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“My lord, I—” The English guard seemed less than willing to support such a course but his protests were drowned by her brother’s roar of pure fury.
“Fucking shut up. All of you, just do as you’re fucking told. God’s balls, you are paid well enough to obey a simple command. Throw the slut into the nearest boat, and as soon as she births that heathen’s spawn toss it overboard.”
“No!” Roselyn’s wail of anguish was lost in another agonised scream as her womb tightened brutally.
“You. Yes, you, the boatman. Come here, now.” Ingram’s autocratic command rang out across the beach.
There was a crunch of wet gravel and heavy footsteps reached Roselyn’s ears, then the chink of coin as her brother hurled the purse at the ferryman. “Yours. All yours if you carry her to your boat. Take her snivelling servant as well, and row them across to the other side. Sir John of Hexham is on the opposite shore and he shall take her from there.”
“Aye, my lord, right gladly.” The lilting tone of the man’s Highland brogue sounded achingly familiar. Roselyn started, tilted her chin and held her breath. Beside her Meggie also gasped, but Roselyn grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard. She may be mistaken, but was rarely wrong in her ability to recognise those close to her. She trusted her senses and incredible though the possibility might be, the man into whose keeping her brother was about to hand her was indeed her husband’s captain-at-arms.
Aiden should not be here. He should be in Mortain, guarding that stronghold for Blair, not posing as an oarsman in the pay of an English murderer.
“Be still, Lady Roselyn, and calm. We shall soon have ye safe again.” The familiar scent of her husband’s close friend reached her nostrils as the man bent to lift her from the wet pebbles. He murmured his gentle reassurance in her ear, and Roselyn understood at once that her brother was not to know the true identity of the boatman. She nodded and gripped her maid’s hand tight, wordlessly conveying the warning to Meggie, too.
Gentle hands eased her from the hard ground and in moments she was lying on her side in the bottom of a boat, Meggie huddled at her side. The craft bobbed merrily on the choppy waves and Roselyn felt her stomach heave once more.
“Sweet Virgin, she’s about to cast up more filth.” Alan’s disgust dripped from his tone. “Get her out of my sight. Let her husband worry about her now, I have done my duty in the matter.”
“Take Lady Roselyn across tae the other shore. Ye ken well enough what tae do when ye reach there.” Aiden issued the instructions now, to some unseen man already waiting at the oars
“Aye, sir.” Roselyn could not place a name to the owner of the second voice, but she knew the tone to be familiar. She was with one of her husband’s guards. She felt the motion as the boat she lay in was shoved out onto the waves, then the rhythmic splish-splash as the man bent to his task.
“Meggie…” she whispered. “Where are we? Who is here?”
A male voice replied. “Ye may speak freely, my lady. We are out of earshot of the shore now and ‘tis just we three. I am Alexander, madam, one of The McGregor’s archers. We have nae spoken before now, but—”
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Alexander. I… aaagh!” She doubled up in agony as another contraction overwhelmed her. Roselyn was dimly aware of Meggie’s squeal as she gripped her poor maid’s hand mercilessly. Her baby was coming, and it was too early. She was giving birth weeks too soon, but there was no stopping the inexorable force of nature as her womb laboured to expel the tiniest McGregor into a hostile and uncertain world.
Roselyn wept, whether in relief or sheer desperation she could not say. She longed for Betsy, or even the gruff efficiency of Elspeth to help ease the pain of the coming ordeal. But most of all, she needed her husband.
* * *
Blair got to his feet and wiped the blade of his dirk on his braies. The English soldier had been near enough to death when they discovered his worthless carcase, but the matter was completed now and no one here would lament his passing. Blair had, however, managed to extract the intelligence he needed before dispatching the man to meet his maker.
“We ride for Loch Alsh, and with all speed. Ingram is making for the ferry crossing, and has left the bulk of his English force to await him on the mainland. We need to prevent him from reaching them.” He swung back into his saddle. “He has almost two hours’ head start. Alastair—which is the quickest route?”
The man nudged his horse forward. Alastair Salmon was son to Blair’s ghillie and had grown up on these glens and hills. He knew every inch of the McGregor lands. “Straight over the summit ofSgurr na Coinnich, Laird. ‘Tis the highest peak on the Isle and a hard ride. A perilous way but ‘twould slice a good half hour from the journey time.”
“We shall do better even than that. I need to reach Loch Alsh in less than three hours. Who is with me?”
The roar from his men was all the response he needed. “Alastair, ye shall lead since ye ken the route best.” Blair waited just a moment to let the man hit the front, then kicked Bartholomew into a gallop. His men streamed after him. They had an enemy to defeat and a lady to save.
Darkness fell within minutes of leaving Dunisburn woods but the small force of Highlanders never broke stride. From his interrogation of the dying soldier Blair now knew that Alan of Ingram had eight men-at-arms with him, so his own force outnumbered the Englishman. There was little doubt of the outcome should they succeed in overtaking the raiders, but that was not the greatest of his worries.
Roselyn was strong and in good health, but she was a woman close to her time and the danger to her and their unborn babe was grave. He would never forgive himself if he failed to bring her home safe, but there was too little time to formulate a plan that would guarantee her well-being. He could only ride like the devil himself was on his heels and pray they reached her in time.
Bartholomew’s hooves ate up the miles, pounding across the springy grass and soft heather. The ground began to rise and their progress slowed, though only marginally. Blair knew they needed to make swift progress, but they also needed their horses to remain sound. He paced his own mount and his men matched his speed. The incline grew steeper, and the animals laboured beneath them, but none dropped back. Mercifully they had the benefit of a clear, moonlit night or they might well have lost a horse to a tumble or an unseen rabbit hole, but they managed to avoid such hazards.
Blair’s jaw tensed. Any advantage they enjoyed was similarly bestowed upon their quarry. He urged his mount to ascend the peak even faster.
At last they crested the summit and the landscape opened before them, sloping away in a much gentler descent down to the sea. Blair could not yet see the loch, but he sensed the end of his journey and the proximity of his foe. Ingram had not crossed yet. Blair knew it, could feel it, could actually taste his revenge which was tantalisingly close, almost within his grasp. But his first priority was to see his wife out of danger and returned to his home where she belonged.
“Well done, Alastair. My thanks to ye for seeing us safe here. Come, we shall have the bastards on our swords afore long now.”
Blair led the charge as the Scots thundered down the hillside, heading for the shore.
The final rise fell away and they could discern the shimmering water below. The moon cast her soft illumination over the glen and Blair slowed to peruse the scene beneath.
