Highland Betrayal Page 18

  He may even have passed the Gairn in the darkness. It would be just his luck to bump into the Royalist troops. He conjured an image of politely asking a bunch of Highland chieftains if they’d seen Mistress Hannah Kincaid, and chuckled at the thought that their first reaction before they cleaved him in half would probably be Ye’re nay an Englishmon.

  It was, however, doubtful that anyone else was traveling this lonely road in the dead of night. Only a fool in love would take such a risk.

  Strangely, the notion calmed his agitated heart, but he felt for the butt of the pistol tucked into his belt, just in case.

  After another half hour he reined to a halt and listened, certain he must be close to the Gairn. Water rushing over rocks nearby was no help, since he’d more or less followed the Dee. Fingall’s ears twitched and he nickered moments before a heart-stopping howling echoed in the hills, too close for the horse’s comfort. He shied, causing Morgan to dismount so he could hold the reins near the bit and soothe the animal.

  The normally docile beast seemed determined to turn his hind quarters in an apparent effort to reverse direction. Morgan feared the tired horse might tumble into the ditch, but suddenly realized its back legs were still on solid ground. Another trail led off the main road right where he was standing.

  Praying it was a good omen, he coaxed Fingall slowly up the track, elated when a narrow bridge loomed out of the darkness. He looped the reins around a birch tree and hurried to the middle of the bridge. Gripping the rough stone, he leaned over to peer at the stream below. A flash of white on the bank caught his eye, then another. With a sinking heart he realized he had indeed stumbled upon a clan—of badgers.

  ONCE BITTEN

  Hannah jolted awake and banged her head against the stone. A sharp pain arrowed down one side of her neck. She hadn’t been asleep, just dozing, but the noise of some creature moving about close by had put an end to that. It sounded bigger and bolder than a rat.

  Gooseflesh marched up her spine when she heard a strident screech followed by growling and a strange chattering. She hoped she was mistaken, but instinct told her there was more than one animal, and they were coming closer.

  A wolf howled, far away. The eerie noises stopped abruptly, but began again soon after. Evidently, whatever was approaching feared wolves. She searched her memory, trying to think of animals that foraged at night.

  She recalled her uncle’s steward organising nighttime shooting expeditions to hunt down badgers when they stole chickens from the tenant farmers. The men recounted tales of how vicious the badgers were when cornered.

  Hail Mary, Hannah began, clinging to the solace of the prayer her mother had taught her. When she espied a pair of glowing eyes fixed on her…then another…and another, the prayer became a desperate chant.

  Now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Amen. Morgan, Morgan, Morgan.

  Of all the destinies she’d imagined, being attacked by badgers had never entered her mind. If they devoured chickens they must also eat people. Despite the chill, she broke out in a sweat.

  When the boldest badger came close enough for her to make out white stripes on his head and sharp fangs bared for attack, her body and mind stiffened. She made the sign of her Savior across her body and prayed death would come quickly. “Fare-thee-well, Morgan Pendray,” she croaked. “I love ye.”

  “Hannah, Hannah.”

  She blinked rapidly. Fear had rendered her witless. Morgan couldn’t be here, calling her name.

  “Hannah, if you’re under the bridge, stay perfectly still.”

  “I couldna move if I wished to,” she whispered to the phantom Morgan, digging her fingernails deeper into her thighs. The glowing eyes suddenly turned away. A banshee was sliding down the bank from the bridge, waving its arms and howling like a wolf. The badgers growled and screamed, but then the din grew fainter and the glowing eyes disappeared.

  Inexplicably, Morgan was kneeling beside her, holding her, telling her she was safe, and all she could do was cling to the sleeves of his buffcoat and sob with relief.

  ~~~

  Reasonably sure the badgers had fled after he’d stormed down the bank, Morgan peered into the blackness under the bridge. His hopes dimmed when he didn’t see Hannah, but then he heard a whimpering sound and saw that she was wedged tight, as if she’d tried to melt into the stone. Her terror broke his heart.

  He lay down his pistol, thankful the howling had been enough to frighten off the animals, and gathered Hannah into his embrace. “You’re safe now, my love,” he crooned. “I’m here.”

  Without warning, she went limp in his arms. He feared he’d crushed the life out of her, but when he tried to pull away she clung to him. “Morgan,” she murmured, nestling her head into the crook of his neck. “I thought ne’er to see ye…”

  She cried out a warning and drew away. Too late he turned to see what had alarmed her. He lost his balance and flailed at the snarling badger he’d assumed had fled. He cursed his carelessness when the enraged creature sank its teeth into his hand. The loud drumming of his heart had deafened him to the approaching danger. Anger threatened to render him paralytic as he struggled to loosen the animal’s death grip on his fingers. Nausea swamped him when sharp teeth crushed bone.

  A deafening crack echoed in his ears, and the animal loosed its hold, falling dead beside him. Seized by an uncontrollable trembling, Morgan narrowed his eyes at his bloodied fingers, then looked up.

  Breasts heaving, Hannah stood over him, a pistol in her grip. He couldn’t understand what had happened, but didn’t fight her when she pushed him over and forced his hand into the waters of a stream. What he was doing there he didn’t precisely recall. “’Twill be all right,” she told him over and over.

  He smiled, trusting the angel who’d come to his rescue, whoever she was. “Aye,” he agreed.

  “Stay awake,” a voice urged as a swirling mist enveloped him, “the water will cleanse the wound, and ease the pain.”

  “I will,” he murmured obediently. “I feel no pain.”

  ~~~

  Hannah gulped air, relieved Morgan had drifted into oblivion. Lying witless like a sleeping babe with one hand in the water, he might feel no pain now, but he surely would later. The index finger of his right hand dangled by a sliver of bone. Two others bore the imprint of the badger’s teeth.

  Grimacing, she kicked the lifeless body away from Morgan, confident the scent of death would deter the others. It took several hefty kicks to move the heavy creature, but she cried out her elation when a clump of yarrow sprang back to life after the animal’s body rolled over it. She hastily plucked several stems of the plant often used by army surgeons to tend wounds.

  She glanced at the pistol, lying where she’d dropped it on the bank, and thanked the Lord God Almighty for her uncle’s insistence she practice shooting. There wasn’t time to search Morgan’s knapsack for powder and shot now. Reloading the weapon would have to wait until she was sure she’d done everything possible to save him.

  She’d tended wounded men before, but now Morgan’s life depended on her remaining calm. Her first instinct had been correct, she reasoned. The cold water of the Gairn would wash away any poison in the animal’s bite. But the first grey streaks of dawn showed his life blood flowing out into the river. She had to act quickly to staunch the flow and the yarrow would help.

  Morgan’s horse had run off during the badger attack, but he was back now, nibbling the sweet grasses near the river. Cautioning the steed to keep his eyes to himself, she pulled her tunic and shift over her head, then slipped the beloved chemise off her shoulders. Clad in naught but goatskin boots, she retrieved the shawl Esther had given her and wrapped it around her shivering body, knotting it at her breasts. The damage to Morgan’s hand was so severe, she might need the shift and the chemise for bandages.

  The costly linen didn’t tear easily, but the effort served to calm her racing heart and steady her trembling hands. She was sweating by the time she knelt beside him and lifted
his hand out of the water, careful to keep the almost severed finger from detaching altogether. Her belly roiled as she acknowledged the pain he would suffer. It was unlikely the finger could be saved. She inhaled deeply and settled his hand on the shift spread out on her lap, using it to dab the wounds dry.

  Her breathing faltered when he opened his eyes and looked at her. She wasn’t sure if he knew who she was until he lifted his good hand and traced a finger across the top of the shawl knotted across her breasts. “Are we back at the inn?” he asked.

  “Aye, my love,” she replied, swallowing her heartbreak at the memory of an unforgettable night safe in his warm embrace. “Sleep now.”

  He smiled, licked his lips and closed his eyes.

  She pounded the yarrow plants with a rock and gingerly padded the pulp around his mangled fingers, then dipped the first dressing in the water and bound the severed finger, forcing herself to remain calm. The linen promptly turned blood red, but she worked quickly, winding strip after strip around his wounds, until his hand was completely swathed and only one or two spots of blood stained the bandages. She was reminded of engravings her uncle had in his library—Roman gladiator slaves whose only protection in the arena was the cestus, leather strips bound around their hands. Pray God her efforts would protect Morgan.

  The next challenge was to keep him warm. She eyed the pile of straw, lying only a few feet away. It might as well have been a mile. Morgan was too heavy for her to drag. She lifted his bandaged hand and tucked it into the front of his buffcoat, then scurried to the straw, gathered as much as she could in her arms and dumped it next to where he lay. Breathless, she knelt beside him. “Good thing ye canna see me cavortin’ aboot clad in naught but ma shawl,” she jested, pondering how to get him to move onto the straw. Nothing for it but to tuck it beneath him.

  Lifting him enough to drag the strap of the knapsack off his body was exhausting. Finally satisfied she’d shoved as much straw as she could under him, she untied the shawl, covered him and hastily shrugged her damp shift and tunic back on. “Ye’ve missed a golden opportunity to see me naked, Captain Morgan Pendray,” she teased.

  Her heart raced when he grinned like an imbecile and muttered, “It’s Major Pendray now.”

  OF NO CONSEQUENCE

  Morgan woke knowing he’d died, though he recalled surviving the explosion. Sweat trickled down his spine. How it could be so infernally hot in Scotland was beyond his comprehension. He must be in the fires of hell, so why it had been deemed necessary to cover him with a plaid? The uniform had to go, but getting out of it proved difficult to accomplish because some sharp toothed creature gnawed at his hand.

  He swallowed hard, though his throat was dry, then sighed when something cool pressed against his forehead, then his neck. An angel spoke. “Lie still.”

  That reassured him. He hadn’t lived his life as a saint, but consignment to hell seemed overly harsh. However, there was no pain in heaven, was there? He tried to recall what he’d been taught of such things at Shrewsbury, but the theology eluded him because the throbbing in his hand refused to abate.

  “Morgan. Can ye hear me?”

  That was strange. He’d always thought Blodwen would be the one to greet him when he entered heaven, but his Welsh wife hadn’t spoken like a Scot. This angelic voice sounded more like…

  “Hannah?”

  “Aye, my Morgan.”

  “Am I dead?”

  “Nay. Just wounded.”

  He sifted through the memories. “In the explosion?”

  “Explosion? Nay. A badger bit ye.”

  “Good grief! Bitten to death by a badger.”

  “Ye’re nay dead,” she reassured him. “Though I admit to being worried for a wee while. Yer hand is badly injured.”

  Vague threads of recollection began to weave into a pattern. Morgan slowly raised his beleaguered hand, tempted to burst out laughing at the giant cocoon he beheld—except the pain might worsen if he laughed. Then he recognised the fine linen and couldn’t resist a smile. “You tore up your chemise.”

  “Aye, but ye must rest. Drink this.”

  She gently lowered his hand, then lifted his head and held something to his lips. He sipped the water, relishing the cool liquid as it soothed his parched throat. He noticed the pistol tucked into the girdle of her shift and the memory came rushing back. “You shot the badger.”

  She averted her gaze. “Aye.”

  He wasn’t surprised she knew how to shoot, but as his wits slowly returned, the urgency of the situation they found themselves in had to be faced. “Good shooting in the dark,” he rasped. “You’ve used a pistol before.”

  “My uncle taught me,” she whispered.

  “Glenheath,” he replied.

  She nodded. “Ye kent.”

  “I suspected, but wasn’t certain. I knew for sure when I realized you’d set off for Bouchmorale.”

  “Yet ye didna betray me.”

  It was an effort to keep the lingering stupor at bay, but he wanted to make sure she understood the sincerity of his reply. “I would never betray you, Hannah. You are the most important person in my life.”

  A tear trickled down her cheek. “But I’m a Royalist and you’re a major in the invading Parliamentary army.”

  “It won’t matter,” he murmured as pain slowed his thinking and he wondered momentarily how she knew of his promotion. “Wake me when you hear troops approaching. Royalist or English. It’s of no consequence.”

  “No consequence?”

  “I’ll explain later,” he yawned. “Trust me.”

  ~~~

  The pain clearly had Morgan confused.

  How could their being on opposing sides not matter?

  Hannah suspected he’d pursued her without permission and would face charges of desertion if Cromwell’s army arrived first. Her obvious intention to attend a seditious gathering would be grounds for arrest. She prayed she’d be strong enough when questioned not to implicate Solomon and Esther.

  If the Royalists came riding out of the mountains, Morgan’s uniform would condemn him.

  However, without medical care he would likely die anyway; continuing to hide under a bridge wasn’t an option. He needed a surgeon. Despite the danger, she fervently hoped he wouldn’t come under Peabody’s knife.

  The shock of all that had happened seemed suddenly too overwhelming. Her stomach was tied in knots and she wasn’t hungry, but the ever-practical Morgan had probably brought food.

  Not wanting to wake him, she looped her foot in the strap and pulled his knapsack towards her. Her heart clenched when she put her hand on the carved bottle he’d shown her. She unstoppered it and took a sip of water. There was consolation in knowing his lips had touched the rim.

  Finding powder, wadding and shot, she pulled the pistol from her belt. Her uncle had drummed into her the necessity of always having a weapon at the ready. Food could wait.

  Methodically, she went through the steps to load the gun. It was a routine she’d practised to the point of boredom, but doing it right had never seemed important. As a covert spy she’d relied on easily secreted blades. Now both their lives might again depend on the pistol.

  Feeling better with some means of defence to hand, she bit off a chunk from the heel of bread she found in the bottom of the pack and closed her eyes.

  ~~~

  Morgan couldn’t decide which was worse; the burning pain in his hand or the pounding in his head that had woken him.

  “Horses,” Hannah said.

  The mention of horses reminded him of Fingall and he was relieved to see the faithful gelding grazing close by. It also explained the pounding.

  She put something in his good hand. “Drink.”

  He obeyed and took long gulps of water. The familiarity of the Bellarmine brought a renewed determination. “You’ll have to help me stand,” he told her, handing back the bottle.

  “Nay,” she replied.

  “Aye,” he insisted, glad to see a smile brighten her
tear-streaked face.

  “We’ll make a Scot o’ ye yet,” she said. “They’re coming from the north.”

  “Royalists, then,” he remarked, glad the rebels had arrived first.

  She helped him to his feet.

  Fever had him in its grip and he had to hold onto her until the world stopped spinning.

  She offered him the pistol. “I loaded it.”

  He considered the two guns dancing before his eyes. “Well, lass, you’d best keep it. You’re a better shot than I am.”

  She shoved the weapon into her girdle. “You stay here, I’ll meet them.”

  He gritted his teeth. “No. We must get up to the bridge and face them together.”

  Mumbling about stubborn men, she hefted his knapsack across her body. He put an arm around her shoulders and she took his weight as they climbed the bank. “You’re strong for a girl,” he teased, looking up the trail to the cloud of dust in the distance.

  They halted in the middle of the bridge. He concealed his tortured hand in the front folds of the buffcoat, put his other arm around Hannah’s waist, and waited, hoping he’d be able to remain upright long enough to persuade Glenheath not to shoot him.

  CONFRONTATION

  Hannah’s legs trembled, but if she faltered they would both end up in an ungainly heap. She drew strength from Morgan who stood tall and firm despite his terrible injuries. His assertion that all would be well didn’t make sense, but he seemed to believe it, so she had to have faith.

  Though mayhap the fever had addled his brain.

  It was too late to run now, and she would never leave Morgan to the mercy of his enemies, any more than he would abandon her to the English army.

  The Royalist chieftains were fast approaching. Conflicting emotions stirred when she espied her uncle riding at the head of the troop. She gripped the butt of the pistol, resolved to defend the man she loved even against her own kin.