Chapter Nine
The moment Duncan cleared the rise, he spotted the coach stopped on the road, and the men circling ’round a lass in a tattered dress with mussed hair.
He knew in an instant it was his wee Cat. He was at once slammed with relief and utter, blood-boiling fury.
And then he saw nothing but red, as Tiverton lifted his hand and struck his woman.
He’d never known such fear, such rage, and such utter helplessness as he did in that moment, watching her lurch back and fall like a doll to the ground.
His heart ceased to beat. His breath lodged painfully in his throat. Pain banded his temples. He urged his mount into a gallop, his burning eyes trained on the scene before him.
Frustration swelling—his horse was moving far too slowly, and the coach was far too far—he watched as both the burly men rushed her, one at a time. Pride swelled in his chest as she fought them off and then headed for Tiverton.
The sniveling worm leaped into the carriage to escape her.
Ah, but he would not escape Duncan’s wrath.
He pounded up to the scene, flung himself from his horse, and ran to Cat. His knees nearly failed him as he got a look at the growing bruise on her beautiful face and—ye Gods—she was covered with blood.
“Catherine!” he bellowed and took her into his arms in a rush. She winced and he lurched back, afraid he’d hurt her. “Are you all right, my darling?”
She opened her mouth to respond, but her lips only worked a bit. Then she nodded. It was all he needed. He turned and yelled, “Take her,” at Bower. And then he sprinted for the coach, yanked open the door and pulled Tiverton from his refuge. The bastard fell to the ground, but Duncan lifted him by his neck and glared at him.
“I could kill you,” he snarled.
“Help! Help!” Tiverton wailed. “I’m being murdered by a Scot!”
Duncan had no idea who he was imploring for help. His minions, getting one look at Duncan’s expression, had turned tail and skittered into the fields. There was no one else to come to his aid, other than the crows, who did not seem so inclined.
“Where do you suppose they are going?” Bower asked, staring after the two men.
“I doona care,” Duncan growled. And then he did what he’d been wanting to do since he’d learned that Tiverton had absconded with the one person he held dearest in the world. He hauled back a meaty fist and let fly.
Ach, it was satisfying, the crunch, the wail, the spatter of blood. He released Tiverton, who fell to the ground once more. Duncan stood over him, hands on his hips, waiting for him to rise again.
Tiverton, apparently was to wise to try. He merely stared up at Duncan, sniveling.
What a worm.
He didn’t even try to defend himself.
That took all the fun out of it.
A warm presence at his side caught his attention and he glanced down at Cat. His darling, adorable, fearless Cat. She met his gaze and offered a wobbly smile. “Are you going to kill him?” she asked, toying with her knife.
Duncan had to grin, because he knew the menacing gesture was for Tiverton’s benefit. Indeed, the man might have soiled himself.
He loved that she was a fierce as he when the situation called for it.
“I havena decided yet,” he said, stroking his chin. “What do you think?”
She lifted a delicate shoulder. “No one would know. Not here.” She gestured to the empty fields.
“Oh, please,” Tiverton cried. “Please don’t kill me!”
“True,” Bower said, ignoring Tiverton’s outcry. “But think how much work it would be to bury him.”
“Aye.” Duncan nodded and eyed the lord with a contemplative eye. “I suppose we could leave him here.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, please.”
“I do have a need for a carriage.”
“What?”
“That should be payment enough for his crimes, I think,” Catherine said with a glint in her eye.
“You can’t leave me here,” Tiverton sputtered.
“He’s probably right,” Bower said with a sigh. “We should at least take him to a magistrate—”
“Excellent idea,” Tiverton said, standing and straightening his coat. Duncan could tell by the expression on his face he was certain this outrage on his person by lowly Scots would be dealt with harshly.
“A Scottish magistrate,” Duncan said with a wicked grin. “We are fairly close to the border—”
But before the words were out, Tiverton had turned and sprinted down the road to the south.
Bower grinned. “I suppose that means we can have his carriage.”
“I suppose it does. You doona mind driving, do you?” Duncan asked.
And in response, Bower slapped him on the shoulder. “Not at all. Back to London?”
“Hell no.”
Catherine shot him a curious glance. “Not London?”
“Nae, my wee lassie. We’re much closer to Scotland and after the fright I’ve had, I’m of a mind to take you to the first blacksmith I see and get you married good and proper.”
Her lashes fluttered. “But what about our proper English wedding?”
His gut lurched. “Did-did you want that proper English wedding?”
The way she looked at him made heat pool in his loins. “I did not. I thought you did.”
He chuckled and lifted her into his arms and carried her back to the coach, gently depositing her on the seat. He kissed her tenderly, careful to avoid her bruise. “I never wanted anything but you, my wee Cat.”
And she smiled at him in a way that filled his soul with the kind of joy he had never known. “Then to Gretna Green we go, my groom. For a proper Scottish wedding!”