Highland Temptation Page 12

  “A bit after midnight.”

  Almost ten hours, then, since he’d faced Pinfield and his men. Damn. It was too long.

  The man straightened. “Yer horses were a wee bit spooked, but I brushed them down for ye and let them graze.”

  Colin was relieved that the horses had remained close, that Pinfield hadn’t taken them. “Did you find my sgian dubh?”

  “Aye, lad. I was keepin’ it safe for ye.” Mrs. MacCallum left the room for a few seconds, then returned with the small dagger, which Colin tucked into his stocking.”

  “My pistol?”

  Mrs. MacCallum raised her brows. “I didna see any other weapons. Did you, Stuart?”

  “Nay.”

  Colin ground his teeth, but he had another pistol hidden in the luggage.

  “And the carriage?”

  “Aye, ’twas fine. Yer things were in the boot. I couldna tell if anythin’ was stolen, but I didna wish to pry—”

  “I thank you. I must go now.”

  “Och, I may be a bit o’ an old fustilugs, but I ken this land like nae other. I’ll be ridin’ south with ye, lad.” The older man put a comforting hand on Colin’s shoulder. “We’ll find yer wife.”

  Mrs. MacCallum nodded in approval, her expression solemn. “Aye, go. Godspeed to ye both.”

  —

  Two hours later, Stuart MacCallum said, “We’re close now,” his face ghostly white and wavering in the weak light. They were riding side by side, and MacCallum was holding the lantern. Colin had attempted to hold it when they’d first mounted the horses at MacCallum’s cottage, but his hand shook so violently, he nearly dropped it.

  “There now, laddie,” MacCallum had said, “yer still recoverin’ from that blow. Let me take it.” Though nearing the ripe age of seventy, it turned out MacCallum had a steady hand.

  They would have been here much sooner, but halfway to the border, Colin had started breathing heavily, and his whole body began to shudder.

  He’d tried to stave them off, but his head was tender, his vision was unsteady, and it didn’t surprise him that the demons took advantage of his weakened state.

  He’d bent over the horse, wheezing, his vision wavering in and out as he fought to keep conscious, sucking in air as if through the tiniest of openings.

  MacCallum had cursed and come close to him, grabbing his coat and thrusting him back upon the horse when he nearly fell off. This had gone on for the better part of an hour, infuriating Colin. This damned madness was keeping him from reaching Emilia. Each minute he delayed meant she might be in greater danger.

  In fact, he believed it was the fury—the deadly rage he felt toward them—that finally chased the demons away. When he’d caught his breath enough that his eyes could function properly, he nodded at MacCallum and thanked the man—who was inordinately strong for his age, Colin noted. Then he urged the horse to the fastest pace he could manage without endangering the animal in the dark, ignoring the pain that slashed through his head every time a hoof struck the ground. MacCallum kept pace beside him, one hand on the reins, one holding the lantern to light their way.

  As they approached the abandoned farmhouse, they slowed the animals, then dismounted, leaving the horses at the side of the road.

  Colin cast a glance up at the sky, debating whether to take the lantern, and he decided they should. The day had been sunny, but clouds now obscured the moon and stars, and the night was too dark. The benefits of having the lantern with them outweighed the risks.

  They approached the farmhouse. All was still as death. Colin stepped inside and nearly choked on the foul smell that instantly assaulted his senses.

  “Look,” Mr. MacCallum murmured, pointing to their feet.

  Colin looked down and saw fresh footprints in the mud—dozens of them, and of varying sizes. Bloody hell. He pressed his lips together so he wouldn’t curse out loud.

  Without speaking, they searched the old farmhouse. There wasn’t a soul inside, though they did disrupt some night creature that scuttled away and disappeared into a chest-high pile of rubbish.

  By the time they exited the farmhouse, Colin’s jaw was so tight, he thought it might snap. Somehow he managed to say, “Let’s look behind the house.”

  They did just that…and it was there that what Colin had suspected since seeing the footprints was confirmed.

  Emilia’s stockings were in a wet pile near the back wall of the house. Colin shook them out, finding them soaking wet and heavily torn. If they were this bad, then Emilia’s legs must be covered in cuts.

  So she’d certainly been here. For a while. She’d removed her stockings, gone to the stream, probably washed.

  The marks on the ground left no doubt as to what had happened next. There was a plot of soft-looking grass between the house and a half-collapsed lean-to, but beyond the small patch of green, there was a long strip of thick mud. And that revealed more footprints. And drag marks. Lots of them, leading to the front of the house.

  So Emilia had been waiting for him, but they’d found her here. They’d taken her. Clearly against her will.

  He met MacCallum’s sober gaze. “Back to the horses,” he said tightly.

  They strode quickly back to the road. As they walked, Colin said, “You ought to go home. I believe they’ve gone south, toward London. I’ll pursue them, but I dinna ken how long it’ll take and how far south I’ll have to ride before catching them.”

  “Nay,” MacCallum said. “Did I no’ tell ye I ken this land like nae other?”

  Colin closed his eyes briefly. He did not want the responsibility of another life, and for God’s sake, he didn’t want anyone slowing him down, but despite his age, MacCallum had handled himself well thus far. In fact, the man might prove to be an asset.

  He took a breath. “If that’s what you want.”

  “ ’Tis,” MacCallum said simply.

  They rode hard for the next hour, not encountering anyone until they reached the town of Berwick, where, just after crossing the bridge over the river Tweed, they came upon a pair of men deep in their cups. The men swerved down the center of the empty street, their arms entwined as they sang at the top of their lungs, “Let every man here drink up his full bum-per, let every man here drink up his full bowl, and let us be jo-lly and drown melanch-olly—”

  “Ho!” Colin called to them, and they clumsily turned, nearly tripping over each other in their surprise at being interrupted.

  But then one of them—a wiry man who stood a full head taller than his compatriot—hailed with an overdone salute, grinning broadly. “Ahoy, cap’n!”

  “Guid evenin’, gents,” Mr. MacCallum said.

  Colin wasn’t interested in small talk. “Have you seen a black carriage go by? Pulled by a team of bays? There were men, too, along with the carriage, perhaps four of them.”

  The two men looked at each other, frowning, then back to Colin.

  “Nay, sorry to say, cap’n. I’ve seen nothin’ of the sort,” the tall man said with an apologetic shrug.

  Damn, blast, and bloody hell. Colin wanted badly to break something.

  “Why d’ye want to know?” asked the shorter man. He was drunk, definitely, but not as drunk as his friend, and there was a gleam of sobriety somewhere in the depths of his dark eyes.

  “They took something of mine,” Colin said, so frustrated and angry his voice was a crackling rasp. “Something I need back.”

  “Yer blunt?” the tall one asked with a sympathetic nod.

  “Nay,” Colin bit out. “My…woman.”

  That stopped them cold. The shorter one’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. His eyes narrowed in memory. “Aye, I saw that carriage you’re speakin’ of. Fancy gold crest on the side, it had. Four bays, and four more horses flanking it.” The short man hawked and spat to the side. “ ‘Whoever’s there inside that thing,’ I says to meself, ‘thinks he’s the goddamned King of England.’ ”

  “How long ago?” Colin demanded.

  The sh
orter 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.

  Chapter 16

  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 accid
ent, 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.