Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (12 page)

Chapter 15

Isobel.

Yancy swung Skye toward the scream, intent on charging straight into the woods, caution be hanged. Moments later, eight roaring Scotsmen erupted from the trees.

Their plaids identified them as Blackhalls and MacGraths.

He threw off his hat. “Draw your weapons.”

Unbuttoning his coat with one hand, he quickly freed his sword with the other. Seconds later, one shaggy cur toppled from his saddle, an arrow deep in his chest.

Mouth gaping, Yancy speared his attention to Miss Farnsworth.
I’ll be damned
.

Stern concentration written on her face, she let fly with another arrow. Her nostrils flared as she hit her mark square on, and a man toppled to the ground.

Swords drawn, Alasdair and Ross flanked her while Gregor and Harcourt took positions beside Yancy. The men awaited his orders.

“Ross, Harcourt, get her out of here.” Yancy jabbed his sword at Miss Farnsworth. “Miss Farnsworth, go. Now. We’ll hold them off.”

“I can help.” She took aim once more, and with remarkable precision, sent a third Scot to hell.

“Dammit, woman, do as I say.” Yancy was having none of it. He already had one defiant woman to rescue. He didn’t need another.

Alasdair laid a hand on her arm. “Go, lass. I
canna
fight if I
ken
ye are in danger.”

Biting her lip, she gave a sharp nod.

“God keep you safe.” Her gaze swept everyone. “All of you.”

Harcourt grinned crookedly at Yancy. “I’m not leaving.”

The Scots bore down upon them.

Ross grabbed Miss Farnsworth’s reins and handed them to her. “Lydia, get movin’.”

With a final glance at the men charging across the moor, Miss Farnsworth and Ross spun their mounts about and thundered away.

Hunched low in her saddle, she glanced back at them. “We’ll send—”

The raging wind stole the rest of her words.

Sword raised, Yancy tore his attention from the oncoming menace and met Harcourt’s calm gaze. “I don’t trust Ross. Do you?”

Harcourt’s brows shot to a vee, and he twisted in his saddle to stare at his cousin’s retreating form.

“Blister it, I don’t either.” Sheathing his sword, he gave a sharp salute. “Try not to get yourself killed, Yancy.”

“Five to three. Seems unfair to me, brother.” Gregor waved his blade at the approaching men.

Not the best odds, nevertheless Yancy had wagered and won against far worse.

“
Aye
, but
dinnae
be mad at the lass for dispatchin’ three of the bloody scunners.” Alasdair winked at his twin. “She be tryin’ to help, not ruin our fun.”

Emitting battle cries wild enough to cause the hair on the back of Yancy’s neck to stand straight up, the McTavish brothers surged forward.

In the following frenzy, Yancy came to appreciate Sethwick’s kinsman all that much more. While he fought with a monstrous brute, they each cut down a bull of a man.

“Come on,
Sassenach
,” the Scot Yancy battled taunted. “Ye be
nae
match fer a Blackhall.”

“Perhaps, not in brute size.” Yancy nicked the behemoth’s forearm. “But since one of my ballocks is larger than your brain, the outcome is certain.”

The Scotsman growled and swung his weapon wildly.

Yancy’s slighter build enabled him to maneuver much quicker, and though repelling each of the Scot’s mighty blows threatened to dislocate Yancy’s shoulder, he waited for the opportune moment.

Sword raised high, a smug sneer splitting his broad face, the Scot lunged. “Say a prayer before I send ye to hell.”

“Better that you say one.” Yancy swiveled and sliced his blade neatly between the man’s ribs.

Astonishment swept the Blackhall’s face before his eyes glazed over. He crashed to the sodden earth, sending muddy spray in every direction.

Yancy spun to assist the McTavishs.

Both now battled on foot, their opponents every bit as huge as the enormous, grinning twins.

Dismounting, Yancy snatched his dirk and prepared to enter the fray should Alasdair or Gregor need help. He needn’t have bothered.

Less than a minute later, the remaining assailants lay staring into the tumultuous sky, rain pouring into their sightless eyes.

Dripping wet and spattered with blood and grime, the brothers laughed and embraced. With a final pat to the others back, they trudged to their horses.

Yancy scraped his sopping hair from his forehead and turned to do the same. They had been lucky. The Blackhalls and MacGraths had earned their reputations as merciless fighters.

A coarse shout sounded.

He spun around. A wounded Scot pointed a pistol at Gregor’s back.

“Gregor!” Yancy bolted toward the MacGrath.

Gregor whirled to face Yancy then dove to his left. The ball slammed into his side. He convulsed and collapsed.

With a flick of his wrist, Yancy sent his blade sailing into the renegade’s bullish neck.

Burn in hell.

Before the dead man plunged, face first, to the dirt, Yancy sprinted to Gregor.

Anguish chiseled on his face, Alasdair crouched above his brother, pressing his hands to Gregor’s crimson side.

Gregor lay ashen and unconscious. The nasty gash paralleling his hairline oozed blood. He’d collided with a rock when he fell.

Yancy dropped to his knees. “Is he . . .?”

Alasdair shook his head. Voice unsteady, he managed to mutter, “
Nae
, but I need to get him to the keep.”

Yancy yanked off his coat then his waistcoat. He unwrapped his cravat. “Here, we can use the waistcoat as a bandage and tie the neckcloth around his ribs.”

Once they’d secured the makeshift dressing, Yancy removed the blanket and basket from Alasdair’s saddle. He helped hoist Gregor onto the horse’s back.

Yancy retrieved Gregor’s mount. “Will he follow you, or do I need to tie him to the halter?”

“He’ll follow.” Arms wrapped around his brother, Alasdair frowned. “Yer not returnin’ to the castle?”

“No. Isobel’s out there, alone and no doubt terrified.” Yancy secured the basket and blanket to the rear of Skye’s saddle before swinging into the seat. He patted Alasdair’s shoulder. “Get your brother home, and ask Sethwick to send a search party.”

Yancy pointed Skye to the forest. “I’m going after her.”

Chapter 16

Isobel forced her leaden eyes open, regretting doing so instantly. Crushing agony hammered her skull and sent a wave of nausea scraping at her throat. She tried to swallow the burning bile, but a filthy cloth crammed into her mouth and tied behind her head made the task difficult.

Her face and lower lip ached. Memories hurtled to the forefront of her mind. She had been planted a facer by that fiend of a man. He’d yanked her hair, too, which explained the tenderness behind her head.

What had become of Yancy and the others? Were they dead?

A wave of guilt impaled her. The blame for endangering them rested upon her. Stinging tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as wrenching pain seared her chest with such brutal intensity, she feared she suffered a seizure.

She should have heeded him.

He hadn’t been trying to control her, but had been intent on keeping her safe. If only he and Ewan hadn’t been so protective and had told her their worries, she wouldn’t have been so stubborn.

Please, God, let them be safe. And, please, send someone to help me.

The renegades had dared to trespass onto Ewan’s lands, their intent murderous. Something powerful drove them to take such a monumental risk.

Oh God, they think I’m Lydia.

What would her abductors do when they discovered they had the wrong woman?

Isobel tried to swallow again, gagging on the rag. She had never been so thirsty in her life. Terror dried her parched mouth further. She tried touching her throbbing face and found her hands tied behind her.

Trussed up tighter than a Christmas goose
.

She shook her fingers and wrists, gasping as shards of pain streaked to her elbows.

A dank, earthy smell permeated the air. A gust of cold air speared her, and she shivered. She must be outdoors, and from the clammy material clinging to her, she would guess wet as fresh-washed fleece.

From the raucous chorus of frogs ebbing and flowing, a pond must be nearby. Another torrent of gut-wrenching fear slammed into her.

Did her abductors mean to defile her? She’d seen the hunger in Dunbar and the other Scots’ lascivious gazes. If they discovered she wasn’t Lydia, they would ravish her in less time than it took to butter bread.

Terror squeezed her ribs, and she couldn’t inhale.

No, she wouldn’t panic. Calmness and reason must be her weapons. If only she’d been conscious while they traveled, she would have an idea of her location and possible escape routes.

Forcing her body to relax, Isobel drew in a bracing breath and counted to ten, then exhaled bit by bit. She must keep her wits about her. She’d gotten into this mess; she may very well have to get out of it alone.

First, where was she?

Cracking an eyelid open, she surveyed her surroundings. She lay in a smallish cave—not much more than a hollow in the hillside—barely large enough to stretch full length in.

She carefully turned her head in the direction of the raspy murmur of male voices.

A few feet beyond the cavern’s entrance, her abductors sat before a fire eating what appeared to be roasted rabbit. A pair of drowsy horses stood tethered to a pine tree beside a trickling stream.

Where had the gypsies got to? And the other Scots?

Judging from the few stars visible between the pewter clouds and scraggy tree tops, night had long since fallen. The storm had passed while she’d been unconscious.

How far had they travelled? Avoiding the main roads and in foul weather, carrying an insensate woman, they couldn’t have covered more than ten miles.

One of her captors lifted a flask to his lips and took a long pull. He belched and passed wind.

Angus.

The other guffawed before tipping his flask and greedily gulping the contents.

Dunbar.

Stifling a groan, Isobel managed to roll onto her side. The tight cords binding her arms and legs tore the tender flesh. The renegades weren’t taking a chance that she would escape. She would have marks for days, perhaps even permanent scars.

Something tickled her palm. She released a weak screech and struggled to her knees. Brushing her hands together, she tried to dislodge the creature, doubtless a hairy spider or other repulsive, crawling pest the likes of which she didn’t want to imagine.

Angus swung his attention her way, his expression unreadable. After tearing a leg from the animal he’d been eating, he rose and withdrew a dirk from his belt.

Dunbar gave her a leering look and grabbed his crotch, bucking into his hand. He laughed and took a swig from his flask while stroking himself.

Drunken sod.

Palpable loathing and fear sluiced Isobel. She sat on her heels and winced as her numb legs protested the added weight.

Angus trudged up the gentle slope to the cave, rabbit leg in one hand, ugly blade in the other. Did he mean to dine while disposing of her?

He bent to enter the hollow, his large frame filling the space. The fetid odor of his grimy plaid, combined with body sweat and the rancid grease in his beard, sent her stomach reeling.

He smiled as if reading her thoughts and tossed the charred rabbit leg into her lap. “Turn around. I’ll cut yer hands loose.”

Isobel shuffled on her knees and presented her back.

The cold blade sliced through the rope binding her wrist. She cried out as feeling returned to her numb hands. A thousand hot, needle-fine, coals pricked her fingers.

“Eat. We ride in ten minutes.” Angus returned to the fire.

Plopping onto her bum, she rubbed her wrists until the most extreme pain receded. She untied the gag and flinched. The cloth tore at the dried blood caked at the corner of her mouth.

She ran her tongue along her teeth. All there and none seemed loose. Tentatively touching the tip to the sore area on her mouth, she encountered the split lip she’d expected.

Grimacing against her protesting muscles, she leaned forward and worked the knot securing her ankles free while covertly eyeing the two men.

They meant to ride at night.

Those tracking her would find trailing them more difficult, and she wouldn’t be able to commit the route they traveled to memory as easily.

An owl hooted, the echoes haunting and lonely.

She didn’t much care for owls. Not that she believed that nonsense about the birds being harbingers of death or that seeing one in daylight brought about bad luck.

Using the cavern wall for support, Isobel stood. Her ankle twinged after the violent connection with the brick-like chest of the Scot she’d kicked in the woods.

The forgotten rabbit leg rolled to the ground. Just as well. She doubted her rebelling stomach would retain anything solid.

Legs trembling, she swayed as lightheadedness engulfed her. Closing her eyes, she raised a shaky hand to her forehead. Female weakness be hanged. Gently probing her swollen cheek, she felt for broken bones.

God’s blood, her face and head hurt.

Had she suffered a concussion? If so, riding so soon was pure foolishness, but what choice had she?

She dared a tiny snort. These devils weren’t going to delay their journey because she ailed. Angus, no doubt, would flop her, belly down, behind one of the saddles and bind her hands and feet.

Imagine what that would do to her already-throbbing head and roiling stomach?

Gritty determination compelled her to the cave’s entrance.

The men paused and looked at her.

“Might I get a drink from the stream?” Afraid she would topple over, she didn’t dare point. “And I also need a moment of privacy.”

Mortification suffused her. Discussing something so intimate with complete strangers, especially men of their ilk, galled.

Dunbar released a lewd chuckle. “I’ll take ye into the bushes, lassie.”

Isobel dredged up a dark scowl. The man was a veritable pig, and she would like nothing better than to see him run through. Or mayhap, given the opportunity, she’d do it herself. Her ability to wield a blade brought her no shame.

My dagger.

Had the blade gone undetected, and remained snug in her boot? She wriggled her ankle the merest bit.

Yes.

Wisdom weighed against the urge to draw the weapon at once.

Wait. You’ll not get two chances, and you cannot take on both of these barbarians at once.

“Those will suffice.” She inclined her head the tiniest bit in the direction of some shoulder-high shrubberies across the narrow creek.

“
Shite
, now I be playin’ lady’s maid.” Angus rose once more. Grumbling, he strode to the horses where he retrieved a length of rope.

Feeling slightly stronger, Isobel wobbled a few steps beyond the cave. The night air, though brisk, did much to revive her. As did the knowledge her dagger lay within her boot.

The owl hooted again, its eerie call sending a shiver skittering across her shoulders.

She clasped her hands to her middle. “Where are you taking me?”

Ripping a piece of meat with his teeth, Dunbar jerked his hand to the north. “Home, for now.”

Angus returned, uncoiling the rope. “Lift yer arms.”

She reluctantly raised them. “What do you intend to do?”

“This.” He looped the line about her waist.

Rigid as Mrs. Bracegirdle’s back during Sunday sermons, Isobel flattened her lips and stared past his shoulder as his chest pressed into hers—deliberately, she would vow.

After giving a final tug, he pulled several arms’ length of rope free of the coil.

“Go on with ye.”

Isobel fingered the rough restraint, anger and disbelief tempering her speech. “You actually mean to tether me while I get a drink and relieve myself?”

“
Aye
, if ye want privacy. Or else I be lettin’ Dunbar escort ye.” A vile chuckle rumbled from him.

Cretin.

Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin and proceeded to pick her way behind some low-lying shrubs bordering the pathetic excuse of a stream. Nothing like exposing her bum for the world to see.

Once she’d taken care of her personal business—almost toppling onto her face twice from dizziness—she crouched before the brook and scooped water into her mouth. The cold liquid tasted wonderful, and she drank her fill.

Dampening her cloak’s edge, she attempted to gingerly wash her face. Without a looking glass, she couldn’t be certain she’d cleansed away the blood, but the cool water should help reduce the swelling.

Gently patting her cut lip, she glanced to the fire.

The men, absorbed in an intense, whispered conversation—or perhaps an argument—gestured toward her every now and again.

Angling her back, she tore a strip from her chemise. She hung the shred on a branch out of their sight then quickly arranged a few hand-sized rocks into an arrow pointing north.

“Aren’t ye done yet, fer God’s sake?” Angus tugged the rope, his harsh voice cutting through the night.

Holding the last stone, Isobel froze. “Yes, I’m coming.”

She took a couple of steps, shaking out her skirt and cloak to distract them.

A few moments later, after dousing the fire, Angus mounted his horse.

Dunbar reached for her. “Up ye go, lass.”

Isobel swatted his hands away.

“I’m not riding with you. I shall walk.” She gathered her wrap closer and marched past him only to jolt to a stop when the rope cut into her stomach.

Angus dangled his end, a cruel grin curving his mouth. “
Nae
, ye
wilna
walk. Ye look like ye’ll topple if ye sneeze. It be nigh on fifty miles to Dounnich, and we be in a hurry.”

He’d revealed their destination.

So typical of men, underestimating a woman. She might not have traveled much, but she’d studied maps aplenty. A few more clues and she would determine her exact location.

He leaned frontward and rested his forearm on his saddle. “Either ye let him lift ye before me lass, or ye ride with him. It be yer choice.”

Hands fisted and teeth clamped, Isobel stamped to Angus. She had no choice. Riding with Dunbar put her virtue at serious risk, even atop a horse. He would molest her the entire journey.

Dunbar shambled forward. Scooping her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a bairn, he seized the opportunity to paw her breast and thigh. Fondling her bottom, he planted her sideways on Angus’s horse.

“Get your filthy hands off me.” Isobel swung her legs at his chest.

He leaped away, a lecherous promise in his disturbing gaze.

Both men guffawed.

“I can mount a horse myself, gentlemen.” Shoulders stiffened in rage, she wished them a speedy journey to the lowest level of hell.

“We be no gentlemen, lass, and I
winna
deny Dunbar his bit o’ fun. Or me either.” Angus buried his face in her hair. He snuffled loudly and groped her breasts. “Ye smell like spring and flowers.”

You smell like something died and took up residence in your ratty beard.