Read Highland Surrender Online
Authors: Dawn Halliday
Highland Surrender (41 page)
One desperate woman against five men. The chances were so slim as to be negligible. Yet what choice did she have?
The carriage slowed to a crawl as it had done repetitively over the past hours, making a tight turn. Outside, mud and grass encroached onto the path, and the carriage wheels sank into the soft earth, slowing them even further.
It was now or never.
She bunched her muscles, and as the carriage began its turn, she launched herself forward, grabbing the gun from the man. Instantly coming alert, he lunged for her. They wrestled, and Elizabeth’s finger pressed the trigger. There was an explosion of glass as the bullet went through the window. Uncle Walter cried out.
It seemed like everyone was fumbling, crawling on top of her, grabbing at the weapon. But the gun had been shot, and she carried no ammunition, so it was useless to her now. She dropped it onto the carriage floor, climbed over Rob and opened the door latch, thrust the door open, and managed to push Rob until he toppled out with her on top of him.
The action of the fall woke him, and instinctively he curled his body into a ball, his shoulder absorbing his impact with the muddy ground. Elizabeth fell partially atop him, partially into a mud puddle. As soon as she fell, she yanked the dirk from his stocking, scrambled to her feet, and spun to the carriage. The true villain was inside—all these men merely followed his orders. If she could bend him to her will, the rest would follow.
From inside the carriage, her uncle shouted. Rob groaned lightly, but she kept her eyes on the vehicle as it ground to a halt not five feet from where they’d fallen.
First the man jumped out and then her uncle. A piece of glass had sliced his cheek, leaving a trail of blood to drip from his chin. A whinny sounded behind her as one of the riders stopped his horse, and she heard the sucking noise as boots sank into the spongy earth.
She kept her gaze, and the dirk, trained on her uncle.
“Go away,” she said steadily, her voice hard. “Leave us alone.”
“Elizabeth . . .” Rob’s voice was a rasping whisper of warning from the ground at her side. She didn’t dare look at him. She sensed movement as he struggled to rise.
Her uncle held up a conciliatory hand. “Come now, my dear . . .”
She tightened her grip on the handle of the dirk.
Uncle Walter’s eyes flicked to the side, betraying the stealthy movement of the man behind her. At the same time, his shadow fell over her. She spun around just as the man lunged at her, slamming them both to the ground. She landed hard on her side, knocking the wind from her lungs. As soon as she could move her arm, she swung it around, stabbing the man in the back, the force of the action jolting her all the way to her shoulders. Hot blood poured from his back, painting her tartan print
arisaid
in a thick spray of red before he rolled away.
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in a thick spray of red before he rolled away.
Someone leaned over her. Dimly, Elizabeth realized it was Rob. She met his eyes for a fraction of a second, and the sadness reflected in his expression washed through her.
They were surrounded. They had no weapons. They’d lost.
The man from the carriage hauled Elizabeth to her feet while another held a pistol trained on Rob.
“Hold her still,” her uncle commanded harshly.
But she wrenched away and lunged for Rob. Just as soon as she reached him again, she was yanked back and dragged through the mud.
“Here!” someone shouted, and a loop of rope sailed through the air and landed at her feet. She managed to kick it away, but it was no use. A second man came to help the villain holding her, and together they tied her ankles and wrists.
Dragging her beyond the copse of trees and bushes at the path’s edge, they gagged her and secured her to the trunk of a pine, and, leaving her unable to move, they returned to Rob.
He put up a brave fight, but he was injured and bound, ineffective against the three brawny men who dragged him near where Elizabeth was tied. Her uncle followed with his fists on his hips, a look of righteous victory on his face.
“Belladonna, Lizzy,” he said, when the noise of struggle had ceased. Once again, he withdrew the vial. He glanced at the largest of his men. “Hold his mouth open.”
“No!” she sobbed through the gag. “No!” She struggled against her bonds until she was certain her arms would snap in two. It was no use. Even if she did break her arms, she wouldn’t free herself.
Two of the men held Rob still while the other forced his mouth to open. Uncle Walter uncorked the vial and glanced up at Elizabeth, his expression forlorn. “Yet again, Lizzy, you drive me to extreme lengths to protect you.”
“No!” she shouted, her voice muffled and indecipherable. “No, no, no!”
Uncle Walter tipped the vial, and a thick, black liquid oozed into Rob’s mouth. He coughed and sputtered, but firm hands clamped his mouth and nose shut, forcing him to swallow the poison.
Watching Rob’s throat work, Elizabeth went limp. The fight drained out of her.
Uncle Walter had just killed her husband.
She sagged against her bonds and dropped her head in defeat, willing her life to rewind to the day she’d brought misery and death upon every person she loved—the day she brought home the smallpox.
Ceana had asked Sorcha to help her find someone to transport the bulk of her medicines and possessions, and her friend had readily agreed, instantly engaging the services of one of the MacDonald men.
With hugs and kisses, and a special kiss bestowed upon little Jamie, Ceana had taken her leave of the MacDonalds. She’d walked home and, with a heavy heart, packed her belongings. Bowie MacDonald, Alan’s young cousin, had arrived with two horses and a cart just as she finished packing. They’d loaded the cart, and by the time they finished the task, it was just after noon.
Bowie was a garrulous companion, friendly and open. In a way, he reminded Ceana of his cousin Alan. It was in the open expression in his blue eyes, she supposed. Just one encounter with either man would be enough for anyone to grant them their trust.
Nevertheless, Ceana ached all over with grief. She’d lost something precious to her, and even though she should feel content that she’d left Cam healthy and whole, shaking off her misery wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped it would be.
Since the Duke of Irvington’s carriage had passed them at the beginning of the wood, however, Ceana had remained silent. Deep in her thoughts, she’d spurned all of Bowie’s attempts at friendly conversation, and eventually he too fell into a contemplative silence.
Where was the duke going? Who’d been with him? Was Cam inside the carriage? Were they looking for her? But Cam would be on horseback rather than in the enclosed compartment of a carriage, wouldn’t he?
Did this have something to do with Cam and Elizabeth’s marriage? Now that Ceana had left him, had Cam seen reason and decided to go through with his marriage to Elizabeth? If so, though, what was the duke’s carriage doing this far from Camdonn Castle? His niece was set to marry Cam in four days.
Shadows lengthened, and both Ceana and Bowie stiffened when they heard a hollow boom.
“Gunshot,” Ceana whispered.
“Aye,” Bowie said. “Sounded like it.”
They continued on, their senses on high alert. They had ridden halfway to Inverlochy, and soon it would be time to stop for the night. Ceana had planned to spend the night on the western bank of Loch Eil, at the home of her grandmother’s friend Anne Tynan, and it would probably be near to full dark by the time they arrived.
As the waning light trickled through the trees, Bowie directed the animals up a steep incline. Ahead, riders on chestnut and black horses appeared at the top of the hill. Seconds later, the familiar sleek black-lacquered carriage, now covered with dust and grime from a full day’s worth of muddy travel, crested the rise. The duke’s party was returning from wherever it had gone. Odd, since there were no houses or other visiting destinations within miles. Doubly odd, given the gunshot they’d heard earlier.
Surrounded by shadowy green, the carriage rumbled slowly, carefully, down the path leading toward Ceana and Bowie. Her heart began to thrum in her chest. Anything to do with Cam, even remotely, was apt to fire her blood. Add to that the mystery of the duke’s presence out here, along with the gunshot, and Ceana’s every nerve was on edge.
“Looks like they expect I ought to be the one to pull off again,” Bowie grumbled.
“I don’t doubt it.” Ceana sighed. Last time they’d moved to the side of the road to allow the duke’s party by, the cart’s wheels had sunk into the deep mud, and it had taken them a good half hour to push it out. She pointed at a small clearing at the edge of the wood. “Looks like a safe enough spot over that way. Might as well stop and wait for them to pass.”
Bowie agreed, and within a few moments they had halted the animals and waited patiently for the duke’s party to go by. Ceana pulled the plaid low over her brow. This time, Bowie frowned at her. “You don’t want them to know you?”
“No. It’s the Duke of Irvington, and I’ve no wish to exchange words with him.”
“Ah.” Bowie nodded in understanding. He spat over the side of the bench. “I dislike the earl myself. He is not one of us.”
“It isn’t the earl I dislike,” Ceana explained patiently. “The Earl of Camdonn is a good man. It is the English duke I’d rather avoid. And you shouldn’t be so stupid,” she added in an acerbic tone, “as to despise a man solely based on his political bent.”
“Aye, well. You weren’t here when the earl wronged Alan.”
“No, but I heard about it.”
Bowie scowled at her. “And you still maintain he is a good man?”
“I’d trust him with my life,” Ceana said softly. “And your laird would too.”
Bowie sighed. “Everyone loves Alan, ’tis true, but all agree he is too soft.”
“Perhaps you just haven’t tried to know the earl as Alan has.”
And I have.
And I have.
“Aye, and I’ve no intention to know him.”
“Well, you’d best remember one thing, Bowie MacDonald.”
“What might that be?”
“The man has paid for his sins. Alan’s honor has been redeemed. How honorable is it to hold on to a grudge? Without forgiveness, men would have driven humanity to extinction long ago.”
The rumble of the carriage wheels and the clomp of hoofbeats grew louder as the party rounded the bend up ahead. Ceana pulled the plaid tight around her, but she watched them from the corner of her eye.
A man on horseback went by first. As he passed, Ceana’s heart lurched. There was a dark, wet stain on the rider’s buckskin coat.
Ceana was a healer. She knew what freshly bloodstained fabric looked like.
The carriage rumbled by next, and Ceana strained her ears, for it almost sounded—aye, it did—like a woman sobbed inside.
She remained silent until they’d passed, and Bowie worked to start up the animals and get them back onto the road. When they were once again plodding forward, Ceana spoke in a low voice. “Mark the wheel ruts.”
She pointed at a small rise of mud ahead; the mark of the carriage wheels made clearly delineated grooves over it. The duke’s carriage was the first conveyance of that sort to pass since the last rain.
Bowie frowned at her. “Why?”
“I want to know where they stopped and turned back.”
They traveled on. Darkness began to overtake the dusk, and they were within a mile of Anne Tynan’s house when Ceana sucked in a breath. “Stop.”
He did as she asked, for he’d seen what she had. The carriage had come to a rapid stop here, and the grass on the side of the road was crushed, as if the conveyance had pulled to the side, then turned around to return home.
“Over there,” Bowie said in a low voice, gesturing with his chin to the bushes beyond the grassy area.
“Aye.” Some of the branches were broken, as if men had stomped through them without regard.
Ceana jumped from the bench, and Bowie followed. She turned a slow circle, studying the area.
Bowie whistled out a breath. “Come look at this, Ceana.”
She went to where he stood looking down at the ground, an expression of disgust on his face. “Blood, isn’t it?”
“Aye.” Kneeling down, she lifted a red-stained leaf and sniffed at it to make sure. Fresh blood, and it looked like whoever had been bleeding had been dragged a short distance before he had either stopped bleeding or someone had picked him up to carry him away.
Lifting her skirts, she hurried over the trampled terrain. It wasn’t difficult to follow their path. She paused in a small clearing, where they must have stopped for a time near a thin-trunked pine, for multiple boot heels had churned the earth here.
“There.” She pointed to a trail of trampled grass leading toward a large copse of trees. From this clearing, the party had plunged even deeper into the forest. Ceana retraced their steps, pushing through the shrubbery, heedless of the branches scratching at her hands and tearing her
arisaid
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arisaid
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