Adventures of a Scottish Heiress (5 page)

“I’m hoping Charley has gone for help.”

“Do you really think he will?”

“No.”

There was a space of silence. Ian listened, straining to hear any and all sounds. The night was deadly quiet. He sensed that their attackers were regrouping—but to what purpose?

His eyes were growing accustomed to the dark. He felt the walls with his hand, hoping there was another weapon of some sort he could use hidden there. Instead, all he found were books. Stacks and stacks of books. Miss Harrell’s precious books. He couldn’t stop a chuckle. Here they were, fighting for their lives, and if push came to shove, he supposed they could throw books at their assailants.

He’d start with the romantic novels, then all books of poetry.

“Who
are
you?” she said softly. “You aren’t like any of the other men in my father’s employ.”

“He hired me special.” He slung his knapsack on one arm.

“But he doesn’t like the Irish.”

“No one does.”

His answer was not what she had expected. Even in the dark, he could feel her staring at him, as if taking new measure.

But she was nothing if not her father’s daughter. “How do I know you’ve come from him?”

Ian wanted to ask who else would be willing to serve as her human shield, but bit his tongue. “You took these books from the house. They are the only possessions you left with, save for the clothes you were wearing when you left.”

“You are correct.” There was a beat of silence. Then she asked, “Who do you think is shooting at us?”

“I don’t know. For all I know, they could be
with
your father.”

“He doesn’t want me dead,” she said with certainty.

Ian wasn’t so certain. A man with a beautiful young wife didn’t need an obstinate daughter who runs away before her betrothal could be announced. “Then who does?”

“No one.”

“You’re obviously wrong.”

She released a shuddering breath—a response more telling than words—and scooted a fraction of an inch closer to him. “I’m afraid.”

He knew how much fear it took for her to make such an admission. “We’re not done for yet,” he promised.

She nodded and they sat still for a moment, listening and waiting. She started to speak again, but he silenced her by raising his hand to her lips.

Something was afoot outside. He was experiencing the tingling between his shoulder blades that usually warned him of trouble. Why his war-heightened senses hadn’t picked up on the fact he was being followed, he didn’t know…and it concerned him. Deeply concerned him. Too often his life had been saved by his gut instincts. He hated the idea he might be getting too old for these games.

Minutes passed like hours.

What the devil were the bastards up to out there?

He thought he heard a rustling. He stared at the black wall of the wagon in front of him, wishing he could see through it. He raised his pistol. With his other arm, he protectively pushed Miss Harrell back against her books, keeping her close to his side.

Let the bastards come. His temper was up now, and he knew he could have the strength of ten men when he was this angry. He’d make them think twice before they took on Ian Campion.

But when the attack came, it wasn’t what he expected.

They set the wagon on fire.

There were three thumps on the roof and then quiet. Ian frowned, uncertain. It was Miss Harrell who understood. “The roof. They’ve taken wood from the fire and have thrown it on the roof.”

As if to confirm her words, smoke suddenly billowed in through every unseen crack in the ceiling.

Ian pushed Miss Harrell down to the ground and threw his body over her, preparing for the possibility of the roof caving in. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“They’ll be waiting for us.”

He nodded grimly. “That’s their plan.” And how would he combat it?

“There’s a door beneath me,” she said.

“A what?” He wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly.

“A trapdoor,” she explained, a touch of impatience in her voice. “There is a trapdoor in the floor.”

Ian ran his hand along the floor. He could feel the door’s outlines. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? Let’s get out of here.”

“I would if you weren’t lying on top of me. You are a heavy man. I can’t move.”

Ian frowned down at her. “Has anyone told you there are moments when absolute truthfulness is not appreciated?”

“Often.”

“You should listen to them.” He rolled off of her, pulling her close so he had room to reach for the handle. The wagon was going up like a tinderbox. Already, flames lapped the roof.

She reached beyond him for a book.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I can’t let my books burn. Especially this one.”

“Yes, you can,” he answered, and holding her close, clasped his fingers around the iron ring handle of the trapdoor and pulled up. Without a heartbeat’s waste of time, he shifted his weight and sent them both tumbling to the ground.

L
YSSA
would have screamed, save she didn’t have time.

They plunged through the trapdoor where, at the last moment, the Irishman flipped himself so he hit the ground first, cushioning her fall with his body.

His breath left him with a soft grunt. He lost no time in rolling them both from under the wagon, away from their attackers. When they came to a stop, Lyssa threw a dizzy glance backward. The wagon was engulfed in flames and she could see the silhouette of someone peering inside to see if they were burning to death.

The Irishman didn’t give her time to think. He was on his feet in a blink. His pistol in one hand, he grabbed her with his other and half lifted, half dragged her to the protective darkness of the forest. Nor did he stop there. He ran her through the trees with enough speed to make her think he had a direction in mind.

In seconds, they burst into a small clearing. The Irishman skidded to a halt with a succinct, “Damn!” He released her arm and whirled with his fist clenched as if searching for something to hit in frustration.

Lyssa struggled to catch her breath. The pins had fallen from her hair and she clutched her plaid to her bosom. “What is the matter?” she managed to get out.

“The horses. They’ve taken the horses—”

A man’s shouts interrupted him, “They’re here! I’ve got the girl here!” From seemingly out of nowhere, a man attacked on foot, running straight for Lyssa, the moonlight gleaming off the wicked blade of a sword.

Without missing a beat, the Irishman stepped in front of her and punched out with his fist, hitting the man squarely in the nose. There was the sound of cracking bone and the man dropped.

Stunned, Lyssa asked, “Is he dead?”

“I hope so,” came the unsympathetic reply. “Come along. We can’t stay.”

The truth of his words was proven by the sound of someone crashing through the woods. “Mason, do you have her?” a man called.

The Irishman took her wrist and started running. Lyssa followed blindly, anxious to put distance between herself and the scene of such quick violence.

They ran for what seemed like hours but was
really only moments. He lost his hat, but did not turn back for it. Behind them, Lyssa could hear the angry shouts of the downed man’s friends when they found his body. Suddenly, the Irishman veered right and plunged them down a steep hillside and into a narrow stream. Water seeped into her fashionable new walking shoes, the leather still stiff. Her feet stumbled as they climbed up the ravine beyond the stream. The Irishman moved behind so he could help her keep her balance.

The plaid caught on a thorn bush. She stopped to untangle it, scratching her knuckles. “Leave it and keep going,” he ordered.

But she couldn’t leave it.

The plaid was now more than a symbol of her clan: It was all she owned.

Numbly, she realized her precious books, including the one she’d hollowed out and used to hide her money, had been burned in the wagon. She had nothing. Her fingers refused to move and the plaid seemed to become more tangled.

The Irishman solved the problem by pushing her hands out of the way and ripping the material. “Go!”

She dared not disobey.

Higher they climbed up the ravine. Once at the top, he kept her running, taking her by the arm and hurrying her faster than she’d ever moved in her life. They followed a rutted wagon road but it didn’t make travel any easier. Her chest hurt from
trying to breathe. She had a pain in her side and her feet stumbled over each other, her shoes not made for such strenuous exercise.

Abruptly he ordered, “Here, get down,” and pushed her beneath some bushes. Before she could think, he followed her, covering her body with his own and edging them both closer to the shrubbery’s roots. He even took the time to tuck her plaid close around her body. They lay so close together she could feel the racing beat of his heart against her own.

Lyssa was thankful for the rest. However as her heartbeat returned to normal, she became aware of how uncomfortable her position was. He held her against the muscled wall of his chest, their bodies spooned together. Her arm, trapped under her body, began to hurt. Rocks and small twigs on the ground pressed painfully into her. The earth was rich here with the smells of rotting leaves and moss.

She wiggled, needing to find a more comfortable position. His arm around her tightened. “Hold still.”

“Do you think they are coming?” she whispered.

“If they do, I don’t want the bush to be shaking.”

He made sense. But Lyssa still had to pull her arm free, which he let her do. Lying on her stomach, she cradled her head on her arm and tried not to think about what sort of insects would be
crawling around on the ground at night.

Her nose itched. She dared to scratch it.

All was still in the night. Not even the frogs croaked. She waited, expecting something to happen.

Nothing did.

Finally, she could be silent no longer. “What are we doing?”

“Hiding.”

His curt, obvious answer brought out a healthy flash of temper, an emotion she seized to keep other fears at bay. She rolled over to face him, intent upon giving him a much-needed rebuke. He accommodated her by shifting his weight and she ended up on her back. However, once there, Lyssa knew she
didn’t
want to be underneath him this way.

There was even less space here than in the Gypsy wagon and she found herself practically nose to nose with him…not to mention the fact they were fit together—intimately.

All anger vanished from her mind as the slow heat of embarrassment stole up her body. Her heart suddenly kicked up its beat. His lips were less than an inch from hers and his breath smelled like Cook’s warm buns when fresh from the oven, a scent that could lure her to the kitchen at any time and was disconcerting when connected to him.

However, he was clearly annoyed with her maneuvering.
His “Are you settled?” was like a slap in the face.

“I’m trying to be,” she returned. “Are
you
enjoying yourself?”

He did not mistake her meaning. Tension tightened his body. He raised his upper torso to glare down at her, the movement joining their lower bodies even closer. Lyssa caught her breath at the bold intimacy, realizing it was one thing to tweak the pride of a dandified lord on a dance floor and something else completely to challenge this man, who knew no rules…or boundaries.

But then he slid over as if the contact had been of no consequence and wedged himself closer to the shrubbery roots…and she felt a disquieting stab of regret. Uncertainty was not a comfortable feeling. She didn’t know if it came from the loss of his body heat and the safety his strong presence provided or the possibility that she had insulted him—not that Lyssa was afraid to stand up for herself.

However, as she and the Irishman lay side by side, quiet as hunted rabbits, she remembered that even a so-called gentleman would take advantage of a woman if he thought her beneath him. She’d learned to be wise to the nuances of male behavior and knew how to protect her reputation. She’d even administered a slap or two.

But the Irishman was a completely different species of the male sex than any who had crossed her path before.

This time, he broke the silence, his voice low and deep in the darkness. “If they discover us, I want you to run as fast as you can. Don’t worry about where you are going, just keep moving.”

“What about you? Where will you be?”

“I’ll hold them off here.”

Her pique of temper vanished. “You can’t do that. There are at least two or three or more of them. And they are armed.”

The flash of even white teeth gave his grin a wolfish expression. “
Now
you are worried about me? Miss Harrell, you could have saved us
all
the trouble by staying quietly in your bed back in London.”

His criticism hit home—especially when she thought about how completely she’d been gulled by her Gypsy imposter friends. The feel of the tarot card tucked in her bosom only rankled her more. “I doubt if I’m much trouble to you. Not with the reward I’m certain my father is paying.”

“You would be less trouble if you would be quiet.”

Lyssa’s temper flared red. Didn’t he know who she was? Who her father was?
The man paying him?

And she was going to tell him. She was going to rise up and give him a piece of her mind—

His hand clamped over her mouth. He lay one leg over hers, pushing her down to the ground while his right hand above her head raised the pistol. His thumb cocked the hammer.

Startled, she listened and heard what he’d heard: the sound of men beating through the bushes.

She edged closer to him. He removed his hand from her mouth and placed his arm protectively around her.

A moment later, their pursuers stood mere feet from when they hid. One man held a lantern, and Lyssa, too frightened to move, prayed she’d pulled in all of her plaid so it could not be seen from the road.

Go on by, go on by
, she wanted to whisper to them, and for a moment she thought they would—until the beat of horses’ hooves vibrated through the ground.

Two mounted men rode up and her mind frantically attempted to assimilate the horrid fact that a party of over five men had been sent to murder her. She leaned even closer against the Irishman.

“Have you seen anything?” one man asked the riders.

“Nothing. But hell couldn’t be blacker than this night.”

“A big man like Campion couldn’t hide, no matter where,” said a man with a muffled voice.

“Well, he has, damn him,” the rider countered with no small amount of frustration. He had a deep bass voice that sounded as if it came up all the way from his toes. A voice that would be hard to forget. An English voice.

His companion on horseback added, “Not only
that, who would have thought he’d fight instead of turning tail and leaving the girl to us? What’s she to him?”

“Money,” the first rider answered. “Well, we’re wasting our time at this point. How’s your nose?”

“Broken. The bloody sod will pay for it when I get my hands on him,” the muffled voice responded, and Lyssa knew this must be Mason. So, the Irishman hadn’t killed him. Now Lyssa wished he had.

One of the others asked, “What do you want to do, Fielder? Your call.” They all had London accents.

Mason growled out that he wasn’t leaving until the deed was done. “She could have seen me. I’ve no desire to have my neck stretched for attempting murder. And beware, lads, if I go, you’ll all go.”

Even from her position on the ground, Lyssa could sense an instant negative response to his words from the others. No one liked to be threatened, especially murderers. Two of his comrades started to complain, but the man called Fielder, the one with the deep voice, cut them off.

“Are you certain they could recognize you, Mason?”

“How could they not?”

“How unfortunate,” was the only warning Lyssa, or apparently even Mason had, before a pistol shot was fired.

Mason hit the ground with a thud, falling on his
back, his left hand outstretched toward where she and the Irishman hid. She could even see his fingers twitch one last time.

She wanted to cry out, to gasp, to react in some way to the horror. The Irishman caught her in time, raising his fingers up to her lips, his own mouth close to hers as if he would swallow any sound she made. They both waited, their bodies tense, the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air.

“Did you have to kill him, Fielder?” the other mounted man complained.

“Couldn’t you see him shaking? He would have broke and turned us all in. Here, you two bury him.”

“With what, Fielder?” one of them asked.

“There’s a ravine down that way. Throw him in it and put some logs over him. He’ll decay before he is discovered.”

Mason’s body was unceremoniously picked up by his arms and legs and carried off.

Once they were alone, the horseman with Fielder said, “We started off with six and now we are down by two, and we still haven’t gotten the girl. Campion is better than we thought. What do you want to do? Keep searching the woods?”

“No,” Fielder responded. “It’s a waste of time. We’ll head back to the inn. Campion needs to get the girl to London as quickly as possibly or else he won’t get paid. After all is said and done, he’s still nothing more than a mercenary. I’ll wager he’ll try and beat us to the inn where the maid and coach
wait and then attempt to outrun us to London. He knows it will be harder for us to kill her on English soil.”

“What if he gets by us?”

“He won’t,” Fielder answered with certainty. “We’ll guard the roads.”

“By ourselves?” his companion asked incredulously.

“We’ll hire help,” Fielder answered. “The girl’s hair is a damn beacon. Anyone who sees it doesn’t forget her. They can’t go far on foot. We’ll catch up with them and then we’ll see if Campion feels like such a bloody hero.” There was a clicking sound that she remembered from recently and she realized Fielder had been reloading his weapon.

The two other men tramped back to join the party. “Is it done?” Fielder asked.

“Aye,” was the answer.

“Then get your horses and let’s head to the inn.”

“What about the maid?”

“We’ll pay her off. She did a good job of leaving signs of the path they were taking and deserves her money. She is also smart enough to go running off and keep her mouth shut.”

One man asked what they were going to do with Campion’s horses.

“Sell them,” Fielder said. “He won’t be needing them.” The others laughed with confidence, as if he’d made a great joke. They moved off down the road.

Lyssa’s heart beat in her ears and she tasted fear. The Irishman didn’t move and so she dared not.

They waited for what seemed hours but was in actuality fifteen minutes, maybe less. The Irishman removed his hand from her mouth and crawled over her. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Seeing if it is all clear.” He rose to his feet. A moment later, he offered her his hand. “Come. We’re safe.” He pulled her up as if she weighed nothing.