestshire made a noncommittal tilt of his head. “I see.” He locked eyes with Alasdair. “And how, pray tell, were His Majesty’s finest provoked to fire upon you?”
“A false accusation of kidnapping,” Sutherland supplied as he joined them with Isobel on his arm. “Might I present the Duchess of Temsworth?”
“Just Isobel, please,” she corrected as she slid her hand free of Sutherland’s arm and took her place at Alasdair’s side.
Lord Crestshire stiffened, staring at Isobel for an overlong moment before recovering from his surprise. With a proper bow, he remembered his manners. “Commander Crestshire at your service, Your Grace.” His jaw tightened as his attention turned to Alasdair. “An explanation would be most welcome since my office recently received notice of not only the duchess’s abduction but also that of her son, the young marquess.”
“Oh, he’s here as well.” Alasdair turned in the direction of the uprooted tree. “Come out, lad. Help yer auntie out of the ditch, too. It’s safe.”
Crestshire raked a hand across his wavy blonde hair. With a roll of his shoulders, he jerked his crimson jacket back in place, then hooked his hands onto his lapels. “I am quite interested in hearing this story.”
Before Alasdair could speak, Isobel stepped forward. “My husband, the Duke of Temsworth, is a cruel man, Commander. After ten years of imprisonment and torture, I managed to escape and save my aunt and son as well.”
Crestshire pursed his lips, staring downward as though gathering his thoughts, then slowly lifted his head. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but why did you tolerate the man for ten years if he was as cruel as you say?”
Alasdair pushed forward, stepping between Isobel and Crestshire. “How dare ye ask her such a thing!”
Crestshire stood his ground. “I am only asking what the courts will ask if the lot of you are ever taken into custody.”
Crestshire’s answer sat well—especially the way the man worded it. He was right. Alasdair nodded and returned to Isobel’s side.
“I loved Alasdair before my father sold me to Temsworth. The duke needed a wife and heir, and no Sassenach lady of noble blood would ever agree to marry him.” Isobel swallowed and wet her lips before continuing. “I could nay understand why all those English fathers denied him one of their daughters until after I married the evil brute.”
She swayed to one side, and Alasdair sprang to hold her steady. She held up a hand and shook her head. “I’m all right, love.” With a lifting of her chin, she locked eyes with Crestshire. “Temsworth informed me that all I had ever loved was dead and gone, and I believed him. He offered proof of the plague that had swept through our clans. I thought both Alasdair and my family lost to me. So, I resigned myself to my fate.” With a deep breath, she hugged Connor to her side and smiled down at him. “That was until Temsworth told me of his plan to take my son from me.”
A cold fierceness settled across her features, and hatred flashed in her eyes. “It was then I decided to make my escape. To protect my son from that monstrous bastard.” She grabbed hold of Alasdair’s hand and clutched it to her chest. “And then I discovered my true love lived.” She smiled up at him. “Alasdair is my protector. Without him, Temsworth would s
urely have already murdered me and set to torturing my son until my sweet lad became as cruel and wicked as he.” She turned back to Crestshire. “I assure ye, I was nay abducted or kidnapped, Commander. I liberated myself, my aunt, and my son of my own free will.”
Crestshire nodded, then managed a polite but obviously strained smile. “I do not doubt yer explanation. Your husband’s dark reputation is well known.” He turned to Alasdair, his forced smile dissolving into a concerned frown. “This will not go away easily. Do you truly understand the nature of the man you are dealing with?”
“I will stop at nothing to protect her from that bastard.” Alasdair wrapped a shielding arm around Isobel’s shoulders.
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Lord Crestshire stared down at the ground, then lifted his head. “I assume you are headed for Tor Ruadh?”
“It’s best ye dinna ask things ye’re better off not knowing for certain.” Alasdair bent and took hold of Connor by the shoulder. “Run and fetch my clothes, aye? We need to be on our way.”
Connor took off like a shot.
Crestshire went to his saddlebag, untied the flap, and extricated a folded linen. He tossed it at Alasdair’s chest. “Here. A fresh tunic free of blood and bullet holes.”
Alasdair shook out the shirt, then pulled it over his head. “I thank ye.”
“Since the abduction notice did not mention you or your kin by name, I can bid you farewell without compunction.” He mounted and studied his reins, worrying the strips of leather through his hand. “But if you are ever named, I will be hard-pressed to obey the writ of any command given me. You understand?”
Alasdair nodded. “I understand.” He stepped forward. “But ye understand all that I must do as well, aye?”
Lord Crestshire nodded. “I do, my friend.” He maneuvered his horse back to the trail, then paused to look back. “I shall return to Fort William by the southern pass. Just so you know.”
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 13