Page 35 of Highland Crown
In a moment, he’d be their worst nightmare. The angel of destiny. The reaper of souls.
He scoffed, not deigning to answer. From running a revenuer ship aground to conveying rebels to safety to what he did today, he’d been a scourge to them. The Highlanders called him theson of Scotland.
Of late, while folk all over the Highland were being subjected to every imaginable savagery as a way of “encouraging” them to emigrate to some new land, Cinaed had been using theHighland Crownto bring powder and guns to those who chose to resist. He was giving them the means of fighting for their land. And for a better price than they could get from other weapons smugglers.
This blue-jacketed fool and his seagoing cronies hadnever come close to catching him. They’d never learned the name of the captain who’d slipped by their naval patrols and beneath their noses along this coast. And they would never know now that his lionhearted ship lay buried inside the reef at Duff Head.
“Soon, quite soon, in fact, you’ll be telling us everything we want to know. As will your lovely companion. And it will be a pleasure loosening both of your tongues,” Hudson threatened. He raised a hand and motioned to his men to approach. “Take them. And if any one of them offers the slightest resistance, kill him. But I want Mrs. Drummond.”
Cinaed’s hand closed around the pistol, and he met her flashing eyes. “I am sorry that it has to end like this.”
“I’m ready,” Isabella told him.
She was braver than any woman he’d ever met, and she didn’t deserve to die here. But he would not willingly let her be taken and broken by this blackguard.
Before he could draw the weapon, Jean’s shout rang out.
“Ha, you dog-faced misery! How wrong ye are! Our lads are always keen to fight. And what a sweet, lovely moment it’ll be to piss on a bunch of spineless, lowlife southlanders bleeding out in the Highland dirt.”
She was pointing across the field. It took a moment for Cinaed’s vision to focus. At least two dozen armed men on horseback were sitting side by side in front of the grove of trees. Suddenly, it was Hudson who was outgunned. Cinaed watched him nudge his horse back toward his men, assessing his odds.
He wheeled his mount. “Davidson. Get the woman.”
The sergeant raised his pistol and spurred his horse ashe fired. Cinaed pulled Isabella’s head down and returned fire.
“Go, Jean!” he shouted as Davidson dropped from his saddle. The cart took off as if a team of eight were pulling it.
Wild battle cries filled the air as the Highlanders raced across the field. The British fired, but to no effect, and rather than draw their sabers and fight to the end, they turned as one and retreated down the coach road, led by Lieutenant Hudson with the Highlanders in pursuit.
Cinaed would have liked nothing better than to go back and join in the fight. But his body was betraying him again, and it was more important to get Isabella as far away from Hudson as possible.
He waited until they were approaching a bend in the road before he let her up. That’s when he saw she was covered with blood.
“You’ve been shot!”
The last she’d seen of the Highlanders who’d come to their rescue was the mud being kicked up by their horses as they flew after Hudson and his Hussars. A moment later, they’d disappeared around a bend in the coach road.
For one insane minute, all she could do was sit still and hold her breath as Cinaed’s hand moved over her arms and the front of her dress.
“Where do you hurt? By the devil, there’s blood enough.” He tilted her neck to the side, wiping away the warm wetness from her skin.
His face was drawn, but he was undeterred in his search.
Weak and wracked with fever as he was, he’d still managed to present a bold and clearheaded front when facing Hudson and his men. And now, he was fraught with worry that she’d been shot.
Isabella snapped herself out of her stupor when his fingers tried to open the buttons of her dress to find the source of the blood. She’d never been struck with a bullet before, but she had enough experience with the injury to know that somewhere in her body, she’d be feeling a hot and aching pain.
“I’m not hurt. I’m fine. This has to be your blood.” She pushed his hand away and pressed on his shoulder, urging him to lie back so she could find any new injury he’d suffered. Her first thought was that the wound in his chest had opened up anew.
The cart jostled them as it bumped over the road.
“If ye two’re done pawing each other back there,” Jean called over her shoulder, “I’d like to know which of ye is dying. And unless ye say otherwise, this nag is taking us to Inverness.”
“Searc Mackintosh. Maggot Green.” Cinaed’s head dropped back, but another bump made him groan.
He couldn’t afford to lose more blood, but it was indeed everywhere. On her clothes, on his, on her hands. It was truly a miracle he was still alive. But for how long?
She realized why he’d used only one hand to find where he thought she’d been shot. Her heart sank. Davidson’s bullet had found its mark, striking Cinaed in the arm.
