Much to her relief, Father Machar nodded assent.
“I’m going to slide out and wait while you slip out and then we’ll make a run for the woods together. All right, Father?” she asked.
When he nodded again, she turned and cautiously eased her head out again. Not seeing anyone, she then began to push her shoulders out through the slit. Her chest followed next.
“He’s probably keeping them in the tent.”
“Aye,” Geordie said in response to that whispered comment from the MacGregor. The men were no doubt already in position farther up the hill in the trees that surrounded the small but deep valley. It had taken he and Conn some time to make their way here to this spot halfway down the hill. Brodie hadn’t left the trees unguarded. There were men patrolling to ensure no one snuck up on them, and they’d already taken out five men on their way down the side of the valley. Posting the patrols was about the only smart thing Brodie had done. Choosing to camp in the valley had been incredibly stupid to Geordie’s mind. He would have chosen a high flat hill himself, so that he could see anyone approaching for a good distance. But he wasn’t going to complain about his enemy making things easier for him. Especially if it raised his odds of getting Dwyn back safe.
“I say we make our way down to the tent, listen fer a minute to see if Brodie is inside and then slice a—”
Geordie glanced to the man with curiosity when he fell silent mid-speech. Eyebrows rising at the startled expression on the MacGregor’s face, he then turned to peer back at the tent, his own eyes widening incredulously as he saw that a gash had appeared in the back wall of the tent and a head was pushing out to look around. Geordie knew at once by the pale gold hair that it was Dwyn, and the tightness that had felt like a hand crushing his heart since he’d woken to find her gone eased its grip a bit. She was alive. He couldn’t see her well enough from this distance to tell what shape she was in, but she was alive and on her feet . . . and the smart little minx was making her own escape.
Grinning, Geordie watched as she glanced around. When her head disappeared back into the tent, he eased out of his crouched position and began to move silently forward through the trees even as the MacGregor did. They both paused again about twenty feet later when Dwyn’s head appeared again through the slit. Geordie immediately scoured the area to both sides of the tent in search of any soldiers who might be a problem for his wee wife. He then glanced back to the MacGregor when the man sucked in a hissing breath. He was expecting to see one of Brodie’s men approaching or something else, but there was no one about. Following the man’s gaze back to the tent, he saw that Dwyn’s shoulders had followed her head out, and now her bosom was framed by the tent as it pushed out as well. The sun had set not long ago, and night was falling. It was that twilight hour when it wasn’t quite dark, but not really light either. But what light there was seemed almost to be caught by her pale hair and skin where her gown didn’t cover it, and the sight of Dwyn’s beautiful breasts swelling over the top of her gown was enough to make him sigh.
“Ye’re a lucky man, Buchanan,” Conn MacGregor murmured.
Geordie nodded as he watched her stomach and hips slide through the gap now.
“Most lasses would sit about waiting to be ravished or rescued,” MacGregor added.
“Me Dwyn’s no’ like most lasses,” Geordie assured him, and they began to move forward again as if by agreement.
Dwyn suspected that maneuvering herself through the slit she’d made in the tent was much like being born, though less messy and probably with less resistance than a body would offer. But then the tent also didn’t have muscles contracting to push her out, but she made it through the slash she’d cut, and then stood to the side of it and glanced nervously around as she waited for Father Machar to push his way out as well.
The priest was a slender man, but still bigger than her and seemed to have some difficulty forcing his way through the slit. Dwyn was beginning to think she should cut a cross slit in it to help him out when he suddenly stiffened, his eyes going round with alarm.
“Get back in here, ye bloody bastard!”
Sucking in a sharp breath of alarm at the sound of Brodie’s voice, Dwyn caught Father Machar by both hands and yanked with all her might. She threw her whole body into the action, but was still amazed when it worked and the priest suddenly shot from the hole. Dwyn gasped as Father Machar came crashing down on top of her, and then pushed him off and leapt to her feet.
“Come,” she hissed, grabbing his arm to drag him to his feet. Brodie was bellowing away furiously, and trying to push his own way through the slit she’d made in the tent. Fortunately for them, he was twice as big as Father Machar and was stuck, at least briefly. Not wanting to stick around to see how long it would take him to break loose and tumble out after them, Dwyn caught the priest by the hand and dragged him after her as she rushed for the trees.
Dwyn wasn’t surprised when she glimpsed Brodie soldiers running around both sides of the tent after them. Faolan Brodie was making enough noise that she was sure the entire camp was coming. Refusing to let herself think about what might happen to her if those jackals got their hands on her, she kept her head down and put all her effort into running. Within seconds they were slipping into what little cover the trees offered. Running became more dangerous then, the ground suddenly uneven with roots and fallen branches to trip them up. Dwyn didn’t slow though, and didn’t look up either until she heard her name shouted over the sound of the gasping breaths she was taking.
Finally raising her head, she spotted two large shapes ahead of her and nearly turned to swerve around the pair, until one of them called out again. “Dwyn, love, this way.”
“Geordie,” she gasped, recognizing his voice this time. Squeezing Father Machar’s hand reassuringly, she managed to put on a burst of speed. The problem then became that she wasn’t sure which one of the two large shapes was her husband. Both men were of a size, and she couldn’t see features or hair color in the dark woods, so she flipped a coin in her mind—left, right, left, right. Right. Dwyn rushed the man on the right, nearly running right up his body and into his arms. She realized the moment she caught a whiff of his scent that it wasn’t her husband. He smelled nearly as nice as Geordie, but different, and she pulled back sharply.
“Lady Buchanan,” a deep rich voice full of amusement greeted her, “Conn MacGregor at yer service. Pleasure to meet ye,” the man said even as he passed her off to another set of arms.
“Dwyn,” Geordie breathed with relief as he held her. She recognized his scent and immediately curled into his arms. He didn’t say anything else; he simply started to run with her, heading up the hill.
“Laird MacGregor! Oh, dear!”
Dwyn stretched up to glance over Geordie’s shoulder at that surprised gasp and nearly laughed aloud when she was confronted with Father Machar’s bottom yet again. The other man, Laird MacGregor, had slung the priest over his shoulder and was hard on Geordie’s heels. She was just relaxing when she looked past him and saw how close Brodie’s men were. There were a bare few feet between Father Machar’s head and the closest of Brodie’s soldiers, and their pursuers weren’t having to cart another person with them.