Page 428 of Wicked Highland Heroes

The lead man caught sight of Victoria and Aurari. “From the looks of things, some fine lasses among them.”

He made to urge his horse past Evan, but the Gypsy men drew their swords. A chorus of steel answered as the MacPherson men drew their weapons in response.

Victoria shot to her feet. “I command you to sheathe your weapons!”

The man who had spoken first blinked, and Victoria knew that, for once, her English accent had proven useful. She saw his gaze flick from her to Evan, then back to her again, his eyes narrowing.

“Are you deaf?” she demanded. “Sheathe your swords.”

This time, the man laughed. “By whose authority? Not these?” He jabbed his claymore in the direction of the Gypsies.

“By mine.”

“Yours?”

“Or my husband’s.” Scooping up the tartan that lay beside her, Victoria climbed from the wagon. The Gypsy men on horseback parted as she strode to the man and halted before him. His eyes narrowed as they fell on the tartan Victoria swirled in a flourish around her shoulders.

“You recognize the plaid?” she demanded.

“’Tis the laird’s plaid,” one man breathed.

“Quiet, you fool,” the leader commanded. “It is not necessarily the tartan she is supposed to have worn.” Then to her, “For all we know, you took that from a dead woman.”

“Are you willing to wager?” Without waiting for a reply, Victoria faced Evan. “We will press on, sir. I wish to reach Fauldun Castle before this day ends.” “You will not be going anywhere,” the Highlander cut in.

Victoria whirled. “Do you wish to inform my husband you were the fool who refused me assistance? Or shall I tell him you had the good sense to see me safely home?”

Something flickered in the man’s eyes, and Victoria forced back the demand to know if her husband had survived the rescue attempt. She could show no fear. If the Gypsy men feared they wouldn’t come under MacPherson protection once they reached Fauldun Castle, they might attempt fighting the Highlanders now.

The leader eyed the Gypsy men. “These will remain.”

“They will not. Now,” Victoria scanned the group of MacPherson men, “unless you propose to kill every

last one of us, prepare to ride as guard.”

“As guard? For—”

“Enough!” Victoria cut off the affront she knew was on the tip of his tongue. “You will be silent, or I promise you, Lord MacPherson will deal with you.” The man hesitated, then shot another glance at

Evan. “They must sheathe their swords.”

Victoria turned to Evan. “If you would, sir.”

Without taking his eyes from the MacPherson warrior, Evan jerked his head, and his men slid their weapons back into their scabbards.

Victoria forced her legs to remain steady on the slow walk back to the wagon.

* * *

As if the gods of old had lowered themselves to the level of mortal man and showered gold upon them, streaks of sunlight blazed from what seemed the highest peaks of the Grampians. Points of light were at last discernible in the shadows of those great summits, and something stirred deep within Victoria at the realization she was seeing sconces from Fauldun Castle’s battlements.

Home, she thought, even as a small voice answered, Fool. Wed but a week, and you are easily forgotten.

She had not thought to ever see Fauldun Castle— or Iain MacPherson—again. She had left with Edwin. Would he believe she had been kidnapped by David Robertson? Would he welcome her home or send her back to England?

The hour that passed before the keep broke into sight seemed as long as the week had been. The MacPherson men who rode as escort identified themselves to the guards on the castle walls. The discussion that passed between the two groups livened up at the announcement of Victoria’s presence. Their speech unexpectedly turned to Gaelic, and it was obvious that the Gypsies were now the topic of conversation.

The gate opened and Thomas emerged.