DARE THE WILD WIND (13 page)

"Great God,
Stratford, you have a knack for sniffing out the liveliest wenches in the pack.  Next to me, you're the wonder of the court."

Brenna sent a quick dumbfounded glance at the Earl.  A faint smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were shuttered and unreadable.  But something in his face silenced any denial on her part.

"So this is what you've been about," the Duke said, directing his words to the Earl but aiming the wicked glint in his eyes at Brenna.  "Malingering in Dalmoral's company, crossing swords with the local swains."

"I stayed at Lochmarnoch to protect the interests of the Crown," the Earl said in a calm, unshakable voice.

Now the Duke's gaze shifted to the Earl.  "Your services to the Crown have never been in doubt.  Nor your prowess with the fairer sex.  This fetching baggage is proof of that."
 

Chapter 10

"The Duke thinks I'm your mistress," Brenna burst out when she was safely back on her horse.

"An impression as distressing to me as it is to you," the Earl said dryly, though his mouth twitched at her reaction. 

Their brief audience ended when a royal courier arrived from
Edinburgh.  Now they rode ahead of the men in the Earl's party. 

"How could you disgrace me like this?" she demanded in a furious voice.  "Is this your way of getting back at me for siding with
Cam and the Rebels?"

His answer was a dismissing laugh.  "You exaggerate your importance.  My men and I drove your lover and his band of cutthroats out of
Lochmarnoch Castle and the county."

But you didn't catch them.
 
"A man of your sort may find it flattering to have a satyr's reputation.  I don't care to have mine blackened beyond repair."

She put a heel to Gypsy and galloped ahead of him.  But the Earl spurred his gray alongside her again and kept pace with her. 

"I shouldn't complain too bitterly of an association with me.  I have the good fortune to be in the favor of both the Duke and the King."

"And a harem of women at court?  They may find your rank irresistible, but I don't care to be counted among them."

He leaned from his saddle to catch at her reins and pull her horse back to a walk.  "Since you protest such a reluctance ever to appear at court," he said with asperity, "you'll hardly suffer from any gossip that circulates there."

Brenna glared, calming Gypsy as she shied from the nearness of the gray stallion and the unexpected bump of the Earl's booted foot. 

"Let go of my reins.  You're frightening my horse."

"Then play the lady you look, and keep that pet of yours to a walk.  I still have business in camp.  After I've finished, we'll have a gallop across the moor."

Brenna  meant to have Gypsy at a gallop, but not with the Earl.  Caution returned as her flash of temper began to cool.  She took some consolation in the fact that the Duke and the nobles who attended him weren't likely to trade idle talk with her neighbors.  And she hoped never to have to show her face at George the Second's court.

Grudgingly, she complied, though she rode in icy silence beside him.  He made no new attempt at conversation, and Brenna was grati
fied not to be forced to answer, not at all sure she could keep a civil tongue in her head.  Nearing the quartermaster's tent, Brenna saw the cart from the castle.  A sergeant inventoried the supplies in it as soldiers unloaded it.  The Earl pulled in his horse.

"Is everything in order, sergeant?"

A pock
  marked, jug  shaped face lifted, and the sergeant's lowering expression lightened.  "Right as rain with this consignment, m'lord.  But thieves have been at the rest, or the bloody Scots are pilfering from their own wagons."

Brenna thought it more likely their neighboring squires had been seized by fits of good sense, and regretted the k
ind of promise her brother had made while dining with the Duke.

"Call the quartermaster," the Earl said shortly.

Brenna broke her silence.  "You surprise me.  I'd hardly think anyone of your exalted rank would concern himself with tallying stores and supplies."

Drake Seton's mouth had set in a tight line.  "There are shortages beyond ordinary corruption.  The Duke has asked me to get to the truth."

He dismounted, tossing his reins to a boy barely old enough to scrape stubble from his chin with a razor.  Dismissing the last of their escort, he waved to his men to see to feed and rest for their mounts.  Then, ready to lift Brenna from her horse, he halted with a glance at the muck underfoot sucking at his boots.

"I'd act the gentleman and help you down, but you'll only muddy your skirts.  You'd be wiser to stay in the saddle."

Brenna hid her elation. "As you wish," she said indifferently.

An officer approached them, and Brenna could see Drake Seton's mind was already occupied with hundredweights of flour and sides of bacon.  He turned toward the
quartermaster. 

"I won't be long."

Brenna fought her excitement.  She let Gypsy's reins go slack, allowing the chestnut to dip her long neck in search of the few shoots of grass still visible in the trampled sticky ooze.  It was a desperate chance to take, so close to scores of men who could mount horses and pursue her.  But only one would under
stand what she meant to do.  Until too late, if luck favored her. 

Slowly, only a little hampered by her seat in the sidesaddle, she used her stirruped leg to guide Gypsy away from the spot where the Earl and the supply officer stood.  The moor stretched before her.  She had hoped for the cover of the forest, but its empty sweep beckoned. 

There might not be another moment to seize.  The quartermaster's tent was pitched almost on the edge of the camp.  Nothing barred her from escape but the whisper of caution in her head.

The Earl looked up to glance her way.  Brenna's breath stopped for a second.  For an agonizing moment, she was sure he could read her plan on her face.  But he turned away again, satisfied she only idled as Gypsy cropped at the sparse cover left on the muddied ground. 

The Earl was deep in conversation with the quartermaster.  If she went, it had to be now.  She gathered Gypsy's reins and put the mare into a walk.  None of the soldiers took any notice of their meandering progress toward the fringe of the camp.

Then she was past the last tent and campfire.  Jerking her skirts above her knees, she swung her right leg over the saddle and dug her heels into her horse's sides.  Gypsy bolted into a gallop, and she heard a shout behind her.  Then Gypsy flattened into a run, and the wind pushed at Brenna's face and tore at her hair.

She stole a look backward and laughed.  Drake Seton sprinted toward his horse.  The gray plunged and reared, threatening to tear the reins from the hands of the boy who held them. 

Then the moor was before her again, and there was nothing but Gypsy and the stark treeless horizon rushing toward her.  Only a winged horse could catch her now.  Quickly she would reach the first of the ravines that slashed the moor below the castle.  The same ravines had sheltered
Cam and Iain in their escape from the dragoons.  Their maze of branching pathways would cover her flight.

Dimly she heard the pound of pursuit behind her.  Glancing over her shoulder for a second, she saw half a dozen mounted men giving chase, Drake Seton at their head.  When she looked again, he was pulling ahead of the rest.  Brenna leaned forward in the saddle, concentrating on the mouth of the ravine, still half a mile away.  The sound behind her grew loud
er. 

She risked another look.  The gray was closing the gap between them.  The Earl drove the stallion forward, the gray's strides eating the ground in giant bounds.  Brenna flattened herself against Gypsy's neck, calling on her gallant spirit and all of her endurance.  But the Earl's stallion was almost on their heels, gaining steadily.  And th
e shallow mouth of the ravine was still too far for safety.  Sliding down its bank would slow her enough to be caught.  There was only one chance, and Brenna knew she had to take it.

Reining sharply, she changed direction, veering away from the slope to the ravine.  Now there was only the moor tilting up before her, and the skeletal black limbs of the dead tree that marked Hangman's Gorge.  Only one man she had heard of had challenged it and won, and Brenna rode to join him.

Gypsy's speed checked a little, but so did the gray's.  And then the moor leveled, and Brenna called on Gypsy's last reserve of strength.  She urged the mare faster, and she responded with all the heart and stamina of her mixed Arab blood. 

The gorge yawned ahead of them, almost two rods across.  Brenna well knew how deep it was
, deep enough to mean death for both of them if Gypsy failed to clear it.  But there was no faltering now, no turning back.