My Fair Highlander (27 page)

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Authors: Mary Wine

BOOK: My Fair Highlander
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“Then pity me, but force your brother to give me my freedom.”
Her voice was low and rough, betraying how little liking she had for the manner in which she might gain what she desired.
“That would achieve naught.”
Justina turned an angry look toward her. “Are you playing with me?”
“Nay, merely stating what we both know, even if you are asking for me to try reasoning with my brother because you are desperate.”
“I am desperate.” Justina sounded hollow now, and she laid a hand on the glass, looking as though she might actually will herself to where her son was.
“I only know of one way to offer you something different from what Curan plans for you, but you would have to be desperate to attempt it.”
Justina turned to stare at her. The look was full of longing and need so strong, Jemma felt it. Jemma cast a look toward the doors of the chamber to ensure that no one was there but them.
“If you still have the boy clothing that you came here in, my mare is in the back of the stable. My brother would never listen to me when it comes to something he considers a point of honor, and I doubt my husband will allow you to risk yourself on the road with the English knights, but I will give my mare to you, Justina.”
Justina's eyes lit with joy. She clasped her hands together and pressed them against her lips to remain silent. For a moment she appeared as though she might burst with her happiness.
“It is more risk than any person should take.”
“But I will and gladly so.” She reached out and clasped one of Jemma's hands. “Never regret what you do for me, for I consider it the finest of gifts, no matter what befalls me.”
“Are you certain, Justina? Life is a precious thing as I have learned recently.”
Justina shook her head. “But you have also noticed that being without a place is no true life.”
Jemma nodded for it was a truth if ever she had heard one. “I will pray for you.”
And herself because her husband was very much like her brother when it came to his honor. However, she would not take back the gift of the mare for one simple reason. She trusted Gordon to understand why she did it and not hate her for it.
 
Jemma awoke early, and her husband was already gone. She rubbed her eyes and sought out her clothing. Dawn was turning the edge of the horizon pink when she made her way down the steps to discover her brother and her husband frowning. Kerry stood with one hand stroking his chin, but Synclair offered the most fierce expression. The knight looked ready to kill, with his bare hands, no less.
They all turned when she came into sight. Her brother looked pensive, and she knew what that meant.
He knew. It was as simple as that. Justina must have taken her chance immediately.
“You are correct, Brother. Lady Justina did leave on my mare.”
Curan drew in a stiff breath, but it was Synclair who scowled at her. Jemma leveled a firm look back at the knight.
“She asked for my help in convincing you to release her, but I knew that would not happen, so I gave her the only thing I had. My mare.”
“She needed protection.” Synclair growled out the words before lowering his head in apology for the outburst. “I feel that she still needs it.”
“Well I can nae hold with any woman riding out at night. 'Twas foolish when ye did it, my wife, and it is still so.” There was hard reprimand in her husband's voice, some of it deserved, but Jemma kept her chin steady.
“There is no member of your household here, so I shall speak my mind.”
Gordon stiffened, his expression becoming tight.
“I know you do not agree with me giving her the mare, but it was my horse and I wanted to help her. She did me a great service by coming here and placing herself at risk for me. Besides, none of us can truly understand the torment it is for her to be kept from seeing to the welfare of her son. I gave her the mare, and I only pray that she makes good use of the animal.”
“Which means she has stolen nothing except clothing.” It was Synclair who spoke again, the knight appearing to lose interest in everyone in the room while he glanced toward the window. “I understand why she left the armor behind now.”
Jemma felt her eyes rounding.
Of course Justina had left the armor behind. Armor was very expensive, and to steal it was a high crime.
“Then she is away and that is the end of it.” Curan spoke in an oddly light tone considering his past position on keeping Justina under his protection. “I will not begrudge her the clothing. Synclair, ready the men. We shall return to Amber Hill.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The knight spoke through clenched teeth but not from anger. He seemed abnormally pleased with his lord's order and turned in a quick motion before moving out of the tower at a fast pace.
Her brother actually chuckled, drawing her attention. Curan lifted one dark eyebrow.
“Ah, perhaps you do not realize that Synclair has only this day left of his service to me.”
Jemma felt her eyes round. “This day?”
“Indeed, and then he shall have completed his service as his father made him swear to do. I will miss him, of course, but he has an estate to take in hand as well as the title that his father inherited from his uncle. The Baron Harrow died recently without issue. Synclair has much to do at court.”
“At court.” Jemma nibbled on her lower lip, contemplating what Lady Justina was about to have surprising her.
Curan offered her one of his rare grins. “Yes, Sister, recently I have become more tolerant of fate and her need to insist on gaining her way.”
“So have I.” She took a deep breath and allowed her worry to subside. Maybe Justina needed fate just as much as she had. In fact, Jemma was more sure of it when she considered the way the lady had looked the last time she saw her. She needed Synclair, and it appeared that fate was about to thrust them together again.
Her brother shared a long look with her and then aimed another at her husband. He offered his hand, and Gordon took it, clasping his hand around Curan's wrist in a gesture that was considered as binding as written contract between knights.
“I place my trust in you, Barras. Take care of my sister, for the times are soon to become more turbulent.”
“Aye, that's for sure with two children on the thrones of both our countries. In a way, 'tis a pity that they can nae be allowed to rule. There would be less bloodshed for they'd spend their time ordering their armies on adventures through the woods.”
“A charming thought, Brother. I can see you dancing with fairies and forest sprites even now.”
Curan offered her a frown, but it did not reach his eyes. “You have a husband now, Jemma, to deal with that tongue.”
He turned and walked through the doors that led to the yard. His men waited, the sound of horses and leather filling the morning air. Eagerness floated on the breeze, and a man brought her brother's horse to him the moment he appeared. They were Englishmen who longed to return to England, but beneath that they were men who wanted to lay their heads beside their families. That wasn't unique to Scot or English; it was a desire all men had.
Curan gained the saddle and placed his helmet on his head before raising one fist into the air.
“Ride!”
The group surged forward in a symphony of motion. Their action gave testimony to the years of training every man down to the squires had taken in the art of being who they were. A knight was not trained in a week; he began his toil at a young age and faced many years of obstacles before gaining the golden chain that would declare his rank. The days were long and the tasks too many to count, but they forged a man who was unbendable in spirit.
Jemma spotted Synclair; the helmet he wore sported two white feathers. The morning light shone off his knight chain that was perfectly polished in spite of the many things that he did to serve her brother. The reason was simple; it represented what he had dedicated his life to.
“Will ye miss yer brother very much, lass?”
Gordon stepped up beside her, standing just enough away from her body to maintain his position as head of the house. She turned and lowered herself, making the appearance of the perfect wife, but she lifted her eyes and shot him a look that was full of passion.
“Only if you prove to be boring, toad.”
His lips parted to show her a flash of his teeth a moment before he spread his arms wide and captured her. He tossed her up and over his shoulder and turned toward the stairs that led to their chamber.
“I swear to do my toady best, lass.”
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Wolf Laurel, Colorado,
High Rockies, September 1875
 
S
ilver and black spun through the man's fingers in deadly pinwheels of steel under the lead-grey skies.
Charlotte Moreland froze in front of the Silver King Hotel, unable to take another step even though the young man was more than a dozen paces away.
Three years of playing poker in the West's worst gambling dens had taught her much about the narrow margin between great shootists and the dead. She had no desire to join the latter in front of an establishment named Hair Trigger Palace.
Handsome and harsh as a Renaissance angel, he was utterly absorbed in weaving patterns of light as he spun his revolvers. His black broadcloth frockcoat, black trousers, and black boots were as finely made as if they too bore homage to the death-dealing implements he worshipped.
Her fellow stagecoach passengers streamed into the closest saloon to warm themselves with beer or whiskey. One headed swiftly into the hotel to claim his clean lodging, more priceless than a good meal in this hastily built town. A few pedestrians glanced at the effortless display of gun tricks, then walked swiftly past.
He flipped the heavy guns between his hands and they smacked into his palms like a warrior's salute. He immediately tossed them high and spun them back into the holsters at his hips.
Last spring in Denver, she'd seen a shootist testing his pistols. He'd shot a can of peaches until it had exploded its innards across a wall, just like a person would. She'd been wretchedly sick in her hotel room afterward.
He slapped the leather holsters and, an instant later on a ragged beat, death looked out of the guns' barrels.
His expression hardened to that of an angry fallen angel leading armies of destruction. He shoved his guns back into place, clearly ready to teach them another lesson.
Charlotte gave a little squeak and trotted onto the boardwalk in front of the hotel. No matter how flimsy its roof and planks were, it still offered more protection than the open street. Men, equipped with guns and a temper, were dangerous to both themselves and everyone nearby.
The shootist whirled to face her and his gaze drilled into her.
Heaven help her, it was the same man she'd seen in Denver—Justin Talbot, the fastest gun in Colorado.
Recognition flashed across his face. But not greed, thank God. Perhaps he hadn't recognized her photo, flaunted by those skulking Pinkerton's men throughout the mining towns.
Why had she dreamed about him for so many months?
He bowed to her with a flourish and she froze. Her heart drummed in her throat, too fast to let her breathe or think.
How should she acknowledge him—formally, with a bow or a curtsy? Heartily, with a wave inviting affection or perhaps intimacy? Or coldly, with an averted shoulder and gaze, as befitted such an experienced death-dealer, no matter what living in this town required?
He frowned and anguish slipped into his eyes. A man whistled from behind him.
Talbot's mouth tightened and he bowed to her again, far more coldly. She gave him the barest of nods in return, all her drumming pulse would support.
He disappeared into the Hair Trigger Palace an instant later, his expression still harsher than an ice-etched granite mountain.
Truly, she should not feel bereft, as if she'd lost a potential friend.
Don't miss DEAD ALERT by Bianca D'Arc, new this month from Brava.
 
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
 
“
I
've got a special project for you, Sam.” The commander, a former Navy SEAL named Matt Sykes, began talking before Sam was through the door to Matt's private office. “Sit down and shut the door.”
Sam sat in a wooden chair across the cluttered desk from his commanding officer. Lt. Sam Archer, US Army Green Beret, was currently assigned to a top secret, mixed team of Special Forces soldiers and elite scientists. There were also a few others from different organizations, including one former cop and a CIA black ops guy. It was an extremely specialized group, recruited to work on a classified project of the highest order.
“I understand you're a pilot.” Matt flipped through a file as he spoke.
“Yes, sir.” Sam could have said more but he didn't doubt Matt had access to every last bit of Sam's file, even the top secret parts. He had probably known before even sending for him that Sam could fly anything with wings. Another member of his old unit was a blade pilot who flew all kinds of choppers, but fixed wing aircraft were Sam's specialty.
“How do you like the idea of going undercover as a charter pilot?”
“Sir?” Sam sat forward in the chair, intrigued.
“The name of a certain charter airline keeps popping up.” Matt put down the file and faced Sam as his gaze hardened. “Too often for my comfort. Ever heard of a company called Praxis Air?”
“Can't say that I have.”
“It's a small outfit, based out of Wichita—at least that's where they repair and maintain their aircraft in a company-owned hangar. They have branch offices at most of the major airports and cater mostly to an elite business clientele. They do the odd private cargo flight and who knows what else. They keep their business very hush-hush, ‘providing the ultimate in privacy for their corporate clients,' or so their brochure advertises.” Matt pushed a glossy tri-fold across the desk toward Sam.
“Looks pretty slick.”
“That they are,” Matt agreed. “So slick that even John Petit, with his multitude of CIA connections, can't get a bead on exactly what they've been up to of late. I've been piecing together bits here and there. Admiral Chester, the traitor, accepted more than a few free flights from them in the past few months, as did Ensign Bartles, who it turns out, was killed in a Praxis Air jet that crashed the night we took down Dr. Rodriguez and his friends. She wasn't listed on the manifest and only the pilot was claimed by the company, but on a hunch I asked a friend on the National Transportation Safety Board to allow us to do some DNA testing. Sure enough, we found remnants of Beverly Bartles's DNA at the crash site, though her body had to have been moved sometime prior to the NTSB getting there. The locals were either paid off or preempted. Either option is troubling, to say the least.”
“You think they're mixed up with our undead friends?” They were still seeking members of the science team that had created the formula that killed and then turned its victims into the walking dead. Nobody had figured out exactly how they were traveling so freely around the country when they were on every watch list possible.
“It's a very real possibility. Which is why I want to send you in undercover. I don't need to remind you, time is of the essence. We have a narrow window to stuff this genie back into its bottle. The longer this goes on, the more likely it is the technology will be sold to the highest bidder and then, God help us.”
Sam shivered. The idea of the zombie technology in the hands of a hostile government or psycho terrorists—especially after seeing what he'd seen of these past months—was unthinkable.
“If my going undercover will help end this, I'm your man.” He'd do anything to stop the contagion from killing any more people.
Sam opened the flyer and noted the different kinds of jets the company offered. The majority of the planes looked like Lear 35's in different configurations. Some were equipped for cargo. Some had all the bells and whistles any corporate executive could wish for and a few were basically miniature luxury liners set up for spoiled celebrities and their friends.
“I hoped you'd say that. I've arranged a little extra training for you at Flight Safety in Houston. They've got Level D flight simulators that have full motion and full visual. They can give you the Type Rating you'll need on your license to work for Praxis Air legitimately.”
“I've been to Flight Safety before. It's a good outfit.” Sam put the brochure back on Matt's desk.
“We'll give you a suitable job history and cover, which you will commit to memory. You'll also have regular check-ins while in the field, but for the most part you'll be on your own. I want you to discover who, if any, of their personnel are involved and to what extent.” Matt paused briefly before continuing. “Just to be clear, this isn't a regular job I'm asking you to do, Sam. It's not even close to what you signed on for when we were assigned as zombie hunters. I won't order you to do this. It's a total immersion mission. Chances are, there will be no immediate backup if you get into trouble. You'll be completely on your own most of the time.”
“Understood, sir. I'm still up for it. I like a challenge.”
Matt cracked a smile. “I hear that. And I appreciate the enthusiasm. Here's the preliminary packet to get you started.” He handed a bulging envelope across the desk. “We'll get the rest set up while you're in flight training. It'll be ready by the time you are. You leave tomorrow for Houston.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam stood, hearing the tone of dismissal in the commander's voice.
“You can call this whole thing off up until the end of your flight training. After that, wheels will have been set in motion and can't be easily stopped. If you change your mind, let me know as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, sir.” Unspoken was the certainty that Sam wouldn't be changing his mind any time soon.

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