Page 29 of To My Scot, With Love
Malcolm stood and grasped Porter by the shoulders, forcing the man still. “Porter, look at me.” He waited until the man’s gaze finally made its way up to his. “I promise ye. There is. Nae. Danger.”
The man sagged beneath Malcolm’s hands. “How can you know that, lad? It’s foolish to think something like this will end well.”
“I know I have done some…foolish things in the past. Which you have rightfully set me right on. But this is not one of them. I cannae tell you the reasons why. ‘Tis not my place. But”—he squeezed Porter’s shoulders hard—“believe me when I say, there is nae danger of the Earl being angry.”
Confusion clouded his mentor’s dark eyes, even as all the fight left him. “I just don’t want to see you hurt, Mallie.”
“And I appreciate that. More than you know, Port. But there’s nothing that can go wrong here.”
“Oh, Mallie. Those are the sorts of words that fate delights in proving false.”
19
Mal
Malcolmslippedthemaskover his head, gave his mount a pat, and then dropped lightly to the ground. He walked to the edge of the wood, where the rest of his men stood waiting.
“All set?”
A low chorus of “Aye” greeted him.
“One last briefing. I’ll take the stallion. If what Wright and I witnessed on our visits is any indication, he’s going to be right panicked and near impossible to handle at first. The other two should be easier and calm with the companion horses.” He paused, scanning the group of masked men, a sea of eyes glinting in the moonlight back at him. “Get your horse and get out. Understood? No worrying over others. We’ll meet up at the first post where our cart is waiting. If anything goes awry, send your whip to signal us.”
He was met with nods.
“To it, lads,” Malcolm said, his tone measured, determined.
The group dispersed, and Wright fell into step with Malcolm. Wright was as trusty a whip as they came, acting as lookout for Malcolm for the last five years. The man might like his drink and his women, but there was nae one more loyal, nae one Malcolm would rather have watching his back.
They crept across the edge of the tree line, past the stables, where the other two horses were kept, until they reached the small enclosure where the stallion was being confined. There were no servants in sight. Not that there would be. Malcolm doubted anyone could get close to the poor beast. His biggest challenge wasn’t other people, it was the horse’s panic alerting others and the beast’s unpredictable lashing out putting Malcolm’s own safety at risk.
Malcolm pressed his back against the enclosure and side-stepped until he reached the door. He slowly slid it open and was immediately greeted with the thud of pawing hooves in dirt, agitated snorting, and the soft rattle of metal. A beam of moonlight illuminated the interior. The stallion was chained in the center of the room by a bridle. White-hot anger lanced through Malcolm. It was bad enough the poor thing was chained. But he recognized the bit of that bridle. Nothing short of a torture device. Guaranteeing if the poor beast moved an inch in the wrong direction, he’d have his mouth pierced straight through by barbs.
Malcolm crept forward, his movements deliberately slow. The horse jerked his head back, and a pained squeal sliced into the quiet night.
“Shhhhh, dinnae fash, laddie,” Malcolm crooned.
The beast’s hindquarters danced, the poor thing trying his bloody damnedest to keep his front and head still. Knowing the consequences.
“I’m here to help ye, my bonnie boy.” He reached the stallion’s head and settled a hand gently on the horse’s neck. He was drenched with sweat. Malcolm silently swore. Even in the dark of night, he could easily see the horse’s protruding hip bones, the outline of ribs. Starved. Beaten. Tortured.
But instead of letting that fury fester, he released it through a slow, controlled breath. This poor laddie would only feed off that emotion. He needed calming, soothing.
Malcolm began to hum a soft, lilting melody and inspected the chains attached to the horse’s bridle, slowly stroking down its neck. The horse’s agitated dancing slowed ever so slightly, and Malcolm took that as a sign. He began to sing a soothing song, his quiet cadence filling the space as he worked to free the horse.
“By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,
Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond.”
He undid a chain from one wall and quietly set it on the floor, his hushed voice low and steady.
“Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae,
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.”
The stallion tracked him, the whites of his eyes glowing eerily in the light of the moon. But the poor beast didn’t dare move from his place. Knowing too well the repercussions that had come in the past of such an action.
“Oh, ye’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road,
