Cates, Kimberly (4 page)

"I don't play games!"

"What else do you call battles set up for your entertainment? Men breaking their necks to prove their courage to you, cutting each other down in duels?"

His accusation affected her like the nettles she'd wandered into as a child, stinging, biting until she squirmed inwardly. "How could you possibly know about—" She choked off the question, glaring at him, but all her resolve couldn't keep telltale heat from spilling into her cheeks.

"I've been in society enough to have heard all about you. You're quite notorious, in fact."

Rachel swallowed hard. When she had jested about her challenge with the other officers, it had all seemed incredibly amusing, delightfully mischievous. How could this nobody—this cowardly rebel—make her feel almost ashamed?

She struck back the only way she knew how. "Perhaps you know me, but I hadn't a clue you even existed until I came to Scotland. But then, a coward and rebel would hardly have moved in the same circles as Lord General de Lacey's daughter."

"No. That was one misery I was spared. But for the time being, Mistress de Lacey, you and I are going to have to come to an understanding. You aren't holding court among a battalion of besotted men now, you are a guest of the Glen Lyon. If you abide by my rules, you will be released not much the worse for your little adventure. Defy me, and you invite ugly consequences."

She gave a scornful laugh to cover up her disquiet at the fierce intensity that suddenly shimmered in his hooded eyes, an intensity that made her forget first impressions of clumsiness and ineptitude, leaving behind the aura of a sleepy lion—currents of danger buried deep.

The trembling in her hands intensified, and she knotted them into fists, her nails cutting crescents deep into her soft palms. "Nothing you can say will ever make me bow to the will of a poltroon like you," she sneered. "My papa, the general, would rise up from his very grave if I ever resorted to such behavior."

She had meant to mock him, to anger him. She had meant to drive back her own chill fear. But something stole into the man's eyes, an ember of understanding that made Rachel want to turn away from that probing gaze that saw too much.

In a heartbeat, that odd spark of understanding vanished, the Glen Lyon's voice cold as winter-kissed steel. "Your betrothed made the error of underestimating me. Don't make the same mistake. In the months since Prestonpans, this coward has learned ruthlessness from a master. I'll do whatever I have to do to force you to submit while you're in captivity.
Whatever
I have to, Mistress de Lacey. And as you can see, my little band of outlaws will be creatively helpful in their suggestions."

"What kind of monster are you? They're children.
Children!"

"I try to help them remember that." Storms whipped up in his eyes—gray and blue tempests of something like despair. Then his gaze hardened until she felt it like a dirk blade pressed against her throat.

"Mistress de Lacey, your stay here can be as comfortable or as miserable as you choose to make it. But if you do anything—
anything
—to upset those children, I swear this will be the most hellish month of your life."

"I hardly expected it to be anything else! The only question is
why.
Why kidnap me? What do you expect to get in return?"

"Perhaps the pleasure of humiliating your betrothed. Or perhaps the harbor at Cairnleven cleared of the bastard's soldiers."

"Why clear the harbor? So you and your loathsome rebels can skulk away with your tails between your legs?"

"Absolutely. My loathsome rebels will leave Scotland with the satisfaction of knowing that we've brought the bastard to his knees."

"Sir Dunstan would die a thousand deaths before he allowed a miscreant like you to bring him to his knees. You're not going to get away with this, no matter what you threaten to do to me! The British army doesn't strike deals with traitors!"

"Then I suppose we will be stuck with each other, Mistress de Lacey." He looked about as pleased with the prospect as she felt. "Of course, I suppose I could dig through the
Cowardly Villain Handbook
to find out the procedure for ridding oneself of an unwanted hostage. Now, I have an appointment with your betrothed. There is the small matter of laying out terms for your safe release."

He spun on his heel and stalked from the makeshift chamber. The oaken door slammed shut behind him, and Rachel heard the heavy, scraping sound of a thick wooden bar sliding into place, imprisoning her in the echoing silence alone.

She stumbled to the desk where he'd been sitting, and sank down onto the chair, despair coursing through her in debilitating waves. She bit her lip, hard. She was tired, bone-weary, soul-deep.

And frightened.

The words whispered through her consciousness, despite her efforts to crush them. His threat to research a way to rid himself of a hostage had dripped with sarcasm. And yet, would that bitter humor disappear when the Glen Lyon discovered she was right?

The soldiers might rip Scotland apart searching for her, yet they had been searching for the Glen Lyon for over a year and had never found his lair. It was possible that they might never find her. In time, despite her station as general's daughter, the troops would have to turn their attention back to issues of more pressing national concern. They would be forced to abandon her as one more casualty of war, because their honor would never—
never
—allow them to bow to the demands of someone like the Glen Lyon.

"Oh God, Papa," she whispered, "what am I going to do?" It wasn't a whimper, but it was close enough to appall her.

She could almost see her father's thick white brows crash together in a formidable scowl, those piercing general's eyes drilling her with disapproval.

A soldier never wastes energy on fear, girl. If he is captured by the enemy, it is the soldier's duty to escape, even if it costs him his last drop of blood.

Rachel's chin bumped up a notch. Papa was right. Only a weakling or a fool would sob in a corner, waiting for someone else to rescue her. If the army couldn't help her, then she would bloody well find a way to save herself.

The resolution sent renewed strength surging through her aching limbs. Her gaze scanned the chamber. She was about to cross to the splintered chest against the wall, to search for something to use against her captors, when she saw it, half buried among the litter upon the desk's battered surface: blue-black metal, polished to a deadly sheen.

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

Thunder in heaven! The man
is
a complete idiot!

No, even he couldn't be stupid enough to... She didn't dare formulate the thought, because if she was disappointed, it would be too crushing.

She rushed over, oblivious to her aching muscles, and plowed through sewing implements and tattered books until her fingers closed around her prize—the Glen Lyon's pistol.

CHAPTER 3

Waiting was hell.

Gavin sat astride his gelding, every muscle in his body taut as a steel trap about to be sprung, every instinct for survival he possessed twisted to its highest point. For nearly an hour, he had waited here; the only audible sounds were those of horse's hooves shuffling against the turf and the thunderous pronouncements of disapproval emanating from Adam, who sat rigidly astride his horse an arm's length away.

"You might as well fit a noose around your own neck and be done with it," Adam growled, the muscles in his hard jaw standing out in stark relief. "We could be walking into the middle of an ambush. Sir Dunstan could have a hundred men buried in the shadows, ready to blast us into hell."

"I doubt Dunstan will bother to kill a lowly messenger or take him captive when there is a chance that the messenger might be careless enough to lead him to the Glen Lyon's lair. Dunstan will set a few men to track us, nothing more."

"Damnation, Gav, you should've sent me alone— or Evan or Connor. Christ, I can't believe you insisted on coming to meet Sir Dunstan yourself. What if he realizes that you are the Glen Lyon? You're completely vulnerable out here in the middle of nowhere."

Gavin shoved his spectacles up his nose and brushed one hand over a threadbare gray frock coat trimmed with a band of young Jamie Cameron's plaid—a symbol of the first life he'd saved and a constant reminder of how many other Jamies were left in the Highlands, waiting for the Glen Lyon to find them.

"Adam, if you were riding through the Highlands and stumbled across someone who looked like me, would you guess that he was the dread rebel lord Glen Lyon?" A self-deprecating grin tugged at his mouth.

"You think that wearing your damned spectacles out here today miraculously alters your face so no one could recognize you?" Adam demanded, disgruntled. "I'm sure if I saw you wandering about without them, I'd think,
Who the devil could that be? Gavin? Hell, no. Doesn't look the damnedest bit like him."

Gavin chuckled. "Wells thinks a messenger is coming, so that is what he'll see when we meet. Truth is, I doubt the man would believe me if I rode up and told him, bald-faced, that I was the Glen Lyon."

"Blast if I'm not half afraid that you'll try it! What is this encounter to you, Gavin? Some infernal game of hoodman blind? a chance to outwit Sir Dunstan again? You're too damned valuable to the Highlanders to take such risks. You're their only hope. If something goes awry and Sir Dunstan captures you, what the devil will happen to the children up in that cave, depending on you to save them?"

Guilt ground deep, but Gavin clenched his jaw. "I have to see Sir Dunstan Wells face to face, after all this time." Gavin turned his gaze away, tormented by fleeting memories from which he could never be free. They were seared into his heart—brutal scars that war had left on his soul: a towering cliff; the sea beating itself against the rocks below; the screams of women and children rending the night like a jagged blade as they were driven off the edge to their death; Sir Dunstan, surveying the destruction with bored arrogance, demanding to know if his underlings had found sugar for his tea in any of the hovels they'd just finished ransacking.

"Damn it, Gav, I know how much you hate Sir Dunstan. God knows the vile cur deserves to suffer the fires of hell for all the agony he's caused; but you can't make him pay for what he's done if you're dangling from a gibbet. You and Wells faced each other on the battlefield. You can't be sure he won't remember."

"I didn't acquit myself in a fashion that would have drawn Wells's attention. I assure you, I was far beneath his notice."

Adam started to protest, but Gavin held up his hand. "Enough. Whatever happens, the die is cast. Perhaps Sir Dunstan will ambush us. Perhaps he will recognize me. But my gut tells me I'm doing the right thing."

"Your gut," Adam muttered. "I don't suppose it's possible that you're merely suffering an attack of indigestion?"

For months Adam had questioned Gavin's instinct, and yet, Gavin had filled five ships with fugitive Jacobites by relying on those elusive intuitions.

Always, the thought of those he was trying to save had kept him focused on his goal. But today was different.

From the moment he and Adam had ridden away from the cave, Gavin's intuition had seemed to him to be muddled, his senses distracted by the dark-haired captive barred in his cave chamber a dozen miles away.

He'd felt splintered, scattered, haunted by the memory of Rachel de Lacey facing him with truly regal courage. Not once had a sliver of fear stumbled onto that cameo-perfect face. Only outrage and scorn had snapped and sparkled in eyes the rich hue of the bluebells that were scattered over the Highlands.

Perhaps that was why the slight tremble of her hands had reverberated through Gavin with the force of an earthquake. Or perhaps it was the words she had spoken, words that revealed a part of her that Gavin knew she would die to keep hidden.

My papa, the general, would turn in his grave—

If what? If she dared to show fear? If she let go of the rigid control she'd clung to so ferociously, revealing her true feelings? Genuine emotions that clamored to burst free?

Gavin closed his eyes as a memory assailed him. Flashing equine eyes, bared white teeth, hooves slicing at the turf as if they were practicing to carve those huge crescents into human flesh. Terror, blank terror, shuddering through Gavin, pleas clogging his throat until he thought he'd choke on them.

Don't make me get on the horse, Papa.... I'm frightened....

But the Earl of Glenlyon hadn't had to say a word to convince Gavin to mount the hell-spawned beast. His father had only looked at him with that penetrating glare far more painful to endure than mere bumps and bruises.

Gavin had bested the horse that day, but he had broken his arm sometime during the course of the battle. Still, it had been one of the few times his father had looked on him with pride.

He struggled to shake off the painful memories, and his mind filled once again with the image of Rachel.

Blast the woman, it would have been so much easier if she had just dissolved into a bout of hysterical feminine tears. He could have comforted her, soothed her. If only she had been able to maintain that haughty mask of hers, so that he never had to see the cracks in her façade and catch a glimpse of the frightened young woman beneath.

It would have been so much easier....

But instead, Gavin had spent the ride through the Scottish wilds ignoring Adam's ceaseless attempts to get him to return to the cave. With each clop of his horse's hooves against the ground, he'd imagined how terrified Rachel de Lacey must have been after what she had endured—being kidnapped, dragged halfway across Scotland to be dumped at the feet of a rebel lord, a man she saw as traitor, outlaw.

From the moment he'd conceived the idea of abducting her, he'd been prepared to soothe her fears as much as possible. He'd spent weeks framing the comforting speeches he would make to her. But her beauty and defiance had left him as awkward and tongue-tied as he'd been at his first ball. The magnitude of what he'd done had left him filled with guilt and self-loathing. And Rachel de Lacey had pounded on those soft places in Gavin's soul with the deadly accuracy of a blacksmith's hammer until anger had made him lash out, demolishing all his good intentions.