Three

Catherine covered her hands and face with mud and hugged the shadows, crouching low and melding into the dark. Little mice should stay very quiet and keep very still. She grinned, wondering if the Englishman would be pleased to know she was heeding his advice. She crept forward, silent amidst the uproar of running feet and the cursing and shouting of angry men. Darting from tent to tent, slipping and sliding through muck-filled trenches, she edged her way toward the river.

Ten feet from the water she stood upright, putting fingers to lips and giving a low whistle before scrambling down the gravel bank, dislodging stones and pebbles and plunging into the swift flowing current. Icy water rose hip-deep, stealing her breath. She clutched at a hitch in her side, gasping for air, running as best and as fast as she could, ignoring the frigid stabs of pain biting at her limbs. She could hear the sound of horses splashing through the water but she refused to look, grimly determined to reach the other side. Struggling forward, feet and legs heavy and numb with cold, she took a misstep and almost fell, but someone hooked her elbow and grabbed her sodden shirt, almost hauling her off her feet. Slashing the air with her dagger, she fought to break free.

“Ease off, Cat. Leave be! It’s me, Rory.”

“Rory?” she croaked. She made no further protest as her burly redheaded cousin pulled her up behind him. She clutched him tight, teeth chattering, shivering with cold. She was free! Rory gave a shout. It was answered by low whistles and the sound of hoofbeats clattering into the night. From behind them, the sound of shouting and gunfire continued a few minutes more, then stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

* * *

Jamie walked the outer perimeter of the camp, perplexed. It was cold enough to see his breath. He could hear Gervaise and his men calling out, their voices sharp and clear in the chill night air, cursing as they searched with lit brands and torches, but there was no one to be found. As far as he could tell, their invisible enemies had made no serious attempt to breach the camp. After using arrows to light the powder stores, they’d contented themselves with shooting from the shadows and then melted into the night. It made no sense. He could have sworn that with this day’s battle, the area had been pacified and subdued, and any viable fighting forces crushed into submission or forced into retreat. So who were they… and why had they suddenly broken off their attack? His eyes were caught by a jumble of fresh hoofprints and he knelt to examine them in the glow of his torch. Heavy horses… carrying well-armed men, but what were they—

“God curse it!” He leapt to his feet and stalked through the camp, ignoring all questions and pushing men aside. “Sullivan!” he bellowed.

“Yes, milord, what’s wrong?”

“Where’s the girl?”

“Why, she’s in the tent, milord, where you left her. I—”

Jamie brushed past him and flung open the flap. The bed was a sodden mess. A pool of muddy water covered most of the floor, rippled by gusts of wind and the driving rain pouring in through a gaping hole in the canvas. His lips twisted in a sour smile and he gave a bitter snort of laughter. He had four cardinal rules, compass points by which he led his life. He always acted in his own best interest, he trusted no one and depended only on himself, when he gave his word he kept it, and when he accepted a commission, he made sure to see it through. He’d already broken the first one to help the hellcat, and now he was paying for it. It looked like he’d have to break a couple more in order to help himself.

He’d suspected she was no camp follower when he’d fondled her breast and she’d hit him, though he knew even a tart could have a temper. Whoever she was, it seemed someone wanted her back. Well, she had a husband now, and he wanted her too. A missing wife was a useless wife… worse, she was a dangerous one. He’d been counting on the smug and eager help of Father Francis to arrange a quick annulment once he’d shown himself repentant. That was going to prove damned difficult without the cooperation of the bride. If he couldn’t accept the heiress the king had chosen for him, His Majesty would be deeply offended, and it wasn’t wise to offend the king. He’d no choice but to retrieve her.

He heard a sound behind him. Sullivan stood white-faced and shaken at the entrance.

“I beg your forgiveness, milord. I’ve failed you.”

“No, it’s me who’s failed. I should have known better. I’ve brought this on myself.” He smiled and clapped Sullivan’s shoulder. “Pull yourself together, man, and never admit a woman’s laid you low. I’ll wager better men than you and I have been cozened by my trickster wife. It seems the little mouse would have me chase her. I’ll have to go and fetch her or it won’t bode well. Tell Gervaise I had business to attend to. Tell him nothing else, and stay out of his way until I get back. I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”

He spoke with a confidence he was far from feeling, but there was no point making Sullivan feel worse than he already did. He couldn’t have expected the girl to leave the safety of the tent, and he couldn’t have known it was a disaster that she had. He needed to move quickly. He had to retrieve her before Gervaise struck camp or risk being accused of abandoning his mission, but he’d wager she knew this country a damned sight better than he did, and he knew every step she took away from him saw his hopes for the future slip further from his grasp.

* * *

A good three hours to the north, Catherine clung to Rory’s back, struggling to keep her grip as they climbed steadily higher. The air grew colder as they rose, and her stiff hands were refusing to obey.

“Are you alright, lass? Have those bastards harmed you, Catherine?”

“No. I’m tired and sore, Rory, and I’ve a thirst that could drown a river, but I’m not harmed.”

“You’re frozen through though, Cat. You’re shaking so bad you’re rattling my bones.” Rory pulled up his horse and wheeled around, waiting for the rest of the men to catch up. There were murmurs of excitement and some good-natured teasing as they surrounded Catherine, ruffling her hair, slapping her on the shoulder, and punching her arm.

“Ouch! Damn it! Willie, that hurt!”

“Not as much as falling off your horse did though, eh lass?” Willie said to guffaws all around.

“Enough!” Rory barked. “There’s no time for sport. Who can spare me a breacan?”

“It’s a bitter night, Rory. Did you not bring one of your own?”

“It’s not for me, you blasted fool! It’s for the lass!”

One of the McCormick boys handed over his great kilt, and Rory wrapped it around her and tied it at his waist, securing her tight against him. “Alright, lads. We’re off.”

They rode like that for several hours, bundled close together. Catherine relaxed, snug in the warm breacan, the warmth of Rory’s body drying her clothes and driving away the chill. The rocking motion of the horse made her tired, and she leaned into his heat and yawned.

“Go to sleep, Cat. You’ve had a rough day.”

She sank against him, closing her eyes, and just for a moment, she imagined a devilish grin, flashing eyes, and the mocking voice of her husband.

The rain had changed to snow and a bleak dawn was inching up the mountain when they finally reached their camp. Her Uncle Jerrod, far more demonstrative than his phlegmatic eldest son, held out his arms and caught her as she slid from the saddle. Tall, bald-headed, and built like an ox, his hooked Roman nose and steely gaze reminded her of an eagle. He reminded her of her father.

“Uncle, please! Put me down” she gasped. “I can barely breathe.”

“God bless you, lass! I feared we might never see you again!” he said, releasing her. “Once we’d secured your fool of a brother and bundled him away, we made for the hills, and with the bloody fog wrapped tight around us it was a good two hours before anyone noticed you were gone. If those mongrels have touched you, I’ll—”

“You needn’t worry, Uncle. Other than being squeezed and shaken and tossed about, I assure you I’m quite unharmed.”

“How’s that possible, lass? We’ve both seen their handiwork. They’re butchers! Savages! I’d not have expected a woman to survive inta—Well… ah… no doubt they mistook you for a lad.”

“Yes, Uncle, they did,” she said with a tired sigh. “And once they saw I was a woman, they couldn’t decide what to do with me—kill me, ravish me, or hold me for ransom. I believe they were trying to find a way to do all three.” She didn’t tell him about her marriage or her husband. She didn’t know what to make of it. She didn’t know what to say.

“Aye, lass, but here you are, safe and sound and back like a bad penny.”

“Aye, Dad,” Rory broke in. He resembled his father, with proud beak and flinty gaze, but he towered over him by a good six inches and had a great deal more hair. “She made it easy for us too. We’d scarce arrived to the rescue and she was already free and halfway across the river! You did the Drummonds proud, Cat!”

“Aye, that you did, lass,” Jerrod said. “Now come with me. We’ll share a wee dram of whiskey and then be on our way.”

Catherine followed her uncle to a place by the fire, and dropped to the ground, slumping against a wizened log. “Tell me then, Uncle. What of my brother… and who did we lose?”

“Drink your whiskey, lass. It’s not a pretty story. We lost Robbie McIntyre, one-eyed Perry, and Matthew Robertson. Your brother Alistair… was not appreciative of our efforts. It seems he had his heart set on being a martyr, the silly git. You’ll not see him here. He kept shouting for help, wanting rescue from his saviors, and frankly, I could stomach him no more. I had him clubbed and bound and sent home straightaway, and now we’ve got you, we’ll all be on our way.”

“Perhaps I should have left him to his fate as Donald wanted, but I couldn’t. He’s only a boy. Still… three good men dead because of him, and on my orders. Rory’s wrong. There’s naught to be proud of this day.”

“What nonsense is this? Are you daft, girl? Three good men gone, aye. But that’s no more than you might expect from a good cattle raid or a hard night’s reiving. Your fool of brother might fancy himself a pious rebel, Catherine, but he’s a Drummond, and your father’s son. It’s bad enough all the Highlands know he’s a Presbyterian and a Covenanter. We’d have never lived it down if we’d allowed some prancing foreigners and a British lordling to hang him! You did the right thing, girl. Anything else would have made us appear weak to our neighbors. You’ve a good head on your shoulders, Cat. Better than Donald or your brother, but if you hope to lead this clan as your father wanted, you’ll have to grow a thicker skin.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Uncle,” she said, tossing back her whiskey and rising to her feet, “but the point is moot. That’s not what my father wanted, and Cousin Donald leads us now. That’s what our people have chosen. Let’s go home.”

“You’ll not challenge him then? Each of us here would support you,” Jerrod said, walking alongside her.

“That makes thirty men. I’ll not challenge him, Uncle. These are dangerous times and there’s enough feuding between the clans—we don’t need any within it. My father would not have wanted that.”

“You know what that means, girl. He’ll give you to the O’Connor. He wants the alliance and he wants to be rid of you. He’ll marry you off as quick as he can.”

Aye, Cormac O’Connor wanted her. His eyes lit with greed whenever he saw her—counting cattle, whiskey barrels, and all of her gold—but she was under no illusion he wanted her as a woman. Her uncle assumed she’d been mistaken for a man, and she’d heard the O’Connor, talking in his cups, tell his friends any man who took her risked cutting himself on her bones, her tongue, and her sword. Even her arrogant English husband had been surprisingly easy to dissuade.

Struck by a sudden thought, she turned to her uncle with a brilliant smile, her eyes lit with mischief. “So you think he’ll marry me off then, do you, Uncle Jerrod? I’ll certainly be interested in seeing him try.”