“Where are you off to in such a rush?” Mairi asked the next day as Janet raced through the entry of the boardinghouse, throwing her cloak about her shoulders.
“No time to explain!” Having dressed in a hurry, she burst out the door before Her Ladyship could ask another question. In no way could she tell a pregnant woman where she was going. Blast Kennan. Moments ago, before he’d marched out the door, he’d given her a kiss on the cheek and asked her to say a prayer.
A prayer, for goodness’ sakes!
Only then did he tell her about the duel of swords arranged between him and Robert Grant. Janet had begged and pleaded for him to renege, but that didn’t stop him. Dear Brother left her alone, wearing her shift and robe, knowing full well she couldn’t chase after him undressed.
Curses to men and their pride.
Her brother was going to get himself killed while Dunn MacRae and the Cameron clansmen stood by. A gentlemen’s duel? I think not. Convinced she was the only person who could stop the fight, she ran to the stables and found the lad. “Please saddle my horse at once.”
“Straightaway, miss.”
Janet stood aside, wringing her hands, her heart racing. What if I’m too late?
A movement of something red flashed in the corner of her eye. Lieutenant Cummins and his dragoons sauntered inside as if they were snooping about for some poor fellow to lock in the stocks for the day.
Janet drew in a deep breath and painted on her most serene expression, praying her nervousness didn’t show, praying the soldiers would pass through without paying her any mind. But she could feel the heat of the lieutenant’s gaze before he stopped at her side.
“Miss Cameron, ’tis surprising to see you here unaccompanied.”
“Is it? I thought I would exercise my mare whilst the rain is at bay.”
“I daresay you should be chaperoned. There are a great many unsavory sorts about town. I wouldn’t want anything untoward to happen to you.”
“I do appreciate your concern for my safety, sir, but I assure you I will not be alone. I am meeting my brother…ah…just out of town.” Pursing her lips, Janet glanced away. Goodness, she’d nearly mentioned the Old Inverlochy Castle ruins. If Lieutenant Cummins caught wind of Kennan’s duel, the Highlanders would all end up in the stocks or marched to Fort William and locked away.
The lieutenant scratched the mole on his cheek and looked out the stable doors. “I do not see your brother about.”
“You do not see him because he’s not in town, sir.” Goodness, will he not let matters lie? The stable hand led her horse to the mounting block. Relieved, Janet hastened to climb aboard and situate her knee over the upper pommel of her sidesaddle.
“Perhaps my men should provide an escort until you find him.” Lieutenant Cummins grasped the mare’s bridle and smiled pleasantly, which did nothing to ease Janet’s nerves.
She jerked the reins from his fingers with one hand and slapped her crop against the horse’s hindquarter with the other. “I assure you that is not necessary.” While her beloved mare picked up a trot, Janet turned and called over her shoulder, “Thank you ever so much for your concern, Lieutenant.” There, that ought to dissuade him.
As soon as she reached the road, she cued the mare for a canter. Janet hadn’t a moment to lose, and she wasn’t about to wait for Lieutenant Cummins to saddle his horse. The man had been too friendly since she’d arrived in Inverlochy. She leaned forward in the saddle, demanding more speed. Right now she couldn’t think about Cummins or anything but preventing her brother from being killed by that Grant rogue.
She took the North Road at a gallop. The ruins of Old Inverlochy Castle were on the River Lochy right near the crossing the Camerons used to travel from Achnacarry. The mare snorted out steady breaths as her hooves pummeled the packed dirt in a steady rhythm. “Haste!” Janet urged.
She’d never seen a duel of swords before, but she’d heard horrible things. Kennan had assured her the fight would end at first cut, but what did that mean? What if first cut resulted in a mortal wound? And her brother expected her to bide her time in the boardinghouse until he returned?
Not likely!
Especially not with Robert Grant as Kennan’s opponent. The big laird was renowned throughout the Highlands for his skill with blades—dirks as well as swords—and few men could best him. Moreover, the blackguard was older than Kennan and taller by a hand.
The sound of swords clanged through the air as Janet reined her horse to a stop outside the crumbling stone walls. She’d been inside before, and nothing remained but the shell of a once-great medieval fortress. As fast as she could, she dismounted and secured the reins on the tie line beside a row of other horses.
At a run she dashed under the archway and pushed through a crowd of men while clanging filled the air.
Once the duelers came into sight, she gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth, running toward the fighting men. Deadly blades caught the sunlight, flickering as Kennan and Robert swung and blocked with lightning speed. Midstride, a hand clamped onto Janet’s shoulder, stopping her abruptly. She jerked away, her head snapping toward Dunn MacRae.
“Ye shouldn’t be here, lass,” he growled.
“Och aye?” She jammed her fists into her hips. “And you had no business arranging this duel. ’Tis my brother’s life you are wagering.” Mr. MacRae caught her by the elbows as she started off. She fought him to no avail. “Leave me be!”
“Nay,” he barked in her ear. “These men must face their hatred, else the feud between your clans will never end. Do you not understand? Kennan and Robert represent the future hope of our kin. Not just your clan, but for the Highland ways.”
Janet stopped struggling, a tear stinging her eye as she watched, clenching her teeth, clenching her fists. Why did Mr. MacRae have to sound so convincing? And how could everyone just stand idle? “If anything happens to him, I shall deem you accountable.”
“Your brother can hold his own. And I would trust Robert Grant with my very life.”
“So say you,” she growled. Duncan MacRae might trust the laird, but that was because their clans were allies. When it came to Grant versus Cameron, the contest would be fierce.
Kennan locked guards with the beast, nose to nose, their faces red. “Admit your crime!” Mr. Grant growled.
“I admit to nothing, you swine. You accuse the innocent when you have no proof.”
Gnashing his teeth, Robert shoved Kennan to the ground. “I know when I have been wronged!”
The big man pounced on her brother’s chest, leveling his sword against Kennan’s throat. “It pains me not to end your life now.”
“No!” Janet screamed.
Robert turned his head toward the sound.
Moving like a cat, Kennan snatched a dagger from his sleeve. With a vicious snarl, Janet’s brother did the unthinkable and sliced open His Lairdship’s cheek. “First cut, ye bastard. I win!”
Shocked, she gasped, drawing a hand over her mouth.
Mr. Grant pushed to his feet and shook his head, his eyes dark and filled with hatred. “This settles nothing. Ye ken daggers are not allowed. We agreed to swords.” He pointed directly at Janet. “And bloody women aren’t permitted at duels. You brought in your sister to save your cowardly arse.”
“Och, lads. ’Tis over.” Dunn marched between them before they could start fighting again. “The feud between your clans is done.”
Mr. Grant shoved MacRae in the shoulder. “The feud will be over when I receive my due.”
Crack! A musket fired, the reverberation deafening inside the enclosure.
All heads turned toward the sound.
“This is an unlawful gathering and you must disperse immediately or face charges,” Lieutenant Cummins shouted with a musket poised on his shoulder. Fifty soldiers lined the crumbling battlements, their weapons ready to fire.
Dunn MacRae held up his palms. “Just settling a dispute between men. ’Tis ended now. We shall be on our way.”
Cummins looked over the butt of his musket. “You know better than to cross me, MacRae, and if you’re not careful, I’ll march the lot of you through Fort William’s gates before this week is over.”
Kennan looked to Janet and gave a nod, but when he reached for his sword, a soldier fired.
“Run!” someone shouted as pandemonium unleashed.
“Kennan!” she screamed, the crowd swarming around her. Picking up her skirts, she fought, pushing through a sea of men, trying to catch sight of her brother.
A grip strong as iron stopped her. “You’re going the wrong way, lass.” Before she could protest, Robert Grant hefted her over his shoulder and barreled out the gate.
Hanging upside down, being carried in a most unladylike manner, Janet slapped her hands against the blackguard’s backside. “My brother! He’s still in there.”
“The lad can handle himself.” The beast tossed her over a horse’s withers like a sack of grain and mounted behind her.
Janet arched up, looking back. Redcoats and kilted men swarmed everywhere. “My mare!”
“I reckon Kennan will bring her back.” Mr. Grant’s horse took off at a canter while the brute slid his arm under her waist and sat her upright.
“You boorish, b-beastly rogue!” She jabbed him with her elbow. “Will you stop manhandling me enough to listen?”
“I’ve heard every word you’ve said, miss.”
She thrust her finger toward the castle ruins. “But Kennan is still in there. They shot at him!”
“Aye, but they missed.”
“How do ye ken?”
“I saw the dirt fly up from the musket ball. Unlike the Camerons, I do not lie.”
“Nor do I, sir, and I resent your insinuation that I do.”
The man chuckled, the audacious beast. “Mayhap not you. Indeed, from what I’ve overheard in the past few days, you are harshly honest.”
Janet stiffened, unable to think of a response. Good Lord, she vowed to keep her opinions in check from this day forward. She had spoken quite bluntly about him in the shop, though she harbored no regrets.
“Kennan will be fine,” he added. “Cummins has no cause—the soldiers witnessed nothing.”
True, the duel had ended by the time the soldiers appeared, and she’d heard no more musket fire as they’d dispersed.
She leaned back, only to find a warm, sturdy, masculine chest. Suddenly it dawned on her that she was seated upon a horse between two very solid male thighs. Sucking in a startled breath, she froze, wondering where to rest her hands. Mr. Grant’s fingers were wrapped around the reins, bold, strong fingers, his nails clean and neatly trimmed. Lowering her hands, she opted to place them on the horse’s withers. Without an upper pommel like the one on her sidesaddle, she slid a bit. Wavering, she shifted back.
The man groaned, the wall of his chest unmoving along her spine, his arms firm around her sides—hardly touching, though so secure there was no chance he would allow her to fall. But had her movement hurt him? Did he have more injuries than the cut on his face?
A drop of blood splashed onto her cloak. In fact, a stream of blood soaking into the wool. Twisting, she examined his face. Heavens, Kennan had cut him deeply. “Oh my, you’re bleeding something awful.”
His gaze shifted her way, filled not with hatred, as she would have expected, but with humor. Unable to help herself, she stared into complex, disarming eyes while she pulled a kerchief from her sleeve. Light in color, his eyes reminded her of a polished steel looking glass encircled by a darker shade of blue. “Your brother gave me a good cut, though swords were the chosen weapon, nay daggers or dirks.” He said the latter with a growl.
Janet offered no reply, though she knew there was a strict code of conduct for duels and it was foul play to use anything other than the chosen weapons. Her brother had erred, further damaging the Cameron name in this man’s eyes. For his blunder, she would have a word with Kennan at her earliest opportunity. She dabbed Robert’s gash. It had to be two inches long or more. He hissed, and she jerked the cloth away. “Am I hurting you?”
“Not overmuch,” he said gruffly.
Her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth as she dabbed more carefully this time. “I believe we’ve established a concord of truthfulness, have we not?”
Those eyes shifted downward again and met her gaze. Good heavens, the intensity of his stare gave her pause. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Aye, then. Your ministration caused a wee modicum of pain—nothing worth mentioning.”
Janet forced herself to shift her gaze lower and examine the wound. “This needs to be seen by a physician.”
“Not likely.”
“But it must be sewn, else you’ll end up deformed.”
“Have you a needle and thread?”
As a matter of fact, she had several, thanks to her trip to the haberdasher’s. “I do.”
“Then you will do the sewing.”
“Me? Why—”
“You are the kin of the man who cut me. At least allow me to enjoy your feminine company whilst I submit to the unpleasantness of the needle.”
Her skin suddenly grew overwarm. Robert Grant expected her to sew his wound…He trusted her with a needle and thread? Why her? Why not Lady Mairi or one of the serving wenches at the alehouse?
“Agreed?” he pressed.
She nodded, returning her attention to the road, not certain if she was glad or regretful to see the shops of Inverlochy come into sight.