Never had a man looked more a fool than Dunstan did now, his hands empty of the ragged traitor he'd been seeking so long, and his betrothed—the darling of the English military, the trophy all men envied him—plucked from the midst of a ball and taken hostage by the very man he sought.
Worst of all, it seemed that the bastard finally had achieved his goal. Every shipload of refugees the man managed to sneak away from Scotland strengthened his position as hero. Every stolen loaf of bread he pressed into the hands of the starving heightened the sense of mystery, of legend that seemed to swirl about him.
And now, stealing Rachel from beneath Cumberland's very nose had made the rogue seem invincible.
Blast, did the man never take a misstep? never make a mistake? The bastard had complete power again—over him, over Rachel. All Dunstan could do was sit and await the Glen Lyon's next move.
No! He'd be damned if he'd pace by the fire and wait. He'd find a way to force the rebel's hand, to drag him out into the open. And when he did... Dunstan's veins flowed with lust for the kill, a dark, primal hunger. Even if it cost him Rachel, Dunstan vowed, he'd make the Glen Lyon pay in blood for his crimes.
The hills were like a Druid goddess, ageless, lovely beyond the imaginings of a mere mortal. A purple mantle of twilight draped Scotland's peaks and valleys, bathing the land in magic eons old. The wind whispered of legends spun in mystic circles of stone raised up by a people who had faded back into the mists of time. The tang of sea spray and heather mingled, the very essence of enchantment, swirling about Gavin and Adam as they wound through the moors.
Gavin didn't belong here. He was an Englishman, an outsider. Yet, the ancient magic of this place never failed to move him—move him, and break his heart as well. Every time he stared out at the fairy-kissed beauty of this land, he thought of the children who had grown up running wild through these hills; of men who had sacrificed their homes, their lives, the futures of their women and children in a hopeless quest for glory; of women who had watched their husbands and sons march away without reproach, their parting gifts to their menfolk the white Stuart cockades that would adorn the Scotsmen's bonnets when they charged into battle.
It was as if the weight of all their lost dreams gathered in a thick cloud that pressed down on Gavin's chest, an endless litany drumming inside his head.
Why? Why am I alive, while they are dead?
Yet today, as he rode toward the Glen Lyon's encampment, the heather-scented breeze against his face, there was another, even more insistent dirge of regret that plagued him.
How could I take an innocent woman captive, embroil her in this disaster between Sir Dunstan and me?
He pictured her in his mind's eye, stumbling into his cave chamber with her hair tumbled about a face so lovely it had lanced the very core of him. She was the embodiment of every classical goddess or mythical heroine who had ever sparked his boyhood imagination.
Despite his best intentions, he had done nothing to calm her fears. Instead, he had threatened her, made her feel his power over her. It was an act more worthy of the officer he'd left behind in the glen.
In the hours since Gavin and Adam had eluded the soldiers who had attempted to trail them, he had done his damnedest to figure out a way to make amends, find some way to make things right.
Let her go. It's the only way. The words rippled through Gavin's exhausted mind. In that moment, he thought he would sell his soul to be able to do so, but then his imagination filled with a wreath of childish faces: Barna, his anger and stubbornness a shield to hide agony far too large for his little heart to contain; Aileen, with her sweet, lilting voice that could spin out a hundred bard's songs; Andrew, Catriona, and little Lachlan, who still cried out for their mama at night, and all the other little ones who had no hope but to escape upon the ship that would land at Cairnleven in three weeks' time.
No. It was impossible to release Rachel de Lacey until the children were safely away from Scotland. Yet, Gavin could sit down with his defiant captive and tell her the truth about why he had resorted to kidnapping her. He could promise her that he had no intention of hurting her, whether or not Sir Dunstan Wells met his demands.
He could tell her how damned sorry he was to put her through this ordeal. He winced inwardly. What must she be feeling after a whole day locked in that cave chamber, knowing she was at the mercy of a man she saw as a desperate rebel one step away from a headsman's axe?
Gavin slipped his fingers beneath his spectacles and rubbed eyes gritty from exhaustion. Guilt only ground deeper as he imagined one of his own beloved half sisters in Rachel de Lacey's place, helpless and afraid. He'd want to kill the son of a bitch who was responsible.
To kill. Every muscle in his body tightened, a sense of sick futility welling up inside him until he was afraid he might choke on it. That was a lesson Dunstan and others like him had taught him far too well.
He looked up, stunned to find his gelding nearing the mouth of the cave. God alone knew how long he'd been lost in his own private hell. For once, it seemed, Adam had been angry enough to let him stay there.
"Get off the blasted horse, Saint Gavin," Adam snapped, flinging himself from his own restive mount. "I'll take care of the animals this time. I'm sure you're just itching to go bury yourself in sackcloth and ashes."
Adam was reading his damned mind again, and Gavin could tell it was making his soldier brother disgruntled as blazes. Gavin dismounted and tossed the reins into Adam's hand.
"There's no way to gloss over what I have become, Adam."
Adam glared. "And just exactly what are you, brother?"
Gavin looked away, but he was certain Adam had caught a glimpse of the desolation in his eyes.
Adam swore. "Christ, Gav. I just wish the world was filled with worthless, cowardly, irredeemable sons of bitches like you. It would be a much better place." With those words, Adam stalked away, leading the horses behind him.
Gavin watched him for a moment, affection welling up in the wake of his brother's words, but even Adam's fierce loyalty couldn't salve the wounds in his spirit today. Nothing could, except going to Rachel de Lacey, telling her...
He sucked in a deep breath and entered the cave, the coolness closing around him. The walls echoed with the familiar sound of children squabbling, the vague scolding of Fiona Fraser, who tended them as if they were her own babes turned young again, babes whose blood had nourished Scotland's soil on a half-dozen battlefields.
The woman turned from where she stood working a crude bowl of dough and smiled at him.
"I trust ye looked for your brother, that naughty wretch, runnin' up into the hills and worryin' his poor mama."
"I looked for him," Gavin said, knowing the woman wasn't inquiring about Adam, but rather a boy he had never even seen. A huge ache pulsed around Gavin's heart as he looked into eyes that had once been vibrant and bright and filled with adoration for her sons, eyes that were now closed to a reality so harsh she couldn't bear to face it.
"Well, he'll be back by dinner," Mama Fee said with a breezy wave. "He cannot get enough of my bannocks."
Gavin gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, then went to the chamber door. He knocked, calling out. "Mistress de Lacey? May I come in?"
"What poor, weak woman would dare defy the wishes of the bold Glen Lyon?" She might as well have called him the scum off of Satan's well, her voice dripped with so much scorn. Amazement jolted through Gavin that she could still sound so resolute after a day of imprisonment.
Respect made the pity he'd felt for her earlier seem a pale thing. Rachel de Lacey wasn't like any woman he'd ever known before. She left him feeling as if his feet had suddenly grown three sizes and his hands were clumsy hams. He slipped loose the thick length of oak that barred the door, and entered the chamber.
A stubby candle glowed on his desk, casting the stone alcove into shadow. Rachel stood with her back against the far wall. Her Grecian robes fell in limp, dirt-smudged tatters, skimming her sandal-clad insteps. Her d
ark hair was wild and wind-snarled, but her eyes gleamed in the candlelight with a rare fire— sapphire blue, filled with courage and resolve and a sense of fierce conviction that Gavin envied.
It had been so very long since he'd believed in anything—especially himself. He turned and locked the door.
"Mistress de Lacey," he said to the oaken panel, reluctant to face her. "We need to talk."
"You won't like what I have to say, you treasonous bastard!"
The words bit like a lash into raw places inside Gavin, but he couldn't suppress the wry twist of a smile that tugged at his lips. Lord, the woman was tenacious! Still spitting fire, stirring up tempests. If anything, a day locked in a cave room had only sharpened her tongue, but he wasn't going to let her infuriate him again. He was going to be patient, downright kind, even if it killed them both.
"Mistress de Lacey, I know we began badly, but I hope we can make a new beginning."
"We shall, now that I have your pistol."
"My pistol?" He chuckled. "I just came from a meeting with your betrothed. Only a fool would charge into such mayhem completely unarmed."
Gavin groped at his waist, intending to display his weapon. He found nothing for his pains but a handful of waistcoat. No! It was impossible! Had this woman so unsettled him that he'd walked out of the room without the damned thing?
Heat stung his cheeks and he turned to find himself looking straight down the barrel of... saints be damned! His own pistol!
The one blessing was that with curious children prying about with their little hands, he hadn't been accustomed to leaving it loaded.
He grimaced. "Now I'm certain you see why I didn't abduct you myself." He walked toward her, hands stretched out before him. "Mistress de Lacey, I know that you are frightened—"
"You should be the one who is frightened, Master Cowardly. You're the one with a pistolball just a whisper away from your villainous heart."
Gavin shook his head with almost tender compassion. "I don't blame you for trying to defend yourself, but the pistol isn't loaded. Now set it down, and we can—"
"Oh, it's loaded, that I promise you. Pistolballs were stored underneath your nightshirt; the powder flask was tucked into the toe of a boot."
Gavin froze, his gut clenching. "Son of a bitch! You didn't—"
"Load it?" she enunciated with grim pleasure. "I most certainly did."
"Gunpowder isn't a plaything, woman!" Real horror jolted through Gavin—horror that had nothing to do with saving his own skin. "God's wounds, put that gun down! If you didn't load it right, the blasted thing could explode right in your face! It's dangerous—"
"I suppose the Cowardly Villain Handbook didn't warn you not to leave a dangerous weapon lying about."
"This isn't a goddamn joke!" Gavin snapped. "The slightest twitch of your finger on that trigger could blow you all the way to England! Now, give that pistol to me!"
"I think not." Her eyes snapped fire. "I intend to keep it as a trophy to show my betrothed when I return home."
Gavin's jaw tightened at the mere mention of Wells. "Give it to me before you hurt yourself." He moved toward her.
"No! Stay right there. If you take another step, I'll shoot." Any other woman would have been making a hysterical threat. Rachel de Lacey's voice was cold steel. "One more step and you're dead. There's nothing I'd like better than to put a bullet through your cowardly heart!"
She was doing it again—jabbing at his temper. "From your past escapades, I know exactly what a bloodthirsty little creature you are, Mistress de Lacey, but you will give me that gun before somebody gets hurt." His eyes clashed with hers, his hand reaching up, closing on the German silver barrel.
"Stop! Don't—" A howl of feminine rage mingled with his own guttural cry of surprise as the pistol spit fire. Pain seared into Gavin's side, the explosion reverberating through the Glen Lyon's cave.
CHAPTER 5
The recoil of the pistol vibrated up Rachel's arm, a thick wave of horror spilling in its wake as the Glen Lyon staggered backward, scarlet blossoming on his gray coat. Her nostrils filled with the stench of sulfur and burnt powder and the sickly sweetness of blood.
"You shot me!" he said in incredulous accusation. He staggered to the cave wall, bracing his lean frame against it. His fingers groped for his left side.
"I didn't do any such thing!" She flung the weapon away as if it had suddenly turned into a snake. "You grabbed the gun and it went off! This is your fault, all your fault!"
She rushed toward him, outrage and panic mingling inside her. "I was never going to shoot you, you infernal blockhead!" she raged, comforted by the fact that he would scarce be standing if he were badly injured. "A hostage is no good to anyone once he's bleeding all over the place." She reached for his jacket, intending to bare the wound, but he shoved her hands away. She was sickened by the slippery feel of his blood on her skin.
"Leave it alone, for Christ's sake!" he snarled. "Haven't you done enough damage?"
She grabbed up a wad of petticoat from the jumble of garments stuffed in a nearby basket and jabbed the cloth in the vicinity of his wound none too gently.
"Ouch, blast it!" he snapped. "What? Shooting me wasn't... enough? You have to find new ways of causing me... pain?"
"You're supposed to apply pressure to stanch the flow of blood!"
"I know!" He jerked away, clamping his arm tightly over the bunched cloth.
"I hope you are satisfied!" she shouted, clinging to her fury. "My escape is ruined. Completely ruined."
An oath slipped from between the rebel's clenched teeth. "That bullet didn't... do much for... my jacket, either." Long artist's fingers snagged in the charred holes that the bullet had made as it entered and exited. "More goddamn mending." He groaned. "You should've aimed for my heart. Nice, clean bullet... over in... an instant. But I suppose... I should be grateful you... didn't blow... the whole cave to kingdom come."
"That pistol was loaded perfectly! I've been shooting since I was eight years old! If I wanted to wound you, Master Cowardly, you wouldn't be suffering from some—some paltry gash."
"Well, pardon me for... not being wounded in a more... dramatically satisfactory way. And for mucking up your great escape." He attempted to lever himself away from the wall, but he sagged back against the rough stone, his teeth clenched. "Sorry I didn't play my part to your... high standards of... excellence."
A rumble of shouts echoed from the other part of the cave, the oaken door slamming open with a force that should have brought the cave roof tumbling in on their heads.
"What's happening? I heard a shot!" a masculine voice shouted. "Did that cur Dunstan dis- cover—" The sentence ended in a roar of pure fury. "What the devil!"
Rachel turned to see Adam, pistol in hand, his face as feral as a bear's and twice as frightening.
"Damn you, woman," Adam roared as he charged her. "If you've hurt him, I swear I'll—"
Rough fingers closed on her shoulder, and she expected to be flung to the far corners of the cave by this terrifying giant of a man, but the Glen Lyon intervened by merely raising one hand.
"Stop, Adam. This is my... fault."
Those quiet words stopped Adam when Rachel was certain the very hand of God could not have.
She gaped at the Glen Lyon. The man leaned against the wall in a manner almost—well, casual— as if he were shot every day of the week. Astonishment bolted through her as she gazed into gray eyes brimming with wry humor, despite his grimace of pain.
"Damnation, I'll go stark raving mad if you go defending the wench out of some misguided notion of chivalry!" Adam jammed his pistol back into the waistband of his breeches and charged toward the rebel leader. "She may be a woman, but they can be accursed vipers."
She knew the instant Adam saw the blood. Pain darted into those warrior features—far more pain, Rachel was certain, than if the big man had been wounded himself.
The Glen Lyon must have glimpsed his expression as well, for he pushed himself
away from the wall, and took a few unsteady steps to his chair. He sank down on it, his wounded side hidden by the desk. What in the name of heaven was he doing?
"I have it on Mistress de Lacey's authority that this is nothing but a paltry gash," the Glen Lyon said with a forced laugh.
"Wonderful!" Adam snapped. "Did you inform her royal highness that if the pistolball had been a few inches over, God Himself couldn't have saved you?"
The notion that she might have killed a man sickened Rachel until her head swam. She buried her hands in the folds of her robes, but the smear of red left on the dusty fabric made her stomach pitch. "I didn't mean to shoot him. I never intended to—"
"Mama Fee," the giant called over one shoulder. "Get me some water—hot and clean. And some fresh linen."
"It was my... own clumsiness that caused this," the Glen Lyon insisted. "Tried to grab my gun."
"The little witch tried to grab your gun? Hellfire! You should've knocked her over the head with it! No doubt you were trying to be gentle."
"No... you don't understand." The Glen Lyon grasped the side of the desk, and Rachel wondered if she was the only one who noticed how white his knuckles were. "She had the... gun when I came into the room. I tried to... get it from her."
"Don't be ridiculous!" Adam cast a glare at the German silver pistol that lay at the foot of the desk. His brow furrowed. His eyes clouded, a befuddled haze drifting over them. "How the devil could she have your gun?" Adam snorted. "You were carrying it when we met with Sir Dunstan."
The Glen Lyon raised his eyes to the stormy face of Adam, and Rachel could see his chest begin to shake—shake with suppressed... dear God, could it be laughter?
"Thunder in heaven," Adam cursed, thunderstruck. "Tell me you didn't forget your pistol!"
"Damn it... don't look at me like... that," the Glen Lyon choked out, but tears of mirth were welling in the corners of his eyes. "Hurts to... laugh."