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Roselyn bit down hard on her lower lip. “Where is my maid,” she ground out. “I have need of her…”
“She is well enough and has the sense to remain silent.”
Poor little Meggie, she must be terrified. “Please, I must stop. I need a moment or two…”
“The crossing is just a few miles away. We shall stop there and not before.” Her brother was breathless now, the strain of his headlong dash across the Highland countryside taking its toll. She supposed his fondness for pastries and fine wines played their part too. His flabby clumsiness and crude violence would be no match for the lean, supple strength and finely honed skills of her husband. If only Blair was here…
A few miles? How long would that take? How much more could she bear before she could conceal her labour no longer, regardless the greed-fuelled self-absorption of her brother? Roselyn might be blind, but he was the one who chose not to see what was happening, literally right in front of his stupid nose. She clamped her jaws shut and resolved to hang on to the bitter end.
Another half hour passed and even the insensitive Earl of Ingram became aware that something was amiss. Roselyn was writhing in his lap, and she screamed out loud as her womb contracted sharply.
“Lady…?” The wavering tone of an anxious Meggie. “Are ye all right?”
“Quiet, brat,” snarled Alan. “I shall have no whimpering from you. And you…” he seized a hank of Roselyn’s hair and wrenched her head back, “you shall keep your mouth shut, you treacherous bitch, or I shall be giving you something to scream for.”
“Ye be hurtin’ her. Let her go.” Brave little Meggie was not giving up.
“Hush, sweetheart. I am fine, just a little tired is all.” Roselyn managed to grind out the words, not wishing to risk allowing Meggie to draw her brother’s wrath. “We shall be at the ferry soon, then we may rest.”
“I see it, ahead.” Alan slowed the mount and his grip in her hair slackened as he raised himself up in the saddle to better peer through what must by now be the pitch dark of a Highland night. Was there a moon? How much could he see? Would those who must by now be in pursuit be able to find their way also?
She was convinced that Blair would know to head for Loch Alsh, and perhaps there was a speedier route by which he might reach here. If there was, her husband would surely take it. He might yet catch them up before the English could cross, especially if she could find some means to slow their progress.
Her brother dug in his heels and the horse lurched forward into a gallop again. Roselyn felt the slight shift in her brother’s relentless grip and knew they were charging fast downhill. She considered throwing herself from the horse’s back but did not dare for fear she might injure her baby that way.
Time was running out. Her mind raced furiously as the steed slowed. She could smell the tangy scent of the water close by, could hear the gentle lapping of the waves on the shingle beach.
“I need to dismount. Now.”
Alan ignored her. “Hey, you, boatman. Over here. I have need of your craft and there’s gold in it for you. You shall be handsomely paid for a swift passage.” He grabbed at the purse by his side and rattled the coins as though that might entice the ferryman to greater efforts.
Perhaps it would. She needed to do something, anything, to disrupt his plans. Roselyn retched, then deposited what remained of the midday meal she ate so long ago all over her brother’s hands and sleeves. Her fastidious sibling let out a roar of outrage and flung his reins aside.
“The vile bitch has cast up her innards all over me. Christ’s piss, what a mess.” He pulled the now walking horse to a standstill and shoved Roselyn roughly to the ground. “You shall walk the rest of the way, you foul piece of slime. Gagh, look at this mess. A rag, someone…”
Roselyn lay on the rough shingle beach as her belly contracted. She panted hard until the pain passed, then rolled onto her knees. The sounds of hooves seemed to be all around her, and everywhere she heard her brother’s whining tone as he complained to all who might listen about the piteous state of his fine tunic.
Why had she not thought to deposit the contents of her stomach earlier? Roselyn grimaced as a second wave of nausea seized her and leaned forward to retch into the damp sand. Soft hands smoothed back her hair.
“My lady, are ye ill? Is it the bairn?” It was Meggie’s voice, thank the dear Virgin.
Quickly, Roselyn shook her head. “No, it is nothing, just the strain of… of… everything. Are you unharmed, sweetheart?”
“Aye, my lady. They just threw me onto a horse an’ I clung on.”
“Harry? Where is Harry?”
Meggie was silent. Roselyn clutched at her hand. “Tell me.”
“He… they hit him, my lady. With the flat of a sword I think, but then that man, the one who took ye, he took out his dagger an’ he… he…”
“The vicious bastard. Alan killed Harry? But he was just a lad…”
Meggie sniffled beside her, shock and grief perhaps only now starting to take their toll. Roselyn grasped her maid’s small hand and would have uttered something intended to calm the lass, but was seized with another contraction which swept all other considerations aside.
“My lord, I believe we need to attend to Lady Roselyn or she will deliver her child right here on the beach.” It was the voice of a stranger, the gruff dialect English rather than Scottish.
“What? No, she is not about to give birth. I forbid it. Do you hear me, you stupid wench? You shall not thwart me now. If you want to drop the whelp here then do so, but we’ll leave the brat where it falls.”
