The McKinnon (30 page)

“Nic, being a warrior and honorable is all well and good, but sometime you have to
think
devious
to
beat devious.
Her uncle is devious and a devil in man form. I can safely bet my life savings on it. Could he be behind the betrayal of your men? I know it is a stretch, but what better way to get to Morgan than through you. If you are dead then he has clear path to gain his ends, right?”

“I’ve thought of that except Morgan has a contract with the King that gives her autonomous rule of her lands if she is unmarried. The lands are still hers even as a woman. Cullen and then Connor is the heir if something happens to us. It doesn’t make sense for him to kill me.”

“Have you ever seen Lord Brentwood?” Reagan asked, having that feeling she knew never to ignore.

Nic nodded wondering why she would ask, but feeling there was a distinct reason. She did not strike him as the kind for idle chit-chat. “Yes, I had the distinctive displeasure to have a run-in with him at Featherstone. He is medium build, brown eyes.…” Nic began.

“Sandy blond hair and has a nasty burn scare above his right eye?” Reagan finished.

“Yes, he does.”

“Nic, he is the Englishman who paid me to nurse you until he returns. I have seen him before with O’Brian and I bet they are up to no-good.”

Reagan voiced her inner thoughts that Brentwood must be planning to take him somewhere to kill him or worse. If he draws Morgan back using Nic as bait, he could kill both and have the whole pie for himself, that she also voiced.

Nic sat there in stunned silence. What she said made sense.

She made a split second decision.

“Nic, we have to get you out of here tonight. There is no time to waste.” She began to get ready for travel.

“How can you even think about helping me? It will place you square into the path of a very dangerous man. I cannot let you think about doing this, much less follow through.”

He appreciated her offer, but it would be too dangerous for her even to think of helping him. He was hurt and would not be able to execute an escape without placing her life in danger in the process.

She sighed heavily seeing his point, appreciating his point, but still was not willing to budge.

“Nic, you are in my backyard as I call it and I’m asking you to trust me. Please, let me help you. You cannot do this alone, and I am your only means of escape.”

Reaching under her bed, she pulled up a floorboard exposing her stash of savings. “It’s not much, but should be enough to get us to the coast and a little beyond once we reach England.”

She began to pack a few of her belongings; coins, a dagger, her medicine bag, a single change of clothes, and one small etching of her parents. The rest was replaceable.

It went against Nic's sense of honor and duty to allow her to place her life in danger on his account.

“You cannot simply walk away, Reagan. This is your home. I will not allow you to do this. It comes at too great a price.”

“And you think that I could live with myself knowing I could have helped you and did not even try? Nic, not to do this will come at an even higher price. We are wasting precious time. The guards have passed out downstairs. It is now or never.”

She looked at him. He opened his mouth to speak. She cut him off.

“Are you willing to chance Brentwood won’t use you to get to Morgan?”

She had won the argument and knew it. Smiling at her, Nic was not sure whether to admire her or be afraid of her. This woman had the heart of a warrior, but the code of honor of a woman. It was a deadly combination.

“But what if you’re wrong, Reagan?” Nic had to try one more time.

“If I’m wrong, Nic, then you’re getting to go home with a damn good doctor as an escort. Once you’re well, I’ll be able to come back to Ireland, no harm done,” Reagan said shrugging as if it was a non-issue and the offer she was making was no more taxing than walking him down the street, not helping him escape to a whole different country.

“And if you’re right?”

“If I’m right then you can thank me later and you better have a guest room ready because I certainly won’t be welcome here.” She softly laughed knowing that would be an understatement. O’Brian and Brentwood would kill her for what she was about to do because there was a lot more about those two men she wasn’t telling Nic.

“Rea, did anyone ever tell you you don’t play fair?”

“All the time, Nic, all the time. Now, let’s get your sorry English backside out of here.”

Darkness covered their movements as they quietly made their way down the same set of stairs he went up not six hour earlier. Nic was in a lot of pain, but he forced himself not to think about it. Adrenaline, residual effects of the drugs, and sheer willpower were winning over the physical limits the injuries placed on his body.

“Wait here,” Reagan whispered. “I will go saddle the horse.”

He stayed in the alcove, under the stairway hidden in the shadows and unseen just in case anyone ventured out. Chances were if someone did come outside, they would be too drunk to notice, but he could not be too careful. Reagan's life was at risk as much as his.

Reagan slipped off into the darkness, blending into the shadows. True to her word, she returned moments later to get him. Mounting the horse was not as easy as Reagan had hoped it would be. She felt it would be tough. Nic was a big man and in a sad state. In his extremely weakened condition, he was almost more than she could manage.

“Put some muscle into it, will you? I said I would help you get back to England. I didn’t say I would carry you back,” she hissed, hoping to spur him into action.

Nic heaved himself up. He felt faint and the nausea was powerful from the effort. Nic reached down for Reagan to utilize his arm for leverage and suddenly they were off.

Reagan prayed there was enough night left to cover their escape.

Crossing the Irish countryside during the day was dangerous enough, but doing it at night was nearly suicide. Yet Reagan seemed to be right at home. 

"Babies don't just come at morning and noon, Nic." Reagan offered when he questioned her ability.

Nic no longer doubted her claim this was her backyard. She knew every valley and roadway courtesy of the sick, dying, dead, and newly born . 

It took all night of hard riding, and by the time they made the coast, Nic was in severe pain. Now however was not the time to have his body fail him. Years of discipline were paying off as she drove them at a relentless pace.

It was necessary.

"If you were a man, I would say you are enjoying this," Nic said after a particularly sharp set of instruction from her about hell freezing over before she would let him fall off their horse.

"But, I'm not a man, am I? And, I never derive joy from another's pain."

Just before dawn, Reagan halted, left Nic on the heaving horse and secured it in front of a rundown shop at the dock fronts. Nic wondered exactly where they were. Moments later, she came back out with a burly gentleman who was everything Irish. He had fair skin and freckles so thick they covered his weather-worn face from the coppery hairline to the tip of his chin.

Cocking a bushy eyebrow at Nic, he eyed him with caution. “So this be the man then? You finally have gone and done it now, Reagan. Your wee Mother would be spinning in her grave, Lass. Nevertheless, if you say he’s a bloody Duke and has offered to take you away from the Emerald Isle and dress ye in finery to live like a queen then who am I to say nay. All right, Lassie. I shall carry you to the other shore. Tide is turning, so we are in good shape. Come on lad, off the horse you come.”

Nic tumbled off the animal. He would have hit hard had Reagan not stabilize his fall.

“Well, looks to be more than a little in his cups, Reagan, Lass. You sure about this? I mean what if he was just drunk and gets ye over there and changes his mind? I’m not so sure about this Reagan, me girl.”

“I won’t not change my mind, Sir. Please, take us to England. I promise she will have all the fine things money can buy. She will never want for anything ever, again. On that you have my solemn word as the Duke of Seabridge.”

The Irishman studied the young man and extended his hand as an offering of friendship. Nic gladly took it.

“Fergus Finnegan at your service. You seem lucid enough. Ye must have just been unsteady from the hours spent on the back of a horse. Let's get on with it then." Fergus reached for Reagan's hand to help her across the gangway. "Watch your step on the plank, Lass.” Fergus was saying as the tide began to change, increasing the wave motion against the side of the pier, rocking the ship in the process. Once aboard deck, the old Irish captain looked at the small bundle in Reagan’s hands and the fact there was nothing in Nic’s. If he found it suspicious, he kept his counsel. Nic was glad he did.

“Another fifteen minutes and you would have missed me, Lass. I was just making the last of the preparations to set sail. Guess the luck of the Irish is with ye today.”

He showed them to their quarters. They were going to have to share. “It’s not much and I don’t like the fact you’re sharing, but I trust you to behave like the gentleman you claim to be. I have your word?”

“Yes, sir. I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Finnegan. I appreciate your hospitality.” Nic felt the tide shifting below the decks.

“Well, don’t think to abuse that hospitality. I’ll have ye know, I’m a mite protective of my Reagan Girl. If I find differently, you'll be fish food. Am I clear, Son?”

“Crystal,” Nic said fully understanding there was a very thin layer between him and the seabed where her uncle was concerned.

“Good. Then hunker down. We could be in for a rough sail. Must be bloody out of me ol’ gourd to try to make this crossing this time of year. Oh well, guess I will never be too old for the challenge. And if it is my time to go, it wouldn’t matter anyhow.” With that, he went back up topside to make the launch just as the tide was turning.

Nic was almost unable to grasp his good fortune. He had gotten out of that rat infested, diseased hellhole. Now, by some twist of fate, he had also escaped Brentwood. He had no doubts Morgan’s uncle had murderous intentions. It was becoming clear to Nic that Brentwood and O’Brien were together, and partners in their lawlessness.

Sitting on the bunk trying to keep his mind from wandering, he began to study this Irishwoman. She was pretty if one had a critical eye for unconventional good looks. She was not young, probably close to his own age. Her skin was clear and free of the telling Irish freckles, which seemed so prevalent in her countrymen.

Shoulder length hair, a pleasing shade of red with chestnut highlights framed a beautiful oval face. Her eyes, the color of cinnamon, were warm and full of intelligence and depth. She had a tilt to her chin that spoke of strength and pride.

He looked at her hands.

Her nails were clean and shaped, and her hands were gentle and soft as he recalled from her ministrations to his wounds. Nic was not drawn her, but he could see where men would find her attractive.

Reagan broke through his thoughts.

“You don’t look so good. Here, let me feel your face.” Leaning over she placed a cool hand to Nic’s forehead then placed her lips there. “You're getting a fever. Well, I was afraid of that," she said then sighed. "I didn't think we would be so lucky. It's not like Arlen was taking stellar care of you," Reagan said in that thick Irish brogue more to herself than Nic as she began to pull out her medicine bag. "The slimy Bastard. I have a mind to go back just to kill him myself.”

Dumping its contents out onto the bunk, she found what she was looking for and then stuffed the contents back inside. She wiped the cup out with a clean rag then poured a careful, measured portion of the liquid.

Nic really did not want to take anything else. “I have been through this fever before while I was in the hospitable care of our friend Mr. O’Brian. Just give me time. I will be fine.”

“No, you won't be fine unless we can keep your fever from climbing any higher. Here take this.” Reagan reached over and handed Nic the cup of foul liquid.

Reagan saw his expression and read his mind. Maybe, she had better warn him, she thought. 

“Yes, it does taste as bad as it looks. And yes, it does look like watered down horse crap in a cup. And, yes it will make you want to gag, but try to keep it down and breath through your mouth. If you are successful then we may stand a chance to head your illness off before it gets out of hand.”

“Is there nothing in that bag of yours that is not worse than the disease?” Nic wondered aloud.

“Probably not,” Reagan commented truthfully.

Nic looked at the cup. He brought it to his nose. Wrinkling his nose, he was having doubts about drinking the muck and wondering if it could possibly taste any worse than it smelled. 

“Fine, let’s get this over with.” Then without further hesitation he slammed the offensive liquid down in one swallow.

She felt bad. The look of torture on his face made her almost feel sorry for him. “Oh, Nic, I’m so sorry. I know it is terrible, but it will be worth it. I promise.” She handed him a cup of water. “Here, drink this. It will help to chase down the taste.”

Nic was gasping for air. Slowly the effects of the initial taste and assault to his system subsided leaving him silent.

“You’ll improve within the hour. If we are lucky, we'll not have to repeat this before morning,” she said then took his wrist to check his pulse.

“I do believe I would much rather take my chances with the fever than have to try to force another round of that diluted horse shit down my throat.” 

Nic shuttered involuntarily at the thought of round two. Or maybe it was a chill? It could have gone either way at that point.

Reagan laughed softly at his comment. He would survive it.

“Oh, you men are such babies at times. I can just well imagine how you will be once Morgan gives birth. I will probably have to use smelling salts to revive you before I can place your babies into your arms.”