Page 55 of Romancing the Scot
On his way out, he fired orders at Simons. “Tell Mr. Truscott when he gets back to start with the cliff paths. More men are to search the loch. And I want a rider going to the village. And get the dogs out. I want every available hand to help with the search. Leave nothing to chance. Find her.”
His horse was waiting in the courtyard. As he crossed the gravel courtyard to where a groom held his mount, images flashed through Hugh’s mind from another time, images of a desperate ride across war-ravaged land to Vigo.
He tried to shake off the memory. He was no longer in battle. No troops lay in wait to stop him. But the feeling of doom wouldn’t go away. Something was terribly wrong.
He wouldn’t let the past repeat itself. He had to get to Grace.
Hugh swung up into the saddle, but before he could spur his steed into motion, Truscott’s voice rang out.
“The village,” his cousin shouted, coming toward him. “One of the gardeners saw her heading to the forest road leading to the village.”
* * *
“Get behind me, mistress.”
A flash of hope flooded through Grace as she looked over her shoulder and recognized Darby, the new blacksmith. She wasn’t alone, but the size of the three brutes facing them quickly drained that momentary relief.
The gray, amorphous fog, growing denser by the moment, had cut them off. Darby held a stout walking stick, and she had the branch she’d picked up, but the knives in the hands of two of the assailants shone dully in the murky glen. From the scars and their cold, dead eyes, she knew these were men of violence who’d used those weapons more than once for their dirty work.
She stayed close to Darby as the men began to spread out around them. The blacksmith was tall and strong, but the two of them had little chance against such scoundrels.
“Move off, you,” Darby said in a low, threatening voice as he raised his walking stick. “You’ve no business here.”
The leader spat dismissively, and when he wiped the spittle from his lip, Grace saw the faded black tattoo of anMbranded onto the back of his meat-like hand. Murderer, she thought?
“I’m sorry I’ve gotten you into this,” she whispered to Darby.
“No worries, mistress. Cowards like these are easily run off.”
She knew the reality of their situation. No show of courage would diminish the danger they faced. The men were trying to surround them, but she and Darby continued to back away down the lane.
“If it’s money you’re after—” She never finished.
The attack came suddenly. Grace saw two of the men go for Darby, who lashed out hard with his stick. At the same time, the other came at her.
Grace swung the branch, but she couldn’t brace herself with her bad ankle. The man ducked out of the way and leaped forward, grabbing for her. Letting it swing around her head like a club, she caught him beneath the ear, driving him sideways to one knee.
“Focking bitch!” he roared, up again in a flash.
In the corner of her eye, she saw Darby—who’d lost his stick—landing furious blows on the leader and staggering him. The other man lunged at the blacksmith, stabbing viciously with his knife blade.
Grace had no time to help. Her assailant was coming at her again, and she held the stick ready. He darted in and pulled back, circling warily, just out of reach, looking for his chance.
Beyond him, she saw Darby go down, writhing in the muddy lane, as an attacker delivered a fierce kick at his head.
“Grab the chit,” the leader barked, as the two turned around to face her. “We need to go.”
As she raised her club, hot fury raced through her veins. She’d die before she let them take her.
Before they could make a move, the lane shook with the thunder of pounding hooves. As their heads spun toward the sound descending upon them, the shock on their faces was priceless.
Raw emotions swept through her limbs, her heart, filling her with affection for the man who—despite her words, regardless of who she was—had still come after her.
Grace felt a pride she’d never known.
Hugh Pennington, a cold fury in his eyes, had arrived.
Chapter 20
