My Highland Lord (Highland Lords) (12 page)

“Ain’t but three o’ ‘em,” the man she had followed said in rough English accents.

“You sure?” another demanded with authority.

“I can count," the first retorted.

A twig snapped in the darkness beyond the men.

“Bob,” called
the one Phoebe believed to be the leader.

“Aye, Zachariah.” A large man astride a massive horse entered the circle of men.

“Where’s Cary and John?” Zachariah demanded.

Bob jerked his head in the direction he’d come as two more men became visible behind him.

Zachariah looked back at the first man. “You and Frank hide in the trees near Borthwick bridge. When they cross, fire a shot so that we know they’re there, then block their rear.” Zachariah looked at the other men. “You four get down below the bridge. If they try to jump, give them a taste of your pistol. But whatever you do, aim for the sky. Kill the wrong man and we end up with nothing.”

Phoebe's blood went cold. The 'wrong man' Zachariah referred to could be none other than Kiernan MacGregor, the Marquess of Ashlund, son of a wealthy duke. He would bring a fine ransom.

“What about our employer?”

“What about him?” Zachariah said.

Yes, Phoebe wondered, what about him?

“Don’t strike me as the type to like being double-crossed.”

“He doesn’t run this band,” Zachariah growled. “I do.”

“What if he comes looking for us?” another asked.

“It won’t matter, we’ll be long gone. You men want to keep working this drudge of a country?”

Grunts of agreement went around.

“Get going, then,” Zachariah commanded.

The men turned their horses east and Phoebe knew they were headed for the valley she had left half an hour
ago. She waited until they disappeared, then hurried back to her horse. She mounted, then urged him back through the holly bushes and down the mountainside toward the valley. Fifteen minutes later, the terrain leveled out and she snapped the reins against the gelding’s rear. He shot forward.

“Heddy,” Phoebe muttered as she hunkered down, “I'll choke every last breath from you when I return home. As for you, Ashlund, I'll shoot you myself if these brigands don’t do it for me.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
he wide valley became visible beyond the thinning trees and Phoebe brought her horse to a standstill on the hill’s edge. The moon illuminated a grass-covered basin strewn with rocks and ground-hugging brush. Further scrutiny was halted by the discovery of riders entering the long valley at a gallop from the north. She squinted at the tall figure in the lead. A cloak lashed behind him in the wind. Kiernan MacGregor. She looked south where the valley narrowed and spotted the bridge where Zachariah and his men waited. She pulled the derringer from her pocket and kicked her horse’s ribs. He neighed and lunged ahead. Phoebe leaned into him as he sped down the hill. The chill of the autumn night penetrated the sleeves of her dress. She tucked her head down and bent closer to the horse's neck.

Moment
s later, the ground leveled and they shot from the trees. Directly ahead, Kiernan and his men were midway into the valley. Shouts went up from his party. Kiernan whipped his horse around on an intercept course. The two men with him followed. In less than a minute, they were within shouting distance.

“You’re riding into a trap!” Phoebe yelled. “There are brigands waiting for you at the bridge.”

Kiernan glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the bridge, then faced her.

“Two men are acting as lookout,” Phoebe brought her horse up short as Kiernan and his men did the same beside her. “They mean to block your retreat,” she panted. “Four men are below the bridge and another waits on the other side.”

“What?” Kiernan demanded. Then, before she could respond, “Damnation, woman, are you trying to catch your death?”

He whipped off his plaid cloak and edged his horse closer. Her gelding shied, but before she could pull back on the reins, Kiernan grabbed the beast’s bridle and stilled him.

“MacGregor!” one of his men cried as he threw the cloak around her shoulders.

Kiernan whirled his horse in unison with shouts that abruptly emanated from the opposite side of the valley. Phoebe jerked her attention toward the shouts and saw two riders emerge from trees near the bridge.

“They spotted us,” she said. "There are six of them."

"How do you know that?" Kiernan demanded. "Never mind. When this is finished I'll beat it out of you." He looked at his men. "Take care of them." He motioned toward the approaching brigands and the men started toward them. He brought his gaze back to bear on Phoeb
e. “Get to the other side of the valley and stay inside the trees.” He snapped the reins across his steed’s rump. The horse leapt into action.

“Ashlund!” she shouted. “They intend to kidnap and ransom you.”

“Do as I say or I'll beat you
here and now
,” he called over his shoulder.

A shot rang out. Phoebe cut her gaze to the approaching brigands who aimed a pistol at the MacGregor men. Her pounding heart skipped a beat. The ball had missed its mark and the would-be kidnappers still raced toward the MacGregor men.

She looked at the derringer. Why hadn’t the duke had anything better in his library? Shooting the derringer at a target more than fifteen feet away was like spitting. She clasped the cloak about her throat, then spurred her horse back the way she’d come. Another gunshot pierced the night air. She glanced back and saw Kiernan holding his weapon level, and a riderless horse charging toward him.

The fallen man’s comrade whirled and raced back toward the bridge. Phoebe urged h
er horse into the forest, then reined south toward the river. Beyond the trees, she glimpsed the man who had fled. He reached the bridge and raced across. Indistinguishable shouts reached her when Kiernan and his men disappeared down the riverbank left of the bridge.

Minutes later, Phoebe reached the bank. She pulled her horse up short and dismounted. She discarded Kiernan’s cloak, then slid down the riverbank to river's edge. The bridge lay a hundred feet away. Waist high bushes grew in sporadic patches along the bank. The slow moving water whispered in a gentle flow downstream. She gave a final glance around the deserted riverbank, then scurried between the b
ushes toward the bridge. Thirty feet from the bridge, something rustled in the foliage within its shadows, and Phoebe halted behind a bush. Her heart jumped into her throat when a figure emerged from the shadows and started up the bank.

She aimed the derringer, then hesitated. He was too far away to hit with any accuracy, and his back was to her. Her stomach took a sickening turn. She'd never shot a man, and she wasn't about to start by shooting him in the back. Crouching, she headed for the next bush. Another shot discharged. The man spun toward her before she reached cover and she stopped. Their gazes locked, then he stepped toward her and she fired. He jerked to his right and fell. Her heart jumped into her throat. Thank God, the bullet hit his shoulder, as planned. She'd feared the gun would pull even harder to the left than anticipated, and she would miss him altogether.

Phoebe rose on shaky legs, but forced herself to hurry forward. Another brigand appeared from beneath the bridge and she halted. His glance flicked from his fallen comrade to her—then the derringer she still gripped. He leveled the double barrel revolver he held. Phoebe dove behind the bush an instant before he fired. She looked up, expecting to see his pistol aimed at her again, but he wasn’t there. A strong hand clamped onto her arm and yanked her upright.

Her captor began dragging her up the bank and Phoebe fumbled for the
sgian dubh
in her pocket. The dagger bounced off her thigh with the long strides he forced her to take. She caught sight of two revolvers stuffed into his waistband, then gave a tiny cry upon recognizing the MacGregor plaide of his kilt. Phoebe looked up and searched his face, but didn't recognize him.

“Who—" She tripped as they crested the bank. He grabbed her around the waist and yanked her off the ground. “Barbarian,” she yelped, and elbowed him in the ribs.

He grunted. At the sound of more gunfire, Phoebe glanced back, but saw nothing as he hauled her up the bank. They entered the trees and she twisted to face her captor.

“You would do better to help Lord Ashlund," she said. "Those ruffians will shoot his companions and take him.”

“You have a fine opinion of MacGregor men,” he replied in a placid voice that didn’t hide the sarcasm.

Phoebe jammed her derringer into his side. “Release me and go help the others.”

“You used your one shot on that fellow.”

“Useless p
iece of iron.” She tossed the weapon aside.

Her horse cam
e into view a few feet ahead, alongside a stallion. Her captor set her on her feet, but kept hold of her arm, while directing her toward the horses.

“They need your help.” she burst out.

“I can't take you near the fighting, and I canna’ leave you alone. MacGregor will have my head.”

“Lord Ashlund will understand.”

“Not him. His father.”

They reached the horses. Phoebe spied a branch the size of her arm near the stallion’s feet.

“What will his father say when you return with me and his son’s ransom demand follows?” she demanded.

More gunfire echoed through the trees and he cast a glanc
e in the direction of the sound. He shook his head. “I must do as the MacGregor ordered.” He reached for her horse’s reins.

Heart pounding, Phoebe bent and grabbed the branch.
Sorry about this, lad
. Her stomach tensed as she shot to her feet, swinging the branch against the back of his head. He fell to the ground with a groan. She dropped the branch and grabbed a revolver from his waistband. He groaned again.

“You’ll live.” Her stomach relaxed a fraction and she headed for the river.

Upon reaching the forest’s edge, Phoebe once again crept down the riverbank and ducked behind the first bush she reached. She surveyed the quiet riverbank. Was Lord Ashlund on this side of the river or had he crossed over? The moonlight dimmed behind filmy clouds. She scurried from bush to bush toward the water. Nearer the river, the bushes thinned, then stopped altogether. She bent low and darted from the cover of the last bush. Gunfire broke the silence and she dropped to the ground fifteen feet from the water’s edge. Her knee smashed against a small rock. She winced, biting back a cry of pain.

“Give it up, Your Lordship,” Zachariah
's call drifted across the river. “You’re outnumbered. We won’t hurt you, I swear.”

Silence met his demand.

“You can’t escape. I have men guarding your retreat.”

Still no answer.

“Come, now. You’re only going to get you and your men killed.”

A soft splash in the water jerked Phoe
be's attention sideways.

“If you come out now, I promise to release everyone except you,” Zachariah shouted.

A figure rose from the river near her. He turned slightly and the silhouette of the revolver he held above the water became visible. She realized the giant was the man Zachariah had called Bob. Phoebe rose to her knees and aimed her revolver as Bob stepped up onto shore and started toward the bridge.

“Not another step, Bob,” she said in a whisper, “or I’ll blast a hole in you.”

He halted. Her thudding heart skipped a beat.

“Do we have an agreement?” Zachariah called.

“Drop the weapon,” Phoebe ordered.

Bob remained motionless.

She drew back on the hammer. The chamber clicked over with an audible grate. “Throw down the weapon,” she ordered again.

He looked over his shoulder. His gaze latched first onto the weapon, then slid up to her shadowed face. He whirled and she fired. He staggered back with
the force of the ball that hit his belly.

He looked down at the spreading stain, then at her. “Ye shot me.”

Her stomach turned.
Two men in one night.
And this one, she guessed, wouldn't live.

He fell to his knees, hitting the ground with a choked groan. “Done in by a woman.” He raised his weapon.

Phoebe froze. The man she had killed was about to kill her. Another shot fired. She jumped as Bob fell face forward onto the ground. Something rustled behind her and she twisted, losing her balance and hitting the ground on her backside. A figure emerged from behind a bush and she barely stifled a scream upon recognizing the MacGregor man she'd left unconscious.

He hurried forward. She stared dumbly at him as he halted beside her and dropped to his knees. She allowed him to disengage the revolver f
rom her grasp and help her kneel. Revolver at ready, he grasped her arm.

“Can you crawl?” he asked.

She nodded and started on all fours alongside him toward the bridge.

“Now,” came Zachariah’s voice again, “you see what happens? You’re forcing me to kill your men. Who did we kill, Your Lordship?”

Phoebe yelled, “Bob didn’t kill anyone, Zachariah. He is dead.”

An instant of silence passed.

“What?” Zachariah demanded.

“Come along.” Her companion urged her toward the bridge.

“That’s right, Zachariah,” she shouted. “Bob is dead.”

“Who is that?” he shouted back.

There was a scuffle, muffled voices, then the sound of footsteps running through the trees—running
away
, Phoebe noted.

“Come back, you cowards,” Zachariah called.

A moment later, Phoebe and her companion reached the bridge, and he called out softly, “MacGregor.”

A man’s voice answered
a few feet away, beyond the bushes. “Donald?”

“Aye,” he replied.

A man showed himself and waved them forward. Donald got to his feet, pulling Phoebe with him. He hurried her past him and she pushed through several bushes, snagging her skirt on brambles. Donald yanked the skirt free and pushed her forward. They broke through the bushes where three men stood, and she stopped short at seeing Kiernan sitting on the ground, back against a large rock as he loaded a revolver.

“Phoebe Wallington,” he said without looking up, “when this affair is finished, I do swear to beat you.”

There was a gritty edge to his voice Phoebe didn't like. “Indeed, my lord? I was thinking I would shoot you.” Her gaze caught on the tartan wrapped around the uppermost part of his left thigh. “Good God, what have you done?”

She hurried forward and dropped to her knees at
his side. A splinter of pain shot up her leg. She winced, but ignored the discomfort and touched the tartan around his leg. She pursed her lips upon recognizing the moist stickiness of blood and pressed down on the wound.

“Phoebe,” he said in a raspy voice.

She shot him a quelling look. “You were the one person who was not supposed to get shot.”

“S
ave your reprimands for the wedding night,” Kiernan said with a grunt.

“Don’t be a fool.” She pressed gingerly on his leg.

“Madam,” he growled, “if you would kindly cease your ministrations until we are finished with—" Phoebe pressed harder. “By God,” he cursed.

“Hush, or you'll have no business to attend to at all.” She looked at his men. “How is t
hat, of the four of you, he is the one shot?”