Chapter Four
“Nasty, filthy, kilt-wearing Scot.”
Lucy scooped Hercules into her lap, her arms and shoulders shaking from the effort of disguising her fury. Finally alone, she could bare her teeth to her anger.
“He’s a beastly, beastly man and we hate him.”
All of them. All of them—Munro, Magnus, and the one that looked like a ferret—they were all in on Alex’s piece of mischief.
“Scottish bastards.”
How they must have laughed when her back was turned, a jaw-tightening, tooth-grinding thought.
She had experienced anger before—anger at her brother for teasing her, anger at her father for sending her to this vulgar place—but never, never, never had she known the full force of her fury until today.
Oh, yes. She knew well how to deal with foolish boys and their knavery. She would get her due. She would make them pay. Nothing short of seeing Alex Sinclair grovel would douse the fire raging in her chest. She suddenly felt a murderous kinship with Lady Macbeth.
“We wait, Hercules. And when the time is right, we get even.” Hercules licked her hand, and she stroked her tiny spaniel’s domed head and smiled. “Mr. Alexander Sinclair wishes me to believe he’s a common soldier at my service and we shall treat him as such.”
The next stretch of road was all uphill, and the going was slow. When they reached the summit, Mr. Munro stopped the wagon to water and rest the horses. Lucy leaned out of the wagon and called to the tall Scot. “Oh, Mr. Sinclair.”
Alex trotted to the wagon, his face open, smiling. Handing him her wiggling pup, she said, “Take Hercules for me. He needs to do his business.”
His jaw dropped. “Erm…certainly.” A few minutes later, he returned and handed Hercules through the wagon window. “Here’s your wee beastie.” He started to walk away.
“A moment, please.” She handed him her boots. “Clean these. I’m afraid the mud may ruin the leather.”
A pained expression crossed the Scot’s face. He poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue then responded with a tight, “Right then. Straight away.” The other men snickered and Alex shouted a sharp, “Quiet.”
Yes, I will have my revenge.
When he returned with her clean boots, she extended a dainty stocking-covered foot through the wagon door and waited. When he made no move, she glanced up. Alex stood motionless, examining her with cool grey eyes like a wolf considering its prey. Have I gone too far?
Lucy smiled prettily and batted her lashes. He gave a heavy sigh that could only be described as defeat and bent to one knee. His broad shoulders flexed and bunched as he slipped on her left, then her right boot, and tied the laces. She had the handsome soldier, now her lackey, right where he belonged—at her feet.
Sweet satisfaction.
Their party did not stay at an inn on the second night of their journey because, as Mr. Munro informed her, no inn existed between Latheron and Balforss. Apparently, they had left civilization behind altogether. When Mr. Munro added that they would be sleeping rough, she experienced a feeling dangerously close to full-blown panic. For the first time in her life, she would urinate in the woods and sleep in her clothes out of doors, under the stars with strange men.
Mr. Munro relieved some of her concern when he demonstrated how the benches inside the wagon flipped open to create a sleeping pallet. Thank goodness. She would have some degree of privacy while sleeping. Nevertheless, Lucy struggled to tamp down the fear threatening to leak out through the cracks in her facade.
The men chose a quiet glen surrounded by a thick stand of pines for their encampment. She and Hercules strolled the clearing to work out the aches and pains in her legs and bottom. Magnus and Mr. Munro set about supper preparations while the other two Sinclairs—the one with the sharp black eyes and the bastard who would be her husband—collected firewood from the edge of the forest lining the clearing. When Alex returned to the fire pit with an armload of wood, Lucy set to putting the arrogant son-of-a-bitch through his paces.
“Oh, Mr. Sinclair, be a dear and retrieve my largest trunk from the back. I want to wear my yellow bonnet in the morning.”
Alex sighed and dipped his head, most likely so she wouldn’t see his exasperation. After he had untied the trunks, he waited while she removed her yellow bonnet. Then he returned the trunks to the back of the wagon, retied them, and stood before her only mildly winded.
“I’ve changed my mind. I believe I’ll wear my light blue bonnet.”
He repeated the exercise, his lips pressed in a thin grim line.
She watched him, hands on her hips, foot tapping.
Task completed, he bowed.
She gave him her sweetest smile. “I would like my tea now.”
His shoulders hunched up around his ears. Was that a growl she heard before he spun and marched away?
Magnus and Declan broke into fits of laughter. Alex barked out, “You two bampots, shut up and see to the fire, now.”
“And a little something for Hercules to eat, if you please,” she called.
He whipped around, anger clearly blazing in his eyes. He pointed a finger at her. “May I remind you, Miss FitzHarris, I am not your personal—”
“Oh, but you are…” Lucy lifted a victorious eyebrow. “Alex.”
She resisted the urge to laugh when his face went perfectly blank. He looked so stupid with his jaw agape.
“Close your mouth, Alex.”
…
“Bloody hell.” His oxters instantly soaked his shirt with sweat and his mouth went dry. She knew. Sellar must have told her this afternoon. Instead of causing a great stramash in the tavern, the conniving wench had waited, plotted her revenge, and then exacted retribution by humiliating him in front of his men. He would have laughed at her cheek if he weren’t so horrified by her cunning.
Declan and Magnus had fallen silent, frozen still as rabbits, no doubt waiting for the storm to break. Shit. What should he do?
Apologize to her, you idiot.
“Lucy, I’m—” Alex’s voice stalled out when he saw her mouth pinched shut and bloody murder in her eyes.
She picked up her skirts and headed for him. The closer she got, the sicker he felt. He waited to meet her fury. Without a word, she wound up and slapped him. He saw the blow coming but didn’t bother bracing himself. Just took it. He deserved her ire. Christ, he’d earned it. She must have put her entire weight into the slap, too, because it stung like hell and left his ear ringing.
“I’m truly—”
“Don’t say another word. Don’t speak to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even come near me, you lying knave.”
He swallowed audibly. The deadly calm in her voice actually frightened him for a moment. Lucy marched back toward the wagon. He was about to start after her when Uncle Fergus appeared at his elbow.
“Best do as she says, lad, and leave her be. Trust me, there’ll be no reasoning with a woman in that state of mind. You can crawl to her on your knees tomorrow as you know very well you should.” Fergus slapped him on the back harder than was necessary.
When Alex returned to the fire, Magnus mumbled, “I told you so.”
“Shut up.”
His cousin was right. His ridiculous ruse had backfired on him, hurting not only him but Lucy as well. Yet, however ill conceived, his plan had worked. He had witnessed her cope with her new life for two days under difficult conditions at best. Yes, she had been, at times, an intolerant, spoiled, and demanding woman. But she had also been a gracious and generous lass of great dignity. He was the one guilty of bad behavior. Sick with shame, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he made things right with Lucy.
Declan handed him his flask of whisky.
“Thanks.” He took a long pull and let the golden liquid slide down to his gullet. He wanted to be drunk.
Declan squinted at something. “What’s she doing now?”
Lucy withdrew a child-size bow from her wooden case, bent it against her knee and strung it, then collected a fistful of arrows. Jesus God. Was she that angry?
Magnus stepped forward. “I ken she’s going to shoot you with her bitty bow.”
…
Merde.
Slapping Alex had been enormously satisfying, but Lucy suspected she had hurt herself more than the Scot. She ducked behind the wagon where no one could witness her agony and shook her right hand delicately. When the throbbing in her fingers subsided, she took a deep breath and rolled her temper into a manageable-sized ball—like a fist inside her belly.
Hercules whined at her feet. She collected him off the grass, hugged him to her breast, and said, “We showed him, didn’t we, mon cher? He’ll think twice the next time he tries to play a trick on us.”
There was plenty of daylight left. Why not entertain herself with some target practice? Besides, these Scots probably looked upon her as a helpless woman who sat indoors all day doing needlework or some such nonsense. Best put them straight.
Lucy set aside her bonnet. She took out her case and removed the lady-sized bow custom-made for her. With practiced ease, she strung it, tested it, and gathered a handful of arrows. She glanced back at the four men now grouped together around the fire. Good. She had an audience.
She chose one arrow and stabbed the others into the soft ground at her feet. A tree trunk approximately twenty yards away made a suitable target. She smoothed the fletching on her arrow and notched it. Drawing back, she whispered, “Nock…draw…loose.” The arrow hit its mark and vibrated. She turned. The men stared back open-mouthed. She drew another arrow and breathed again. “Nock…draw…loose.” A satisfying ffftss sound and the arrow stuck barely an inch above the first. “Bulls-eye,” she whispered. This time, the men burst into applause, all but Alex, who was pretending not to look.
“That’s a pretty shot, lassie,” called Magnus.
She sucked in her bottom lip so they wouldn’t see how pleased she was. Lucy notched a third arrow with the intention of putting aside all doubt as to her superior bowmanship when she saw movement in the trees.
She lowered her bow and called over her shoulder. “Do you see something in the wood?”
“What, miss?”
“There.” She pointed. “I know I saw something move.”
A thunderous crashing and thrashing resounded from the wood. Animals? Men?
Alex yelled, “Lucy, run!”
His call spurred her heart to a gallop. Cracks of gunfire echoed in the glen followed by plumes of smoke. There were men in the trees firing on her party. But why? Why would anyone do such a thing?
The metallic zing of swords being drawn rang through the air. The Sinclair men made horrible screeching, howling sounds—sounds that weren’t human, sounds that split the night and made the hair on her arms stand on end.
Hercules crouched at her feet, barking like a maniac. Two men burst through the smoke and ran straight at her, one with a sword held high. Dear Lord, they were going to kill her. A blur of movement from her left, and she saw Alex engage one of them, his sword flashing and clang-clang-clanging.
The second man paused, rested a huge pistol on his left forearm, and took aim at Alex.
Without thinking, she raised her bow, aimed at the man with the pistol and released. The arrow hit him solidly in the chest. He immediately dropped his firearm and grabbed at the arrow. Surely an arrow imbedded so deeply would stop him. But no. He drew his sword and headed for his target.
Engaged in a furious fight for his life, Alex didn’t see the danger.
“Look out!” she cried.
Alex brought his sword down, cleaving a deep, gory gash at the juncture of the man’s neck and shoulder. In one fluid motion, he drew his dirk and buried it in the second attacker’s throat. Both slain men dropped, legs thrashing, arms groping, helpless to staunch their wounds now gushing life from their bodies.
Lucy heard someone scream. A woman. Oh, God, it was she. She was screaming.
Alex sheathed his dirk and ran to her, his face and shirt bloodied. He grabbed her by the waist and tossed her in the general direction of the wagon yelling, “Get inside and stay there.”
But she didn’t. She couldn’t. All she could do was watch while Alex joined the other men hacking and slashing at their attackers. The quiet glen had become a bloody nightmare.
A third man dropped, skewered by Mr. Munro’s sword. Outnumbered, the remaining two attackers took flight into the woods. Suddenly, the violence was over. The acrid smell of the dissipating gun smoke bit the inside of her nose. Hercules ceased his barking, and an unnatural quiet fell. The only sound the heaving breathing of the Sinclair men.
Three lay dead or dying. Thank the Lord, none of them a Sinclair. Mr. Munro lifted one by the hair and asked for his name, but the man spit blood, convulsed, and went still.
Alex approached her, a deranged look in his eyes, his face and shirt spattered red with blood. He had grown another foot taller, looking dangerous and wild, like a berserk warrior sent by Satan himself. Lucy backed away.
“Are you injured, lass?”
“Stay away,” she shrieked.
“It’s all right now. It’s over. You’re safe,” he said, his calm, rumbling tone quite at odds with his fearsome appearance.
“You killed those men. You cut them to pieces.” Lucy dropped her bow, walked away a few paces, and vomited in the grass. When she was certain she had turned out the entire contents of her stomach, she staggered to the fire, careful to avoid Alex. She wanted out of this hellish place. She wanted to go home to Nounou Phillipa and Papa.
“Here, lass,” Mr. Munro said. “Rinse your mouth with this, then take a good swallow.” She accepted his flask with a trembling hand. When the liquid hit her empty belly, the whisky threatened to come back up, but she willed it to stay down. The men, bloodied and perfectly silent, were focused on her. She must keep herself from dissolving. It was a matter of pride.
She handed the flask back to Mr. Munro and walked trance-like toward her bow. Something compelled her to look at the man she had shot. She should look at his face. Remember it.
The dead man. She recognized him. Though he wasn’t wearing his silver gorget and red uniform jacket, the doeskin breeches marked his profession.
“The English soldier I spoke to at the public house,” she said.
A voice made her jump. “Aye. I recognized him just the now.”
Having wiped his face clean of the blood, Alex no longer looked so frightening, but the memory of the brutal way in which he had dispatched both men made her shudder.
“Why did they attack us? And why is he out of uniform?”
The Scot shook his head, bewildered. “Dinnae ken. Perhaps they thought to rob us.”
He spotted the large pistol lying on the ground near the dead Englishman and reached for it. “Did he aim this at you?”
She shook her head. “He aimed the gun at you.”
Alex’s eyebrows arched. “And you shot him? To spare me?”
She nodded.
He stuffed the pistol in his belt. To her horror, he pulled the arrow from the Englishman’s chest, wiped the blood off on the dead man’s shirt, and handed it to her. The ground beneath Lucy tilted slowly, and she started to slide off the earth.
Oh God, I’m fainting.