Judith E French (5 page)

“Soldiers,” Johnny Faa said in English. “Looking for a Scotsman and a woman. They searched the town and burned an Irish coppersmith’s wagon. A man reported seeing gypsies pulling the pair from the Thames. You must go quickly,
gorgio
. If they find you here, my people will be in great danger.”

“The map!” Ross demanded.

“The rings,” the gypsy flung back.

Ross turned to where he’d left Anne standing beneath the bare limbs of a beech tree. “We’ve need of your rings, hinney.”

Anne felt a flush of anger. Her mouth still stung from the pressure of his kiss, her body still trembled from his embrace—and he wanted her rings! “You’ll not have them, you—you common thief,” she retorted. Balling her fists behind her, she backed away from him. She blinked as the realization of what she’d let him do—of what she’d done to him—hit home. Shame fueled her fury. She whirled and ran toward the woods.

Ross caught her in six strides. “Don’t be causing a fuss now, puss,” he said calmly. He threw her over his shoulder and carried her, kicking, back to where the gypsy leader waited. When he reached Johnny Faa, Ross lowered her to the ground, captured her hand in his, and pulled off both her emerald and ruby rings.

The gypsy grinned and tucked the jewelry into an inner pocket in his vest. He took a rolled bit of leather from a waiting child and thrust it at Ross.

The Scot unrolled the map and glanced at it briefly, then nodded. “It’s what I needed. Thank you.” Ignoring Anne’s struggles, he rolled the map tightly and tucked it inside his shirt, then grasped Johnny Faa’s extended hand. “I’ll not forget ye, and don’t ye forget the Colonies.”

“The Rom never forget. If it gets too hot for us here, we may cross your salt sea.”

Dragging Anne after him, Ross strode quickly toward the spot where his stallion was tethered. “I can saddle him easier if I don’t have to hold on to you,” he said to her. “Can I trust you to stand still if I let you go?”

She nodded. He released her, and the minute he turned his back, she bolted for the forest again. This time she ran nearly a hundred yards into the darkness, tripping over fallen branches, scrambling through the underbrush. A brier jabbed into the palm of her hand, but she didn’t stop to pull it out. Heart pounding, she ran as hard as she could in the direction of the dirt road.

Behind her, Anne could hear the gypsy wagons beginning to move. Without shouting, without even the crying of a single baby, the men and women hitched their
vardos
and drove off in different directions. As she glanced back over her shoulder, she saw a man’s form kicking dirt over the fire. The glowing coals flared up for an instant and then went black.

Anne crouched down as Sara’s wagon rolled within ten feet of her hiding place. The old woman was on the seat, cracking a whip over the back of her dapple-gray mare and urging the horse faster with threats in her own tongue. As soon as the
vardo
had passed, Anne got up and began to run, following the path of broken brush.

Off to the left, a dog barked. Anne stopped and turned toward the sound. A gunshot shattered the night, followed almost immediately by another. Anne screamed. “Here! Help me, I’m here!”

Through the trees, she could see a clearing in the moonlight. Two figures on horseback detached themselves from the shadows and rode into the open. One raised his musket and fired. There was a flash from the weapon, and the second animal reared. The clouds obscuring the moon parted, and Anne could make out leather helmets. Soldiers! “Here!” she cried.

She ran toward them. The second man lifted his musket and fired. A branch exploded over Anne’s head. She screamed and threw herself facedown on the ground. A man swore a crude oath. Another volley passed through the trees, and someone uttered a piercing cry.

Anne peered up through the tall grass. One of the soldiers was galloping toward her. Behind him ran a riderless horse. Terror gave her strength. She leaped up and fled back toward the gypsy campsite. Suddenly ahead of her loomed another horse and rider. She screamed, realizing the animal was coming at her too fast for her to get out of the way.

“Down!” Ross shouted.

Anne dropped to her knees as the black stallion soared over her head. Too frightened to move, she looked back toward the oncoming soldier. Like ghostly knights of old, the two armed horsemen plunged headlong at each other. Seconds before the animals collided, Ross let loose an ungodly screech and swung low off the far side of his horse. The solder hacked at empty space with his sword, then gave a low groan as the apparition rose and knocked him from the saddle with one terrible blow.

Ross reined the black to a halt, spun, and galloped back, catching the soldier’s mount before it could reach the place where Anne stood. Ross hit the ground on the balls of his feet, swooped her up, and deposited her in the saddle of the newly enlisted animal. Before she could protest, he was on the stallion again, leading her horse at a hard trot through the trees.

“Nooo,” she said. “I can’t—”

“Hist,” he warned. He turned to fix her with a deadly stare. She couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness, but she could feel them. “Not a word,” he said softly. The tone of his voice raised the hair on the back of her neck. “These are fools who hunt us, and they’d as like shoot ye as me. Hold your tongue, woman, if you value your life.”

Shivering with cold and fright, Anne clung to the saddle. Branches caught at her hair and tore her clothing until she lay low over the horse’s neck. Gradually, the sounds of men and animals grew dim and the occasional shot was only a muffled echo in the distance.

They rode on through the forest for what seemed like hours, and then, when she was so weary she thought she would fall from the saddle, Ross reined up. He dismounted and led both animals into a deserted hut. One wall had fallen, leaving a gap high enough for a horse to pass through. He lifted her down from the horse and wrapped her in his woolen plaid. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured, tying the animals to a heavy beam. “There’s a stream nearby. Ye must be thirsty.”

She dozed without meaning to, and realized she’d drifted off when he touched her arm.

“Drink,” he ordered.

The water was ice cold and tasted of fallen leaves. Eagerly, she swallowed, drinking every drop in the leather cup.

“What happened before,” he said, “when we kissed . . .” He exhaled slowly. “It was a mistake, and it won’t happen again. Ye need have no fear of me, hinney.”

“Anne, my name is Anne,” she said sleepily. She licked a drop of water from her upper lip.

“Anne, hinney . . . ’tis all the same. I’ve come to fetch ye for Sutherland. It was wrong of me to take advantage of ye.”

“I didn’t mean . . .” she began. Memories of what she’d done, of what she’d felt when they’d kissed, washed back over her, and she was ashamed.

“Nay, say no more. The blame was mine. You’re a hot-blooded wench, and it’s clear to me that you’re as innocent as the morning dew. Ye belong to another, and he entrusted me with your care. I’ll not break that trust again.” He settled cross-legged in a corner and pulled her into his lap. “Sleep, little marchioness. I’ll keep watch.”

“Never,” she answered hotly. “Let me go.”

He chuckled, cradling her against his hard chest as easily as though she were a suckling babe.

She vowed silently to stay awake, to run as soon as he fell asleep, but he was warm and she was cold. Her eyelids felt as though they weighed a pound apiece. Her eyes burned, and her hand ached where she’d gotten the thorn in her palm. She fought to keep her eyes open, staring into the shadows where the horses stamped and blew softly through their lips. She let her eyes drift shut for just a minute, and when she opened them again, it was daylight.

 

I
t was another rainy morning three weeks later when Anne sat astride Ross’s black prancing stallion and stared up at the frightened face of Bruce Sutherland peering from the second-story window of a gray stone house in Old Town. Ignoring the gust of raw, bone-chilling air that struck her full in the face when she pushed aside her warm wrap, Anne leaned forward, unwilling to miss a single word her supposed betrothed had to say.

The distance to the pavement and the tossing of the great horse’s head no longer troubled her. She gave no heed to the bits of foam blown from the nervous stallion’s mouth or the sharp hammering of those deadly hooves against the ground. Instinctively, she knew that the man encircling her waist with one sinewy arm would not let her tumble from the horse—and if she did fall, she knew that those iron-shod hooves would dance around her as precisely and gently as an eagle placed her razor-tipped claws around her dewy hatchlings.

“Be gone from here,” Sutherland hissed. His head swiveled as his bloodshot eyes searched the misty entrance to the narrow street. “Be gone, I say.”

“Damn ye for a faithless bastard,” Ross swore. “I’ve carried your bride up hill and down, across all of England, risking life and limb with the hounds at my back, and you have the gall to speak so! Come down out of that window, and I’ll have the scalp from your head. Have ye no heed for your sweetheart?”

“Nay,” Sutherland retorted. “How many times must I tell you, I’ve never laid eyes on the lady before. You’ve confused her with another. Now away with ye both, before you have the authorities on us.”

“What have I been telling you?” Anne demanded, squirming around in the saddle to glare into Ross’s face. “I told you I knew no Bruce Sutherland, didn’t I? I—”

“Hist!” Ross commanded. The smile lines were gone from his handsome face, his features hardened to a smooth mask. His eyes were as cold as black polished stone. Only the slightest increase in tension in the muscles of the arm that held her betrayed Ross’s apprehension.

“By whatever god you pray to, I’ll have ye out of that window and down on your knees,” Ross threatened. “Do ye deny you offered me a portion of her dowry to steal her away from the church and bring her safely to ye?”

The window slammed shut.

Ross drew his sword. “We’ll see what tune your intended will sing when he feels the kiss of cold steel.” He reined the black horse toward the iron-studded, oak door. “I’ll have you out of there, Bruce Sutherland, if I have to burn you out,” he bellowed.

The window opened a crack. “It’s clear to me that you are a stranger to this land,” Sutherland called down. “For that and Christian charity, I’ll give you this warning. Patrols were searching the city far into the night. Even now, soldiers are massing at Edinburgh Castle. One hundred pounds silver is offered for the head of the giant outlaw on a black horse who kidnapped the Marchioness of Scarbrough from her wedding in London Town. I know not who you be or what your purpose, but I’d not be a stranger carrying a lady on a black horse in Edinburgh this day—not for all the kegs of whiskey in all the cellars in this city.”

“You sent me!” Ross replied. “You hired me to fetch your Anne from the Church of Mary-le-Wood.”

The window slammed once more, but not before Anne heard Sutherland say, “Not Mary-le-Wood, you fool. Saint Mary-le-Bow.”

“I told you,” Anne repeated. “I told you I wasn’t—”

“Cease your caterwauling, woman, before I gag you,” Ross said. Roughly, he wrapped the folds of the
breacan-feile
around her and pulled her tightly against him.

Anne seethed with unspoken ire. She wanted to strike him with her fists—to cause him physical pain. She’d never been so angry with anyone before, except when her stepfather, Langstone, had locked her up for refusing to wed Baron Murrane. Even then, she’d only wanted her freedom; she hadn’t wished to cause anyone bodily harm. She’d never been that kind of person. What had this brute done to her to turn her as savage as he was?

For weeks she had slept in haystacks, ridden through rain and snow, eaten poached venison and stolen bread. Ross had robbed her of her jewelry and given her beautiful bridal gown to the gypsies. He’d laid hands upon her and kissed her in a most ungentlemanly way, causing her . . . causing her . . .

Vaguely, Anne was aware that Ross had urged his horse, Tusca, into a trot. They were riding away from Sutherland’s house, but it didn’t matter. She was lost in her own thoughts.

Ross had not kissed her again since that night the gypsy camp had been attacked by the soldiers. For days she had waited for him to take her in his arms again, but he hadn’t, and the shame and disappointment had nearly been too great to bear. Even now, she remembered the feel of his mouth on hers . . . the touch of those big, scarred hands.

I wanted him to do more than kiss me, she admitted to herself. I wanted him to throw me down on the ground and have his way with me. I’m a widowed virgin who’s never known a man’s love, but I have needs . . . I have desires.

Anne bit her lower lip and clenched her eyelids together. The lump in her throat felt large enough to choke her. The agonizing memories were so vivid that she relived each sensation Ross had stirred in her body. Even to think about the kisses they had shared brought the heat rising in her loins again. Only pride had kept her from ripping off her clothes and offering herself to him. Only pride, or cowardice, had prevented her from seizing her own fate in her hands and proving that she was no different than her mother.

“You were wrong,” she said. “Admit it. You stole the wrong woman.” He didn’t answer. Anne could hear the city awakening around them. A baby cried; a dog barked. She could smell oatcakes cooking. “You’ve made a mistake. You heard Sutherland. There’s a death warrant out for you. Let me go, and try to save yourself while you can.”

His deep voice was strained. “Ye really are this marchioness of whatever.”

“I told you so.”

“Aye, hinney, that ye did.” He spoke to the horse in a strange language, and the animal broke into a trot.

“Admit it,” she insisted. “You were wrong.”

The thick wool wrapped around her muffled his reply. “I was wrong.”

“I’m no good to you now,” she said. “Let me go.”

“And if I did, what would you do?”

“I’d wait long enough to give you time to escape, and then I’d tell someone who I was and demand to be taken to Edinburgh Castle.”

“And what if ye started yelling the minute your feet touched the ground?”

“I’d not do that. I’m not a vengeful person. I’ve no wish to see you dead.”

He sounded thoughtful. “If you went to this castle, what would they do to you?”

“Do to me?” Anne sighed in exasperation. “I’d be given proper clothing befitting my station . . . servants . . . food, I suppose. No one would do anything bad to me. It’s your head they want to cut off. You’re the criminal—not me.”

“But later. What would happen to you later?”

“Someone would escort me back to London to my family.”

“And they would force you to marry this Baron Murrane.”

“Yes, I suppose they would. The contracts have been signed. I’d have to honor the agreement,” she admitted.

“But you don’t want to marry him.”

“What I want has nothing to do with it. Murrane is . . . is suitable. He is powerful enough to protect my fortune. He will—”

Ross reined the stallion up sharply. “Fortune? You didn’t tell me you had a fortune. You’re a rich heiress, then?”

“I
did
tell you. You just didn’t listen. Why do you think they are so determined to get me back? It certainly isn’t out of love.”

“Ahtch, hinney, you’re young to be so bitter.”

“Are you going to set me free or not?” she demanded, ignoring his remark.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t you guess?”

For the first time in days, fear lifted the hair on the back of her neck. Did he mean to kill her? Would some passerby find her lifeless, broken body in a dark alley? “No,” she stammered. “I don’t want to die.”

He sighed. “Hist, sweeting. Have I given ye cause to believe I mean you harm? Have I put the smallest bruise on your soft skin a’purpose?”

She swallowed hard, thinking her bottom was covered with bruises from riding, but this was not the time to mention it.

“Have I?”

“No,” she answered meekly.

“Then you insult my honor by asking me if I mean to kill you. God knows no jury would find me guilty for silencing your scolding tongue, but—”

“I’m no scold,” she protested hotly.

“And I am no murderer of helpless women.”

Anne trembled. He was angry, really angry. She had spent enough time with Ross Campbell to know that the softer he spoke to her, the madder he was. “What was I to think?” she soothed. “You’ve no good reason to hold me captive any longer. I’m of no use to you.”

“Nay,” he agreed, “but your fortune is.”

 

The sun came out on their second day out of Edinburgh. Ross had ridden the stallion hard by night; by day they had hidden as they had done earlier in England when they were pressed by soldiers. Anne’s supper had been cold, crumbly oatcakes, her only drink icy water from a rocky stream. Her bed had been the hard ground, and her only pillow Ross’s arm.

She was angry with Ross. She’d been furious since they’d galloped out of Edinburgh. She’d not spoken to him for most of that first day, since it had become clear to her that he was no better than any other outlaw. He obviously meant to hold her for ransom.

She’d demanded to know where he was taking her, but he’d only chuckled and replied softly that she’d find out soon enough. This morning, as the big horse loped up the crest of a rise, giving her a view of miles of sun-sparkled countryside, she almost forgot to care where they were going.

This morning, Anne hardly felt the ache of her bones at all. The pain from stiff muscles and raw spots on her bottom had faded until she took no notice of them anymore. In some crazy, unexplainable way, she felt stronger—more alive than she’d ever felt in her life.

She parted the folds of the woolen
breacan-feile
and drew in great gulps of the clear, crisp air. The smoke and stench of Edinburgh’s narrow, dirty streets had been left behind. Here, all was clean and open. On her right, a shimmering silver river flowed through a stretch of bare trees; ahead and to the left, rolling hills piled one upon another as far as the eye could see. The panorama was painted in shades of gray and brown and dull green, but the sky overhead was a glorious shade of blue, laced with fluffy white clouds.

The land was strangely empty. A few flocks of sheep tended by a lone shepherd and his dogs were the only life they had seen. “It must be beautiful in springtime,” Anne said, breaking the silence between them.

“Aye, so my father always told me,” Ross answered. “Purple heather, he said, and grass so green it hurt your eyes.”

“I’ve been to Scotland, of course,” Anne continued, “but I don’t remember seeing anything like this.” When she’d come as a child with Barbara, they’d ridden in a coach on main roads. Her memory retained only images of mudholes and a tree-lined lane with a great house surrounded by a stone wall at the end of that lane. She took another deep breath of air, so sweet and pure that she couldn’t get enough of it. “I’ve heard there are no open fields in America—that it’s all thick, tangled woods, too dark for the sun to ever reach the forest floor.”

Ross laughed. “Aye, places are like that, but we do have fields—near the coast. Travel west as the crow flies for longer than what seems possible, cross rivers that were never meant to be crossed by men, and you’ll come to an open plain that runs on into the sunset. There are herds of grazing animals there, bison and antelope and wild horses . . . herds that defy counting. And further still, the Indians say, are more mountains—mountains that reach up to the throne of God. I’ve seen the plain, but I’ve never seen those mountains—the big ones. I’d like to, though. I’d like to climb to the top of one and look for the ocean on the far side.”

“Tall talk for a common outlaw,” she scoffed. “You’ll end up under the headman’s axe or hanging by the neck at some lonely crossroads as a warning to other brigands. Crows will pick your bones clean.”

“Catch me first, said the rabbit.”

“If we keep riding, we’ll reach the sea. What then? How far can you run?”

“You’re disappointed in me, hinney, I can tell.”

She sniffed imperiously.

“I’ve no love of money for its own sake, sweeting. It’s a purpose I have. Such as you be, you’ve no right to judge me. You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, and folks have spread rose petals in your path ever since. Ye know nothing of the world, lass—nothing at all.”

Ross leaned forward and patted the black horse on the neck. The animal responded by twitching his ears and lifting his feet higher. The stallion’s ebony coat was filthy, and briers tangled his magnificent tail. The horse was thinner than he’d been when Anne first laid eyes on him in the church, but he’d lost none of his fire. The slightest sound would send ripples down his silken hide and set the beast to prancing. The barest nudge from Ross’s knees would cause the stallion to quicken his speed.

Briefly, Anne regretted the loss of the soldier’s horse they’d taken with them from the gypsy camp. He’d been unable to keep up with Ross’s Tusca, and he’d gone lame some time in their second week of travel. Since then, the black stallion had carried them both, and if he felt the strain of the added weight, he’d given no sign of it.

“Don’t tell me what I know or don’t know,” she responded. “You don’t know me. And your being poor is no excuse to turn to crime.” Unconsciously, she stiffened her body and leaned as far away from him as possible. “You’ve ruined me, you know. I’ll be the talk of London. I’ll be lucky if any suitable man will have me now that my reputation is in shreds.”