Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (19 page)

Ewan swung to Yancy. “Ramsbury, will you take Isobel as your wife?”

She whirled to confront Ewan. “That is beyond the pale, Ewan. Just stop. Now.”

If she had her parasol, she would whack him, the overbearing, interfering arse.

“I will.” His unblinking gaze trained on her, Yancy stared into her soul. “And I do.”

God, how she wished he weren’t being forced to marry her, wished he’d actually chosen to ask her, wished he hadn’t compromised Matilda and promised to marry the girl.

If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.

“Isobel, please, say you’ll take Ramsbury as your husband.” A pleading tone entered Ewan’s voice. He truly was desperate to protect her. Her heart thawed a degree. Bless him and his misguided efforts.

All she had to do was say yes. Simple as that. Under Scottish law, she and Yancy would be legally married.

“I know what you are trying to do, Ewan, and though I appreciate the sentiment behind it, you overstep the bounds.” Heavy of heart and foot, Isobel turned her back. She’d disappointed them and all but obliterated any prospect for her future happiness. Everything had gone to hell in a handcart.

She couldn’t bear to glance Yancy’s way, or she would burst into tears. At the off-kilter door, she held her breath, her eyes and mouth pressed into tight lines, as she struggled for control.

She didn’t want the men outside to see her in a state, nor could she remain inside where any moment, her composure would crumble like a month-old ginger biscuit.

“Isobel?” Softly treading footsteps approached. Yancy turned her to face him.

No, don’t say it. Don’t ask me, I beg of you.

Don’t make me deny the thing I want most in the world.

He cupped her face, forcing her to meet his troubled eyes. “Will you marry me?”

She swallowed as a tear seeped from the corner of one eye. “I cannot.”

Bending nearer, he searched her eyes, his gaze tender. He caressed her chin with his thumb. “Why?”

The door burst open, smacking her hard and shoving her into Yancy’s arms. His scent and arms engulfed her simultaneously.

Kinley, breathless, sweaty, and smelling of horse, tromped into the cottage. “Riders be approachin’, movin’ fast, and bearin’ MacHardy’s colors.”

Chapter 24

“Please do exactly as I ask, Isobel. MacHardy is as ruthless as the men who took you.” One hand on Isobel’s elbow, Yancy led the group from the hut. He firmed his grip on her arm. “Do you understand? Promise me.”

Her turquoise gaze probing, she scrutinized his face. What did she seek?

“I promise.”

Easing from his clasp, she stepped away. A mantel of despair shrouded her, evident in her bowed head and slumped shoulders.

Drizzle seeped from the dreary morning sky, shadowing the glade laden in foggy grayness. Two score brawny Scots, heavily armed and alert, sat mounted and awaiting orders.

How the hell had he not heard
that
entourage arrive?

An entire bottle of whisky, that’s how
.

The crushing pain in his skull threatened to cross his eyes. No more than he deserved for such overindulgence.

Skye, along with several other saddled horses, shuffled restlessly. The horseflesh seemed as eager to be done with this business and return home as he.

And Isobel, for certain.

He ventured a glimpse toward her.

Regal as a queen, her delicate features outwardly composed, tumult simmered within the depths of her eyes. Placing her hood over her head, she shifted away from his scrutiny and stared into the mossy trees. She had fared the worst of all of them, and given this morning’s ill-fated events, the conundrum hadn’t fully played out.

By God, if she didn’t accept his suit—

Not now.

Yancy shoved her rejection and his dismay accompanying her rebuff to an isolated corner of his mind. Later, at his leisure, he would examine them. More pressing matters demanded his attention. MacHardy’s brazenness didn’t bode well.

He sought the Scot who’d brought the news. “What are the baron’s numbers, and how far away are they, Mister—?”

“Kinley, yer lordship.” Hand on his belt, the Scot bobbed his head respectfully. “Fourteen men, and they be two miles, maybe a wee bit more to the northeast.”

“Dugall, please help your sister mount.” Yancy stopped himself short of ordering McTavish to put Isobel on Skye. “She’s to ride with you.”

Isobel hurried to do as he bid, a mite more eagerly than he liked.

Yancy turned to face Sethwick. “I trust you dealt with the Blackhalls?”

“Yes.” Sethwick sent a guarded glance to his sister. “We won’t have any more difficulties from that quarter.”

He slipped a dirk into his boot. “Other than a few ambitious fools possessing more bravado than common sense, the rest dropped their weapons swifter than hot pokers pressed to their nether regions the moment we stormed the gates.”

“The majority of the scunners be threatened and coerced into doin’ Blackhall’s biddin’.” Sir Hugh stretched his arms overhead then flexed his wide shoulders. “They be havin’
nae
more desire for a conflict with other clans or England than we do.”

“They were eager to cooperate, and in return, I gave them my word the Crown wouldn’t seek retribution.” Sethwick adjusted his plaid before tightening the belt at his waist.

Fingering the silver buttons on his coat, Yancy considered Sethwick. The man’s diplomatic skills were legendary, as was his temper. “That was wise and a far better way to earn men’s loyalty then trying them for treason. What of the MacGraths and Claustons?”

Sethwick actually smiled as he swept his dark hair off his forehead before placing his tam atop his head. “Except for a few rogue malcontents, the other tribes weren’t involved in the unrest. Angus Blackhall and MacHardy contrived the whole scheme to get Tornbury lands.”

“
Aye
. A few stolen plaids and strategically bandyin’ some names about had people convinced the MacGraths and Claustons be aligned with Dounnich House.” Sir Hugh hitched up his trews, his thoughtful gaze focused on Isobel. Lines of worry creased his forehead. He fretted for his daughter.

Sethwick grunted and kicked a pinecone. “Angus was an idiot for believing MacHardy would share an inch of Tornbury or that there’d be no reprisal if the baron had succeeded in marrying Miss Farnsworth.”

Yancy rubbed his sore nape and smothered a yawn. He didn’t favor sleeping on the floor and neither did his aching muscles. “You’re saying MacHardy contrived the entire rebellion rumor so he could get his grubby hands on Tornbury’s lands?”

Dammit, what kind of blind chucklehead didn’t suspect that very thing? In hindsight, the ploy was as glaring as Prinny in his puce cutaway and breeches. A feudal baron, MacHardy’s greed for land knew no bounds.

Had love done that to Yancy, distracted and jumbled his mind to the point he couldn’t perform his duties? Self-castigation stabbed him.

Fool
.

Both Sethwick and Sir Hugh nodded. A hint of compassion shone in the latter’s dark eyes, but Sethwick’s gaze remained coolly aloof.

“What maggot got into MacHardy’s head? To take that kind of a colossal risk for grazing land and pristine water?” Yancy snorted. “Bloody imbecile.”

“Seems gold be discovered a wee while back.” Pursing his mouth, Sir Hugh’s face crinkled with a squint as if trying to recall when. “I heard rumors a year ago, meself. Farnsworth tried to keep it close to his chest, but news of that kind
canna
stay hidden
verra
long.”

Gold?

All this chaos because of greed?

A muscle in Yancy’s jaw jumped with suppressed rage. Men died yesterday, though the renegades deserved their fate. Gregor’s life hung in the balance, perhaps had been forfeited, and Yancy’s hope of winning Isobel may have been crushed to dust.

For what? So men could line their pockets?

“Our few wounded are en route to Craiglocky.” Sethwick’s announcement jolted Yancy back to the present.

“What of Angus and Dunbar?” Perched atop Dugall’s massive beast, Isobel’s quiet question echoed loudly through the clearing. Strain pinched her pretty face.

Every gaze swung to her.

Sethwick’s features softened. “Dead. You’ve nothing to fear from them ever again, Isobel. Neither does Lydia.”

Her countenance revealed neither relief nor joy at the news, but rather resignation. She idly toyed with the horse’s mane. “Tasara and her brother and sister?”

“Safe and on their way back to the gypsy encampment with their father.” Harcourt offered the information.

Something in his voice alerted Yancy. He eyed the duke. Harcourt appeared inordinately absorbed in a blob of mud on the toe of his usually shiny boot.

Sethwick grinned as if he was privy to an amusing secret. “There’s a tale you must hear.”

A flush stole up Harcourt’s face, and the glower he shot Sethwick would have laid out a lesser man.

Several Scots snickered.

Yancy gave them a stern stare. “Another time, perhaps.”

No
perhaps
about it. Harcourt didn’t color. Come to think of it, he did seem rather subdued. Just how had he acquired his bruised eye?

That would have to wait. More important matters loomed. “Harcourt, take all but half a dozen men and conceal yourselves amongst the trees. Miss Ferguson goes as well.”

Isobel opened her mouth, probably to protest, but snapped it shut at the severe look Yancy sent her. Good. She intended to keep her word.

He inspected Sethwick’s men. Better trained than His Majesty’s Army, he would wager. They might very well need to put their skills to use again. “Once MacHardy’s party arrives, watch for me to mount. That’s your cue to surround them.”

With a stiff inclination of his head, Harcourt wordlessly slung onto his steed then led the others into the surrounding wood. Within moments, they had vanished into the grayness.

The day’s gloom and poor visibility provided a perfect covering. MacHardy wouldn’t realize he was outnumbered and entrapped until too late. Likely the sod hadn’t figured on Sethwick outriding him and overtaking Yancy and Isobel before the baron did.

Sethwick must have ridden throughout the night to reach them—a testament to his tracking skills and devotion to his sister.

Five minutes later, the baron thundered through the forest and into the opening. With a cruel yank on the reins, his horse skidded to a stop, spraying Yancy with globs of filth.

Eyes rolling, the bay flicked his ears and swung its head, mouthing the bit. MacHardy had hurt the animal, the cawker.

Upon seeing Sethwick and the McTavish clansmen assembled, MacHardy’s bushy eyebrows launched to his hairline. He schooled his features and pointed at Yancy’s mud-splattered clothing, guffawing. “Ye should have moved, yer lordship. Yer natty togs be ruined.”

“What brings you to these parts, MacHardy?” Giving the Scot a cursory glance, Yancy brushed a speck of muck off his forearm. “And why the large escort?”

He motioned to the motley men accompanying the baron.

MacHardy’s crafty gaze roamed the area. A sneer bent his mouth, and he rested his elbow on the saddle. “I came to find ye. To demand justice.”

“Justice? I find it rather odd you would seek me here”—Yancy jabbed a thumb at the hut—“and not at Craiglocky. Why, pray tell, is that?” He quite enjoyed baiting the liar.

“Cause yer that fat, royal turd in London’s lackey, that be why.” Hatred etched across the planes of his face as the baron pointed a grimy finger at Sethwick. “McTavish attacked Dounnich House, killin’ several loyal Scots. I had me spies embedded there aidin’ in catchin’ the Blackhalls, MacGraths, and Claustons conspirin’ to revolt against the crown.”

Yancy slanted his head and crossed his arms. “Are you claiming to be an agent
provocateur, that you’ve compiled evidence against the disgruntled Scottish clans for His Highness, ‘The fat, royal turd?’”

The glade erupted in hearty laughter.

Yancy gathered Skye’s reins and clicked his tongue. “And here I naïvely assumed you pursued Miss Farnsworth and had no idea Sethwick arrived before you.”

“What game be ye playin’, Ramsbury?” Reaching beneath his kilt to rearrange his privates, the baron surveyed the clearing again. “Where be the chit?”

Yancy shoved his foot into the stirrup, and with a curt nod, swung into the saddle. “Lydia Farnsworth never left Craiglocky lands.”

Let the bastard stew on that.

Except for the barest flinch, MacHardy remained stoic.

Sethwick and the others mounted. They pointedly encircled MacHardy, isolating him from his men.

“Your hirelings made a grave error. Have you any idea what that might have been?” Sword drawn and daggers shooting from his eyes, Sethwick edged his stallion forward.

“No, I can see by your face, you haven’t a clue.” With his sword tip, he deftly severed a button from the Scot’s coat. “The lackwits you hired abducted
my sister
.”

MacHardy gave his reins a reflexive jerk, and his mount sidestepped nervously. The baron’s shrewd eyes thinned to slits as he exchanged a speaking glance with his second in command. A chorus of swords swished from his soldiers’ sheaths.

“That be a grave accusation, and I be takin’ exception to such a foul charge. I had nothin’ to do with any abduction.” Rage contorted MacHardy’s features as he shook his fist. “I should call ye out, McTavish.”

“But you won’t.” Sethwick’s silky tone belied the wrath in his eyes. He rotated his sword in a small figure-eight. “We both know I would choose swords, and my skill with a blade is far superior to yours. Besides, if anyone is a hoggish piece of
shite
, it’s you. I wouldn’t give you three minutes against me, MacHardy.”

The baron’s jaw worked for moment. His fists clenched as he met Sethwick and Yancy’s sardonic grins. He spat and wiped his mouth with his forearm then stiffened as Sethwick’s men emerged from the woods.

“What be the meanin’ of this?” The baron’s vulture-like eyes narrowed. “Ye be in this together, Ramsbury? The Regent would be interested to hear ye be exploitin’ yer position and power.”

Yancy rubbed his nape again. “Actually, that sounds rather like what you’ve been doing, MacHardy. I doubt Prinny will be eager to hear of your treachery.”

“Ye have
nae
proof.” Some of MacHardy’s swagger evaporated. He licked his lips, and his gaze darted about the clearing. “There’s
nae
a man alive who can speak against me.”

“Perhaps, no man can, Sir Gwaine, but I most assuredly can.” Riding behind Dugall, Isobel’s high color added to her exquisite beauty. She speared the baron with an unpitying glare. “And have no doubt, I shall, with pleasure.”

MacHardy snorted and gave a dismissive flutter of his fat fingers. “The word of a tarnished wench? Worthless.”

Yancy sidled his horse nearer. If his position as War Secretary didn’t demand he act with judiciousness, he’d spit the bugger where he sat. Instead, he planted MacHardy a solid facer, knocking him from his saddle.

Yancy guided Skye to the prone bastard.

The horse quivered and raised his head, curling his lip. He blew out a breath. Seemed he didn’t care for the baron’s putrid stench either.

Sir Gwaine struggled to a sitting position and using the back of his hand, daubed at the blood trailing from his split lip.

Yancy leaned over. “Oh, I believe Prinny will be most interested in hearing what Miss Ferguson has to say. She is, after all, the sister of one of his favorite peers and my intended.”