Megan Frampton (22 page)

Mary had fallen on Alasdair, and she tried to scramble up, to make her way to the pony to try and ease its suffering. He grabbed onto her skirt and yanked her back. “This way.”

“But we have to help—” Mary heard the hooves pounding behind them and glanced back.

Now more of the townspeople were heading toward them, the man on horseback still waving his gun, a look of triumph on his face.

“All right,” she said, hoisting Alasdair off the ground. “Let’s run.”

They ran off the road, into the thicket of trees at the village’s edge. Mary caught her skirts up in one hand and allowed Alasdair to pull her along with the other. His much longer legs could cover greater distance, and at times it felt as though he were dragging her. He looked back at her, a frustrated look on his face. “Run,” he commanded.

Mary felt as if her lungs were going to explode. And then the real pain started.

It all seemed to happen at the same time. The bullet struck, her foot caught on a root, and she flew through the air, landing on her side. It felt as though she’d been impaled by a lance, and she lay there, gasping and clutching her arm. A warm liquid streamed through her fingers.

Alasdair’s face, which had been frowning, turned to alarm. “You’re hurt,” he said, bending down to her.

“Never mind that,” Mary gasped. “You should go.” She winced with the throbbing in her arm.

“Not without you.” Alasdair reached under her legs and back, hoisting her up as easily as if she’d been a stack of books, rather than a fully grown person. He straightened and glanced back, toward their pursuers.

“They’ll catch us if we can’t move fast enough.” Mary said, her heart thudding in her chest. What would happen when they were caught? Because she had no doubt they would be, and it was all her fault.

“No, they won’t,” Alasdair replied in a determined voice. His face was fierce with concentration, as focused as she’d seen him.

That must be what he was like in the army, she thought.

He took off running, holding her against his chest, barely seeming to notice the additional weight. Instead of staying on the slight trail they’d initially followed, he veered sharply left, glancing up at the trees as he tore through the forest.

Mary buried her head against him. She’d never regretted all the scones and extra pastries she’d eaten until now. Even though it didn’t seem to bother him, she knew there were lighter women he might have carried through the forest.

But he was with her.

He kept running for another five minutes. His sweat dripped onto her, his distinctive odor enveloping her.

Just as she was going to remonstrate with him again, he stopped and placed her on her feet, holding his finger to her lips. He motioned with his head toward a clump of trees and began to walk toward it.

Not another night in the forest, Mary thought. Although it did seem better than the alternative.

She limped after Alasdair, her hand clutching her arm. The pain had receded to a dull ache, and she hoped that meant it wasn’t too serious. Of course, he’d probably seen worse—he’d mentioned he’d had comrades die on the battlefield, and of course there was Judith.

Would he give her a proper burial if she died? What would his cousin do when he found them?

Mary’s fear turned to relief when she spied a hut, not much bigger than one room of her father’s house. “Thank goodness,” she said, walking toward it. He flung his arm
out and held her back.

“Not there,” he said in a low murmur.

She gritted her teeth. “I suppose you have some sort of reason we shouldn’t hide in the one place in the forest that offers shelter?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I wish you could trust me.” His voice sounded worn out.

But she knew she didn’t trust him, not completely, not in situations like this, even though she wanted to, desperately. He didn’t always make the best decisions.
Does that include you?
a little voice asked in her head.

She clamped down on her thoughts. No time for introspection now. “What possible reason could you have for not going in there?” she asked, lifting her chin.

He let go of her arm and gestured around them. “If you were chasing two people on foot through the forest, and you found this building, where would you assume the people were?”

Her face fell. Just like the tree, and deliberately getting rid of the horse.

“We’d be two fish in a barrel,” he continued.

“So, where?” she asked, her tone much more subdued than before. He took her arm.

“Here,” he said, walking her to the back of the hut. Wood was stacked next to a woodshed, both about six inches shorter than Mary.

“You want us to go in there?” Mary asked in a faltering voice. The door was so small she would have to hunch over to fit, whereas he would likely have to bend himself halfway down. It appeared there would be room for the two of them to sit, provided they sat very, very close.

“Yes,” he replied in a cool, determined voice.

She nodded and drew a deep breath. The door frame felt almost sturdy as she held on to it for support. She knelt down to enter, her eyes watering at the musty smell.

Apparently some chickens had kept company with the wood, too. She sat down and scrunched as far into the corner as she could. A few feathers flew into the air.

He followed, his tall, lean body filling up the space. He sat down and drew his knees up to his chest, clasping his arms around them. Very little light filtered in. She
couldn’t see his face.

“How does your arm feel?” he said, his warm voice sliding over her like silk.

“Not that bad, actually.” His fingers found her arm in the dark and slid gently to the wound. “Not well enough for you to manhandle—ouch!” She yelped as his fingers probed where the bullet had grazed.

“It’s barely a scratch,” he said in a dismissive tone.

Mary bristled at his offhanded tone. “I’d like to see you react to ‘barely a scratch,’ ” she retorted. He took her other hand and laid it against his chest, where his scar was. Oh. Well, didn’t she feel like an idiot. His was far worse than hers was.

“Believe me, I know how much it hurts. But you will be fine. We will get out of this,” he said in a confident tone. “But we do need to take care of you first.”

She heard tearing, and then his hands were on her arm again, wrapping the wound up with some sort of cloth.

“Tell me if it is too tight,” he said gently.

She shook her head, then realized he couldn’t see her. “It’s fine.”

She froze as she heard movement outside. A cold tingle went down her spine. She didn’t need his finger on her mouth to tell her to be quiet.

“Keep looking!” The speaker sounded frustrated, and Mary held her breath.

“They’re not in here,” another voice said, sounding bemused.

“This is the only shelter for miles,” a third voice said. “If they ain’t here, then they must’ve found a way out.”

“That is not possible,” the first man replied.

Mary heard a tromping of leaves, and the footsteps drew closer. She grabbed on to Alasdair in the dark, burying her face in his shoulder. She could feel his body poised to spring. She had no doubt that Alasdair would fight with all he had, but they had the advantage of a gun. Knowing Alasdair as she did now, that might just make him fight harder.

“They’re not here,” one of them declared in disgust. It sounded as though he were just on the other side of the woodshed. Mary clutched Alasdair’s arm tighter.
Don’t breathe, don’t sneeze, don’t move
.

“Mebbe they doubled back?” one of the other men ventured.

“We should search more around here. They hafta be here. Where could they have gone?”

There were a few minutes of heated debate about what to do, until the group finally moved away at—or so it seemed to Mary—a snail’s pace.

“Breathe,” Alasdair whispered low, into her ear. She let out a hiccupping breath.

Matthias’s death had been horrific and unexpected. And then to be shot—Mary’s whole body shivered with fear.

“I know, love, I know,” he said in a soothing voice. “But think of it this way—being shot in the arm is better than being accused of thievery. If they don’t catch us,” he added in a pragmatic tone.

Her shaking only intensified. “You don’t have to try to keep my spirits up,” she said, with an attempt at a laugh.

His arms tightened. “I’m not good at varnishing the truth, am I, love? But we have to face facts and make our plans accordingly. Otherwise,” he said, easing onto his back, “we might as well surrender.”

“Never surrender,” she said as she stared toward the ebbing glints of light that filtered through the roof.

“Good,” he replied, as to an obedient pupil. “We should rest awhile,” he said, planting his feet against the farthest wall. “At least until we know they are definitely gone.”

He touched her shoulders and pulled her down to rest her head on his chest. She succumbed to the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, and her own exhaustion.

When she woke up, it was dark outside as well as in. He touched her arm, lightly, and he placed a balled-up piece of fabric under her head. “I’m going to go out and get some water,” he said. “Rest. I’ll be back soon.”

Before she could clear her sleepy thoughts, he was gone, leaving her with only the scent of him, the warmth where her body had been touching his. Her arm had returned to throbbing in earnest pain, and she wondered how long she could make it without a doctor’s attention. No doubt he’d know what to do, how long she could last.

It startled her to realize just how much of her life she’d placed in his care: her
virginity, her future, her safety.

Her … love?

***

The sudden splash of water on her arm woke her. He’d returned, and she burrowed into his chest without even thinking.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, smoothing her hair. Judging by his awkward motions, he’d had little experience with comforting others.

She began to laugh—she didn’t need his inexperienced touch to tell her that—but her laughter turned quickly to sobs as the enormity of what was facing them swept over her.

“There, there,” he murmured. He kissed her head and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her onto the ground on top of him. “It will be fine.”

Mary continued to cry, tears of anger and rage and fear and confusion and hope pouring from her eyes, great heaving gasps of air choking her, as she tried to breathe.

“Mary? Love?” Now he sounded truly anxious. Even more so than when she had stomped on his opium pills. Nearly as upset as when she’d left him … was that only the day before?

She drew back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I am fine. Really. It’s just—” She felt the tears well up again, and fell silent.

He pulled her back into his arms and she allowed herself to be drawn in, smelling his musky scent, the feel of his strong arms around her. If life were only this—the two of them, no addiction, no memories, no ill-willed cousins—maybe things would be different.

Of course they would probably get hungry. And run out of things to wear. Not to mention that they would grow weary of sitting in a woodshed for the rest of their lives.

More tears spilled down her face, only this time she wasn’t crying about the past, but the future.

It was a good thing, Mary thought, that they would have to make their way to London and reclaim their lives, or they might run the risk of being bored. Her thoughts
drifted, dangerously, to what they could do to relieve the boredom. She tightened her grip on Alasdair unconsciously. She felt dizzy and warm, focused only on how quickly she could reach his mouth with hers.

What was it about him that made her such a wanton? A few words said over an anvil couldn’t have done it alone—this was just about him, and her, and them.

She was definitely delirious, she decided. Although—she lifted her lips and raised herself up on her hands. If she were delirious, she wanted to feel good at the same time.

The shock of his lips, so warm and firm, brought her back to reality. A reality where all she wanted to do was welcome him inside her, as she had done on their wedding night.

“Let’s clean you up,” he said, withdrawing his arms from around her. She heard the splash of water. The water hit the wound, and stung sharply.

She gritted her teeth. “What will we do now?”

He chuckled. He was so close his breath stirred her hair. “You mean you don’t have a plan?”

She swatted him with her good arm. “No, I don’t. Perhaps you could share yours?”

He finished dabbing at the wound with the water and wrapped the damp cloth around it. “First, we will need to find better shelter and food. Then we’ll find a road and start walking to London. The next time we try to borrow—”

“Steal,” she corrected, humor laced in her voice.

“
Borrow
a carriage, we’ll make sure no one is there.”

“Well,” Mary said in a practical tone, “chances are good that the villagers will have given up by now. Or if not now, soon. And we’ll be gone entirely within a few days, correct?”

“If we’re lucky.”

“Ever the optimist. A few days, then.”

He chuckled. “You would have made an excellent field marshal. All that planning.”

“You, too. Climbing up into the tree, choosing the woodshed—I never would have escaped without you.”

His arm tightened around her. “I wish I had never been in a situation to warrant such quick thinking.” His voice was strained.

She touched his chest lightly. “How
did
you get wounded?”

“It’s none of—,” he began to say, then fell silent. A minute later, he spoke. She relaxed in his arms.

“Anthony and I—my brother Anthony and I—were sent out to reconnoiter in French territory. The colonel was a hopeless drunk, the second-born son of an earl who was deemed too loutish for the Church. He’d all but given up on the men, and his second in command thought if he got rid of us—of me—he would be able to control the supplies, make some profit. As if our men were getting plenty to eat.” He sounded disgusted. “The two of them—the drunk and the scoundrel—sent us ahead to secure the area, knowing full well we wouldn’t be coming back.”