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A sardonic smile came to decorate those impossibly shapely lips. “Taran McDougal, Lady Aileen.”
No! It could not be! The McDougal? She never knew he was that—that—well, that.
“The devil himself.” She mumbled unconcerned if he heard.
Aunt Bridget’s seemed farther than ever.
If he was the devil, she must be the witch, Taran thought. The McKendrick chit was no chit at all. Much on the contrary. Chestnut wavy hair fell in glossy waves down her back, and even standing behind Seamus, she did not disguise her curvy person, even if not tall. What undid him was her face. Delicate, with wide eyes of a colour so intense, it swallowed a man whole in them. He lost it when his moss-green attention fell to those tart-speaking lips. Full, upper and lower lips, they induced the dirtiest of fantasies.
His eyes snapped back to hers before his underwear-less tartan gave him away. “Weapons down, lass, or things will get serious here.” He had an aim to carry out, dirty fantasies or not.
Their gazes collided then and Taran must tense his muscles to impede his body’s ‘natural’ reactions. The lass did not move at his menacing tone. Seamus and his peers would have run to Aberdeen and back already. If anything, the diminutive witch rotated her body to face him, Seamus shielding her. A McKendrick to the marrow.
“No.” She answered solid. “Leave us to continue our trip and we will let the shrinking violet here free in four miles.”
Affronted rage crossed Seamus’ ruddy face. With a look, Taran commanded him into immobility not to risk a bloodshed. This would not be the point here. He would not tell her this, certainly.
So, he directed her a fierce stare, unwavering pistol angling to the carriage a few yards back on the precarious road. A girl stood inside the open door terrified and motionless.
“Do it or the girl dies.” An ultimatum by all accounts.
At this, said girl shrank lower on the seat as if she wished to mingle with the wood, a terrified contortion on her common face.
A battle of wills ensued while everyone continued frozen waiting for the impasse to resolve.
Slowly, she uncoiled the arm around Seamus’ neck, causing the man to put a safe distance from her. Unhurried, her left hand lowered along her body and the knife fell to the ground. Together with the one on her waist.
He followed it to make sure she would not recuperate it. Stupid mistake! She used this distraction to point the pistol at him.
“A duel, McDougal.” She proposed, straight back, chin up, defiant glint. “Whoever survives can leave here unharmed.”
More stubborn than a mule, was she? Irritation and inevitable admiration crossed his mind.
Ignoring her proposal, he insisted on his own ultimatum. “The girl, then.” He adjusted the angle more precisely on the carriage. His plans depended on the success of this. If she could be stubborn, so could he.
His target emitted a sound too kin to a cornered animal.
She snapped her attention to the carriage and when it came back to him, it fulminated him with such anger a lesser man would have balked. Her fingers loosened their hold on the pistol and it too lowered to be placed on the ground. Good. For a second there, he thought she would sacrifice the girl to win over him. A check-mate it would be. A pawn for the king. Not that he should be called a king but in the scheme of things… No doubt she must be an excellent shot.
He would not have killed the servant which could have unleashed another bloodshed between them. He should only be satisfied his bluff worked.
Only when he became certain she gave up did he move his horse towards her. His torso inclined to lace her waist and lift her to sit in front of him, legs to one side. She did not utter a sound, her body rigid on the saddle.
The horse gained the road while he turned to his men. “Tie the servants and bring them together with the carriage.”
~.~.~
She did not die today. Not yet at least.
Neither would she reach her destination.
Talk about reviewed plans.
Her dress consisted of a white underdress and a spencer with the green and black McKendrick colours. Her cloak remained in the carriage where she got rid of it to undertake the fight. The fabric overlaid that of the McDougal’s tartan, a combination she never imagined she would see in her life.
The feud between the McDougals and the McKendricks started more than a hundred and fifty years ago, and it had to do with land ownership, though their lands did not stay on neighbouring areas, thankfully. From then on, robbery, ambush and assassination featured in their relationship. Or lack thereof, more like it. Since early in life, her clan told and re-told the stories as a warning to stay away from them. The road to reach her aunt passed through their lands. The possibility of anything happening did not occur to her neither to her father and brothers, it seemed. In later years, both clans kept to themselves and no mishap had taken place.
The McDougals stood as a proud lot and struggled to keep their Scottish traditions, despite the English efforts to dispel them after the Jacobite rising. English rule and customs reached the Highlands weak and sparse, which favoured the kee
