CHAPTER FIVE
The pistol went off at the same time Captain Fraser slammed into Freya, knocking her backward. She staggered but managed to keep her footing.
People nearby screamed and everyone ducked. The crowd erupted into a chaotic scatter of men and women, eager to clear themselves from the path of danger.
Captain Fraser grabbed Freya's arm and pulled her into the heart of the crowd. They pulled their cloaks up around their faces, as if warding off the evening chill, and were easily lost in the scramble.
“We've lost him.” Captain Fraser's tone held such confidence, Freya knew what he said to be true without question.
“This way.” She led him down the path she knew Edward to take. A quick glance at her pocket watch indicated they still had half an hour. Most likely he had not even left yet.
The trek was all uphill at such a slant on Edinburgh's steep streets, Freya swore her knee almost touched her chest at some points. The feat was made more difficult with the slippery cobblestone underfoot. Clammy sweat clung to Freya's brow and both she and Captain Fraser panted with their efforts.
They were almost to the stable when a large carriage appeared, the wheels clattering over the wet pavement. A large carriage so familiar, it was the most beautiful thing Freya had ever seen. She pulled back her hood and waved frantically at Edward.
He immediately stopped the carriage. “I canna imagine this is a good thing. Get inside, quickly. I know a faster route out of the city from here.”
Freya jerked open the small door and stepped inside with enough haste to set the cabin swaying. Captain Fraser followed behind her, his movements slower as his large frame squeezed into the confined box. Freya pulled the door closed and he settled into the narrow seat across from her.
The carriage started with a jolt. She braced her feet on the ground and managed to stay in place. They'd made it. They were on their way out of Edinburgh.
She twisted the flimsy lock on the door for good measure, as if it were anything substantial to keep anyone out, and pulled the curtains closed on the narrow windows. To any passersby, they would appear to be a normal carriage going through the streets of Edinburgh, most likely headed for an opera or a late dinner. Edward and his carriage were such a common sight on the streets, no questions would even be aroused.
They were safe.
Freya did not light the small lamps within the cabin. Not yet. Not until they were out of Edinburgh. Instead they remained in darkness so thick, it strained her vision to see something, anything. She shut her eyes against the ache of it.
Neither she nor Captain Fraser spoke, as if doing so might somehow alert Clemmons of their location. Captain Fraser's steady breath sounded opposite her, and she wondered idly if he were sleeping. Soldiers always could sleep anytime, anywhere.
She liked to consider herself tough, but could not for the life of her imagine being able to sleep while her heart still raced with the fear of being caught.
Over an hour later, two knocks sounded at the side of the carriage. The indication everything was now safe.
Captain Fraser groaned.
“Captain Fraser?” she asked. Surely he had not been frightened by the sound.
He did not answer her.
“Captain?” she said again.
He groaned once more.
Fear jabbed through her. Something was not right. She yanked open the curtains to let in the moonlight. The pale glow washed over Captain Fraser where he lay propped against the right side of the narrow bench, his face glossy with a sheen of sweat.
Definitely not right.
She threw open the small box beside the seat and struck the flint with shaking hands. It exploded into a flame of light, brilliant after so long without sight. Spots danced in her vision, but she managed to lift the glass from the lamp and light the charred wick.
She closed her eyes to clear away the splash of white staining her sight. When she opened them again, she found Captain Fraser still slumped in the same position.
“Captain Fraser,” she said sharply.
He did not move, but issued forth a low moan.
She sat forward and pulled back the cloak. There, spreading over the clean white of his leine, was a stain of deep red. He’d been injured somehow, but when? How?
And then she remembered. He'd pushed her out of the way when Clemmons fired the pistol.
He'd taken the bullet, most likely saving her life. And possibly at the cost of his own.
***
Hot fire surged against Ewan's side. He twisted in the tangle of obscurity, and the burning sensation blazed into brilliant pain.
A hand curled around his, smaller and cooler than his own. “Drink this,” the voice was soft, husky, and feminine. Beautiful. Alluring.
A warm cup pressed to his mouth and a toxic odor hit his nose. He tossed his head back and squinted. Light glared through his slit lids, revealing the rim of a steaming cup of murky water and a set of wide eyes.
He wanted to lose himself in those eyes until the burning at his side ceased. They were large and blue as a cloudless summer sky. He wanted to stare into them, to fly in them, a bird soaring through the endless beautiful sky, above pain and burning and everything aching inside him.
For it was more than his side which ached, so too did his heart. There was something dancing near the edge of his memory, something he needed to remember. Something he didn't want to remember.
He gave a low groan and tried to move his face away.
The mug followed him, dragging his attention from the eyes of summer sky blue.
“Captain Fraser, ye must drink this.” The woman was even more insistent this time.
“What?” The word rasped from Ewan's throat. He glanced around the small cabin, registered the jostle of road beneath them. “How?”
She shoved the foul cup at him again. “Drink this and I'll tell ye everything ye need to know.” Her expression went stern. “Drink it.”
The firmness of her tone pulled at the protective barrier his sleep had curled around him, unraveling it and everything he had wanted to avoid remembering.
Ewan's servants dead, his home razed, his mother left to fend for herself in the wilderness for two weeks, Freya helping him, almost being shot, him taking the bullet and staggering through the slanted streets of Edinburgh, running to the safety of the carriage, the promise of freedom.
Freya sat back with a mirthless smile. “And there ye go, remembering. Ye still need to drink this. It'll ease yer pain.”
Ewan took the mug from her hands and swallowed it down in three awful gulps. The urge to gag clogged the back of his throat, but he forced his thoughts from the desire and swallowed once more to clear the unpleasant sensation. Still, it tasted as though he'd guzzled down a cup of bog water.
He held the mug out to Freya. She filled it with ale and he readily drank it, clearing the awful taste from his mouth.
“How are ye feeling?” she asked, taking the cup from him once more.
“Like I was shot.”
She smirked. “That's to be expected being as ye got shot. The tea will help.”
He glanced down at where the wound still glowed with a pulse of pain. His leine was white, unmarred by a bullet hole or the blood associated with it. He gingerly touched his side and found the thick padding of a bandage beneath.
He'd already been to a healer and been changed into a fresh leine, but how? When had they stopped? How had he not noticed? “Ye got a healer already?”
“I did it myself. I had the supplies in my bag to bring to my ma. She’s verra particular. She’s ill, as I’m sure ye know.” Freya looked out the window, inspecting the flickering scenery as it passed. “The bullet went straight through, lucky for ye. However, ye dinna tell me ye'd been struck and ye sat there bleeding out for long enough to knock ye senseless.” She shrugged. “Made for an easy cleaning at least. And changing.”
She'd saved him. He'd been completely unaware this entire time, and she had worked hard to ensure his safety.
Soothing warmth spread through him and took the raging pulse of pain to a dull hum. His body relaxed into the seat with more ease. He gazed across the narrow distance where Freya sat forward in her seat, a hand gracefully poised on the curtain of the window. The sun sluiced in through the dirty glass and left her skin like cream beneath the rosy cluster of freckles.
Ewan's mind was...soft, and staring at Freya, it was...nice. He smiled to himself, and even as he did it, the action felt thick and stupid.
Her curls were bonny too, red as a flame of fire and glossy as silk. It made his fingers long to stroke the coil of hair. His fingers wanted to touch more than just her hair though. He wanted to stroke the pad of his thumb over her full bottom lip, so much fuller than the perfectly shaped top lip. The kind of mouth perfect for kissing, gently nipped around a sigh of pleasure.
He pressed his lips together as if doing so might let him taste her on his mouth, though he'd never touched her at all. The carriage jostled over a particularly bumpy patch. Ewan's limp body rocked in time with each bounce and jolt, and Freya's firm breasts gave a little jiggle. There wasn’t as much visible with her high-necked gown, and it made him wish for the low-cut neckline she'd worn the other day, the soft fabric falling around the natural shape of her body.
“Captain Fraser, ye're staring at me quite intently.” Freya spoke without removing her gaze from the window.
“Aye,” Ewan agreed. The carriage dipped beneath them and her bosom gave a lovely bounce. “I like yer breasts.”
She looked at him now, her eyes wide, and she gave a snort of laughter. “Oh, poor Captain Fraser, ye’re no’ yerself. Perhaps I shouldna have given ye so much of the tea.”
“I like it.” He tried to give her a smile, but his mouth didn't feel as though it quite lifted the way he wanted it to. “I like ye.”
“Because of my breasts?” she asked, clearly amused.
“Aye.” He gave a lazy nod. “And the rest of ye - I like all of ye. So verra beautiful.”
A flush colored her cheeks.
“And I like yer heart,” he added.
“My heart,” she repeated his words slowly.
“Ye're a good person, admirable and beautiful.” Ewan's head lilted to the side, his neck no longer strong enough to keep it upright. “But I like all of ye verra, verra, verra, verra, verra much.”
His eyes started to close.
“That's kind of ye to say, Captain Fraser.” Her gentle voice slipped into his dreams like a warm, soft blanket.
“Ewan,” he muttered. “Ye canna call a traitor ‘Captain.’”
Something smooth and cool folded around his hand. “The people of Scotland willna see ye as a traitor.” She paused and Ewan faded into sleep.
“And I like ye too, Ewan.” Her voice pulled at him for a moment.
He tried to lift his head, but it was heavy, mired with a fog that covered all his memories. Things he needed to remember but didn't want to.
“Rest well, but quick,” Freya said. “For we are near my home, and the countryside is red with the English.”