Starcatcher, page 23
“Do either of yer fathers know?”
“Nay, not yet.”
Rufus muttered something under his breath about being daft. “And yer friend, the young Gunn?”
“Aye,” Patrick replied. “Gavin stood as a witness, along with Hiram and Quick Harry.”
“Quick Harry?”
“A Gunn clansman who was wounded in the raid. He made his way to a hut about an hour’s ride from here.”
“He lives?” Rufus said incredulously. “Sinclair’s men have combed the countryside fer his body. They believe him dead but want to make sure.”
Patrick shook his head. “He was close to dead when I found him, but he is fully recovered now.”
Rufus whistled.
Patrick added, “He saw Foster’s face. He described him to me, though, until you confirmed it, I couldna be sure. I had hoped him in hell these past years. Quick Harry will emerge at the right time, and he will make a bloody fine ghost. I want more than that, though. I want to catch Sinclair in the act, and perhaps now—”
Patrick broke off when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement in the brush behind Rufus.
Lowering his voice, he said, “Behind you. We have company. Could you have been followed?”
“I didna think so,” Rufus said.
“Mount and ride out as if nothing is amiss. I will take care of our visitors. Wait for me on the other side of the trees. I canna have you go back to Sinclair unless we are sure you are safe.”
Rufus gave no indication he heard, but then he did not have to; they had been together a very long time. Making it appear as if their meeting had reached a natural conclusion, Rufus gave a nod, walked calmly to his horse and mounted. Patrick followed suit. They both lifted their hands in a parting gesture, then started off in opposite directions.
Keeping his mount to a reasonable pace, given the wooded terrain, Patrick rode for several minutes. When he was well out of sight of the glade, he slipped down from the saddle and quickly tied his horse. Removing his sword from its scabbard, he ran back toward the glade, keeping his steps light and nearly silent. By now, he knew Rufus would be doing the same from the opposite direction, both of them hoping to catch sight of the trespassers.
Suddenly, Patrick heard a branch snap. Then a rustle of leaves in a bush to his right. They were the only warnings he had. In the next instant, he was surrounded.
Eight men. All armed. And all wearing Gunn plaids.
Chapter 19
Bloody hell. How could he have been so foolish?
Patrick’s first thought was followed quickly by another: Marsali was right. The next time, he would pay more attention to her warnings.
If there was a next time.
Noticing that Gavin was not among the band surrounding him, he held perfectly still. The eight men encircled him, swords drawn and fury stamped on their faces. They carried no pistols, but all had swords and dirks.
“’Tis the bastard Sutherland,” one said.
“And a fine hostage he will make to trade for our lady,” said another.
“Our lord would better prefer a corpse after what he did to Quick Harry and the others,” another growled, moving closer.
Patrick lifted the sword defensively. He had faced many an enemy, and he could not count the number of times his life had been at risk. Yet he could remember no time when the stakes had been as high. No time when it had mattered as much that he survive. If he was killed, any hope of ending the feud between the Gunn and Sutherland clans would die with him. His father would declare all-out war on the Gunns, damn the consequences. They would fight each other to the death.
And Marsali …
Quite simply, his only choice was to survive.
Eight against one. Not very good odds. Where in bloody hell was Rufus?
The Gunn clansmen surrounded him warily. He recognized several. One, Black Fergus, was a bully and seemed to be the leader of the group. He kept looking uncertainly at Patrick’s sword, and for once, Patrick was grateful for every outrageously exaggerated tale and every outright lie that had been told about his battlefield deeds and his prowess with weapons.
“Tie him,” Black Fergus told one of the others.
The man he had addressed took a backward step. “He has a sword.”
“Jack?” Black Fergus said.
“Not me,” said another man.
Patrick had to resist the sudden urge to laugh. Truly, there was nothing amusing about the straits in which he found himself; if they attacked, he was a dead man. Yet none seemed to want to be the first to approach him.
Assuming his most arrogant battle stance—the better to maintain his intimidating reputation—Patrick gave Black Fergus a slow, wicked smile. “What about you, Black Fergus? Do you want to tie me?”
Before Black Fergus could respond, the quiet forest air was pierced by the shrill call of a titmouse. The sound came from the north, and Patrick breathed a little easier. Rufus was still there. But then another call, identical to the first, came from behind him—from the south.
Hiram? Patrick recognized his friends’ distinct whistles, though he doubted anyone else would. But what was Hiram doing here? Even as he wondered, another birdcall—Rufus again—brought the band’s attention snapping to the northeast.
Clearly nervous, the Gunn clansmen began looking around. Another whistle came from the west. And another from the southeast a few seconds later. The Gunns started backing away, convinced now that they were surrounded.
Patrick would have liked to let them slip away, but he knew he could not. They had seen him with Rufus. They might have seen Rufus come from the north, from Sinclair land; regardless, they surely would report his clandestine meeting with a stranger to the earl if he let them return to Abernie. That would be the end of Rufus’s spy mission.
Patrick swore silently. He would have to take them all prisoner.
“Put down your weapons,” he demanded. “My men have you surrounded.”
The Gunns looked to their leader. It was immediately obvious that they had no appetite for a fight. Black Fergus’s gaze darted from one side to the other, trying to follow the birdcalls, which kept coming with gratifying regularity. His face grew red as he realized his leadership and courage were in question.
But he appeared to be ready to drop his weapon and Patrick was about to breathe a sigh of relief—when suddenly Black Fergus lunged at him, his sword in motion.
“Whoreson,” the Gunn said as the tip of his blade ripped into Patrick’s shoulder.
The movement was so unexpected that Patrick had no time to block the blow. He could only turn so that the sword hit his left rather than right shoulder.
Pain rushed through him as Black Fergus pulled the blade from his body and started to lunge again, rage mottling his face. Lifting his own sword, Patrick parried the blow. Black Fergus’s movements were awkward, his attack driven more by anger than skill, and Patrick knew he could kill him without much effort. But he most fervently did not want to kill. More bloodshed would surely end any chance for peace.
His broadsword was heavy and usually required two hands, but his left arm dangled uselessly at his side. With mammoth effort, he was barely able to parry and thrust, waiting for an opportunity that would damage but not kill. The Gunn clansmen had backed away. Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick saw Hiram standing to his right, pistol in one hand and sword in the other.
Patrick felt the blood seeping down his arm and chest, dampening his shirt and plaid. He knew he was weakening. He had to finish this. He turned as Black Fergus thrust, and the blade went past him. Whirling, he brought his own sword up, hit the underside of Black Fergus’s weapon, and sent it flying. An instant later, the point of his blade was at the man’s throat.
“Yield,” he said, “or I will slit your throat.”
For a long, heavy moment, fear and bravado warred in his opponent’s eyes. Finally, fear won.
“I yield,” Black Fergus said, his voice a low, grudging rasp.
Patrick looked at each of the Gunn clansmen. In turn, each one nodded as they met his glare.
He lowered his sword and turned to Hiram. “Tie them.”
Hiram lifted an eyebrow, gesturing toward the surrounding woods. “And your men?”
“Leave them there,” Patrick said as he tore off a piece of his shirt and tied it tightly around his bleeding shoulder. “In case there are any other intruders.”
He looked at Black Fergus, who was allowing Hiram to tie his hands behind him with a piece of his own plaid. “What are you men doing here?”
“Looking fer Quick Harry’s body,” Black Fergus said sullenly. “He is married tae my sister.”
Patrick wondered then whether these were the men who had been at the hut. Perhaps it had not been Sinclair’s men after all. Yet the two trespassers had been on horseback.
“Have you any horses with you?” he asked.
Black Fergus stared at him insolently.
“Do you want to taste my sword again?”
Still, the man did not answer, and Patrick’s respect for him rose. He might have been a bully as a boy, but he was a braw man now.
“You wouldna want them to starve,” he said, “if you tied them up.”
One man stepped out, the reminder of the mount’s fate loosing a reluctant tongue. “We have one horse, an old nag I borrowed. Fer Quick Harry’s body. He’s over yon beyond the stream.”
“Have you visited a hut on my land?”
Several of the men looked at each other. Black Fergus looked confused. “A hut?”
So it had not been Gunns. It must have been Sinclair’s men. Which also meant that Rufus’s ears were not the best in Scotland, else he might have heard something of it. Or mayhap he was not so trusted by the Sinclairs as he thought.
Black Fergus shifted. Patrick saw his gaze flicker to the wound he had inflicted. “Wha’ do you plan to do wi’ us?” he asked.
“Make you our guests for a few days,” Patrick replied.
He whistled and received an immediate call in return. Seconds later, another whistle came from a different direction. The Gunn men kept looking around, expecting an army to step out from among the trees.
Hiram moved quickly, before anyone had time to wonder why no one appeared to help him. When he had tied the last man, he turned to Patrick, scowling when his gaze took in the copious amount of blood.
Patrick shook his head, warding off Hiram’s concern; he had no time for it.
“I will get the horses,” Hiram said, handing Patrick his gun, which he could hold much more readily than his sword. But he did not need it now, not with all the Gunns bound.
His father would be pleased, Patrick thought. He, however, was not. A few days in the Sutherland dungeons for Gunn clansmen would not help relations between the two families. Yet he had no recourse. The consequences of them reporting his meeting with Rufus were simply too grave for all parties concerned.
Sweet heaven, his arm hurt. He had survived far worse, and the thought of Marsali’s healing touch gave him some consolation. But before he could surrender himself to his wife’s ministrations, he and Hiram had to get their prisoners back to Brinaire. No easy task over the passes for men on foot. He swore, wondering if God really had any interest at all in peace—or if He might simply be testing him.
Hiram returned then, their horses in tow along with a third, unlikely-looking beast.
“Start them toward Brinaire,” Patrick said, his voice lowered so that only Hiram could hear.
“Ye need someone to look at the wound,” Hiram said sternly, and with a twinkle in his eye, he added, “and I know someone who will be waiting to do it. Marsali is at the cave.”
Patrick’s brow shot upward. “The devil you say.”
“The devil had nothing to do with it.” Hiram grinned. “My lady had a … feeling that ye were in danger. She insisted that I come after ye.”
A shiver ran down Patrick’s spine, and he made a silent vow never—never—to discount Marsali’s intuition again. He would be dead, and mayhap Rufus, too, if Hiram had not appeared. Rufus alone never could have made the Gunn clansmen believe they were surrounded.
Giving Hiram a nod, he asked, “Can you handle these prisoners alone for a few moments? I need to talk to Rufus. Then I’ll send him to join you, and I will go to the cave. After I see Marsali, I will catch up with you and Rufus, and Rufus can return to the Sinclairs.”
“Aye. I can manage them even if they were not tied,” Hiram said contemptuously, his gaze flitting over the prisoners. “With the gloaming, we should reach Brinaire by dark.”
Patrick did not like Hiram handling eight men on his own. He also did not want to leave Marsali at the cave with only Quick Harry, yet he could not take her to Brinaire with the Gunn clansmen; the Gunns would wonder at her helping the Sutherlands. And Rufus needed to return to Sinclair’s land before he was missed.
The problem was, Patrick realized, he needed ten hands, not two, one of which was of little use.
Mounting his horse, he rode over to the Gunn clansmen. “I want your parole,” he said. “I will untie you if you give it. If not, I will have you bound one to the other, and you will walk that way to Brinaire.”
The men looked at one another. Each knew the hazardous nature of the mountains. One misstep could mean death.
Black Fergus nodded.
“Swear it,” Patrick demanded, waiting until every man had spoken the words.
He nodded, satisfied. No Highlander would violate such an oath. It would bring shame down upon the clan.
“Untie them,” he told Hiram.
Hiram flinched, but he took out his knife and walked his horse past the line of men, cutting each man’s bonds. “Get moving,” he said to them.
They started walking, heading south out of the woods toward the steep path that would lead them to Brinaire. Hiram followed on horseback, the nag trailing him on a lead.
Patrick’s arm throbbed, and he could feel the blood trickling down his chest and arm. He watched until Hiram and his party disappeared, then he rode in the direction from which the last titmouse had trilled its piercing whistle.
The titmouse, in the guise of Rufus, moved out from the cover of the trees. “I see we cozened them.”
“Even I believed an army was out there,” Patrick said, wincing. “You and Hiram move quickly.”
Rufus’s eyes narrowed, his gaze dropping to the bloody evidence of the afternoon’s work. “Someone needs to look after ye,” he said, shifting in his saddle to study the wound.
“It did not touch bone,” Patrick said. “I have had worse.”
“Aye, ye have,” Rufus agreed. “Still, ye need to have it tended.”
“Marsali is at the hut—the place where I told you I found Quick Harry,” Patrick said. “’Tis only an hour’s ride. I will stop there. But I need you to follow Hiram until I can catch up to him again.”
“Aye,” Rufus agreed. “And I will return to Sinclair wi’ yer bloodstained plaid and say I killed another Sutherland. That should satisfy them as to the reason I was gone so long.”
Patrick nodded. He took his dirk and cut off the top part of his plaid. The cloth of the shirt beneath had turned scarlet across the expanse of his chest and down to his waist, and it clung to him, dripping.
Rufus looked as if he thought they should revise their plan.
Before he could suggest it, Patrick said, “I will catch up to you in two hours.”
Sighing, Rufus agreed. “Hiram and I will take care of them.” Using Patrick’s saturated plaid, he smeared blood on his face, then pulled his bonnet down. With his face thus disguised, he looked more demon than human, and Patrick thought the very sight of him would keep the Gunns loyal to their parole.
Rufus flashed him an irrepressible smile, and Patrick could not help but smile back. “Get on with you,” he said.
“Aye,” Rufus said. “I will see you soon.” He spurred his horse into a trot toward the trail Hiram had taken.
Patrick watched him go, then turned his own horse onto a path that would lead him directly to the cave. And Marsali.
Elizabeth chewed her lower lip as she studied her younger brother. Alex had kept his word. They had waited until the sun was overhead. But there was still no sign of Marsali, and Elizabeth knew Alex was anxious to take action.
“I think we had better look for her,” he said.
Elizabeth paled. She did not want to incur Patrick’s wrath any more than her father’s, and Marsali had said that Patrick did not want anyone to know who—or what—was at the hunting hut. Yet as she took in Alex’s determined look, she knew there would be little she could do to stop him. He had changed. In just the few weeks that Patrick had been back at Brinaire, Alex had begun to emerge from his books.
She felt more adventuresome, too, a state she attributed to Marsali’s presence. She had watched, fascinated, as Marsali managed the cook and housekeeper with honey-laced suggestions and compliments. The results were, to Elizabeth’s thinking, nearly miraculous. The soiled rushes in the great hall had been replaced by fresh ones, the wall hangings had been cleaned and aired, and the food had improved appreciably. Marsali had brought brightness to the gloomy keep. She had brought hope.
Elizabeth did not want anything to happen to her.
And so she gave Alex the nod of approval she knew he was waiting for. A few weeks ago, she would not have had the nerve. Nor would she have considered following him when he started his horse through the treacherous mountain pass. They both knew where the pass led: to the hut where Margaret was rumored to have met with her lover.
When Alex spurred his horse, Elizabeth followed. The pass terrified her. The path was narrow and fell off to a sheer drop below. Her hands clenched her mount’s reins, and her fingers curled around the front of her sidesaddle. If she leaned a fraction of an inch in any direction, she was certain that she and the horse would go sliding off the cliff.
She said a prayer, then another. After what seemed like hours, the trail leveled off, and the sheer cliffs opened up into a meadow. She relaxed with a trembling sigh.
Alex held his horse back until she drew up beside him. “Are you all right?” he asked.
