Chapter One
Scottish Highlands
Early September 1720
A hair-raising scream rent the late afternoon’s soggy air, wrenching Liam MacKay, Baron of Penderhaven, from his melancholy musings. He snorted in derision. When, in these past five years, weren’t his reflections melancholic? Macabre even?
Astride Deri—so named for the gelding’s metallic-shaded coat—he reflexively clasped the dirk at his waist as the pulverizing wind caught the merest wisp of another frantic cry. Pulling his spine straighter, all of his senses acutely alert, he squinted through the deluge pelting him and methodically scrutinized the surrounding woodlands.
From whence had the shout come?
Close by, for certain.
Eyes narrowed, he scratched his beard and made a thorough, circular study of the area once more. The tangy scent of sodden earth and the sharp, almost pungent, odor of the shrewish tempest met his flared nostrils.
With the furious squall buffeting the thrashing trees and the torrential rain hammering the drenched ground—not to mention the periodic deafening booms of thunder hard on the heels of each lightning streak illuminating the heavens—he couldn’t quite discern the person’s location or gender. Another incandescent purplish flash divided the bruise-colored sky, immediately followed by an earth-shaking explosion in the firmaments.
God’s teeth, what a gale.
In his one and thirty years, he didn’t recall a more sudden or violent thunderstorm. The ground was still hard and arid from an unusually warm summer, and water gushed down the craggy hillside eager to reach the riotous, brown river below.
More than once, Deri had slid on the slick slope. If there’d been lodgings to be had this past hour, Liam would’ve sought its refuge straightaway.
Traveling in this sorry weather was stupid, plain-and-simple. But halting and risking the elements might prove worse with the trees snapping like kindling all around him. Unrelenting stinging rain pellets lashed his face, giving no hint of reprieve anytime soon either.
For the past three hours, the powerful thunderstorm raging overhead had battered the Highlands. Which explained why he’d chosen to ride beneath the flailing branches above rather than chance the open road a few hundred yards away.
Quite simply, there was far less risk of lightning striking him amongst the trees than upon the unprotected track paralleling the river. However, in these woodlands, a much greater risk of being taking down by a falling tree existed.
Odin’s teeth. Damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t. A no-win situation. Caught between the coals and the cookpot.
Head angled as he strained to hear above the storm, he pushed his saturated hair off his forehead. Another terrified shriek—definitely feminine—echoed through the Scots pine forest, curdling his blood and raising his nape hair as well as causing his horse to sidestep and snort nervously.
“Easy, lad. Shh.” He hugged his knees to the gelding’s sides, giving him a reassuring pat on the neck. Whoever the woman was, he couldn’t ignore her terrified cries. He stroked the horse again. “Dinna fash yerself, my friend.”
“Unhand me, vous monstre!”
Monster and in French to boot?
“Help! Help! Mon Dieu. Somebody, help us, s’il vous plaît.” The last broke on a ragged sob barely audible above the thunder reverberating violently in the angry pewter sky.
What in Odin’s toes was a French woman doing in this isolated stretch of the Highlands, in this godawful weather, and screaming for help? To be fair, the storm had developed quite suddenly, and the nearest inn was miles away.
Nonetheless, his warrior’s instinct pinged an urgent warning.
And the Frenchwoman had said “us”. Meaning more than one person was in some sort of danger. Hell, anyone outside in this hell-fired gale was in peril.
“Mon Dieu, non. Non.” The plaintive wail broke through a pause in the storm’s tumult.
Desperate. Defeated. Disbelieving.
Swearing a steady stream of expletives beneath his breath, Liam reined Deri in the direction of the heart-rending plea and put his heels to the horse’s sides. At once, the steed surged forward, pounding toward God only knew what. Liam erupted through the towering trees, momentarily taken aback at the bizarre scene before him.
A traveling coach angled across the middle of the mucky road, its door flung wide open. Two men, legs splayed and their bearing menacing, stood near the front of the vehicle. The coachmen?
A pair of dripping-wet women huddled together a few feet away, the taller with her arm wrapped protectively around the smaller woman’s shoulders. Even from where he’d exited the woodlands, he couldn’t miss the diminutive woman’s violent quaking.
One driver gleefully brandished a pair of blunderbusses.
Christ on the cross.
What in the bloody hell went on here? A robbery? It didn’t make sense. Why drive the ladies to this godforsaken spot? Especially in this rabid weather?
The fiend straightened his arm, aiming a weapon at the younger woman. “Say yer prayers, lass. ’Tis time to meet yer maker.”
Not if Liam could help it.
Wrenching his dirk from his belt, he released a warrior’s ferocious battle shout. Another peal of thunder split the turbulent shrapnel sky, muffling the bellow. He vaulted from the saddle. But before his feet hit the ground, the man, still grinning maniacally, pulled the trigger.
Nae!
“Non!” The skinny older woman threw herself in front of the other equally slender lady.
The taller female caught her companion in her arms, the momentum from the gunshot propelling them to the muddy ground.
“Nae! Nae! Naaee! Aunt Jeneva!” the woman cried hoarsely, hunched over her immobile aunt, patting her face. “Och, my God, ye unconscionable monster. I think…ye’ve killed her.”
Even as Liam surged across the remaining distance, the scunner’s face contorted into a devious smirk, and he calmly leveled the other pistol at her head.
Proud and gloriously defiant, the lass lifted her chin, her saturated bronze tresses spilling over the plain dark blue cloak covering her shoulders and spine. Such bravery in the face of terrifying peril could only be admired, and Liam’s warrior’s heart applauded her courage.
An instant later, an uncomfortable jolt speared his breast.
He recognized her.
She’d been at the cèilidh hosted by Graeme Kennedy a few weeks ago. And also at that ludicrous masked ball in Edinburgh Mother had insisted he escort his sister, Kendra, to.
“Why? Why are ye doin’ this?” she shakily asked, her delicate, stricken face streaked with tears and rain. “We’ve nae money or jewels. Nothin’ of value. We’re simple seamstresses.”
The wind whipping his hair, the coachman shrugged casually, as if they discussed the petulant weather. He hastily sliced his companion a sly, side-eyed look. “We’ve been paid handsomely to dispose of ye.”
Her mouth went slack, and a confused line appeared between her brows. “Ye must have the wrong person. I’m nae a threat to anyone. Neither was my aunt. We have nae enemies. Ye’ve made a horrendous mistake.”
“Nae. ’Tis nae mistake.” He grinned, exposing time-yellowed teeth and wobbled the gun’s muzzle up and down. “We made absolute sure of yer identity, Miss Emeline Toinette Jeneva LeClaire, didna we, Hamish?”