Page 56 of Romancing the Scot
Fear and anxiety, like tenacious hounds on the tail of a wounded stag, dogged Hugh as he flew along the woody lane. His head kept telling him that Grace could not be in grave danger. She’d left Baronsford not so long ago. It was likely that she was still on the road to the village. Workers and visitors traveled this road all the time. But his heart and his instincts were telling him something quite different. The baying hounds of his past were closing on him, forcing him to push the steed harder.
He had to get to her for fear of being too late.
At a full gallop, Hugh spurred his mount down into a misty glen. He rounded the bend by an old woodcutter’s cottage, deserted for years, and then he saw them.
His years in the cavalry clicked into place like the cocked trigger of a musket, and he saw at a glance what was before him. Grace was under attack.
Two men were fighting against someone who was falling to the ground. One was brandishing a knife. The man on the ground was Darby.
Beyond, a third was struggling to get hold of Grace, but she was swinging a stout branch to keep him away.
Hugh was upon them almost before they had a chance to react.
Riding straight at the two men over Darby, Hugh drove his steed through, sending them sprawling. He never slowed as he turned toward Grace’s attacker, but the man was already diving into a thicket of pines. As Hugh wheeled his mount, the other two had scattered, as well, disappearing into the woods on either side of the lane.
He vaulted to the ground and rushed to Grace’s side. Worry for her and for Darby fused with rage over the escape of the attackers. The sounds of the bodies crashing through the underbrush in every direction grew fainter as they ran away. Before Grace could say a word, he pulled her tightly into his arms. For a panicked moment, he needed to hold her, inhaling the scent of her wet hair, touching her arms, her back, making certain she wasn’t injured.
He pulled back, running his thumb across her mud-streaked face. Her eyes still showed the fire of battle in their blue depths. He simply gazed at her as relief flooded through him.
She took his hand and pressed her lips to his palm.
“Darby,” she whispered against his touch.
He left her and moved quickly to his man, who was trying to raise himself on one elbow. Blood was soaking the shirt beneath his open coat. He’d taken the knife in the side.
“The bloody cowards . . . don’t let them get away.”
“We’ll find them. Let me see.” Hugh encouraged him to lie back again and lifted the shirt. The wound was bleeding profusely, and he couldn’t see how bad it was.
“It’s nothing, m’lord. A scratch, is all.” The man tried to raise himself again.
“Did he stab you anywhere else?”
“Nay, m’lord.”
Hugh heard a sound of ripping cloth behind him, and Grace crouched down on the other side of the blacksmith. She gently pushed Darby back down.
“I’m fine, mistress.”
Wiping and prodding around the bloody stab wound, she pressed a clean strip of her petticoat against it.
“Stop trying to be so brave, Mr. Darby. Your wound is no scratch. The blackguard only got flesh when he stabbed, but it needs to be stitched. What about your head? I saw him kick at you.”
Darby touched the side of his head. “I must be fine. I see only one of you, mistress.”
Grace’s eyes met Hugh’s over the wounded man. Wariness and questions lurked in her blue gaze. He had so much that he wanted to tell her to put her mind at ease about what she’d said back at Baronsford, but this wasn’t the time. He reached across and wiped away a teardrop that sprang onto her cheek. He turned his attention to Darby.
“From here it will be fastest to get you to Dr. Namby in Melrose Village. Mr. Truscott should be coming along behind me with a carriage.”
“You saved my life, Mr. Darby.” Grace adjusted her position and applied more pressure to the wound. “Thank you.”
“I did nothing, mistress. Only happened to arrive at the right time. And you’re a tough fighter, if you’ll excuse me saying. The way you were swinging that wood, you would’ve cracked a skull or two if they tried getting any nearer.”
Pride filled Hugh’s heart. He thought of what he now knew of Grace. A cavalryman’s daughter. Daniel Ware. They’d never met except on the battlefield, but he knew him. Ware was an able cavalry commander. The words she’d spoken came back to him about being on battlefields. He looked down at her capable hands, at her unwavering attention to the wounded man, at her calm demeanor. Grace was a woman of action, accustomed to saving others . . . not being saved herself.
“I’m glad you came along,” Hugh said.
“They told me at the stables folk walk this road alone all the time, men or women, and there’s never any trouble.”
