Page 35 of A Scot on the Rocks
“You’re lying. This isn’t funny anymore.”
There was enough desperation in her voice to strip the last of his amusement away.
Jamie had seen frightened people before. He knew the empty look of someone who’d just heard a death sentence, the panic of a child separated from her mother at the market, the stillness of a man who’d finally understood the battle was lost.
Whatever had happened to this woman, she believed what he’d told her mattered in a way he didna understand.
“Nay, lass,” he said gently, adjusting his grip when she swayed again. “I’m not lying to ye.”
Her laugh came out thin and broken. “That’s just great.”
A sharp whistle rose from below the ridge. Ewan stood partly hidden beside the first pony, one hand raised in warning as two riders appeared on the lower road. Their coats were dark against the wet heather and their muskets visible enough that Jamie didn’t need to see their faces to know what they were.
Excisemen.
Jamie recognized the rider in front before the man came within shouting distance. Andrew Robertson kept a straight seat even on the worst Highland roads and wore his hat no matter the weather. Two months earlier, he’d searched a cart of turnips outside Glenbrae while Jamie stood beside it offering helpful suggestions about how best to distinguish a vegetable from a whisky cask. The villagers had been calling him Turnip Robertson ever since. Jamie had never used the name to the man’s face, being generally attached to his teeth, but he suspected the officer knew perfectly well who’d started it. Robertson had remembered Jamie’s face, of that there was no doubt.
Robertson and his companion hadn’t yet spotted them, but they would if Jamie remained on open ground much longer with a strange woman whose clothing would draw unwanted attention. Robertson had begun asking questions about the routes out of Glenbrae, and unlike the younger officers, he listened carefully to the answers. Jamie was taking no chances with him today.
Olivia followed his gaze. “Are those the police?”
Jamie looked at her. “What?”
“Law enforcement.”
“Worse. Tax men.”
She was still pale, and her fingers trembled slightly as she pushed her hair behind one ear, but something like weary disbelief found room beside the fear.
“Figures.”
Jamie liked her for that, which was inconvenient.
He took her elbow and guided her toward the mare. “Can ye walk?”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere ye won’t be seen.”
She looked toward the men below, then at his hand on her elbow. “That isn’t reassuring.”
“Lass, very little about this morning is reassuring.”
She let him move her several steps before stopping so abruptly that Jamie had to turn back.
“You never told me your name.”
“Jamie Campbell, at your service, mistress.”
Her eyes traveled over him, lingering briefly on the sword before returning to his face. “Are you going to kill me, Jamie Campbell?”
“No.”
“Rob me?”
His gaze dropped before he could stop it. Straight to the boots.
Olivia followed his eyes.
