As soon as the man spotted Alasdair with Connor and Isobel in tow, his scowl melted away, replaced by a relieved smile. “Praise be, you recovered them.”
“Aye.” Now wasn’t the time to celebrate. Alasdair headed toward the main doors. “Ye cleared the way?” he shouted back.
Isobel hefted the dirk higher as she hurried along beside him. “I’m nay so sure I trust that man.”
“Yer job is to watch for the enemy, aye?” Alasdair said to Connor as he hitched him higher on his hip and unsheathed his sword.
Connor responded with a solemn nod, looking all around as they rushed down the steps flanking the main entrance.
With Ian to his left and Isobel to his right, Alasdair hazarded a glance back. Pewterton and his men followed close behind, silhouetted by the orange glow of the blazing north wing and the flickering of the fire in the other windows as the fire spread. The shell of the place might be stone, but there was enough wood inside to fuel quite the blaze. Once the rest of the roof caught, the entire stronghold would meet its end.
Just as they cleared the gate and reached the horses, a shot rang out. Alasdair shoved Connor into Isobel’s arms and pushed them both to the other side of the animals. “Ride away as fast as ye can. I’ll meet ye in yon woods.” He motioned toward the forest at the top of the rise and turned to go.
Isobel grabbed his arm. “Nay! I will not leave ye again.”
“Do as I say, woman.” Alasdair jerked his arm away. He’d not tolerate argument this time. “For Connor’s sake, aye?”
He didn’t wait for an answer as he crept back around the beast, scanning the area. A grim sight met his gaze. Pewterton was down. Lifeless. The one called Ladney stepped forward, musket raised and trained on Alasdair. “I’ve got him in my sights, Jones,” he called with a toss of his head to a man behind him.
A younger soldier, one who had never said much, stepped alongside Ladney, his rifle aimed and ready. “In light of our lieutenant’s diminished mental capacity and his series of poor judgments, Ladney and I are taking control of what remains of our brigade. You are under arrest, sir, for the murder of His Grace, the Duke of Temsworth, for your escape from prison, and for whatever other charges were previously filed against you.” He nodded toward a point beyond Alasdair. “And I assure you, the duchess and her son will soon join you with like charges filed against them.”
Alasdair stared at the scrawny bastard daring to step in the way of all his hopes and dreams. He’d be damned if he allowed all he had fought for to slip away now. There was but three broad strides between them. Good enough. Decision made, he bowed his head. A bone-shaking roar ripped from his throat as he charged forward with sword raised.
Gunfire boomed as Alasdair tore his blade down across Jones, splitting him from gullet to gut. The man remained upright for a moment, a look of shock on his face, his mouth opening and closing, but no sound coming out. His weapon bounced to the ground as he sagged to his knees, then collapsed across his gun.
Sword readied, Alasdair turned.
Ladney, the other traitor to Pewterton, lay dead beside the lieutenant. Fields stepped over Ladney and kicked the man away from the lieutenant’s body. He scowled at the remaining six men. “We gave him our word. Each of us swore we’d stand at his side.” He switched his rifle to his left hand and pulled his pistol from his belt. “Who else wants to die for breaking their word to that fine man who suffered so and did his best to do right by us?”
None of the men answered, just shuffled from side to side and slung their rifles back to their shoulders. Atchison walked over to the lieutenant and stared down at him.
Alasdair studied the man. He realized the Englishman looked happy for the first time since they’d met. “Put him on a horse,” Alasdair ordered. “We’ll give him a decent burial in the woods.”
“We should bury him with his family,” one of Pewterton’s men volunteered. “He’d wish to be with his wife and daughters.”
“We’ll take him to them,” Atchison said, still staring down at the lieutenant with a sad look on his face. With a deep sigh, he finally pulled his gaze up to Alasdair. “We’ll say he died trying to save the duke from the fire.” He glanced back at the burning estate lighting up the night. “Lieutenant ought to be known as a man who died a hero.” He shifted his attention to Ladney and then Jones. “Not a man shot in the back by a pair of liars.”
“And them?” Alasdair pointed his sword at the traitors’ bodies.
“Them two.” Atchison turned and looked at the sea. “Got too close to the edge of the cliff. Shame their bodies got swallowed up by the sea.”
As far as Alasdair was concerned, even that was too good for the pair. He wiped his sword on his trews, sheathed it, then held out his hand. “I thank ye, Atchison. For everything.”
Atchison gripped his hand hard and strong. “Godspeed to you, man.”
Alasdair turned to Fields and shook his hand. “Ye are good men, and I’m grateful to ye.”
Fields nodded. “The report shall read we spotted the fire and did what we could, but all inside died. Far as I know, we got them every last one. God go with you wherever you end up, sir.”
With a nod, Alasdair left them, joining his brother, who stood a few steps away, waiting beside their horses. “She didna listen,” Ian said as they settled into their saddles.
Alasdair scanned the hillside. Isobel and Connor, astride their horse several yards away, were silhouetted against the sky growing lighter behind them.
“Aye, well,” Alasdair said. “I didna expect she would.” They’d be having a long talk about her stubbornness. He pulled in a deep breath and rolled the tension from his shoulders. When they came up even with Isobel and Connor, he pointed to the horizon. “Shall we ride a while and put a bit a distance betwixt us and England?”
“Aye,” said Isobel, Connor, and Ian in unison.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The wide stripe of black, blue, and sickly purple across Isobel’s back stirred the remnants of Alasdair’s rage and deepened his remorse. He lightly caressed the ridge of her shoulders, each dark with additional bruises, as well as the raw flesh around her wrists and hands, and her scraped palms and fingers. She still bore the shackles around her ankles. It would take a blacksmith to free her of them.
He closed his eyes and buried his face in her short curly hair. “I am so verra sorry, my love,” he whispered.
Isobel turned and faced him, the water in the pool swirling as she moved. She passed her hand over the angry red brand on his chest, then reached up to touch the partially healed burns along his jawline and cheek. A sad smile played across her lips. “These scars show our love and devotion to one another. Dinna be sorry. I bear mine with pride.”
“I love ye, my heart.” He dipped his head and kissed her. He’d never get enough of this precious woman. Not ever. They’d just made love beside the peaceful waters they had found hidden in the woods, but he already wanted her again. A faint huff of amusement escaped him.
“Ye find my kisses entertaining, do ye?”
Dribbling water across her shoulders, he smiled. “We just made love, and I already want ye again.” Walking backward, he drew them closer to the embankment. He settled his arse on a rock beneath the water’s surface, then guided her into his lap. “Even the cold water canna sway me.”
She settled on top of him and slid against his chest, leaning into him with a promising wiggle.
“Are ye all right, love?” he asked.
“Aye.” She reached down between them and stroked him. “Just a bit stiff and sore in places from our wee adventure. I think both our bodies could use a bit a healing.” She nibbled along his bottom lip as she pushed herself upward, then settled him deep inside her warmth. “Healing together as one. Do ye not agree?”
“Aye, love. Most certainly.” Hands filled with her slick arse, Alasdair squeezed as she rocked back and forth atop him.
She buried her fingers in his hair and arched, bringing her breasts
close enough for tasting. Her cool flesh warmed in his mouth, and another gasp escaped her. Alasdair smiled, then returned to suckling her nipple. That gasp had been one of pleasure, not pain.
She clutched his head closer and rode faster, letting out a cry as she peaked. He rose from his watery seat, remaining inside her and rested her back against the bank of moss beside the stones. Then he thrust deeper until a roaring release rendered him incapable of anything other than gasping for breath.
He collapsed across her, burying his face in the curve of her neck. Her hands smoothed up and down his back with a gentleness that filled his heart even more. “Ye amaze me, woman,” he said between hard breaths.
She shook beneath him. “How so?”
“Each day.” He kissed her collarbone. “Each day, I love ye more, and I dinna know how ye manage it.”
Isobel sighed. “I think ye were right. Our souls were stitched together before we were born.” She kissed his shoulder. “We were never meant to be apart. Now, we’re finally back together. Whole again.”
“Mama!” The long, demanding wail that only a child can manage shattered the serenity of the woods.
“It appears our solitude is over,” Alasdair chuckled as he righted Isobel and helped her climb the bank.
“Ian can only do so much with the lad.” She shook out her clothes and donned them. “He’s as sore and battle-weary as we are.”
“Aye,” Alasdair said as he belted his kilt and pulled on his boots. He rose and offered her his arm. “But Ian has always loved a challenge.”
“Connor can be a challenge, all right.” She hugged his arm close as they wound their way through the trees, toward the sound of Connor’s call.
“Mama! Da! Where are ye?”
“We’re coming, son,” Alasdair called out. Da. He liked the sound of that. Connor might not be blood, but the lad was most certainly the son of his heart.
“We caught fishes!” The boy stormed through the trees, meeting them halfway to the clearing. He held up two fingers with one hand and three with the other. “This many, and they’re fine, fat ones. Found some mushrooms, too. A bit of garlic and greens. Ian said we’ll eat like kings this day!”
“Well done!” Alasdair tousled Connor’s hair. “Shall I help ye gut the fish for cooking?”
“Nay.” He shook his head, then turned and started gathering sticks. “Ian’s doing that. I’m ’posed to be getting more wood for the fire.” He glanced back at them with a grin as he trotted off. “I like living in the woods.”
“Perhaps we should settle in the countryside in France rather than the city,” Alasdair mused as they strolled toward camp.
“Even with Temsworth dead, we still must leave Scotland?”
“Aye.” The prospect pained him as well, but there was no escaping grim reality. Alasdair scooped up a good-sized log for the fire and tossed it onto Connor’s pile as they entered the clearing. “I’m still a wanted man from the charges he filed and the prison break.” He dusted off his hands. “I’m sure I’ll be blamed for the man’s death, as well. No matter what Fields reports.”
Isobel seated herself on a rock near the fire and set to stripping away the loose bark and tiny offshoots from the sticks intended to skewer the fish. She propped a flat edge of a rock over the flames and pushed a pile of the hottest coals beneath it. The Highlands had provided them with quite the skillet. She shook her head. “I’m not sure where Connor and I stand in all this. I might be Temsworth’s widow, but many knew I’d find a way to leave him before he died.”
Ian and Connor returned to the clearing, Connor clutching an armload of wood and Ian holding the fish. Ian’s pallor concerned Alasdair. Isobel had cleaned the cut across his chest, and while it was true, the wound wasn’t deep, his brother had still lost quite a bit of blood. Alasdair hoped the man’s stubbornness pulled him through. He didn’t want to ponder a life without his brother.
With a weary smile, Ian held up the largest of the fish. “Look at the size of this one. Nearly big as the lad.”
“Well done the both of ye.” Isobel patted another flat stone beside the fire. “Place them here, and I’ll set them to cooking.”
Connor dumped the armload of wood in the pile but kept one of the heftier sticks tight in his hand. He brandished the branch like a sword and pointed to the side of the area rising with a gentle slope. “I’ll take first watch. I saw a fine rock up yonder that looks out across the glen.” He widened his stance. “Aye, Da?”
They’d had no trouble, and with them within a day’s ride of Tor Ruadh, Alasdair didn’t see the harm in letting the boy feel courageous. “Aye, lad. Remember how I showed ye to move through the trees? Canny as a wee fox. Stealth, ye ken?”
Connor gave a curt nod. His gaze shifted to his mother. “Dinna fear, Mama. I’ll warn ye in plenty of time if anyone draws near.”
Isobel smiled as she brushed the dirt away from the mushrooms and mixed them with the greens and garlic atop the rock heating over the coals. “I know ye will, son.”
“That’s a good lad, right there,” Ian said as he flopped the fish down on the stone.
“He is that,” she said with a proud smile as she set to cooking their meal.
Alasdair leaned back against the tree, a feeling of contentment easing through him as he watched Isobel. All was as it should be. Nearly. Once they reached Tor Ruadh, Father William could hear their vows and pronounce them married for true. Then they’d leave for France and start their lives together. Eyelids heavy, he found it impossible to stay awake. Maybe he’d indulge in a wee nap before supper. He drew in a deep breath and settled more comfortably against the tree.
A skittering through the leaves in the direction Connor had gone jolted Alasdair. The boy exploded into the clearing. “Soldiers!” he hissed. He pointed in the direction of the glen. “A good-sized army of’m!”
“Douse the fire,” Alasdair ordered. He unsheathed his sword and rushed to Connor’s side. “Show me.”
Connor led him up the hillside to the lookout post. The boy was right. An entire regiment of redcoats rode through the valley at a slow pace. Some were fanning out as though in search of a place to make camp. Fort William was a day and a half away, well past Tor Ruadh and Ben Nevis. If headed to Fort William, the British would travel the same direction as they intended to take.
“At least we’re hidden in the woods,” Connor whispered, his focus locked on the men below.
“Aye.” Alasdair blew out a hard breath.
Now they had no choice but to move. To where, he hadn’t a clue. They couldn’t risk a night so close to the British. The trees surrounding their clearing was small, barely spanning the side of the steep rise. The area where they’d made camp could be easily found—especially if the soldiers decided to hunt for food or water. But if they left the cover of the place now, they’d surely be spotted. He gazed overhead. The sun hung low over the horizon. An hour or two until nightfall. He tapped Connor’s shoulder. “Back to camp. We’ll slip away when the sun sets and the fog rises, aye?”
The lad cast a worried glance back to the glen. “I thought us finally safe.” He slipped his hand into Alasdair’s.
“I know, lad.” He gave Connor’s fingers a reassuring squeeze. He felt the boy’s disappointment as keenly as he did his own. “I did, too.”
“How many?” Ian asked as they entered the clearing.
“A large detachment. Looks to be searching for a place to camp for the night.” Alasdair frowned at the fish among a generous pile of chanterelles, greens, and wild garlic sizzling on the rock over the hot coals of what had been the fire. The pungent aroma of cooking was unmistakable. “Did I not say douse the fire?”
“I did,” Isobel defended. “But the rock had already heated through, and the coals have yet to die. I didna want to waste such a bounty, and Ian agreed.”
Ian pointed at the tops of the trees swaying in the wind. “We’re downwind from the glen. All should be well.”
“Ye’d risk our lives
for a bit a fish and mushrooms?” Alasdair pointed toward the horses. “We need to hie ourselves out of here as soon as darkness covers us.” Had his brother lost his senses?
“I’m hungry. I’m tired. And ye know as well as I that a troop of bloody Sassenachs canna find the warts on their own arses.” Ian glared at him. “We shouldna panic and run like grouse flushed from the thicket.” He jerked a thumb toward the glen. “Put out the fire? Aye. For certain. Then bed down. If we leave this grove, be it night or day, I say we risk discovery. It’s too open through here and too far a ride to the mountain pass leading to the glen at the base of Ben Nevis.” He swiped a forearm across his forehead, then strode back to the fire, squatted down, and plucked up a steaming mushroom and popped it in his mouth.
Tension knotting his gut, Alasdair studied his brother. Ian had seen a good many more battles than he had and survived. Perhaps he was right. Above all, they couldn’t lose their heads. Not when they were so close to regaining their hopes and dreams.
Isobel piled chunks of fish, mushrooms, and garlic on a length of bark. She rose from the fire and held it out to Alasdair. “Here. Ian’s right. Eat. The fish is done, and the sooner we eat, the sooner the smell goes away.”
“Might there be enough for another?” Lord Crestshire stepped into the clearing and gave Ian a smug look. “Couldn’t find the warts on our own asses, eh? Who’s the ass now, my friend?”
Crestshire would be the only Sassenach who could track them. The cunning rascal knew a Highlander’s ways as well as any Scot.
“Depends. What do ye mean to do?” Alasdair asked, seating himself atop a downed tree. He might as well enjoy his meal if he was bound back to the gallows.
Crestshire shrugged. “I intend to enjoy the food, if Her Grace has enough.”
“There is always room at my table,” Isobel said as she thrust the rustic plate of food into his hands. “But dinna bite the hand that feeds ye, for its mate could verra well hold a knife.”
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 28