Page 66 of Rogue with a Brogue
He opened his eyes to see clouds and treetops, and for a moment thought he was still lying on his back by the road. But the trees were passing by, or he was passing by them, to an accompanying sound of wood scraping against dirt and stone. Moving his head slowly to be certain his aching skull didn’t fall off and roll away, he looked sideways.
“Don’t move,” Mary said, leaning over from Juno’s back to look down at him, clear worry on her face. “Are you going to be ill again?”
“I dunnae believe so,” he returned, his voice dry and raspy. “Where the devil are we? What am I riding on?”
“One of the coach doors. Peter found the team, and they’re much happier pulling you than they were the entire coach.”
“I’m not much happier,” Howard put in from somewhere behind—or rather in front of—him.
“I said you would be recompensed, Howard. Just keep them moving at an easy pace. No bumping.”
Arran closed his eyes again, trying to gather a mush of thoughts back into something coherent. “We cannae travel to Scotland like this. And we’re leaving a damned obvious trail, I’d wager.”
“Nae,” Peter said from beyond his feet. “I’ve got a bundle of branches Duffy’s dragging. I dunnae think even that Daniel Boone lad from America could track us.”
“Was that yer idea, lass?” Arran asked.
“I thought it might help obscure the marks the door is leaving.”
He knew she had wits, but that was damned clever. When he shifted a little he felt a portmanteau beneath his knees, so evidently he was now a part of the luggage. This was not how he meant to make his way to the Highlands, and he wasnotgoing to be what got them caught. Grunting, he pushed with his hands, trying to sit up. Nothing happened.
“Ye didnae tie me doon, did ye, lass?”
“I didn’t want you or the bags to fall off. Nor do I want you to get up and faint again. Stay there.”
“I didnae faint. I lost consciousness.”
Her lips twitched. “State it however you wish, but stay where you are. We’ll be at our destination within an hour.”
“And what is our destination?” The dull thudding in his head kept growing louder, and he couldn’t make out her answer. All he knew was that this was no way for a man to perform a rescue. Tied to a door and being dragged along the ground—it was humiliating. Devil take it, he’d beaten off four men just a few hours ago. He had the bruises beneath his newest bruises to prove it. When he managed to force his eyes open again, he would demand that he be allowed to walk.
Summoning every ounce of willpower he owned, he opened one eye. “I didnae quite hear ye, Mary. Where are we…” Arran trailed off as he realized he wasn’t looking up at a late afternoon sky, any longer. A deep blue touched the western horizon, deepening to black the higher he looked. A minute ago he would have sworn he’d been in the middle of a conversation. How long had he been wading about in his own muddy mind?
For the first time, panic touched him. If he lost time with every blink of his eyes, he couldn’t protect Mary. Just the opposite. His unplanned inability to act, to think clearly, was putting her in danger.
“Mary,” he forced out, more loudly.
“I’m here,” her sweet voice came immediately, and then she was walking beside his makeshift litter.
“Mary, ye need to go. I’ll nae be the reason anyone hurts ye.”
“This is my rescue, Arran.” She glanced ahead, then motioned at someone in front of her. “Wait here for just a moment.”
He grabbed for her hand, but she’d stepped away before he could make himself move. “Peter, go with her!”
“I am, lad,” drifted back to him.
This time when he closed his eyes, he couldn’t recall thinking anything except that he’d failed. Perhaps he’d been too rash to begin with. Perhaps he should have waited, lurked about in Wiltshire until the day of the wedding while he made his own plans, and then stolen her off to a ship and sailed to America. Perhaps the Highlands had been his life, his sanctuary, for so long that he’d been unable to let go of the idea that he and Mary would be safe there.
Of course if he’d failed to appear at Glengask after a fortnight Ranulf would have come looking for him. And the idea of Mary being trapped at Fendarrow with no allies, waiting to be locked into a marriage she dreaded—no. Waiting might have been wiser, but this was one time he was proud that he’d done what was right rather than what was wise.
If he’d feel that way in ten or twelve hours when the Campbells ran them down, he had no idea. But by God he wasn’t going to let her go without a fight, even if he had to lie flat on the ground and keep one eye shut to shoot at the bastards. He’d claimed Mary Campbell in every way that he could. And his only true worry in all of this was that while he’d managed a sly comment that he loved her, he hadn’t come out and said it directly. And that when the coach had gone over, he wasn’t certain what she’d been about to say back to him.
He didn’t want her gratitude or just her friendship. He wanted her heart.
***
With Peter standing at her shoulder and clearly uneasy at this little plan of hers, Mary struck the old brass knocker against the sturdy oak door. She wasn’t certain which outcome would be worse—that this was the wrong door, or that it was the correct one.
