Page 59 of A Scot's Pride
“She is under his spell,” Bryson said with a shrug, as if it were normal, which he knew it wasn’t, but what else could he say? “She’s in love with the bastard, and he brainwashed her.”
“I’m not so certain.” Freya glanced over her shoulder, where her sister continued to pout.
Leila didn’t even try to go to Campbell’s side. A sign Bryson thought that the young lady was confused. Or mad.
“She’s always been impetuous,” Freya said. “Willing to break the rules to get what she wanted. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was her idea. The elopement, the highway robbery.”
Bryson led her toward his horse, where he always carried a kit to tend wounds in case something happened. He pulled out the supplies, setting out what he needed on the saddle where he could easily reach it.
“This is going to hurt,” he whispered as he poured whisky from a flask on the wound around the piece of glass.
She hissed and squeezed her eyes shut as he gingerly removed the glass. Fresh blood oozed from the wound, and he pressed a strip of linen to the gash.
“It’s deep enough that ye need stitches. Will you let me sew ye up?” he asked.
Freya glanced at him, tears in her eyes. She bit her lip and nodded. “I need to sit down, though.”
“Of course.”
She sat on the road, and Aunt Bertie brought her a cup of cider. “Here, dear. Sip this.”
“I might need something harder.” Freya gave a little laugh as she chugged the cider.
Bryson grinned and pulled a flask of whisky from his saddlebag. “I’ve got ye covered, lass.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” She took a long pull, shuddering as she swallowed the liquor, and then turned to stare hard at her sister as he administered to her wounds. Her gaze never left Leila, and Bryson was a little worried about what her thoughts might be.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Freya asked him, perhaps in an attempt to distract herself from her menacing thoughts. “Aren’t you going to get married?”
“Married?” He and Aunt Bertie asked it at the same time. Bryson frowned. What the bloody hell was she talking about?
“Aye, Lady Heaton said you were going to see about a bride.” Freya glanced toward Aunt Bertie, who looked completely shocked.
Then the older woman said, “Ohhh,” and her face softened with realization. “She must have meant Leila, dear.”
Bryson groaned, knowing what torment his aunt’s little trick of words must have done to Freya. Hell, if he’d been in her shoes, he might have lost it, thinking she’d gone off to marry someone else.
“Well, I wish she would have explained that to me,” Freya said.
Aunt Bertie shrugged, a secret smile on her lips that had Bryson wondering what game his aunt was playing.
“Aye, I went after Campbell and Leila.” He paused in his sewing, and Freya glanced to where he tended her wound, nearly done now. “I was serious when I said I was going to ask for your hand, lass. I want to marry ye and no other.”
Freya seemed to sag with relief at that. “This whole day, I’ve thought you went off to marry someone else, and instead, you were chasing my witless sister.” Then she started to sob, her whole body trembling.
Aunt Bertie rushed forward, patting her shoulder and whispering, “There, there.”
Bryson wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, so he did just that, letting her wet the front of his shirt with her tears.
When she’d finished, she pulled back, her glassy eyes staring into his. “Well, we’ve both found them. Now what do we do?”
“Get the carriage fixed. Take them back to Sunderland.” Bryson didn’t see any other way around it.
“But he’s a criminal.” Freya grimaced in Campbell’s direction, who’d finally started to come to. Then Leila, who’d at last gone to his side, kicked him in the ribs. “And it’s going to be a very unpleasant, long ride.”
“Aye,” Bryson drawled, glad he had his horse. “And best that low life be tried in the place where all his victims reside.”
“A very good point.” Freya leaned her head against his shoulder, where Bryson was happy to take the world’s weight for her if only to make her smile. He loved her that much.
