Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (11 page)

Chapter 13

Hugging Skye’s back, Yancy threw a glance to the riders following behind. The others, including Miss Farnsworth, charged after him. Worry,
and jealousy
, if he were honest with himself, prompted him to ride hard in pursuit of Isobel, the foolish chit.

“There be the outcrops Isobel usually ventures to.” Voice raised to be heard above the wind, Alasdair pointed to a rugged pile of rocks about a half mile away.

As he spoke, a few random droplets of rain splattered to the earth. A tempest approached by the looks of the ever-increasing clouds on the horizon. Movement atop the stone snared Yancy’s attention. He squinted against the brisk air scratching his face.

Damn inhospitable Highlands.

He couldn’t leave for England soon enough to suit him.

An odd-shaped bush swayed, its tormented branches flailing. He peered closer. The wind flattened billowing cloth against a frantically waving figure.

A woman.

Not just any woman.

Isobel.

He raised his hand. “Halt.”

The riders rumbled to a stop.

“Why we be stoppin’?” Gregor sidled his horse next to Yancy’s.

The others drew close, and Yancy pointed.

“Isobel’s waving her arms, there atop that tor.” Fiend seize it. Yancy had used her first name without thinking.

Only Harcourt noticed and responded with a sardonic twitch of his mouth.

Damnation, Harcourt knew him too well.

How the devil had she managed to climb to the peak of the outcrop? Bloody dangerous, that. No other woman of Yancy’s acquaintance would attempt to do so, let alone succeed.

Ross edged his mount ahead, an idiotic grin on his face. “I do believe the lass be waving at me.”

He lifted his arms and flapped them in imitation of her, rather like a giant crow in the throes of death.

Gregor leaned near his brother and muttered out the side of his mouth, “And the mighty Robert the Bruce wore a corset and a lace bonnet into battle.”

Alasdair chuckled. “And lip rouge, too.”

Waving excitedly, Ross hurled them a frosty glare.

“Cease, you dolt.” Yancy pinned Ross with a glare.

A headless chicken possessed more wits than the Scot.

Harcourt stared at Ross as if he possessed three heads. “Please tell me why you presume she’s waving a greeting and not a warning?”

A mutinous frown twisting his mouth, Ross’s arms fell to his sides.

Miss Farnsworth’s mare pranced in a nervous circle. “Where’s Isobel? I don’t see her.”

Yancy wrenched his attention to the horizon once more.

Isobel had disappeared.

Senses honed, his spine tingled in alarm. “I don’t like this. Something’s afoot.”

An eagle screeched high amongst the clouds, the cry an ominous warning confirming his premonition.

He covertly scanned the dark stand of pine trees to the left of the rock run. A glint amongst the trunks caught his eye.

Blade? Gun?

“
Aye
, me hackles be raised.” Gregor, his expression taut, scrutinized the area.

Alasdair gripped his sword’s hilt. He canted his head. “Someone lays in wait in yonder woodlands.”

Yancy fingered his dirk. “Why, and is he alone?”

More importantly, what danger did the bugger present to Isobel?

“I would wager my new barouche, that’s no solitary gent lurking amongst the greenery.” Harcourt flicked a manicured forefinger in the direction of the mysterious gleam.

Yancy snorted and removed his gloves. “They’re idiots to attack English and Scottish citizens under the protection of the crown—and on Sethwick’s lands, to boot. He’ll see them imprisoned.”

“MacHardy’s promised them something that makes the risk worthwhile, I would guess.” Harcourt followed suit and removed his gloves. He patted his stomach. “I would have eaten something more substantial this morning had I known I’d be required to exert myself this early in the day.”

At Harcourt’s sarcasm, Yancy elevated a brow. “I shall do my best to assure you return to Craiglocky in time for luncheon.”

In his rush to pursue Isobel, had he led them into a trap?

He didn’t question the McTavish brothers’ ability to fight. After all, their father was Craiglocky’s war chief. Hell, he might have to call upon Duncan McTavish and his men to assist with this feuding clan business.

Harcourt’s skill with a blade was second only to Sethwick’s, but what of Ross?

Yancy eyed the lanky fellow and tried to imagine him swinging a Lochaber axe. Hardly more than a bag of bones, a strong gust of wind could knock the sot on his skinny arse.

The weapons Miss Farnsworth carried would be of little use against gunfire. Besides, their small group might be outnumbered, likely was.

He didn’t hold to striking women, but when he got his hands on Isobel, her deliciously rounded bottom would suffer a pinkening. If not by his hand then her father or brother’s.

He took a measure of relief in knowing she possessed a shrewd mind.

Blast, he needed Harcourt, Gregor, and Alasdair with him. They knew these lands and were experienced in fighters. Ross was the sort to get lost while using the privy.

Something besides the Scot’s fixation with Isobel set Yancy’s teeth on edge. For all of Ross’s bumbling ineptitude, Yancy sensed there was more to the man, and his instinct shouted caution.

He swung his gaze in Craiglocky’s direction and drummed his fingers on his thigh. An experienced rider could make the castle in ten, maybe twelve, minutes of hard riding and be back with reinforcements in fewer than thirty.

Thirty minutes seemed a lifetime when the woman you cared for faced unknown danger.

Yancy maneuvered Skye to face the others. “If we try to reach Miss Ferguson across this meadow, we’re easy targets and can be picked off like pheasants on snow.”

The remains of his morning meal churned in his stomach. Every minute they delayed, the peril to Isobel increased.

He forced his emotions aside and concentrated on strategy.

The sky had darkened to the same shade of slate as the boulder-strewn ground behind them. The rain fell harder, great, fat, splattering drops, which saturated his coat in minutes. The pungent odors of heather and damp earth wafted by on the wind.

“Is there another way to that outcrop?” Yancy slanted his head without turning around.

“
Aye
, but the paths be through the forest or clear around the loch.” Alasdair turned to Miss Farnsworth. “The weather be turnin’ ugly. Ye should return to the keep.”

She jutted her dainty chin out. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. McTavish. Nonetheless, I shall wait to hear what Lord Ramsbury suggests.”

Her pert response earned her a frown from Alasdair, a grin from Harcourt, and a rude snort from Ross.

“I be responsible for me niece, McTavish. If anyone be tellin’ her what to do, it be me.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Uncle.” Annoyance flashed in her eyes. “You would do well to remember, you are not my guardian.”

Fury contorted Ross’s features. “Ye’ll do as I say, or—”

“Stubble it, Ross.” Harcourt edged his mount beside the Scot, pinning the man’s leg between the two horses. “Before I forget I am a gentleman and that my cousin is present.”

Antagonism glittered in Ross’s eyes.

Yancy gripped Skye’s reins against the urge to plant the man a facer, niceties be damned.

“Listen, and listen well, Ross. I’m in charge here until Sethwick says otherwise. You and your niece will do exactly as I say.” Yancy pointed at Miss Farnsworth. “She’s at the root of the reason I am here in the first place, and though it may have escaped your attention, she could, even now, be in danger.”

Miss Farnsworth’s eyes widened, and her face drained of color, though to her credit, she steadily returned his gaze.

He set his hat firmer atop his head and gave Ross a dismissive stare. “I don’t have the time or patience for prideful posturing. Do you understand?”

Ross’s face reddened, and he opened his mouth to retort, but a quelling glare from Miss Farnsworth had him snapping it shut.

Yancy would wager the cur bit his tongue or gnashed his teeth in fury.

Miss Farnsworth shifted slightly in her saddle. The once-perky feather on her hat drooped over the rim like a dead lizard. “Forgive us. Isobel is in danger. What must we do?”

Yancy offered her a reassuring smile. “I don’t believe they discovered Miss McTavish is here—”

“Unless that idiot”—Gregor jabbed his large hand toward Ross—“wavin’ his arm like an oversized, pished crow alerted them.” Palpable contempt radiated from him as he glowered at Ross.

Yancy firmed his lips. “Yes, there is that possibility, but we don’t dare separate. We’ll all ride in the loch’s direction. Once out of sight, Harcourt, you head for the keep, hell bent for help, and alert Sethwick.”

At one time a member of England’s Diplomatic Corps, the monarchy possessed no better tracker than Sethwick.

The grass dipped and swayed with the wind’s renewed onslaught, and the rain dripped steadily from the sky, soaking the ground and making it easier for tracking if the need arose.

“Ross, take your niece and return to the castle as rapidly as possible,” Yancy ordered. “And stay there.”

Miss Farnsworth angled her head. “I shall make straight for the chapel to pray for Isobel’s safe return.”

“Ah, that means we have the privilege of sneakin’ his lordship to yonder pile of pebbles.” Alasdair grinned and winked at his twin.

Shouts, followed by a terrified scream, sailed across the howling wind. A riderless horse charged from the forest.

Chapter 14

After Lord Ramsbury’s party halted on the opposite side of the moor, Isobel breathed the minutest iota easier. Thank God, he’d seen her waving from atop the outcrop.

No one could call him a dullard. A lesser man might not have pondered her actions. But Lord Ramsbury wasn’t an ordinary man, and the Regent hadn’t appointed him War Secretary for nothing.

Then that slowtop, Mr. Ross, had flailed his arms and alerted anyone watching the riders to her presence. Oh, to be able to thwack him, stupid, stupid man. He possessed the common sense of a turnip.

No help for it. She must dash to freedom and warn Lord Ramsbury of the murderers’ intent. If her parents had a single notion she had been scaling outcrops and avoiding renegades, they would forbid her to venture beyond the bailey from now until hell sprung wildflowers.

It made no difference. Ramsbury would see that she never ventured out alone again.

Isobel feared certain discovery when the Scot called Baines tethered the mare to a branch a few feet from the cave. Emira had smelled her and wrenched her head in Isobel’s direction, but the surly intruder had been in a hurry and hadn’t noticed.

Emira raised her head, her eyes rounded and alarmed.

“Shh, girl. It’s me,” Isobel whispered. The mare mustn’t give her away.

Scrambling and sliding her way to the rock base once more, Isobel abandoned her bag of supplies. They would slow her. Her dagger nestled in her half-boot, she managed to mount the horse. Tension churning her stomach, she cautiously guided Emira along the path. Every step the horse took resounded as deafening as a peal of thunder.

Her ears flicking back and forth, the mare lifted her head and bunched her muscles, as if she, too, sensed danger.

Isobel’s means of escape lay along a path leading through the woodlands harboring the rogue Scots. By the grace of God, maybe they wouldn’t notice her straightway. She would be much closer to the rock run than the opening where she had left the mare tethered when she’d arrived.

Rivulets of rain bathed her face. Her hair had come loose and drooped in a tangled half-knot at her nape. The wind wrapped sopped strands around her neck, and several tendrils stuck to her face.

She shoved them behind her ears and peered into the trees.

A rabbit streaked across the trail.

Emira’s ears stiffened, and she jerked her head, stepping backward a few feet.

Isobel’s unsteady pulse ran amuck as she soothed the mare.

The meadow paralleled these woods. The intruders, intent on intercepting Lord Ramsbury, would have their backs to her. A couple of minutes would see her past the danger and give her a head start if the clansmen gave chase.

They would.

These blackguards meant to kill her loved ones and to abduct Lydia.

Guilt, sharp and piercing, clawed her belly. She’d put those from the keep in danger. Except, if she hadn’t ridden ahead, she wouldn’t have stumbled upon them. Perhaps her obstinacy might prove beneficial, after all.

Wiping the rain from her eyes, Isobel’s terror and racing pulse reduced her breathing to short puffs.

She would give up her desire to travel if she knew where the intruders had tethered their horses. The two or three minutes it took for them to race to their mounts might give her the time she needed to escape.

Though she risked capture, she must warn Lord Ramsbury. Mouth dry as the Sahara in the summer, Isobel strained her ears and eyes while gently urging the skittish mare onward.

She traveled no more than a few cautious yards into the trees before two bellowing Scots dropped to the ground from overhead. The hulks lunged for her.

Shrieking, she kicked one man in the chest, knocking him on his bum.

The other lurched toward her horse. Several more swung to the earth—giant hairy baboons, every one.

Yanking Emira’s reins, Isobel strained to urge her past the shouting throng.

Men grabbed at the terrified horse, and the mare struck with her front leg. Eyes rolling, Emira reared.

Isobel clutched the horse’s mane as the panicked beast bucked. Wrenched from the mare’s back, Isobel flew through the air. She landed with a strangled screech atop one of the heathens.

The air knocked from her, she lay stunned. The scunner beneath her clamped his arms around her waist. She couldn’t breathe. He reeked to high heaven, and she gagged.

With a furious squeal and kick of her powerful rear legs, Emira stampeded from the thicket. Pine needles and dirt churned in her wake.

Isobel’s mind raced as she kicked and twisted. She screamed, and then screamed again. Surely, her shrieks and the mare charging from the woods would alert Lord Ramsbury. Emira would run to the keep, and an alarm would be raised when she arrived riderless.

Isobel clawed at the trunk-like arms encircling her. Like a creature possessed, she flailed her fists, connecting with her captor’s chin and face as her elbows damaged his ribs and stomach.

He grunted and cursed, yet his hold merely tightened.

She gasped against the pain. Her ribs would sport bruises if they didn’t crack from the pressure. Rearing up, she slammed her elbow into his ballocks.

“Gawd dammit, ye bitch.” He tossed her aside, and moaning, clutched his groin.

Hearty guffaws and gleeful hoots echoed round the thicket from the ten fierce men facing her.

Isobel scrambled backward until a tree’s solid trunk halted her. She tried to gather her wits, to commit as much to memory as she could.

Two swarthy Highland travellers stood beyond the Scotsmen. Expressions somber, their dark gazes swept her. A shimmer of kindness, or perhaps remorse, glinted in their eyes.

The tinkers
had
collaborated with the rebels.

She frowned. For certain, she’d seen these men before. Did they recognize her?

“Get the horses. Now.” The man named Angus plowed toward Isobel, sword in hand.

Two men scurried to do his bidding.

I’m going to die.

Petrified, Isobel swallowed convulsively.

Contorted in rage and marred by a ragged scar from his reddish-brown beard to the corner of his left eye, the man named Angus’s countenance rivaled that of demons she’d seen depicted in religious books.

Surely, she faced the devil himself.

His emotionless ebony gaze bore into her. Grabbing her hair, he hauled her to her feet.

Excruciating pain lanced her scalp, and Isobel cried out. She clutched at the large hand meshed in her hair.

“Shut up.” He gave her a violent shake and slapped her across the mouth.

Her head spun dizzily. Black spots danced before her eyes. Coppery bitterness met her tongue, even as a trail of blood trickled over her chin. She fought to stay conscious.

His hand fisted in her locks, the leader swung his baleful glare to the men. “Dunbar, be she the Farnsworth lass?”

Isobel bit her tongue to stifle her gasp, but a small sound escaped.

Oh, my God.

The leader threw her a piercing scowl.

She and Lydia vaguely resembled each other. Yet, anyone acquainted with either of them wouldn’t mistake one for the other. Isobel averted her face. If the travellers recognized her and gave her away, she was as good as dead.

“Dunbar, git yer arse up.” Angus pointed his sword at Isobel. “Be she the right wench?”

The man she’d landed upon struggled to stand. Hunkered over and holding his crotch, he glared at her. He shuffled to her and leisurely took her measure from boots to hair.

“
Aye
, Angus. She be the right size, and she be a
verra
bonnie lass.” He licked his lips, a lascivious glow in his pale-green eyes.

Isobel darted a glance at the others from the side of her eye.

To a man, they ogled her, lust engraved on their coarse features.

Trembling, she dropped her gaze.

Dunbar dared to grab a handful of hair and run his fingers through the strands. “She has dark hair too.”

She snatched her head away and glowered at him.

Wet, her hair appeared darker, but Lydia possessed rich sable hair.

“What of the woman out there?” Angus pointed his short sword in the moor’s direction.

Dunbar met Angus’s stare and shrugged.

“I
dinnae
ken
. Maybe she be one of the Fergusons? Craiglocky be full of young, bonnie women.” His lecherous gaze raked over Isobel once more. “We could take the other wench too. We’d have a
hoor
‘til we reach Dounnich.”

Base desire tinged his words.

Angus thrust his sword threateningly, the point resting on Dunbar’s Adam’s apple. “We be takin’ one woman only. And she better be the lass MacHardy paid for. Ye
ken
what’s at stake.”

Dunbar motioned to Isobel. “This one. She be wearin’ black like I be told she would.”

A traitor at Craiglocky? Her gaze clashed with Dunbar’s. “Who told you there—?”

“I told ye to shut up.” Angus swung his beefy fist.