The Scot and I (3 page)

“Did ye stop the bastard?” he asked. His voice was as gravelly as the rest of him. Craggy features and grizzled hair completed the picture.

“I didna kill him if that’s what ye mean.” Though Mahri spoke the cultured English of the educated Scot, she was just as comfortable in broad Scots or Gaelic. “I’m no a murderer.”

Dugald held the reins till she mounted up. “Lassie,” he said, “ye dinna have to tell me that. Did ye save the queen is a’ I meant.”

“Aye. She was well guarded, but I wasna taking any chances. Ramsey is a fanatic. He doesn’t care if he lives or dies. He thinks God is on his side.” She gave a brilliant smile. “I put a hole in his arm. It will be a long time before he uses that murderous hand to hold a gun.”

“Possibly.” Dugald’s tone was dry. “But I’m thinking it would have been better if ye had gone to the authorities and told them all that ye know—”

“No!” She’d had that debate with herself for a long time now, and there was no easy solution. Fearing that she’d hurt Dugald’s feelings, she said gently, “I can’t betray my comrades. This was the best I could do.”

“But if it’s you or them?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Whisht! What was that?”

Mahri’s hands tightened on the reins, and her head came up as she listened.

Dugald held up two fingers.

She nodded. There were two riders coming their way. Dugald made another signal. He wanted them to split up. She felt a shiver of alarm, not for herself, but for Dugald. He didn’t know what he was getting into. He wouldn’t know friend from foe. She knew what he hoped to do. He was going to draw off their pursuers and give her a chance to get away.

Perhaps it was for the best, because if they found Dugald with her, they might well shoot him on sight. As for herself, she did not expect either side to treat her with kid gloves. They’d want to know how much she knew, and when she refused to tell them, they would turn nasty.

Dugald was gesturing to her to get going. She dug in her heels, and her pony tensed every muscle, then sprang forward.

 

 

She kept to the plan. There was a room under the name of Thomas Gordon waiting for her at the Inver Arms in Braemar. She’d arrived a few days before and told the proprietor that she had come from Aberdeen for a little visit in hopes that the mountain air would help her breathe more easily. It was a credible tale, for it was common knowledge, at least among Highlanders, that the air in the mountains was superior to all others.

The plan had gone awry, but it wasn’t lost altogether. She had shaken off the rider who was following her. Dugald, she hoped, would do the same, and when he turned up, all would be well. He was going to guide her over the hills to Perth, and once she reached Perth, she would take the train south, and Miss Mahri Scot would sink into obscurity.

There was a train at Ballater going to Aberdeen, but Ballater was too close to the castle for comfort. That was how they would expect her to make her escape, on the train from Ballater. Dugald was her best bet.

Meantime, she had a part to play.

In the privacy of her small room under the eaves, she pulled her leather hand grip from beneath the bed. The first thing she did after she stripped was to bind her breasts with a linen towel, then she wriggled into a set of clean clothes. The sight of herself in tight tartan trews made her grimace. This would never do. She’d flattened her breasts, but her hips and posterior were too curvaceous to fool anyone. When she unbuttoned her deerskin jacket, she was better pleased with the result. At least her rounded bottom was less noticeable. Her dark hair was too long for a boy’s, so she stuffed it under her tartan tam. The final touch was to slip her dirk into her right boot. She dithered about her gun but decided to leave it behind. It was too obvious, too hard to conceal in her boy’s getup. At the reception, she’d kept it in her reticule until the last moment.

After taking a step back, she made an elegant bow to the reflection in the mirror. “Thomas Gordon,” she said, “at your service.”

As she continued to stare at her reflection, her expression turned wistful. She was looking at the cairngorm brooch pinned to her tam. It brought back memories of happier days when they had all been together, her mother and father and brother, Bruce. Now those happy days had turned into a nightmare.

She turned from her reflection, muttering a Gaelic curse. More irritation. She must remember that she was passing herself off as a Lowlander, and Lowlanders had allowed the ancient tongue to die out centuries before. Only Highlanders kept to the old ways.

That last thought was reinforced when she entered the taproom. Oil lamps gave out the only light. It would be a long time before electricity came to the Highlands. No electricity, no telephones, and damn few trains—so much the better for Thomas Gordon.

She found a place for herself at a table in the darkest corner, ordered a wee dram of whiskey, and took a moment to study the other patrons. They were a far cry from the guests at the queen’s reception. They were all males, of course, except for the two women who waited on tables. She made a thorough inventory: estate workers, local businessmen, and perhaps the odd doctor or solicitor. In spite of it being an older crowd, they were a lively lot. But the one thing that impressed her was that word of the attack at Balmoral had not yet reached them.

The woman who waited on her was Mrs. Cluny, the proprietor’s wife. “Been out walking the hills, Tam?” she asked conversationally.

“Riding,” replied Mahri. “I don’t know when I was last on a horse.” That was a lie. Her father kept a fine stable in his house in Edinburgh.

Mrs. Cluny clicked her tongue. “I dinna know how folks can abide living in towns. Now get that down ye, shepherd’s pie, made to my ain secret recipe. Ye could do with a little more padding on ye, laddie.”

There was no menu in these isolated inns and no restaurants to be had. Visitors accepted what was offered at the place where they were staying, or they went hungry. Mahri tucked into the shepherd’s pie, savoring each bite. She thought that Mr. and Mrs. Cluny were the most fortunate of people. The whole family was involved in some aspect of running the inn. They were not rich, but they had what money could not buy. They were a close-knit family; they were warmhearted and content with their lot. She envied them.

She toyed with the glass of whiskey and occasionally put it to her lips. She’d asked for it because she thought it made her look more manly. It also made her hoarse so that she frequently had to clear her throat, which was all to the good for someone who was supposed to be prone to lung infections.

No one gave her a second look. All the patrons accepted her as one of them, a stripling who was growing to manhood. She wondered what they would do if she shouted,
Look at me, I’m a female!
They’d probably laugh and go back to eating and drinking.

It was depressing.

She kept her eye on the door while she ate her dinner. People came and went, but there was no sign of Dugald. Her anxiety increased tenfold, however, when a gentleman, a cut above the other patrons, pushed into the taproom and paused just inside the door.

The light wasn’t bright enough to see his face clearly, and he had yet to move away from the door. He had that quiet air of assurance that marked him as someone who was used to taking charge. She hoped he was a butler from one of the grand houses in the area, but she couldn’t quite see him in that role. Too grand for an ordinary policeman. Ramsey’s partner? Someone to take over if the plot misfired? She’d never met a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, but she thought that he might fit that bill, too.

When he stepped up to the bar counter, she had a clear view of his face. She didn’t suck in a breath; she simply stopped breathing altogether. This was the man who, she thought, had recognized her when they waited at Balmoral for the queen to make her entrance. Tall, dark, and handsome and dangerous, the man who had a good memory for faces.

She had no doubts now. It made no difference whether he was Ramsey’s partner or a secret service agent. He was no friend to her.

It was time to get out of there.

She took a healthy swig of whiskey with the desired result. She started to cough, not harshly but controlled so as not to draw undue attention to herself. The fit of coughing gave her an excuse to produce her white linen handkerchief and cover the lower half of her face. Perfect camouflage, she hoped.

The stranger had ordered a tankard of ale or beer. As he turned to survey the inn’s customers, she averted her eyes. She felt exposed, sitting by herself with nothing to do. She’d eaten her dinner, she’d finished her whiskey, but she couldn’t smoke, not only because she didn’t know how, but because it would arouse suspicion. A lad with weak lungs would be loath to put a foul-smelling pipe in his mouth. Whiskey was different. Every Scot knew that
uisque beatha
was medicinal.

She chanced a quick look at the stranger. He was propped against the bar counter, looking very much at ease as he surveyed the taproom and its patrons. She understood only too well what he was doing. He was making a mental note of all the exits and summing up each person as she had done when she’d entered the taproom. Agents were trained to notice anything that was out of place.

Her heart jumped when he exchanged a few words with the landlord, then she quickly averted her gaze when she felt their eyes on her. What had Mr. Cluny told the stranger?

She raised her head and allowed her eyes to wander, then she casually steered her gaze in the stranger’s direction.

He was coming her way!

She’d been in worse fixes, she reminded herself. She’d crossed swords with the best of them. She had to forget that she was Mahri Scot and think herself into the part of Thomas Gordon.

He stopped at her table and smiled down at her. It softened his features but did not warm his eyes. “I’m Hepburn,” he said, “Alex Hepburn. May I join you?” He was already seating himself before she opened her mouth.

“Thomas Gordon,” she replied and stifled a yawn. “I was just leaving.”

She made to rise, but Hepburn pushed on the table with both hands, pinning her in place. “Make it easy on yourself, Thomas,” he said. “I don’t want you. I want your mistress. Take me to her, and I’ll let you go.”

Mahri’s mind was frozen. “My mistress?”

Hepburn slapped a blond wig on the table between them. “She left her calling card at the queen’s reception earlier this evening. I don’t think you’re involved in that, but you’re her guide, aren’t you? Tonight, you led her over the hills to wherever she wanted to go. Take me to her hideout, and I’ll let you go.”

Mahri’s mind was now buzzing. “It wasna me. I’m here for my health.” She rubbed her chest. “Ask the Clunies.”

“Yes, so Mr. Cluny told me. He also told me that you went out riding after breakfast and did not return until late.” His smile would have done credit to a shark. “You’re small-fry, Thomas. It’s the woman I want.”

The thought of sharks and small-fry made her shudder. “I go riding in the hills,” she said, “because it’s good for my lungs.” When he raised a skeptical brow, she added, “What makes you so sure that I’m the lad you want?”

“Your horse is still warm. And—” He took a swig of beer, made a smacking sound with his lips, then smiled a slow smile to himself. “And you were seen, quenching your thirst from a mountain spring.”

She was appalled that she’d been observed unawares as she drank from the spring. She remembered the moment well. But that was yesterday, when she’d been spying out the lie of the land and planning the route she’d take once she’d taken care of Ramsey.

A fine courier she was turning out to be!

She was, however, a quick thinker and parried his thrust with one of her own. “And where was the woman you say I was guiding over the hills?”

He shrugged. “At that point, she wasn’t with you. However, only one horse in the stable is warm. That leads me to believe that you delivered her safely then came on here.” He leaned forward, making her strain away from him. “Let me put this in plain language, Thomas. Either you take me to the woman or I take you back to the castle and let British Intelligence decide whether your are innocent or guilty.”

Torture
. The thought seared her brain. This man wasn’t tall, dark, and handsome. He was infinitely dangerous. Coldhearted. Unscrupulous. And she must never forget it.

“What is it to be, then, Thomas? Do I hand you over to British Intelligence or do you take me to the woman?”

Only an agent would hand her over to British Intelligence. Ramsey and his cohorts would want a secure cellar or dungeon where they could terrorize her in private. However, they were hardly likely to tell her that.

He had the upper hand for the moment, but that could change.

“If I take you to the woman,” she said, as meek as she could make herself, “do you promise not to hurt her?”

“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. Give me her name.”

She watched him warily as he pocketed the blond wig she had worn earlier. “Martha McGregor,” she said, giving him one of her own aliases. “She seemed like a nice lady.”

Something moved in his eyes, something hard and unforgiving.

Without thinking, Mahri edged closer to him. “Why do you hate her? What has she done?”

He scraped back his chair and got up. “First things first. When I have the woman, we’ll sit down and have a long chat, you and I. There’s a lot you haven’t told me, but that can wait.”

She thought a show of defiance might be in order, just enough to convince him that she really was small fry. “We’re not going out right now, in the dark?”

“Move,” he ordered. “I know she can’t be far from here. You’ve only been back an hour or so. And don’t try any foolish tricks. It will be the worse for you if you do.”

Mahri believed him. The trouble was, it would be even worse for her if she didn’t try to trick him. The thought stayed with her as she shuffled out of the taproom.