Highland Temptation (13 page)

“How long ago?” Colin demanded.

The shorter man frowned, then looked to the heavens as if they might provide the answer to such a difficult question. Then, his face twisted up in consternation, he said, “Two hours, mayhap? Three? All I know for certain is we hadn't finished our second bottle yet.” He smiled and slapped the back of his friend, who hiccupped then laughed.

“Did they stop here in town?”

“Nay, they passed right on through.”

Two or three hours ahead. It was too far…yet Colin was determined. He could catch them sometime tomorrow morning.

“Thank you for your help,” he said. “Is there anything else you saw? Anything else you can tell me?”

“Blood,” said the short man.

Colin's brows rose.

“Aye. Looked to me like one of the men had a bloody leg, and he was swayin' dangerously on his mount. I'd wager he was about to fall off at any moment.”

Colin nodded. That must be the man he'd shot. The man's injury might prove helpful now—but then, Colin wasn't sure Pinfield would stop to help one of his men. The viscount was the most selfish man Colin had ever known, always putting his own needs before any other's. He'd probably leave the poor sot to rot on the side of the road.

“How fast were they goin'?” Mr. MacCallum asked.

“None so fast,” the short man said. He gave Colin a serious nod. “You can do it. Get 'er back, I mean.”

Colin nodded back at the man, equally serious. “I will. Thank you again.”

He urged the horse to move, MacCallum at his side. As they turned down a bend in the road, he heard one of the men's voices call out from behind. “Catch the bastards, Scotty lad! Catch 'em!”

“Don't let the bastards steal your woman,” the other man chimed in. “Make 'em pay!”

“Oh, I will,” Colin muttered under his breath. Then he gave MacCallum a sidelong glance only to find the man was leaning forward in the saddle as if simply waiting for the word.

“Let's go, then,” Colin said grimly.

MacCallum gave him a tight nod, and they galloped south, out of Berwick and into the night.

Several hours earlier, a hand on Emilia's arm had dragged her into wakefulness. Her eyes popped open, and she murmured, “Colin?”

She knew right away that it wasn't him. This man was Colin's size, but a dark beard covered his chin. In the dim light, she could see more men behind him.

She tried to yank away. “Let me go!” she cried. “What are you—”

But she knew what they were doing. They were her father's men. She recognized them from earlier at the seashore. They'd remained loyal and had returned to the viscount, though she couldn't fathom why. The fools.

She fought with everything she had. But they had her, and she knew it. Still, she would not go willingly. She kicked and shouted, tried her best to get free. It was no use. They dragged her to the road, toward her father's ostentatious carriage. “No!” she cried. “No! Don't you understand? He's going to kill me!”

But her words fell upon deaf ears. The bearded man shoved her into the carriage, where her father sat on the opposite side, his expression stormy, she could see, even in the dim light of the carriage lantern.

“It appears as though she's going to be difficult,” her father said with a bored sigh. “Tie her up, will you?”

“Aye, sir,” said the man who'd first grabbed her. His expression was hard and flat, lacking any touch of sympathy. He procured rope from somewhere and proceeded to tie her wrists and bare ankles so that she was trussed like a pig.

She wouldn't cry. She refused to cry, even though her chest was heaving with buckets of unshed tears.

Her father had her. Did that mean he'd killed Colin?

The thought sobered her, and she bent her head, squeezing her eyes shut as the man finished tying her. “Leave us,” her father snapped. “And get back on the road immediately. It's crucial that we arrive in London as soon as possible.”

The door closed with a
snap,
and short moments later, the carriage jolted forward.

Emilia kept her head bent. It was how she'd been trained to behave in her father's presence. Never look him directly in the eye. Never disrespect him. Always be meek.

She wasn't innately meek. She knew that now, as she stared into her lap. At times, the viscount had made her question her own strength, but being with Colin had drawn it back out and into the open. Being with him had made her feel like the confident woman her father had tried for so long to beat out of her.

I'm not weak. I'm
not
insignificant.

Still, she didn't look up, because she knew what was in store for her if she did. She'd bide her time and instead of wasting it cowering in fear, she'd try to decide what she must do from here, how she could find a way to be safe.

Colin might be close. This could be over at any second.

Or he might not come at all.

She couldn't think that way, because that would lead her into a darker place. She had to hold out hope that he was all right, that he'd come for her. In the meantime, she needed to devise a plan for survival.

Her father's voice jolted her out of her reverie. “You're disgusting.”

She didn't flinch. She didn't react at all. It wasn't the first time he'd called her disgusting.

“To think my daughter would betray me. Her own flesh and blood.” He spoke as if he had a vile taste in his mouth and wanted to spit it out with every word.

How much did he know of what she'd told the Highland Knights? Surely it couldn't be much. The letter was only just scheduled to arrive in London today.

Which meant she could lie. He couldn't know anything for certain.

“I didn't betray you, Papa,” she said in a scratchy voice.

He let out a sarcastic hoot of laughter. “Right. You read my personal correspondences, then you run off to those ridiculous Scots with their grandiose notions of protecting the king. Don't lie to me, girl. You intended to ruin me.”

“I was frightened,” she whispered.

“You were frightened,” he mimicked in a falsetto voice.

“You scared me, Papa. You hurt me.”

“You deserved it, you ungrateful chit.”

“I didn't know where else to turn. The Highland Knights protected you for so long…I thought maybe they'd protect me as well.”

“So you revealed my secrets to them.”

He was so angry, the carriage seat vibrated with it. He sat across from her, his body taut with tension, his fists clenching and unclenching in his lap.

She lied outright. It was her only chance for survival. “No.”

He hit her, hard, across the cheekbone. Her head snapped to the side, and pain burst through her face.

She clenched her bound hands together and looked back down at her lap, trying to breathe through the pain.
I will not cry. I will not cry.

“I don't believe you,” he said. “You sicken me. The sight of you makes me want to vomit.”

Blood seeped into her mouth from where her teeth had sliced her cheek when her father hit her.

“Unfaithful slut,” he muttered. “Just like your mother. How I could have been saddled with two such loathsome creatures in my life is beyond my comprehension.”

Emilia closed her eyes. He always spoke so of her mother, who had been the loveliest and kindest woman in the world. She'd given Emilia the gifts of confidence and strength, even when her own was tested to its limit. She and Emilia had lived in the country house, while her father spent most of his time in London, only to return a few times a year to rail at his wife for some perceived unfaithfulness. Once, Emilia had heard him beating her, accusing her of “fucking every dirt-caked cad in the village.”

After the last visit, the summer of Emilia's sixteenth year, a burn wound he'd cruelly inflicted upon her mother with a fireplace poker had festered, and she had died from the resulting fever. Her mother had said it was an accident, that it was her own fault, to everyone who had asked, but Emilia knew better. Her father had essentially murdered her mother, and yet he still liked to pretend she had been the horrible one.

Once her mother had died, Emilia had become his primary target. He took her to live with him in London and kept her “in line” with his cat-o'-nine-tails, beating her whenever she so much as glanced at him the wrong way. He always did it when he knew he couldn't be caught—usually when his guards weren't nearby and the household was abed. Only Emilia's maid, who had worked for the viscount for years and knew to keep her mouth shut if she wanted to hold on to her position, was aware of her wounds and, in her tight-lipped, efficient way, would help Emilia clean and wrap them.

The carriage ground to a stop, and her father instantly pushed the door open. “What the devil? I told you not to stop!”

“It's Jenkins, sir. He's fallen off his horse,” came a faint voice from outside.

“I think he's lost too much blood,” said another. “He's fainted dead away.”

“For God's sake,” her father muttered. Then, “Leave him, you idiots. Did I not tell you that we needed to get to London as quickly as possible?”

“But Jenkins is—”

“Move! Now!” her father roared, slamming the door. The carriage jerked forward again, and he turned back to Emilia. “Tell me,” he said through clenched teeth. “Tell me what information you gave the Scots.”

She hesitated, then said, “Nothing,” only to be rewarded with another sharp crack across the cheek. This time, she cried out—she couldn't help it.

“Stop lying to me.”

“I…I'm…n-not…lying.”

Crack!

If she could survive until they got to London…The Knights would have received Colin's letter by then. They'd know almost everything. They would be looking for her father. They would catch him, keep her safe.

“Tell me what you said.”

“N-nothing…”

Crack.

“Tell me, you lying bitch,” he growled.

Tears seeped down her cheeks. She wouldn't have realized it if the water hadn't dripped onto her hands. Her face was a burning mass of fiery pain.

She didn't know how long it went on. Bit by bit, the pain overtook every one of her rational thoughts. The world had narrowed to nothing but her misery, and she didn't know how to make it stop. But the most important thing was for this horrible agony to end.

Oh, but she
did
know how to make it stop. Forever. If she told him what he wanted to hear, he'd kill her. He'd end her misery once and for all.

“Now,” he said, his voice like razor blades cutting down her spine, “tell me what you told those Scottish bastards.”

“I…” She worked her mouth, trying to form the words. They came out as if she had a mouthful of cotton. “I told them everything,” she slurred.

A bright flash of agony whipped through her skull, and then the world went blissfully still as the pain, and then all else, slipped away until nothing existed.

Emilia heard the shouting first. A Scottish male accent that brought all her nerves flaring back to life. Colin? She surged upward, then gasped as every bit of her body screamed at the movement. The copper tang of blood filled her mouth. She tried to open her eyes, but only one of them would cooperate.

“Wha…? What?” She flinched. Speaking hurt. She couldn't get enough words out, anyhow. She tried to focus. Where was she? In a carriage, she realized, as the vehicle ground to a halt. Her one eye struggled to focus. That was her father, across from her. But he wasn't looking at her. Enraged, he pushed the carriage door open and stepped out, slamming it so hard behind him the noise of it felt like a blow straight to her head.

“Highwaymen on the road!” the Scottish voice bellowed again. Her body had heard the accent and immediately connected it to Colin, but this was not Colin. The clomp of horses' hooves drew to a stop outside. “Milord, forgive me, but there'll be outlaws lyin' in wait dead ahead. They've blocked the road and are takin' what they can from innocent passersby. They stole everything I was carryin'. They grabbed at my horse, but I managed to get away first. If ye continue, they'll swipe yer carriage right out from under ye.”

“Good God,” her father said disgustedly. “Why have we stopped yet again? I begin to think I'm surrounded by fools.”

“He was right in front of us, sir. I didn't want to run him over,” one of her father's men said.

“Ignore this nasty old man. Clearly he's gone daft.”

The handle turned on the door, and Emilia tensed, expecting her father to enter again. She cast a desperate look at the opposite door. Why hadn't she tried to get away when she'd had the chance?

“Move aside, then, sir,” her father's man commanded. “Go on.”

“Nay!” the Scot outside cried. The handle went back to the closed position. “Nay, I beg ye. Heed my warnin', yer lordship. I'd weep to see a fine lord such as yerself kilt upon this road today.”

Her arms and legs were still tied, but anything,
anything,
was better than being in this carriage with him. She fumbled at the ties on her legs with her bound hands. She might be able to untie herself…but she was certain she didn't have the time. If she could crawl, find a place to hide—

She reached out for the opposite door, but just as she touched the handle, it opened.

Colin.

He looked terrible—half his face was puffy and black and blue. Relief burst through Emilia, and before she could stop it, she released a strangled sob.

One look at her, and Colin's face went hard as granite. “I'm going to kill him,” he said under his breath.

So great was her relief, she felt like she lost all control. Her muscles disintegrated into great heaps of putty, and she began to slide to the carriage floor, but Colin caught her. He picked her up, one arm tucked under her knees, one under her back, and pulled her to him.

Her father was still arguing with the Scotsman on the other side of the carriage.

“Shh,” Colin murmured in her ear, and she buried her face into him.

Holding her tight, he backed away into the brush on the side of the road, then hurried deeper into the copse of trees beyond. A few moments later, he was lifting her onto a waiting horse, then he mounted behind her.

With a firm arm around her middle, he urged the horse into a gallop.