There was no telling which of their enemies was nearly upon them, but there was also no doubt that they’d been found out. Another second or two and whoever had been behind that thicket would have burst through to find them and alert the rest of his party. Until they reached Scottish ground, and even then, Ian couldn’t let his guard down again. No more games, no more teasing. This was a serious rescue mission.
As it was, whoever had been cutting through the thicket had likely followed their tracks and would alert their leader to them anyway. Ian had tried to be careful as they rode, but in the rising storm, he’d wrongly assumed their enemies would also seek shelter. The bastards would find where they’d been lurking in the tree hollow: their footprints, his horse’s hoof prints and even that of the wee cat. The best Ian could do now was put as much distance, as fast as possible, between them and their pursuers.
Mud from the wet ground flicked up and hit him in the face with cold, stinging splatters. At least Rhiannon’s face was pressed to his spine, where she would be saved from the muck’s assault.
Given the need for speed, Ian had opted for the more dangerous road rather than trying to find their way through the woods. Again, not what he’d planned in their retreat from England, but when one was faced with death at the hands of multiple enemies, sometimes those precautions had to be torn up and tossed into the wind.
In this case, his precautions had been tossed toward a stab of lightning and burst into flames. Neither he nor Rhiannon knew who exactly it was that followed them, only that it was not someone they cared to wait around and find out.
For her part, Rhiannon had not questioned him; rather she’d leaped to her feet and started to gather their things with a speed he hadn’t expected from a lady. Unless, of course, it was his sisters or Douglass. And to be quite honest it was mostly rumors he’d heard. But Rhiannon continued to prove him wrong—save for the running, of course, which he was still puzzled over her lack of stamina.
She’d hustled them to depart quicker than a mama who’d caught her daughter flirting with the town lecher—and Ian was proud to claim he was not such.
Despite the violent nature of his pursuits, females considered him quite a gentleman. Though he’d had plenty of women in the Orkney Isles knocking down his door, ready and willing to let him do whatever he wished—all of which he’d declined. They brought gifts nearly hourly when he was in residence, batting their lashes in hopes of a favor or a wedding proposal, especially when he’d been named laird. It was part of the reason he’d taken off, leaving the safety of his lands and castle to his very capable second, Mac.
Ian longed for adventure. For the excitement of a challenge. He was more than happy to volunteer his body and sword to any cause—as long as that cause wasn’t attached to a contract that ended with him saying “I do” for life and then being saddled to a woman who harped on him incessantly. And she would because he had plenty of faults.
Entering into marriage was not something he was willing to do. And why should he? He had two brothers. Sisters. If it came down to his life being forfeited and his property and title being up for grabs, he was more than happy for it all to go to them anyway—he had yet to confess to Rhiannon that he was the Earl of Orkney. He liked it better when she just thought him a simple laird. That made things less complicated for everyone.
Upon their father’s death, his three holdings had been split between his sons with Ian granted the lands in Orkney, Noah the lands in Caithness and Alistair their holding in the lowlands. They were each also granted a title by King Alexander III before his death.
Noah and Alistair were far more capable of running estates and lands than he was. Ian was suited for adventure. Put him in charge of an army and a war anytime—even better if he was able to slaughter the invading Sassenachs, Rhiannon, her cousin and uncle excepted.
And adventure was what he lacked on the Orkney Isles. Certainly, he’d tried. There were festivals, monthly games. Survival games—those were his favorite. They all went out into the woods and slowly but surely sought each other out, tagging each out of the game until there was only one survivor, the ultimate hero.
Of course, Ian won every time. But after the third time, he’d started to suspect they were making it easy for him because he was Earl of the Orkney Isles.
That wasn’t helpful. He wanted to win in earnest. What good was victory when your opponent never picked up their sword? Ian wanted to sweat for his triumph.
How was he going to keep his skills honed if he was always allowed to win and no real threats ever came to their shores? No one seemed interested in the Orkney Isles. At least not in the last hundred years.
And thus, he’d decided to leave. Offering his services to his brothers, who had plenty of fights on the mainland between not only the English but local skirmishes as well. This was what he was good at. If he settled down with a wife and bairn on the Orkney Isles, wouldn’t he get the adventure itch again? No woman deserved that.
Alas, he should count himself lucky that it was almost unheard of for his holdings to be attacked. His lands and people were safe. And he was immensely grateful to the gods and heavens and saints for seeing that they were. But, that left him an agitated beast who couldn’t seem to satisfy an itch no matter what he did—until he’d left.
Ian maneuvered his horse on the muddy road with expert hands, avoiding deep puddles that hid rocks and cavernous ruts. He encouraged his mount to leap over fallen tree limbs that had come down in the storm. And at last, the familiar signs of the road leading into Scotland came into view.
“Foking finally,” he mumbled, surging forward as a rush of relief flooded through his veins.
It wasn’t as if Adam and his army wouldn’t follow him over the border; hell, Longshanks’s men had done it a thousand times before in the Scots’ War for Independence. The outlaws likely wouldn’t, meaning they’d be safe from those bastards, since they did not want to tread on the turf of other outlaws, especially the Scots. However, the mercenaries—now they would blaze over the thick stones of Hadrian’s Wall that lay between the two countries as if it were an invitation. Of that, he was certain. Because they’d been doing it for decades. An endless fight for power. For control.
More than once he’d found himself on the opposite side of the battlefield from a Sassenach, and he didn’t doubt he’d find himself there again, this instance not included.
There was a border town, a few miles north of where they were now, with a tavern he’d stayed in many times. He built a friendship with the owner and his wife and helped whenever they needed it. They often hid him from his enemies, finding it a game of sorts, and he was fairly certain he could count on that now. Also, it didn’t hurt that he compensated them well.
The skies still rained down, and the thunder and lightning had become so commonplace he barely noticed it anymore as flashes lit the path forward. Poor Goosie trembled in a tiny ball tucked into his shirt. The cat, too, would be relieved for the inn.
They blew into town, and he was forced to slow his horse. Though barely anyone was out in the storm, he didn’t want to draw too much attention with his reckless speed. One never knew who exactly was in town, and though his friends wouldn’t sell him out, it didn’t mean that no one else would. While he would consider that person a traitor, he also understood that hunger and desperation did things to people. Made them make decisions they wouldn’t otherwise have done. Made them turn on people, even loved ones, to ease the ache in their bellies. A few moments of reprieve from constant misery. Though he’d disagree with their decision, he could empathize with why they might choose that path.
They reached the inn, where the sign reading Thistle Tavern swayed violently in the wind. Ian eased his horse back to the stables, dismounting and leading George inside with Rhiannon still seated in the saddle, looking slightly perplexed but not openly questioning as she took in their surroundings.
He found it a little surprising she trusted him so easily, but then again, what choice did she have? And she trusted her cousin more than her brother, and he had been sent by her cousin to retrieve her. Still, Ian had not known her long enough to earn such blanket trust yet. A task he was determined to see completed—so he could feel pride in her dependence on him getting her where she needed to go.
But why should he care if she trusted him? After he dropped her off with Douglass and Noah, he would depart for his next adventure. See her whenever he saw his brother unless she married someone else in the clan. Then, he might not see her at all. Wives were often busy doing…whatever it was wives did. The thought of not seeing her made him ill at ease, he didn’t know, and quite honestly, it made him a little nauseous.
Swallowing the bile rising in his throat at the odd turn of his thoughts, he cleared his throat until a lad no more than fourteen summers scurried from wherever he’d been napping.
“My laird,” he said, swiping the rowdy pile of curls on his head out of his eyes and securing it with a leather thong. “Ye’re back.”
