Highland Temptation (11 page)

“Just…need a minute,” he said in a low voice.

She turned to face him, registering the soreness between her legs and not caring about it. Because while she might be a bit sore, she'd never in her life felt so sated. So complete.

Watching him, she moved a bit of the brown hair that had come out of his queue from where sweat glued it to his face. He blinked up at her, and she smiled at him.

“God,” he said, “you're so damn bonny.”

So are you,
she wanted to say. He was the bonniest thing she'd ever seen.

He pulled her to him, her skirts crushed between them, and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “I hurt you.”

“Only for a moment,” she replied against the warmth of his lips. “After that it was…”

“It was…” He hesitated, then murmured, “Perfect.”

She sighed in contentment.

Eventually, Colin rose. He used a strip of linen to wash her. She would normally have been terribly embarrassed about the blood, but Colin just cleaned it up, and then kissed her wet thighs, his every movement brimming with tenderness. He adjusted her skirts and helped her tie her gown back on. She fixed her hair and tied her straw bonnet under her chin as he refastened his kilt and donned his coat.

In companionable silence, they cleaned up their picnic and returned to the carriage. He helped her onto her seat, then walked around and climbed up beside her. He touched her cheek—an intimate, loving gesture—before taking up the reins and turning them back to the road.

Less than an hour later, Emilia was dozing on Colin's shoulder when he woke her. “We just crossed the border. We're in Scotland now.”

Emilia had thought he would have been pleased by that, but there was tension in his shoulders and a crease between his brows.

She sat up, scanning the environs with interest. If she thought Scotland's Lowland terrain would magically look different from northern England's, she had been wrong. There was nothing different about the green of the hills, about the blue of the sea they occasionally spotted in the distance. Still…
Scotland,
she thought with a chest-deep thrill. She'd considered herself trapped in London, had often wondered if she'd ever leave. And now she was hundreds of miles away, in Scotland, headed toward the great historic city of Edinburgh.

“You look happy,” Colin commented sometime later.

She turned to him. “I
am
happy.”

He smiled at her, and she thought that might be the first time she'd seen him give everything to a smile. It lit up his face and his eyes, and rendered him handsomer than ever. “I'm glad,” he said.

Colin slowed the horses as they rounded a sharp turn in the road. And then he pulled on the reins sharply, stopping them altogether.

Ahead, a line of horses and men blocked the road, a large, shiny black carriage parked behind them.

As Colin and Emilia had turned the corner, at least a half-dozen guns had been aimed in their direction.

Colin's mind worked furiously. Bloody hell.

He'd worried that Mrs. Thomas from Markham Moor would talk. And since that stagecoach had passed them earlier, the occupants' gazes all taking them in, he'd had an uneasy feeling in his gut. Those passengers had probably confirmed that Emilia and Colin were headed in this direction.

A hundred or so feet ahead of them, Pinfield broke through the line of men—due to his large girth and cocksure stride, he was easy to recognize, even at a distance.

Emilia's hand closed over Colin's thigh. “Oh God,” she whispered, and he'd do anything,
anything,
to obliterate the tone of terror from her voice.

The road was narrow here, lined on both sides by high bushes. He couldn't turn them around. The only direction to go was forward.

They were trapped.

Beside him, Emilia's body trembled in fear.

“Halt!” Pinfield shouted imperiously—and stupidly, since they'd already halted.

The men moved forward in a line. Colin's pistol was in a pouch beside him, in case he needed it quickly, but one pistol wouldn't do him any good against a half dozen.

“You need to run,” he said in a low voice to Emilia as he slipped the gun from the pouch. “Head south. We passed an abandoned farmhouse—a crofter's cottage—just after we crossed the border, do you remember it?”

She nodded, her blue eyes wild with fear.

“Wait for me there. If I dinna come, return to Berwick and send for the Knights.”

“But…” she whispered, “…but…”

“
Go,
Emilia,” he said from the side of his mouth. The men were coming toward them. She didn't have a good head start, so she needed to go
now
if she was to have any chance of getting away. “Go!”

She flew into motion. He didn't have time to spare to watch her. Instead, as soon as she slipped from her seat, he loosened the reins and flicked them. The horses jumped forward. The men hadn't expected that. There were shouts, and then a loud explosion of a gunshot just as Colin dove for the phaeton's floor.

The shot missed him. And it missed both horses, thank God. But it did incite them to surge forward. The line of men broke as they scattered out of the way. “Shoot him!” Colin heard Pinfield's petulant cry. “Shoot him, I said!”

Colin was going to get killed if he stayed here. Just as more ear-splitting gunshots rent the air, he leapt out of the carriage, hitting the ground hard and rolling so he didn't break his neck.

Men were yelling, but Colin couldn't understand what they were saying—the ringing in his ears was too loud. He came up to his knees, saw a man running for him at full speed. Colin raised his gun and fired. The man fell to his knees and dropped his gun, but there was another man in his place almost instantly, running toward Colin and raising his weapon to aim. He was damn close. Colin jumped to his feet and lunged for him, head down, plowing into him. The man flew backward a good yard then went down like a sack of grain, emitting a loud grunt as his back slammed into the ground. On top of him, Colin hit him once across the skull with the butt of his pistol, and the man slumped back, instantly unconscious.

Grabbing the gun that had fallen from the man's loose fingers, Colin stood and looked around. Two men had mounted horses and were heading away from him, obviously chasing after Emilia. Horses were scattered along the road in various states of confusion and panic, and the gleaming black carriage still stood in the center of the road, its team whinnying and stamping unhappily. Colin and Emilia's phaeton had come to a stop nearby, its back wheels off the road and tangled in the bushes. Luckily, the horses hadn't torn it apart on their rampage.

No men were in sight except the two he'd injured, and he didn't have time to deal with them now. He strode toward the phaeton, intending to chase down the men who'd gone after Emilia.

As he passed the black carriage, though, a footstep sounded behind him. He whirled, raising his gun, but he only saw a flash of Pinfield's bulging waistcoat before a large stick hit him across his temple with a
crack.
His head whipped to the side from the force of it, and pain seared through his skull.

He slumped to the ground. Then everything went completely black.

It was a scene straight out of her worst nightmares. Her father's men chasing her through the brush, bearing down on her.

Emilia didn't know how long she'd been running, but her chest felt like it was going to burst, and she couldn't take in enough air. It had only been a few minutes since she'd jumped from the carriage, running for her life as she heard deadly gunshots behind her.

They might have shot Colin.

They might have killed him.

She fought the urge to go back, to defend him, to fight for him, but he'd told her to run. So she was running, at the same time praying he was all right. That those gunshots had come from his pistol, not her father's hired guns'. But she knew the chances of that were slim.

“Over here!” one of the men behind her shouted, and she ran harder, even while knowing her body was on the verge of failing her.

Two minutes later, a rough hand grasped at her arm and jerked her to a stop.

She tried to wrench away, but his grip was too strong. “There now, milady. I've got you,” he said. He was a rough man with a rough voice, but he was evidently attempting to be soothing. “We're going to get you back to his lordship right quick, and you'll be safe as can be.”

She stared into the man's haggard face. “Are you mad?” she cried out. “Let me go!”

He only squeezed her arm tighter. Branches crackled in the distance—more men coming to help. Her father was close. These men would take her to him. And then…

Panic crowding her throat, she thrust her knee up into his groin as hard as she could. He squealed and collapsed onto his knees, instantly letting her go. She didn't hesitate; instead, she turned and ran with renewed energy, leaping high over a fallen log that blocked her path and descending the grassy slope toward a small valley clustered with trees that would hopefully be able to hide her.

She looked desperately around to the right and left. She was close to the ocean, but a steep incline separated her from the water. Should she try to run toward the shore? Or hide herself within the tangle of low-growing trees?

She plunged into the copse of trees. They grew together so densely, she had to slow down to push aside branches and twigs. She glanced behind her and saw movement through the thick brush. They were coming closer.

Instead of hiding herself in the trees, she rushed toward the slope on the other side of the copse and started climbing, exposing herself fully. But she was desperate. She rushed up the hill, then at a sprint descended the gradual slope that led toward the ocean. There were no trees here, only grass and heather that grew to the height of her knees.

The slope steepened, and she began to slide down, trying to maintain some control and not tumble head over heels to her death below. Halfway down, she looked behind her and saw the men hesitating on the edge of the slope, clearly debating the wisdom of tackling such a steep incline.

She lost her balance and landed hard on her bottom, sliding over the grass downward toward the shore. Twigs pricked at her legs and tore her stockings, but she hardly felt them.

Finally, she reached the bottom, bloodied and covered in mud, but still in one piece. There was a long but narrow rocky beach that extended to the waterline, and she ran along it, keeping close to the slope that steepened into a cliff as she ran. There were abundant crags here, formations of rocks, the face of the cliff uneven.

And then she saw it. An impression in the rock, just big enough for a body to curl into. Flat granite stones lay everywhere on the ground. She glanced behind and didn't see a soul—she could hardly see anything beyond the rocky protrusion she'd just come around. If she was going to hide, now was the time to do it.

She quickly gathered five of the flat stones and placed them before the hole. Then she ducked into it, pressing her knees to her chest so she could fit, and scrambling to arrange the stones so they covered her and at the same time didn't look like someone had placed them deliberately.

She heard noises—footsteps—as soon as she grabbed the last stone. She quickly settled it into position above the others then pressed her spine against the back of the hole.

There were plenty of spaces between the stones to see through, and when the men came, she saw them. Three coming 'round the bend, one after the other. Big, mean-looking men. The kind she'd never before today seen in her father's presence.

“Where'd she go?” one of them called out.

“That way.”

They went right past her, and after she couldn't see them anymore, she could still hear their gruff voices arguing.

“She couldn't've gone this far.”

“Aye, but she was heading in this direction.”

“I saw her, too.”

“But she—”

She stayed put. The cliffs began to drop steeply directly into the sea in the direction they were going. Eventually, they'd give up and have to double back.

After a good half hour, they did. Emilia was desperately cramped in her little hole, but she refused to move. As they passed in the opposite direction she heard one of them curse, “Bloody hell,” and another say, “Pinfield's goin' to have us drawn and quartered for losing the chit.”

“Mayhap we should just go,” another responded.

“Pinfield's a bastard. He'll use this as an excuse not to pay.”

“Aye, well…” Their voices dwindled, and Emilia silently implored them to go through with it.
Yes,
she thought,
you're right. He won't pay you. He'll punish you for failing to catch me. Don't go back to him. You're fools if you do.

She waited another half hour, then began to push aside the rocks. Her body was so cramped from being curled in an awkward position for such a long time, it took her several minutes before she could stand up straight. When she could finally move again, she turned and headed south.

She was going to that abandoned farmhouse, and as she walked, she prayed Colin would be there to meet her.

A gloomy dusk was encroaching when Emilia finally arrived at the farmhouse. She'd stayed well off the road, traveling as stealthily as she could, hiding every time she heard the clomp of horses' hooves or the rattle of carriage wheels. As she'd walked, the various cuts and aches on her body began to make themselves known, and by the time she reached the farmhouse, she was limping. The place looked dreary in the weak late-afternoon sunlight, caked in mold and mud, with a half-collapsed thatched roof and a marked absence of windows and doors. There were no horses or carriage nearby, which made her heart sink, although Colin might have hidden them elsewhere. That made sense. He would have put them by the stream she'd crossed a little way back, where there were enough trees and bushes to conceal them.

She stepped inside and stood for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. The place was awful—it stank as if a family of rats had chosen it as a place to die. The floor was piled high with debris—thatch, splintered beams of wood, and dirt.

“Colin,” she called softly, “are you here?”

No answer. In fact, the silence was so complete, she was certain no one had stepped foot inside this place in a very, very long time.

She picked her way over the debris—realizing there was really nowhere for her to comfortably wait for Colin. Returning outside, she took big gulps of the fresh air, then made her way around to the back of the house, where there was a small and half-collapsed lean-to. Between the lean-to and the house, there was a tiny clearing upon which a soft-looking patch of grass grew. She could rest against the wall of the house and be well hidden from the road but still hear anyone who might be approaching.

First, though, she needed to clean herself up. With one ear to the road in case she needed to hide, she went to the stream. She drank some water, washed her face, then removed her stockings—they were torn to shreds, anyhow. She cleaned them in the flow of water, then used them to dab the blood and dirt from the many cuts and scratches on her legs.

Taking stock of herself, she found her legs were the only part of her that had truly been injured, and none of the cuts were deep enough to be much of a concern. They did sting, though. And her back ached where her father's cat-o'-nine-tails had sliced into her flesh days ago, making her worry that perhaps she'd reopened the wounds that had been healing so well.

Feeling somewhat better after cleaning up, she made her way back to the farmhouse, ducking behind a clump of heather when she heard the clomp of horses' hooves as someone passed by on the road.

Behind the farmhouse, she wedged herself into the corner made by the intersection of the lean-to with the wall of the house and hugged her knees to her chest. An evening chill had already settled in the air, and though she was wearing the thick wool pelisse Lady Claire had given her, if she was going to have to spend much of the night here, she was going to be quite cold. Her lack of stockings wasn't going to help matters.

She sat for long minutes, her mind going over the events of the day.

She hoped Colin would be here soon…but what if he wasn't?

Colin was a warrior. He'd been in many battles. He knew how to fight. She had to trust in that and not let visions of him being shot by her father's men encroach.

“Please,” she whispered out loud, as if an audible prayer might be more effective than one she merely recited in her mind. “Please let him be all right.”

The thought of Colin being hurt, much less dead…she couldn't countenance it. In the last few days, Colin Stirling had brought her more happiness than she'd accumulated in twenty-one years of living without him.