Amanda Scott (22 page)

The road was good, and they made excellent speed, riding on after the sun had set and darkness shadowed the landscape. The moon, nearly full, was high even then, and lit their way almost as brightly as the sun had. The
few puffy clouds that had lingered to create the splendid sunset had disappeared by the time they stopped near a small loch and Hugo ordered his men to make camp.

“Where are we?” Sorcha asked as he helped her dismount.

“About two miles short of Torfinn’s Crossing,” he said. “That is Loch Gogar.”

She yawned widely. “I’m almost too tired to eat.”

“It has been a long day, lass,” he said with a smile. “You’ll sleep well.”

“Aye,” she said, although she had no intention of sleeping.

N
ot until Sidony was fast asleep did Sorcha stir from the makeshift bed they shared in the little tent. Having taken advantage of a few moments when duties on the other side of the encampment occupied Hugo as they prepared for the night, she had complained to one of the men who erected the tent that moonlight shining through its opening would keep them awake. He had obligingly shifted it nearer the woods and had turned the open end toward the trees so their height and a few long branches would continue to block the moon’s light as the night progressed.

Congratulating herself on her cleverness, Sorcha crept cautiously out on her hands and knees, then eased into the dark shadows of the nearest large tree and around it into the shelter of the woodland before she looked back.

The camp was quiet, but embers still glowed in the stone circle where the cook fire had burned, and she knew
that sentries stood watch somewhere. She had bundled her brown leggings and saffron shirt under an arm, and had put on her dark-gray hooded cloak over the shift and bodice she’d worn to bed. She had also tugged on the hide boots Rory had given her, to protect her bare feet.

In the deepest shadow behind the big tree, moving with extreme caution and watching for sentries, she donned the rest of her lad’s clothing, then shoved her shift and bodice into a space between two boulders. As she finished the latter task, a footstep nearby startled her nearly out of her skin.

Hunching low, hoping her dark cloak would blend into nearby undergrowth, she held her breath and waited.

The man passed within a few feet of her, clearly walking his area while keeping inside the tree line. That way, she knew, he could see anyone entering the camp and could also surprise anyone trying to sneak up on them.

Silently thanking whichever of the Fates had allowed her to avoid discovery, and listening carefully to the slight sounds of his retreat, she inched away from the route he had followed, hoping he would not be able to see into her tent easily enough to realize that only one person now slept there.

She also hoped Hugo was a heavy sleeper.

Having taken careful note of several landmarks before going to bed, and having learned as a child to find the North Star, she had expected to maintain a westward course without difficulty long enough to find the crossing they had passed shortly before stopping to make camp.

Having heard one of the men refer to that crossing as
the Glasgow road, she hoped that by going back to it, she could elude Sir Hugo’s inevitable search for her and still find the village of Ratho.

Unfortunately, first she had to find her way out of the woods, which proved more difficult than expected. She could see starlight and moonlight through the trees, but she could not see the North Star, and the dense canopy blocked all but an occasional clear view of the moon. Her sense of direction was generally excellent. However, having to wend her way among the trees, she was horrified ten minutes later to see that the moon had somehow shifted from her left to her right.

She stopped and listened, aware that she was heading back toward the camp and in dire peril of walking right into one of Hugo’s sentries, if not Hugo himself. She wanting to shriek in frustration, but she could not stay where she was. Staying lost in the stupid woods all night would do neither Adela nor herself any good.

She could not hope to persuade Hugo that she had lost herself looking for the privy pits, since he would certainly wonder why she had changed into leggings and a shirt to look for them. And what he would do to her when he deduced that her destination had been the village of Ratho did not bear thinking about.

Her strongest impulse was to sneak back into the tent and lie down beside Sidony, but she could not do that either.

Since they had seen no sign of reinforcements from Roslin or Lochbuie by the time darkness fell, Sorcha doubted that they would arrive before the next morning at the earliest. Hugo had clearly expected to meet the ones from Roslin on the road, after all. But she had a
dreadful feeling that if anything delayed them, Adela might forfeit her last chance to survive. In any event, she meant to do all she could to force Hugo into action as soon as possible.

He was being cautious, she knew, in wanting to send them to Roslin, but too much caution with Adela’s safety in the balance was naught but foolishness.

She knew he would follow her as soon as he discovered she was missing, and she doubted that this time she would escape his retribution. But he could do as he liked to her if she could assure Adela’s rescue.

The woods were eerily silent. Deciding that since she had seen no further sign of any sentry she could risk keeping a closer eye on the moon’s position long enough to find her way out of them, she began to do so. She also increased her pace.

The eerie silence reminded her of Rory’s haunted wood, but when a rustle of leaves nearby made her turn her head sharply, she scolded herself for a surfeit of imagination and hurried on, certain she was going the right way at last.

When brighter moonlight ahead assured her that she was near the edge of the wood, she slowed again and took particular care not to make any noise. It occurred to her that if she just stayed hidden, Hugo might still assume she had gone to Ratho and go after her with his men. But she quickly dismissed the notion.

Not only would hiding from him be cowardly, but she had no idea how large the wood was, and he might well find her easily by daylight. Worse, she would not be at hand to comfort Adela. And, too, she told herself ruefully, she had already sealed her fate where Hugo was concerned. Her
punishment would likely be as harsh whether she hid in the wood or faced the villains alone.

One might as well be skelped for the whole deed as for its mere intent.

As her mind presented the image of what Hugo would look like and what he would probably do to her, the night darkened, an odiferous cloth engulfed her, a heavy hand clapped over it hard against her face and mouth, and a muscular arm wrapped tight round her waist.

She struggled fiercely against the strength of that arm as it lifted her from the ground. Kicking and squirming, she tried to bite the hand over her mouth through the thick cloth as whoever held her began to run. Alarm shot through her. If he tripped over a root, he might easily fall on her and squash her flat.

She told herself that if the man who held her was Hugo, as she both hoped and feared, he would take care not to harm her. Not that that would help her much in the end, she knew. That thought made her kick harder, and one foot connected solidly enough to elicit a loud grunt of pain from her captor.

The sound stopped the breath in her throat, for by no stretch of imagination could she believe any longer that Hugo had caught her. No grunt from him would sound like that. She realized then that he would not have run as this man was running, either. He would have tossed her over his shoulder as he had done before and, also as he had done before, would likely have smacked her for her furious struggles long before she could have kicked him hard enough to hurt him.

She tried to believe that an ordinary ruffian had caught her, but plain logic insisted that it was one of the men
who had hurt Rory. If that was true, she could only hope he did not discover her sex before she could escape.

That hope died when the man carrying her slowed in response to another voice calling softly, “Here, Fin. Did ye get the lass?”

“I got one o’ them,” the man holding her muttered back. “I dinna ken which, but she’s got a fine, lovely body, this one. I watched her change clothes, and I’m telling ye now that if the master says we can enjoy her a bit before he’s nae more use for her, I’m for it. The wee vixen kicked me, and I dinna doubt but what she’d bite me hand right off did I give her the chance, so she owes me summat nice!”

Sorcha was certain the lout had not seen much of her, because she had been crouched in heavy shadows at the time. He still held his hand and the heavy cloth tightly across her mouth, and she was beginning to feel faint from lack of air.

The thought that she might lose consciousness made her think of Rory again and the awful stuff they had given him that had made him sick. Perhaps it would be better, she decided, if she did faint from lack of air.

Accordingly, she slumped as limply as she could in the villain’s arms.

“Sakes,” he exclaimed, “I think I’ve suffocated her.”

“Ye’d best hope ye havena done any such thing, Fin Wylie,” the other speaker said. “Carry her into the light here and let’s ha’ a look at her.”

When they pulled the cloth off, she had all she could do to remain still. She was frightened of them but more frightened that they might try to tilt some of their awful potion down her throat.

“She’s just gone off into a swoon,” the second man said. “We’d best find the other lads and get back afore the master sends someone t’ find us.”

The impulse to draw a deep breath of fresh air into her lungs was nearly more than Sorcha could control, but she managed to breathe evenly until the two found their companions and mounted horses.

When they lifted her to a saddlebow to lean against the one they called Fin Wylie, she nearly lost control again, because the idea of riding any distance with such a man holding her around the waist was abhorrent.

Only when the one who had done most of the talking warned him that he’d best keep his hands to himself unless he wanted to explain himself to the master was she able to relax and hope that Waldron had imposed his extraordinary beliefs about the hereafter on his men.

Finally able to fill her lungs with fresh air, albeit carefully so as not to alert Fin Wylie to the fact that she was conscious, she soon began to feel more herself again and to wonder how long it would be before Hugo discovered her absence.

Although the possibility had occurred to her that she might fall into the hands of the villains, she had assumed it could not happen before she found their camp, at least several hours after she had slipped away from her own.

She had
hoped
Hugo would not learn what she had done until dawn, but then even her best-laid plans rarely came off as expected. One had only to remember Adela’s wedding to realize that. And dawn certainly seemed a long way off now.

Their journey was shorter than she had thought it would be, because surely less than an hour passed before
they rode into the enemy camp. She had kept her eyes shut nearly the whole way in fear that one or another of the men would notice if she opened them. From time to time, though, she had opened them to narrow slits and peered through her lashes, but she had seen little to tell her where she was.

When Fin Wylie drew rein, the temptation stirred again to open them, but she resisted and was glad she had when two strong hands gripped her waist and lifted her from the saddle. She found it impossible, however, to maintain her limp posture. When her feet touched the ground and the man holding her let go, she automatically opened her eyes and caught herself.

“Well, well,” the man said. “What have we here?” He was as tall as Hugo, with a similar look about him, making her certain she faced Waldron of Edgelaw.

“She’s a wee vixen, master,” Fin Wylie said. “Kicked me, and tried to bite me.”

“Did she?” Waldron said. “Are these your customary clothes, lass?”

Sorcha gave him a blank stare but did not reply, seeing nothing to gain by it.

“I will ask you one more time,” he said with enough menace in his voice to make her shiver. “Do you customarily dress in male clothing?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I do not customarily dress like this.”

Peripheral awareness of the four men who had captured her looking at one another told her she had answered incorrectly, but she continued to gaze at their master, straightening her shoulders as she did.

He was silent for a long moment before he said, “You want manners, my lady, and I think I shall enjoy teaching them to you. But for the moment you will come with me. There is someone who will be eager to see you.”

Gripping her upper arm, he urged her to a nearby tent and shoved her inside. Expecting to see Adela, she stopped short at the sight of Isobel, wide awake, lying awkwardly on a pile of furs with her wrists bound to a tent post.

“Sorcha!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Searching for Adela, of course. But how did you get here?”