The Scot and I (5 page)

Brambles snared her clothes and face. She cursed them fluently in Gaelic and pressed on. There was nothing to see now, no moonlight to show her the way. Her only guide was the sound of the river as it tumbled over its rocky bed. There were many fords over the Dee, some with stepping-stones, but this wasn’t one of them. When was her luck going to turn?

Though the river was shallow at this point, it could still be treacherous. If she slipped and hit her head on a rock, she could quite easily drown. She tested the water gingerly. It did not reach the top of her boot.

She had taken only two careful steps into the water when she heard it, the soft neighing of a horse. Her feet slipped on the stones, and she came down heavily on her rear end. All her inert instincts returned in full force. He, Hepburn, was there, stalking her.

From that point on, stealth was forgotten. Half-crouched over, arms stretched in front of her for balance, she plunged into the river.

“For God’s sake, Thomas!”

She had slithered and slid to the halfway point when something caught her collar, choking her, and the next thing she knew, she was dragged and swept along the riverbed on her toes. Once they reached the other side, he dumped her, none too gently, on the muddy bank. She scrambled to her knees but that was as far as she got. He was on her in the blink of eye, hauling her up like a sack of potatoes and throwing her facedown across the saddle. Then he mounted up and urged his horse forward. She put up a feeble struggle and for her pains received several swats on her backside.

She wasn’t beaten yet, she promised herself.

It was an empty promise. She’d been taught how to defend herself, but she had never been caught before, never had to come to blows with a trained killer. She was a courier, not a warrior.

It didn’t matter. They’d hang her anyway.

 

 

He had hoped to clear up the business of the “blond” imposter quickly and let the boy go before his colleagues caught up with them. He had no intention of handing the woman over for questioning, not until he’d made up his mind about how deeply she was involved. Suspected traitors and conspirators, male and female, frequently met with tragic accidents before they could go to trial. The less evidence there was to stand up in a court of law, the more likely they were to come to a bad end. Once, a long time ago, he’d made a serious error in judgment. He had no wish to repeat the experience.

As for the boy, he had intended to let him off with a severe warning, but that was before the wretch had duped him, before he’d had a rude awakening at the White Stag. Thomas Gordon was no innocent bystander. He’d set a trap that could quite easily have had him, an elite member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, beaten to within an inch of his life. An excise man! Excise men were the most despised breed in all of Scotland. He himself despised them.

Master Gordon was no innocent. His subsequent flight from the inn showed forethought and cunning. He was in the conspiracy up to his neck. One way or another, Alex would pry the truth out of him, and only then would he decide what to do with him.

The pelting rain was fast becoming a deluge. Alex had hoped to return to the Inver Arms in Braemar, but the rain and the dark made it a tricky proposition. All the same, they had to get out of the rain. The nearest refuge that he was aware of was the one they’d just left.

Grunting, spewing a stream of curses, he turned his horse’s head and made for the White Stag.

 

 

They were all terrified of him: the landlord, his wife, the few patrons who had not dashed from the inn in a panicked stampede. They took one look at the revolver in his hand, another at the inert form of the boy he’d hoisted over one shoulder, and they froze like icicles hanging from the eaves.

He raised his revolver as he stomped to the bar counter, pointing it at the ceiling. He was in a foul humor. If anyone looked at him the wrong way, he’d part his hair with a shot from his gun.

No one looked at him the wrong way. No one so much as blinked.

He heaved a sigh. “I am not an excise man,” he said. “I don’t give a tinker’s cuss about your contraband whiskey. This runaway”—he slapped Thomas’s rear end to make a point—“is my brother, and I aim to take him home to our father, whose heart he broke when he ran away.”

He paused a moment to let the words sink in. “I don’t want trouble. I want a room where we can spend the night and someone to care for our horses. I’d like a change of clothes for my brother until the clothes he is wearing have dried out.” He fished in his coat pocket and produced two sovereigns, which he slapped down on the polished wood counter. “This should cover our expenses.”

The gleaming coins brought an answering gleam to the landlord’s eyes. It also broke the spell of silence. Men shrugged and turned to each other to resume their conversations. In no time at all, Alex and his prisoner were ushered into a snug little room at the back of the inn next to the kitchen. The heat from the kitchen ovens made their own small chamber pleasantly warm. Alex noted the bars on the only window and counted them a bonus. There would be no escape for Master Gordon now. There was one narrow bed, an antiquated washstand with a folded towel on a shelf, a small table with an oil lamp that the landlord hastened to light, and one upright chair.

“My son’s room,” the landlord said, “when he comes for a visit. I’ll tell the wife to look out some of his clothes for the lad.” He bowed himself out.

They were both wet, but the boy had taken a dunking in the river and was in far worse shape than Alex. His teeth were chattering, and shivers racked his slight frame.

Alex lowered him to the bed. He couldn’t allow himself to show pity, because this boy would use it to his advantage. Keeping his voice neutral, he said, “Strip out of those wet clothes, and I’ll have the landlord’s wife take them away to dry.”

The boy’s complexion was gray; his eyes were wary. His bottom lip trembled.

Alex’s lips quirked. “Don’t be shy. You haven’t got anything I haven’t seen before. Come on, lad. Act the man.”

The boy continued to sit there, staring wide-eyed at Alex.

“Look,” said Alex,” it’s easy, see?” He put his pistol down on the table and dragged off his coat. “Now you,” he told the boy.

The boy’s response was unexpected. He dived into his boot and came up with a dagger. “Stay away from me, or I’ll cut your heart out.”

Alex might have been angry had the boy’s hand not shaken like the Shakin’ Briggie at Cults. When he felt himself softening, he hardened his resolve. Give this boy an inch, and he would take a mile.

“Stay away from you? You ungrateful whelp. I’m trying to save you from falling into the hands of—”

He moved like lightning. His fist lashed out, catching the boy on the wrist, and the dagger spun out of his hand. He swooped it up, tossed it on the table, then pounced on the boy, flattening him into the mattress. The boy beat at him with his fists, but there wasn’t much force behind the blows. If he’d wanted to, Alex could have hurt him badly. He didn’t want to hurt the boy. What he wanted was the boy’s submission, and it seemed that at long last he had it.

He reached for the boy’s tam, and a mane of dark curls tumbled out. Baffled, he began to strip the boy’s clothes from him one article at a time. The boy protested weakly, but Alex was in no mood to listen. When soft flesh spilled into his hands, he was stunned. It took him a moment to realize that, once again, he had completely misjudged the situation. He had uncovered a perfect specimen of femininity: plump little breasts with dark crests, a long, slender waist, softly flaring hips, and skin as smooth as satin. Between her thighs, a dark thatch of swansdown protected her femininity.

His breath froze in his lungs. He experienced the same sensation he’d felt when he’d first set eyes on the blond woman at the queen’s reception: a ripple of recognition, like a tiny electric current passing through his brain. All his senses opened to her.

When he found himself reaching for her, he snatched his hand away. Fear-bright eyes stared up at him.

This was madness. The woman meant nothing to him. Nothing. She’d as soon kill him as look at him.

Gritting his teeth, he got off the bed and snatched a blanket that was folded over the chair. “Cover yourself,” he said harshly.

As she quickly did as she was bid, he reached for the towel and mopped the rain from his face. Things he hadn’t seen before were clicking into place.

“There is no other woman,” he said. “Is there? There is no boy who conducted her to a safe place. You’re one and the same person.”

When she shook her head miserably, he made an impatient, slashing gesture with one hand. “You’re the woman at the reception. You’re the blond who tried to kill me. I want you to begin at the beginning and tell me all you know, or I swear I will have you locked in a dungeon and I will walk away without a backward glance.”

And to show her how defenseless she was, he picked up her dirk and thrust it into the strap inside his own boot.

Four

She was drawing herself into the blanket as though it were a tent when his words arrested her. “Kill
you
?” she said. “I don’t even know you.” She tucked the edges of the blanket under her chin.

He spoke in a voice that was all the more menacing for being soft. “Your shot missed me by a hair.”

Her brain was working on several levels. She didn’t know how to read this man, didn’t know whether it would serve her best to appear to be browbeaten or a force to be reckoned with. Another part of her brain was sifting through his words. He thought she had tried to kill him. Was this a trick to get her to talk? And who was he? Who was he working for? She still wasn’t sure.

When he slammed his hand against the wall, she blurted, “If I’d wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t have missed.”

“That’s an odd boast for a lady to make.”

It wasn’t odd. It was insane. Where had her wits gone? “I wasn’t boasting.” She despised the wobble in her voice, and in an effort to appear more in control of the situation and of herself, she tipped up her chin. “Anyone can learn to shoot a gun. My grandfather thought it was a skill everyone should master.”

When he sat down on the edge of the bed, she scuttled backward to the headboard. She did not mistake his smile for an attempt at friendliness. It reminded her of her first impression, that he was a shark on the hunt for small fry.

“Let’s not play games,” he said. “If you didn’t try to kill me, then you were part of the plot to kill the queen.”

At last she had a clue to his identity. He must be working for the authorities. Or was it a trick to lull her suspicions?

“I’m not part of any plot,” she asserted with as much indignation as she could muster. “And before you say another word, I want to know who I’m talking to. You told me your name but not why you followed me. Why didn’t you report me to the authorities?”

His reply was laced with irony. “I
am
the authorities. It’s my job to follow runaways. You did better than run away. You vanished. Now it’s your turn. Who are you, vanishing lady?”

Anyone listening to them would think that they were flirting. She shrugged off the disturbing thought and gave him another alias. “I am Margaret Blayne of Struan House by Cults.” To her knowledge, there was no such person and no such house.

“You’re not one of the White Stag’s barques of frailty?”

“What?”

“You know, Morag McGregor, who plies her trade upstairs?”

This was going from bad to worse. When she’d set out on her mission, she’d known that she might be caught. It didn’t matter whose hands she fell into; she didn’t expect to be treated gently. She was coming to see that she might have underestimated the kind of torture they would use against her. This man wasn’t a gentleman. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. It was too masculine, too predatory.

When he quite deliberately touched his hand to her bare foot, she jumped and quickly withdrew her toes under the blanket.

“No. I can see you are not Morag McGregor,” he said. “Pity.” When he sat back on the bed, she let out a shivery sigh.

“So you’re Margaret Blayne of Struan House?”

“I am. Yes.”

“Do you live with your parents, a husband, relatives?”

She tried not to look away from his probing stare. “I live with an aunt.”

“Mmm. Well, that can be easily verified.”

True, but by that time, she hoped she had given him the slip. “Mrs. Lindsay, my aunt, will vouch for me.”

“What did you do with your revolver?” he suddenly asked.

She was glad to change the subject. “I left it in my room at the Inver Arms.” She gave a helpless shrug. “I didn’t expect to run into trouble.”

“You thought you were free and clear?”

“No,” she said quietly, her mind wandering, “I’ll never be free and clear.”