Chapter One

 

 

Hoord Moor, Scotland. 21st August, the year of our Lord 1703

The dead Highland soldier stared vacantly at the thick, low-hanging clouds. Akira clutched her basket tight to her stomach. This man needed no healing. Now only the minister could offer to redeem the hapless warrior’s soul.

Death on the battlefield bore none of the heroics she’d heard from fireside tales. Death on the battlefield was but cold and lonely.

And for naught.

Gulping back her nausea, Akira turned away.

A deep moan came from the forest, the tree line not but ten paces away. She jolted, jostling the remedies in her basket. “Is s-someone there?”

When no answer came, she glanced over her shoulder. Unfortunate. Her companions had moved on—women from the village of Dunkeld had crossed the bridge over the River Tay to Hoord Moor where they tended the wounded before red-coated soldiers marshalled them into the back of a wagon.

The moan came again.

Akira tiptoed into the trees. Two black boots peeked from beneath a clump of broom. A telltale path of blood skimmed over the ground leading beneath the shrub. Had the man dragged himself off the battlefield?

“Are you injured?” she asked, her perspiring palms slipping on the basket’s handle. Would he leap up and attack?

“My leg,” said a strained burr.

“Goodness gracious,” she whispered while she moved closer.

The poor man is hurt.

Dropping to her knees, she pulled away broom branches and debris. A man’s vivid hazel eyes stared at her from beneath a layer of dirt. Wild as the Highlands and filled with pain, his gaze penetrated her defenses like attacking daggers. She’d never seen eyes that expressive—intense. They made her so…so unnerved.

“What happened?” she asked, ready to run like a rabbit.

He shuttered those eyes with a wince. “Shot.”

Akira’s gaze darted to his kilt, hitched up and exposing an enormous thigh. A mass of thick blood swathed across it with more congealed beneath.

“You a healer?” he asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Aye,” her voice croaked, didn’t even sound like her.

“It needs to come out.”

She peered closer—puckered skin—a round hole. “A musket ball?”

His trembling fingers slid to the puncture wound. “’Tis still there—lodged in my thigh.”

Care of musket wounds far exceeded her skill. “I-I’ll fetch the physician.”

“No,” he said with an intense whisper. Before she moved, the man clasped her arm in a powerful grip. The strength of his huge hand hurt. Gasping, she tugged away, but his fingers clamped harder and those eyes grew more determined. “You do it.”

She shook her head. “Sir, I cannot.”

Releasing her arm, he pulled a knife from his sleeve. “Use my wee dagger.” The blade glistened, honed sharp and shiny clean against his mud-encrusted doublet.

“But you could die,” She shirked away from the weapon.

“Do it, I say.” For a man on the brink of death, he spewed the command like a high-ranking officer.

Licking her lips, she stared at the wound, then pressed her fingers against it.

He hissed.

“Apologies.” She snapped her hand away. “I was trying to feel for the musket ball.”

“Whisky.”

She glanced to her basket. “I’ve only herbs and tinctures.”

“In my sporran.”

The leather pouch rested askew, held in place by a belt around his hips. Merciful mercy, it covered his unmentionables. Moreover, he was armed like an outlaw with a dirk sheathed in one side of his belt, a flintlock pistol in the other—a gargantuan sword slung in its scabbard beside him. Who knew what other deadly weapons the imposing Highlander hid on his person?

Akira clenched her fists then reluctantly then pointed to the purse. “In there?”

“A wee flask, aye.” His shaking fingers fumbled with the thong that cinched the sporran closed.

She licked her lips. “You expect me to reach inside?” Goodness, her voice sounded shrill.

“Och,” he groaned, his hands dropping. “Give a wounded du—ah—scrapper a bit o’ help, would you now?”

Akira scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. Merciful fairies, the Highlander did need something to ease his pain. Praying she wouldn’t be seen and accused of stealing, she cringed, shoved inside the hideous thing and wrapped her fingers around a flask. She blinked twice as she pulled it out and held it up. Silver? Gracious, the flask alone could pay for Akira and her family to eat for a year or more.

She pulled the stopper and he raised his head, running his tongue across chapped lips. “Give me a good tot, lass.”

He drank a healthy swig and coughed. “I’m ready,” he said, his jaw muscles flexing as he bared his teeth—straight, white, contrasting with the dark stubble and dirt on his face. Lord in heaven, such a man could pass for the devil.

Remembering her gruesome task, Akira cringed. The faster she worked, the less he’d suffer. With a feather-light touch, she swirled her fingers over the puncture and located the hard lump not far beneath the skin. Thank heavens the musket ball had stopped in his flesh and hadn’t shattered the bone. A few months ago, a man in Dunkeld was shot in the knee—the musket ball lodged in his bone and the physician was unable to remove it. A shudder slithered up her spine. She’d tended the poor soul through the duration of his slow decline and eventual death.

With a shake, she pushed the awful thoughts from her head.

This man could not die.

Please, not a man as bonny as he.

But she’d never removed a musket ball before. “Are you certain you want me to do this—n-not a physician?”

“Aye,” he clipped as if growing impatient.

Steeling her nerves, she resumed her grip on the knife and willed her hand to steady. “Prepare yourself, sir.”

Without another hesitation, she slid the small knife through the opening with one hand and pushed against the ball with the other. The Highlander’s entire body quaked. A strained, but whispered wail pealed from his throat.

Blood gushed from the wound and soaked Akira’s fingers. Gritting her teeth, she applied more pressure, pushing the knife until she hit lead.

I cannot fail.

Refusing to give up, she gritted her teeth and forced another flesh-carving twist of her wrist. The ball popped out. Blood flooded from the wound like an open spigot.

The man thrashed wildly. Akira dove for her basket and grabbed a cloth. Wadding it tight, she shoved it against the puncture with all her might. “Hold on. The worst is over.”

Though he never cried out, the Highlander panted, sweat streaming from his brow. “Horse.”

Akira pushed the cloth harder. “The soldiers took all the horses.”

“Damnation,” he swore through clenched teeth, his breathing still ragged. “I will pur-chase…yours.”

Goodness, the man could die with his next breath, yet he still issued orders as if he were in charge of an entire battalion of cavalry.

“I can barely afford to feed my siblings. I have no horse. Not even a donkey—not that I’d let you have it if I did.” There. She wasn’t about to allow this Highlander to lord it over her as if he were the Marquess of Atholl.

His eyes rolled to the back of his head. “Buy one.”

“I told you—“”

“Spor—ran. Coin.”

Akira glanced at the man’s sporran again, dubious about what she’d find this time. Digging her hands into any man’s purse was vile enough, but this one had to be resting atop the most unspeakable place imaginable. Though she might be poor, she was certainly no harlot.

Fishing in there was as nerve wracking as carving a musket ball out of the man’s well-muscled thigh. With a cringe, she tried shifting his belt aside a wee bit. Curses, the sporran shifted not an inch.

And goodness, he was still bleeding like a stuck pig. “Even if I did purchase you a horse, you couldn’t ride. I’d wager you’d travel no more than a mile afore you fell off and succumbed to your wound.” Still holding the cloth in place, Akira reached for her basket. “Let me wrap this tight and I’ll call the soldiers. They’re helping the wounded into a cart.”

“No.” His eyes flashed wide as he gripped her wrist. “They must not know I’m here.”

She gave him her most exasperated expression, the one she always used when infuriated with her surly sister, Annis. “But they can help you.”

“The Government troops? They’re murderers.” He winced. “They’d slit my throat for certain.”

Since the battle’s end, she hadn’t seen anyone slit a throat…but then she hadn’t asked where the soldiers were taking the injured. She’d just assumed to the monastery to be tended by the monks. But something in this man’s cold stare told her to do as he said. Further, something in his voice commanded she obey him.

The hairs on her nape stood on end as she twisted the bandage like a tourniquet and tied it. “Who are you?”

“Merely…merely a Highlander who needs to hightail it back to his lands…” he drew in a stuttering breath. “A-afore the backstabbers burn me out.”

She narrowed her gaze. A man of property? Akira might be a Scot, but her Gypsy blood still told her to take advantage of a wager—especially when her mother’s larder was bare. “I’ll do it for a shilling.”

“Done,” he said as if such coin meant nothing. “Make haste—and tell no one I’m here.”

Gulping, she glanced down to the sporran and cringed. But she’d been in there once before. And the Highlander was in no shape to do anything untoward. If it weren’t for the care of her mother and three sisters, she’d call over the dragoons—let them see to this man’s care. But for a shilling? Ma would be ever so happy.

Akira’s fingers trembled.

Taking a deep breath, she reached inside. Goodness gracious, she pulled three silver shillings and two ten shilling pieces. She’d never seen so much money in her life. No, she should not feel badly about asking for payment. After dropping one shilling in her pocket and returning all but one of the other coins, she held up a ten shilling piece. This ought to be enough.

Standing, she hesitated. “What, may I ask is your name, sir?”

A deep crease formed between his brows. “’Tis no concern of yours.”

He didn’t trust her—not that she trusted him either. “I won’t reveal it.” she crossed herself. “I swear on my grandfather’s grave.”

His lips thinned. “You can call me Geordie…and you, miss?”

Using a familiar moniker? And Geordie is no given name I’ve ever heard. Odd.

She curtseyed. “Then you may call me Akira.” Blast, she wasn’t going to say Akie. Only her sisters referred to her thus. And “Ayres” would make him suspicious for certain. Her family might be descendants of Gypsy stock, but they’d given away their heathen practices for the most part. If Mr. Geordie wanted to hide his identity, she certainly would hide hers. With blue eyes, she hardly looked like a Gypsy, aside from her dark hair and olive skin.

***

After the healer left, George Gordon closed his eyes and prayed the woman had enough sense to keep her mouth shut. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t supposed to end up shot. Yes, he’d agreed to stand by his cousin and challenge the Government troops with vengeance. Their timing was paramount. After Queen Anne rejected Scottish Parliament’s Act of Security, the entire country was in an uproar—ready to strike at last.

Though, blast it all, they weren’t supposed to fail. Thank God he hadn’t worn anything to reveal his peerage. He’d even kept to the rear beside his cousin William. But someone had shot him. Be it a stray musket ball or the keen aim of a musketeer, he had no clue. After being thrown from his horse, the skirmish had raged on and the clan’s men charged ahead, leaving Geordie for dead.

Once he’d dragged himself into the brush, he must have lost consciousness until that fiery wisp of a healer found him. He thanked the stars it had been she and not a redcoat. His lands would be forfeit if Queen Anne discovered he’d ridden against the English crown to support the Act of Security passed by parliament one month past.

Anne, not the true King James, entitled to the throne by birth and recognized as king by Louis XIV. James Francis Edward Stuart may be exiled, but he is the only king to whom I will pay fealty.

But alliances were the least of his worries. Geordie’s leg throbbed—ached like someone stabbed him with a firebrand. Worse, he’d been bled within an inch of his life. Holding up his head for the lass to pour a tot of whisky down his gullet had sapped every lick of strength he could muster.

He must have dozed again, because Akira returned in the blink of an eye. “Who saw you?” he demanded, forcing himself to sit. God’s teeth, everything spun. The stabbing pain made his gut churn.

“Pardon?” she replied in a tone mirroring his own. Never in his life had he seen such a haughty expression come from a commoner. She thrust a fist against her hip. “’Tis a bit difficult to conceal a horse beneath my arisaid. Besides, I didn’t steal the beast.”

He eyed her sternly, as he would a servant. “Did the stable master ask questions?”

“He asked where I came up with that kind of coin.”

Gordon licked his lips with an arid tongue. “How did you reply?”

Akira’s fist slid down—a better stance for a wee maid. “I told him I’d received handsome payment from his lordship for tending his cousin.”

“His lordship?”

“The Marquess of Atholl, of course.”

Smart lass. “Do you ken the marquess?” Bloody hell, he hoped not.

“If you call paying him fealty, then aye. So does everyone around these parts. He’s lord of these lands.”

And he supports the Government troops, the bastard.

Geordie needed to mount that damned horse and ride like hellfire.

He leaned forward to stand. Jesus Christ, stars darted through his vision. Stifling his urge to bellow, he gritted his teeth.

The lass caught his arm. “Allow me to help.”

His insides clamped taut. Geordie needed help from no one—usually. And holy hell, must she look at him with such innocent allure? He’d sworn off women for life. No bonny face could melt through the iron casing around his heart even if she did have blueberry eyes and incredible dimples.

He nodded, but only once. “My thanks.”

Clutching both hands around his forearm, she gave him a firm tug, managing nothing. Och, he should have known a wisp of a lass couldn’t help a man his size. Clenching his teeth, he slid his good foot beneath him. Akira tugged his arm while he pushed up with the other.

“Christ Almighty,” bellowed from the depths of his gut before he had time to choke it back.

She slung his arm over her shoulder. “If they didn’t ken you were here, they do now.”

“Ballocks,” he cursed. Then he looked at the damned nag. “No saddle?”

She held out a few copper farthings. “There wasn’t enough.”

“Damnation, this is why one should never send a lass on a man’s errand.” Bloody hell, he hadn’t planned on buying a horse when he’d left Huntly—and there was no way he’d sign a note.

The urchin stamped her foot. “Pardon me, but I’m trying to help you and I’ll not be cursed at like a doormat.”

Geordie grumbled under his breath, removing his arm from her shoulder. “Lead the beast to the fallen tree, yonder.”

She didn’t budge. “Oh my,” she said with a gasp. “Your leg is bleeding something awful.”

He swayed on his feet. Good God, he couldn’t lose his wits. Not until he rode to safety. “Can you staunch it?”

“Mayhap with the use of your belt.”

He slid his hands to his buckle when a twig snapped behind them. Lead sank to Geordie’s toes.

“Who goes there?” demanded a stern voice.

Akira’s eyes popped wide.

The beat of Geordie’s heart spiked. With a wave of strength, he grabbed the lassie’s waist and threw her atop the horse. Taking charge of the reins, he urged the beast into a run, steering it beside the fallen tree. Agonizing pain stabbed his thigh, but the dire need to escape shot herculean energy through his limbs.

Haste.

In two leaps he landed astride the gelding right behind the lass. Slapping the reins, he kicked his heels into the horse’s barrel. Stabbing torture in his thigh punished his every move.

Musket fire cracked from behind.

Geordie leaned forward, demanding more speed. He pressed lips to Akira’s ear. “Hold on lass, for hell has just made chase.”