Every Time with a Highlander (26 page)

“That's enough, Colonel,” the duke said. “Keep a civil tongue in your head. Your wife is back in your possession. 'Twill be up to you to keep her there. If you wish to press charges against the man, press them. I want your wife to report to me here tomorrow.”

“Why?” Bridgewater demanded.

“I'd like to ask her some more questions about her work with the rebels. 'Tis nothing to be concerned about. I know she'll be willing to help us given her new status as an English noblewoman and wife of an officer.”

It was the general's attempt to ensure Bridgewater stopped short of wounding or killing her. She doubted Bridgewater feared any retribution at this point.

Bridgewater could hardly refuse his commanding officer, at least not to his face. When he had Undine to himself he could do what he wanted. “Aye. Of course.”

“Good. Morning would be fine.”

Bridgewater bit back whatever he was going to say, saluted the duke, and pulled her out the door.

Michael ached to punch someone, and the duke would do. He shook himself free of the guards.

“Don't be a fool,” the duke said, but he held up a hand to still his men.

“Why not?”

“You're a free man now. That could change.”

“I'm not exactly free,” Michael said. “How long do you intend to hold me?”

“Until I hear their carriage go.”

Not long at all. With effort, Michael relaxed his fists.

“She'll be back tomorrow,” the duke said. “And if you're concerned for her safety, you don't know her as well as you might. She's disabled more men in my regiments than I'd care to admit. Not carrying a pistol doesn't make her innocuous.”

Michael took this in with as much dispassion as he could muster.

The duke frowned. “Are you concerned for her safety?”

“No. You're right. She knows how to take care of herself quite well.”

“Good. And do I have your word you'll leave them alone? As I said, she'll return tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

The duke returned to the window. “They're leaving.” He inclined his head toward the door, as if a mere bend of his noble head was all Michael needed to leave. “I don't know what part you're playing in all this,” he said, “but the best thing you can do for her is to find the man with the letter.”

Michael nodded. “Until then?”

“Aye. Until then. You know where to find me.”

Michael gave him the courtliest bow he possessed.

Michael was in a dark mood, and his fists itched for a way to lighten it. He'd had just about enough of people telling him what to do and far more than enough of men whose power was keeping him from Undine. He'd lost a wife, given up every dream of happiness, sacrificed a sizeable portion of his working life to give England the theater she deserved with barely a thank-you, and now to be told by Undine herself—though he absolutely refused to believe it—to be told that he wouldn't end up with her?
No.
He wouldn't have it. Someone was going to pay. The only question in his mind was who—but he had a very strong candidate for the role.

He jogged toward a soldier, who stood by horses hitched to a post.

“I beg your pardon,” Michael said, “do you see that carriage there, the one just disappearing over the rise?”

“Colonel Bridgewater's?” the soldier said.

“Aye. I'm afraid he left his orders on the table. The general is hoping you can stop him.”

“Are you sure?” The soldier looked uncertainly toward the church.

“You can check, but I know His Grace will be unhappy if that carriage gets away. Perhaps I should go…?”

“No, no, I can do it. I just—”

“Excellent! Let me just let the general know that—what is your name, Private?”

“Littleton, sir.”

“Let me just let him know Private Littleton has agreed to save the day.”

The soldier lifted himself onto the closest horse, gave the beast a bit of heel, and flew off.

Michael waited a few beats, lifted himself onto another horse, and geed him into a trot.

The soldier, too intent on his mission to notice the man behind him, made it to the front of the carriage in record time, and waved the driver to a halt just as Michael arrived in the man's blind spot on the other side of the carriage.

“What's going on?” Bridgewater said, opening the carriage door closest to the soldier.

Michael jumped off the horse and opened the door near him.

“Get on the horse,” he said to Undine, who was pale as a rabbit.

“What the
fuck
are you doing?” said Bridgewater, who'd spotted Michael.

“Get on the horse,” Michael repeated. “
Now.
”

Undine did as he commanded.

Michael met Bridgewater as he rounded the back of the carriage and punched him in the nose, sending a spray of blood over both of them. Bridgewater howled and his hands flew to his face.

Michael grabbed the pistol from Bridgewater's belt and tossed it to Undine before Bridgewater had time react.

She aimed it at Littleton who was reaching for his own weapon. “Don't,” she said. “Get off the horse and throw your pistol as far as you can into that field.”

Littleton gave her a stubborn shake of his head. Bridgewater looked in shock at the blood on his hands.

“Would you prefer to be the reason I shoot your colonel?” she said. “'Twill not do much for your career.” She cocked the pistol.

“For Chrissake,” Bridgewater said with a hiss, “do as she says.”

The soldier complied.

“Who
are
you?” Bridgewater said to Michael. “You're not a priest. You're not a Scot. You're not—” He stopped midsentence and his eyes widened. “You're Beaufort!”

“Nope. Wrong on that too. I'm Michael Kent, and I'm the man who's taking your wife from you.”

Bridgewater swung and caught Michael's chin. Michael reeled backward, and Bridgewater reached for his knife.

“Put the goddamned knife down,” Michael said, finding his balance. “If you want to fight me, fight me like a man.”

The soldier stared openmouthed, waiting to see what his superior officer would do in the midst of this surprising domestic drama.

“If you have balls, use them,” Michael said, “not your knife or your position or privilege. Find out what a real fight's like.”

Bridgewater's eyes bulged, and he reached for the hilt.

Michael flew shoulder first into Bridgewater's groin. Both men landed on the ground. Bridgewater rolled away and vomited, clutching his stomach.

“Just as I thought,” Michael said, stumbling to his feet. “No balls. She doesn't love you. Never has. And you'll never see her again.”

“Oh, I'll see her again,” Bridgewater wheezed. “If she wants to see that thieving urchin of hers, she'll have to come to me.”

Michael's stomach dropped. “What thieving urchin?”

“Nab.”

“Where is he?”

“On his way to Coldstream,” Bridgewater said, “which is where you'll bring her if you know what's good for you.”

Michael wheeled to Undine. “Nab's in the
carriage
.”

He turned back, but it was too late. Bridgewater had found his knife and, with a gleeful groan, jammed it all the way through Michael's foot.

Michael bellowed, the horses reared, and the one belonging to the soldier took off like a shot.

It felt like an acetylene torch burning his flesh. He tried to move his foot, but it was pinned to the ground. He could hear voices, but all he could think about was stopping the monstrous pain. He grabbed the blade, screamed an obscenity, and pulled it out. He thought he'd faint. The blood poured into his shoe. His foot was soaked. He could feel the sloshing.

Bridgewater was climbing to his feet. He eyed Michael with murder in his eyes and Michael lifted the blade in the air.

An explosion went off in his head.

Undine had shot the pistol.

The knife was still in Michael's hands. Bridgewater looked at his chest.

Undine brought the barrel of the pistol down from where she'd been pointing it in the air.

“Too many people have died,” she said. “No more.”

In an instant, she'd brought the horse to Michael's side and extended her arm. He put his good foot in the stirrup and got in the saddle behind her. Bridgewater tackled their legs and it took a furious round of kicking to free themselves from him.

Undine slapped the horse and it took off like a Derby winner.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“We've got to get Nab.”

Undine heard Michael's swallowed gasps each time the horses' hooves hit the ground. He wouldn't die from bleeding to death—though she'd seen it happen even with a wound in the extremities—but he might from the infection that would follow, and she'd have only herself to blame. She'd brought him here, to this world, and he'd come to Morebright's home to protect her. Thank the skies he had. And thank the skies he'd stopped the carriage. Bridgewater had been in the sort of fury she'd only seen once before, and that time it had taken almost a month before she'd been able to walk again.

Michael's arms were around her waist. She laid her hand on top of his to get a sense of him. She didn't possess healing powers. There were women who did—and men too—but the closest one was in Jedburgh, miles from here. There were things she could read from his touch, though, because she was a naiad—and because she was a woman.

He started when their hands met, and she wondered for an instant if he'd been passed out.

“What are you doing?” he said, his voice strained but amused. “I'm not yours for the taking.”

“
Ha
,” she said, adding, “What makes you think I'm taking something?”

“You're hardly the first woman who's wanted me for my aura.”

“I have no idea what an aura is, but I can assure you, I don't want it.”

“Oh, you'd want mine.”

There was illness there, she thought, and the sharpness of pain as well as warm, glowing affection and—she flushed—ravenous lust. Sorrow and the soaring blue of joy lived there too. It was a beautiful narrative of his person, though she wished she could ease the jagged pain. When she wiped away the surface layer of what she sensed and reached deeper, she saw the gnawing emptiness and sorrow. The sadness was a shiny void, as tall as a cliff and as sleek and cold as black marble, and she could see herself in it as well.

She released his hand.

“We can change what you see,” he said.

She wanted to believe him and that what he said was true, but what she'd sensed was an immovable as anything she'd ever seen or felt. “Aye,” she said, “we can.”

“We'll fight.”

Did he mean the army, Bridgewater, or the vision? Of the three, only one truly terrified her. “We'll do what we can every moment that we are able. 'Tis all anyone can do.”

They'd reached the road that ran between Morebright's home and Coldstream.

“North to Morebright's,” Michael asked, “or south to Edinburgh and Coldstream?”

She felt danger in both directions, but one was worse.

“Right,” she said with a sigh. “There's going to be trouble.”

“Let us be the ones making it.”

Does she know the effect she has on people?
Michael thought.
No wonder powerful men are in awe of her.

His arm still buzzed with the aftereffects of her touch. He felt as if he'd been stripped to his essence—just the base desires and failures of a man who'd lived an unexemplary life except for having fallen in love with two exemplary women.

His foot throbbed. Every step the horse took was like the whack of a small hammer on it. More concerning, he was starting to feel warm. He needed to attend to it. But he needed to attend to Nab and the people in the carriage first. The risk of certain death before the risk of potential death. That's how they triaged it in war. And now he was in one.

“What do you think the duke will do when he finds out we disobeyed his orders?” he said.

“He'll issue a warrant for our arrest. I can hardly blame him.”

“Nor can I. There'll be no evidence to arrest Bridgewater or stop Morebright. I don't suppose your rebels are going to be very happy either.”

She shifted in the saddle. “I've failed them. But I can't sacrifice Nab or any of them. Not for a principle.”

“Let's save them. We can worry about the rest when we finish.”
If we finish.

A short time later, Undine brought the horse to a stop, and Michael focused his attention on the road before them. They'd passed a number of wagons and people walking in the last few hours, but no carriages. The last mile or so had been through a high, thistle-filled pass between two mountain ridges. He'd been too bleary to untangle what part of the Lowlands they were in, but now they stood at the highest point, looking down at the road curving out of sight into a densely wooded pass by a slender burn.

“Look,” she whispered.

At the edge of the road stood a carriage.

“It's them.” She guided the horse to a place out of sight. “That's one of Bridgewater's carriages.”

Michael gazed at the carriage, so still, and a chill went through him. He could feel her worry. She had had the same thought he'd had. The horse flattened its ears and nickered unhappily.

A man in breeks and a cap burst from a tangle of briars near the carriage. He had a pistol in his hand.

She began to dismount and Michael caught her.

“
No
,” he said flatly. “Suicide.”

The man opened the carriage door and began to speak, though they couldn't hear what he was saying.

“They're alive,” she said.

“Someone is.”

The carriage was a hundred yards ahead of them. They couldn't mount a sneak attack on horseback. The only way was on foot, and the trees reached almost to where they stood.

“Through there,” Michael said, pointing. “We'll be hidden. We'll have to leave the horse.”

She slipped off and secured the ties.

Michael followed, landing on his good foot, but the first halting step on his other foot made him ill with pain.

“Let me look,” she said, staring at his blood-soaked shoe.

The foot had swollen in the wet leather. “After,” he said. “If I don't think about it too much—”

“If you don't think enough, you'll die.”

“Well, there's a happy thought.”

She met his eyes. “What can they do in your time?”

“Forget it.”

“Michael, your wound is serious. I've seen men die from less. Will you die if you go home? You may die here.”

“Not of the infection,” he said sadly. “But I will of a broken heart.”

She opened her mouth to argue but stopped, overcome. “Damn you,” she said. “I don't want to cry. Not now.” She swiped at her eyes angrily. “And I don't want you to leave. But ye can't ask me to watch you die. Ye can't.”

He felt as if a knife was sawing him in two. “And you can't ask me to leave the only happiness I've known in years.”

The carriage door slammed, and they turned. The man in the cap strode to the front and climbed on the driver's box. But instead of gathering the reins or picking up a whip, he stood up and looked down the road in one direction, then in the other.

“I recognize him,” Undine said. “That's Tom, one of Morebright's servants. He's the one who told Morebright I was in the reception room.”

“That's going to complicate things.” Michael took a painful step forward. “I wonder what he's waiting for. Do you see that overhang?” Michael pointed to a rocky outcropping ten or fifteen feet above them, extending from the cleft of the hill beside them. “Let's see what we can see from up there.”

They slipped quietly up the rocky slope—Michael, with his gasps and sharp inhales, considerably less quietly than Undine, who moved like a mountain goat, jumping from stone to stone.

At the top, they had a view that extended for miles, but the only people they saw were a few men fishing at the shore of the burn beyond the woods.

“What do we have in the way of weapons?” Michael asked.

“We have a spent pistol and no more balls or gunpowder. There's a sword on the saddle.”

“We can't stop an ambush with that. Our best bet is to sneak down and free whoever's in there.”

“And if the false clansmen arrive?”

The answer was obvious, and Undine sighed.

“Speed is our friend,” Michael said. “Let's go before anyone else arrives.”

He followed Undine as they made their way back down the side. When he got to the bottom, he heard a
click
.

Bridgewater grabbed Undine from behind and held a pistol to her head. “Sorry to interrupt your plans with the carriage,” he said. “Where's the letter?”

“Leave her alone,” Michael said. “She doesn't know.”

“Oh, she knows. Morebright's man found me at the church. He told me a very important letter went missing. Where is it?” he demanded, shaking her.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Undine said.

He swung her in front of him and boxed her jaw. “Does that help you remember?”

Michael leapt on Bridgewater's back, but Bridgewater jammed his boot on Michael's foot, sending searing bolts of pain through him. Michael crumpled, and the orange twist of paper flew out of his shirt pocket and beyond his reach.

He looked. Bridgewater hadn't seen it. But Undine had.

“Try that again,” Bridgewater said, “and you'll have her brains all over you.”

Bridgewater tied Undine to a tree with rope from the horse. He tightened the rope around her wrists until she gasped.

Michael's foot was bleeding profusely now, but all he could think about was Undine and Nab. Was Nab in that carriage? Did he have the papers? Would any of it matter? Michael pulled himself to sitting against a rock. The effort nearly made him pass out, but it brought him close enough to reach the orange paper.

Bridgewater was watching him, and his eyes narrowed.

Michael did everything he could to not let his gaze be drawn to the herbs.

A movement behind Bridgewater caught Michael's attention.

Nab looked at him over the edge of a boulder, eyes wide with alarm.

Two women stood behind him, peeking too—one old, one young. Nab pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and held it so Michael could see. Was it the show of a successful mission or the offer of a tool to use for a reprieve from his present circumstances? The question in Nab's eyes gave him the answer.

No
. Michael made a barely perceptible shake of his head. The last thing he wanted was for three more people to be in danger.

Go
, he mouthed.

Bridgewater grabbed a handful of Undine's hair and pulled her chin up. “Where is the goddamned letter?”

“I have it,” Michael said.

“What?”

“The letter, you imbecile. You take your orders from a decrepit old lech now? I'm sure General Silverbridge will be happy to learn it. You pathetic fool.”

Bridgewater's eyes glowed with fury. He released Undine and came to Michael. Michael braced himself, palms on the ground—one over the twist of paper. “Where is it?”

“You'll have to search me, I guess.”

“I shall do that then,” Bridgewater said, stepping on the hand under which the paper lay. “But perhaps you'd prefer just to tell me where it is.”

The pain overwhelmed him, and Michael felt something in his hand snap. Bridgewater shoved his hand in Michael's shirt pocket. “Nothing there. Take off your plaid.”

“I'll need my hand,” Michael said.

“Use the other.”

Michael unbelted the wool and it puddled to the sides of his shirttails. Bridgewater jerked the wool free and shook it. “Now your shoes.”

Michael's heart fell.

“Take them off.”

Michael extracted his throbbing hand from under Bridgewater's boot and pulled the shoe off his good foot with his good hand. The second had to be torn off his swollen foot. Michael swallowed a cry as the sodden leather came free.

Bridgewater checked the heels and then threw the shoes aside. “I don't see anything. Which leads me to believe the letter is somewhere much more interesting.” He returned to Undine and cupped her breast.

“Ah, how I wished this could have happened in a more leisurely way. I would have enjoyed having those legs wrapped around me while I took my ease. But tied up will work nicely too.” He tore the fabric of Undine's bodice open, exposing her breasts. “Nothing in there.”

Michael grabbed the closest shoe and managed to peg Bridgewater in the head with it.

Bridgewater grabbed another length of rope from the horse, shoved Michael onto his stomach and tied his wrists.

Michael wished he were dead. He knew soon he would be. He thought Bridgewater would keep Undine alive, though he wondered if that would be worse for her than dying. He rolled to his side and began to work the rope. He'd played Houdini once in a play that had closed after three performances. He'd spent more time learning the lines than he had in front of an audience on that one, but he remembered quite clearly a trick that had involved escaping from bonds using the rope's slack.

Bridgewater searched Undine roughly—down her thighs, under her skirts, and thoroughly within her bodice. The pleasure Michael would have expected him to take in this seemed to be replaced by fear as each potential hiding place was found to be empty. Bridgewater searched the horse next.

“Where is it?” he demanded. “
Where?
”

He raised the pistol to Undine's head, but before he pointed the barrel, he came to a stop. “The
boy
,” he said, realization exploding on his face. “
He's
got it.”

Bridgewater looked at them both and must have seen the truth on their faces. He began to pelt down the road toward the carriage.

“He can't go down there,” Undine said.

“Nab's safe. He's in the rocks over there. He has the letter. Nab!”

“Thank the skies! But we still can't let Bridgewater go there. The clansmen… Oh, Michael, you have to stop him.”

Michael, who had far less interest in protecting Bridgewater from his hired clansmen than she did, felt a piece of the knot give.

“Where is he?” a voice demanded.

Michael turned. The duke stood beside the horse Undine had stolen. He saw the front of Undine's gown and averted his eyes, muttering an oath.

“Who?” Michael said. “Bridgewater?”

“I don't give a damn about Bridgewater,” the general said angrily. “At this point, you're as much of a problem to the army as he is.” He went to the back of the tree and began to untie Undine. “I want to find your colleague—the one with the letter. Or was that a lie too?”

“Don't say a word, Undine,” Michael said. “The letter may be our only leverage.”

“You'll need it,” the duke said. “You're both under arrest. You've ruined a critical operation and destroyed what may be our only chance for peace. You're under arrest until I decide what to do with you, though I'm tempted to give you both to the rebels. You'd not like what they do to traitors.”

“
Michael
,” Undine said urgently, looking at the carriage.

Did she truly wish to save Bridgewater? Then Michael remembered the other servants, the people the carriage driver was talking to.

The loop slipped free. He clawed his way to his feet and ran, fueled by Undine's desire, as his body was too battered to carry on, on its own. Bridgewater had taken the road, but Michael followed the path through the trees, which he hoped would let him reach the carriage a few seconds earlier. Every other step was like a hot spike in his flesh. He heard the sounds of men's voices coming from the direction of the burn. And he heard the crack of wood on wood as Bridgewater flung open the door of the carriage. He wouldn't be first, but he may still be able to stop him.

Two men stepped out from behind a tree in front of him, one with a pistol. Michael recognized one as Tom, the servant at Morebright's estate.

“What do you think you're doing, laddie?” Tom said.

“We have to get to the carriage,” Michael said. “Bridgewater's in trouble.”

Tom laughed a brutal laugh. “Bridgewater's at the army camp with the general.”

“Kill him,” the other man said.

In one part of his head, Michael heard labored thrashing through the trees behind him and Undine crying, “Stop, Tom!” In another, he heard voices of the clansmen near the carriage. “There it is,” one said.

What he hadn't expected was the electric shock of the ball tearing through his side or the charred, fleshy scent of the smoke that wove its way around him like a death shroud. He fell to his knees, then onto his face.

He knew he was dying.

“Michael,” Undine cried, her voice cutting through the slow-motion pain. “Go
home
. Please. Do it for me.”