Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (16 page)

Now wasn’t the time to think of that. More than her life hung in the balance. She must make good her escape for the Faas’s sake too.

Once more, she clambered onto a window ledge. “Are you sure you are strong enough to lower me? I could try to slide down the rope.”

Tasara already busied herself wrapping the crude rope around a bedpost. “I’ll use the post for leverage.”

Isobel gave one sharp nod, not trusting herself to speak.

God, if you let me survive this, I shall never seek an adventure again.

Chapter 20

God’s bones!

Yancy gaped, unable to believe Isobel dangled outside the castle from a . . . He squinted. He had no idea what the mismatched glomeration she hung from consisted of.

Isobel would get
herself killed
.

Silly, brave fool.

His heart kicked viciously behind his ribs, threatening to crack them, one by one, as every ounce of blood he possessed pooled in his boots. Did all the Ferguson sisters wish to send the men who loved them to an early grave?

Leaning from her window, the gypsy helped Isobel. She slowly eased the pathetic excuse for a rope encircling Isobel along the keep’s side.

Yancy spun to the traveller. “Balcomb, do you have a horse? Do you know where the village is?”

Eyes wide and worried, his gaze fixed on Isobel, the gypsy swallowed and jerked his head up and down.

“Look for Viscount Sethwick. Tell him what’s happened. He’s a friend.” He yanked his signet ring from his finger. “Give him this.”

Yancy sprinted to Skye.

And please, God, let Sethwick be there.

Yancy leapt into the saddle, his focus trained on the blue form inching down the castle on the improvised rope. “So help me God, Isobel, I shall spank that luscious bum of yours myself.”

Yancy kicked Skye’s sides, and they burst,
ventre a terre
, belly to ground, from the woods. His pulse beating every bit as loudly as the horse’s hooves pounding beneath him, he mouthed a silent prayer. With every heartbeat, he expected Isobel to plummet to the ground. And he wouldn’t be there to catch her.

Anyone could see him tearing like a man possessed across the moor. It mattered not. Isobel’s life literally hung in balance. Jaw clenched so tight his back teeth ached, he thundered toward her.

He must reach her in time.

She used her feet to keep from knocking into the rugged exterior while holding on to the rope. Every now and again, she would look upward as if speaking to the gypsy. As she neared the first floor level, the cloth under her arms gave way.

Her terrified shriek raked across his heart.

I’m not going to make it.

Yancy gnashed the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood to check the cry that surged to his lips. If he startled Isobel, she might let go.

Kicking her legs, she clutched the swinging rope with one hand. She swung precariously and slammed into the keep’s stones. Somehow, she managed to grasp the cord with her other hand.

The air surged from Yancy’s lungs. By God, if she survived this, he would shake her until her perfect teeth rattled. And afterward, he would hug her until she squealed, and then kiss her breathless.

She wouldn’t leave his sight again, and once they had married, he vowed she would curtail this rebellious bent. She would be too exhausted from his constant bedding to entertain risky ideas of any sort.

Practically lying in the saddle, Yancy urged the gelding, “Come on, Skye. Faster.”

As if sensing his master’s alarm, the horse lengthened his strides, flying across the heath.

Almost there
.

All at once, dread frozen on her face, Isobel peered over her shoulder. Her eyes grew round as twin moons. A large purplish-blue bruise covered most of one cheek and dried blood congealed on her split and swollen lower lip.

So great was Yancy’s urge to kill, his gut knotted tighter than a hangman’s noose, and a red haze blinded him.

“Yancy.” Isobel smiled, that dazzling, mind-numbing curving of bow-shaped lips that rendered a man incapable of coherent thought.

Arms outstretched, he rode underneath her. “Let go. I’ll catch you.”

“No, I am too heavy.” She shook her head, eyes now squeezed tight as a pickpocket’s fist. “I’m not a small woman, and I’ll hurt you.”

“Damn it, Isobel. Let go! We’ve got mere minutes to flee.” He softened his voice. “I promise, darling, you’re not large at all, and I’ll not let you fall.”

Her pink mouth formed an ‘
O
’ of surprise. She released the rope and plopped in an ungraceful tangle of skirts into his lap.

Yancy seized her in his arms and planted a fierce, possessive kiss on her unbruised cheek. Cupping her face, he rested his forehead against hers.

“So help me God, Isobel, I lost twenty years from my life in the past few days, and ten of those in the last couple of minutes alone.”

“You are alive.” Bursting into tears, she twined her arms around his neck and buried her face in his throat. “You are really alive.”

He folded her into his embrace, breathing her in.

Violent sobs wracked her as her tears soaked his neckcloth. “I thought you had been killed.”

He kissed her hair, savoring the gift of holding her in his arms. Wonder rendered him mute. Had she grieved for him? The rope thumped Yancy atop the head, and he craned his neck upward.

“As joyous as your reunion is, you must go.” Balcomb’s daughter peered over the ledge. “Someone could come at any moment. Please hide the rope.”

She pointed behind Skye. “Isobel’s cloak is just there.”

With a quick kiss to her nose, Yancy shifted Isobel off his lap. He turned her face to his and stared into her glistening eyes. “Stay on the horse, but scoot back and sit astride.”

She gave a tiny nod and managed a wan smile.

He dismounted and after gathering the rope, ran to Isobel’s wrap. In less than a minute, he returned and shoved everything into her arms. He vaulted into the saddle then peered upward once more.

“Miss Faas, your father has gone for help. Isobel’s brother is coming.” Yancy swung Skye away from the castle. “We cannot wait for him. It’s too dangerous.”

A child’s cry echoed within the chamber.

“God go with you.” With a wave, she disappeared inside.

“Isobel, hold on tight. We ride hard. We’ll rid ourselves of the rope, and you can put your cloak on once we’ve put some distance behind us.”

She obediently clasped her arms around his waist. Her breasts, pressing into his back, created a lovely, but unwanted, distraction.

With a click of his tongue and a kick of his heels to Skye’s sides, they plunged toward the forest. Any second, he expected to hear a cry of alarm or feel a lead ball pierce his flesh. Fear of discovery looming mile after frantic mile, Yancy pushed Skye to the end of the faithful horse’s endurance.

The heavens opened up. Though the shower was short-lived, the torrential rains soaked them through. As if contrite for their poor behavior earlier, the clouds then drifted apart and allowed the moon and stars to emerge.

The meager light they provided permitted him to travel far into the night. Hours later, utterly exhausted, Yancy searched for a place to stop to rest.

No warning had sounded as they raced from Blackhall lands, and as near as he could tell, no one trailed them. Hopefully, that meant Sethwick had stormed the stronghold and killed the bastards who’d abducted Isobel.

Still, wisdom decreed caution. Sethwick mightn’t have arrived, in which case, until Yancy had Isobel nestled safely at Craiglocky again, he feared for their lives. The greater distance he put between Dounnich House and them, the better.

Snuggled against his back, Isobel shivered.

They had discarded the rope over a cliff and eaten the bread and cheese while moving. Hunger gnawed, but he refrained from breaking into the last of his stores.

“They thought I was Lydia.” Isobel shifted and pressed closer. “Somebody at Craiglocky helped them.”

She had to be freezing. He certainly was. Then her words registered. “At Craiglocky? Do you have any idea who?”

“No, but there were two travellers with the men who captured me. Somehow, all this ties in with Tasara, the gypsy girl.” She sneezed then sneezed again. “Excuse me.”

“Bless you.” Had Isobel caught a chill?

“MacHardy’s behind my abduction.” Shaking, she snuggled closer. “He intended to force Lydia into marrying him for Tornbury’s lands.”

Yancy stiffened, ire heating his blood, but he forced a calm response. “I deduced as much.”

“But Angus—I don’t know his surname—he betrayed MacHardy and decided to marry me—that is—Lydia himself. He’d arranged for the ceremony to take place tonight.”

Yancy choked back a foul oath. “God’s blood, if I had been any later.”

“But you weren’t. You saved me.” She tightened her embrace. “I wouldn’t have gotten far on foot and when Angus learned who I was—”

An incoherent sound, part oath, part snarl escaped Yancy.

Isobel burrowed tighter to his back, trembling harder. “He’s evil, Yancy. He would have killed me and not blinked twice.”

Such dread choked her voice, he almost missed her calling him by his given name. Aching to hold her in his arms and erase her fear, he brought Skye to a halt. Had they traveled far enough? Did they dare stop for a few hours’ rest?

Skye groaned.

They must. The horse could carry them no farther. Yancy loved the beast too much to risk killing him in their flight. “I had hoped to find some sort of shelter, but my horse is done in. We’ll have to make do under the trees. I have blankets and the rain has ceased.”

For now.
One could acquire a fortune wagering on rainfall in Scotland as autumn approached. “I should warn you. The squirrels in these parts are crotchety little buggers.”

Isobel giggled and leaned away. The sudden wave of coolness assaulting his spine left him feeling oddly bereft. “We came this way. Around the next bend, although it’s obscured from the path, I am certain I saw a thatched roof. We passed through at night, but there are farms and hunting cottages, even an inn or two, scattered throughout this area.”

Weariness laced her words, yet not a word of complaint had escaped her lips.

“I stayed in a hunting cottage one night. The place proved quite quaint.” Yancy clucked his tongue and gently kneed Skye’s sides.

Head low, the horse shambled onward.

“That’s a faithful chap.” Yancy patted the gelding’s shoulder. “Not much farther, boy.”

Isobel continued to amaze him with her fortitude and gumption, and yes, vex the hell out of him at times too.

He would have thought she would be too traumatized to take note of their whereabouts. He had gotten turned about more than once. Truth be known, poking about in the woods wasn’t his strong suit. He wound up chasing his own tail half the time; a mite humiliating for a man in his position.

“Isobel, how is it you are able to remember the path your abductors took?”

She chuckled, the sultry sound winding round his senses in a pleasant, although distracting manner. “I remember practically every detail I see and can conjure an almost exact image in my mind.”

“Indeed?” She was quite the most fascinating female of his acquaintance.

“Uh-hum.” Mumbling sleepily, she hunched into his spine. “Yancy, what happened to the others? Why are you alone?”

More than cold shook her voice.

Yancy hesitated to tell her of Gregor since he didn’t know her cousin’s condition or if he survived. “Everyone returned to the castle to alert Sethwick.”

Not precisely the truth but Isobel didn’t need more to worry about. Their circumstances were precarious at best.

“And you set out after me alone?” She flattened her hands against his ribs.

The heat of her palms wreaked havoc with his already-overstimulated desire. His muscles jumped, and his manhood flexed against the saddle.

“I couldn’t chance losing the Scots’ trail.” What he wanted to say was,
I couldn’t chance losing you
, but feared her reaction.

“That was most valiant of you.” Her soft response revealed little.

After a few more minutes of riding in silence, Isobel pointed over his shoulder. “Just there, to the right beyond that outcrop of trees.”

Yancy laughed aloud at the welcome sight. The same humble hut he’d made use of loomed before them. “My lady, Bronwedon Towers never held as much appeal.”

“Bronwedon Towers?” She yawned and perched her chin on his shoulder.

“My principle estate in Suffolk. My stepmother and her niece are in residence there at the moment.” Did he imagine it, or did Isobel stiffen and pull away?

After they dismounted, he untied the bundle behind the saddle. Taking Isobel’s elbow, he guided her to the entrance. “Wait here while I light a candle, in case some creature has decided to make this home since I was last here.”

“Of course.” Teeth chattering, Isobel tugged her wrap tighter and stared into the darkness.

Skye heaved a gusty breath, no doubt eager to be rid of the saddle.

Moments later, Yancy had a crooked taper glowing. He lit another before placing the first on a flat, wax-covered rock protruding from the chimney specifically for that purpose.

Clutching her cloak closed, Isobel hurried into the cottage and glanced around curiously. Face drawn and lips firmed together, her shoulders slumped with fatigue. She resembled a sodden kitten with her scraggly hair and woebegone eyes.

Her poor, beautiful face, all puffy and discolored. What kind of a bastard struck a woman, especially in the face? The cawker might have broken her jaw or cheekbone.

She swayed slightly. How she remained standing was beyond him, for he could scarcely find the energy to attend to Skye.

“I shall get a fire started as soon as I see to my horse.” He pointed to the shelves. “Linens are stacked there. Get that wet cloak off and dry your hair.”