Ines rubbed at her sore wrists and tried to catch her breath. She would simply hide here until the sounds of fighting died away. Then she would hide longer until she could discern a winner. If the bandits won, she would stay where she was and hope they did not find her. It was raining harder now, and the sky had darkened considerably. She would not be easy to spot in her dark dress. But, of course, the bandits would not win. Duncan must win. He must or...
Something moved in the brush behind her. Ines hoped she had imagined it, but she heard a rustling, even the rain could not muffle. She tensed, afraid to move and give herself away. One of Graeme’s men must have hidden here. She should have paid more attention to where they’d positioned themselves.
Slowly, she turned to look into the shadows behind her. Something moved, but it didn’t look human. Caramba! There were wolves in Scotland! And then she saw the brown eyes and the patch of white fur, and she sobbed out a cry of relief. “Loftus!” The dog pushed through the undergrowth, his tongue licking her face. Ines much preferred cats to dogs. She thought dogs ill-mannered because they were always licking people they barely knew. But she would have submitted to Loftus’s ministrations for another five minutes. She was so happy to see him. He sniffed her, licked her again, and then his ears pricked up as though he were listening for something.
The fighting. Of course, he had heard it. But if he was here, did that mean Emmeline was nearby as well? Ines couldn’t imagine Mr. Fortescue or Duncan would allow her anywhere near this place. They would have left her behind with Loftus. Loftus whined, looked at Ines, then back at the sounds of the fight. Finally, seeming to make up his mind, he slid back under the brush and toward the fighting. Duncan and Fortescue would soon have another soldier, but where was Emmeline?
DUNCAN
Duncan had to admit Stratford was a better fighter than he would have guessed. The two hadn’t fought together often. Duncan and other members of the troop, usually Ewan and Rowden, were sent in when hand-to-hand combat was required. Stratford was usually positioned with Nash to oversee the strategy he’d laid out, while Nash picked off any men Duncan and the others didn’t disarm in their first sortie.
Duncan supposed he had seen Stratford fight before. No one escaped the war without some blood on their hands. He just hadn’t realized how graceful and controlled Stratford’s technique could be. That was the word for it—technique. He didn’t fight as Duncan did—with wild abandon. He fought with precision and efficiency. Duncan had to admire the style, even as he tore his own way through the last few bandits still standing. There had only been about seven of them. With their leader down, the others had swarmed. Half had gone for Stratford and the others for Duncan. On the Continent, the men of Draven’s had always fought toward each other, until they could press their backs together defensively. Duncan did that now, without thinking. After a few minutes, Stratford’s back pressed into his.
“Seems like old times,” Stratford said, panting.
“Aye, except I had a sword then.” Duncan threw a punch and hoped the man stayed down.
“And I had a pistol.” He grunted as one of their opponents obviously landed a blow. Duncan had one more man to take down, then he would finish off Stratford’s foes. “You still don’t follow plans,” Stratford said, obviously annoyed that Duncan had left his position early.
“Make a better one and I might.” Duncan dodged his man’s right hook.
“The weather is the same,” Stratford said.
“Always wet and muddy, aye. I was so tired of the pissing rain.” Duncan hit his man across from him with his stick, opening a gash on the man’s forehead and causing him to fall to his knees. Duncan kicked him, and when the man went down, Duncan leaned close and said, “Stay down or I’ll slide my dagger between yer ribs.”
The man stayed down.
Duncan turned to Stratford’s last adversary, a big man with dark red hair plastered to his face. He had to weigh two of Stratford, and he had arms like tree limbs. He seemed to have no weapon but his fists, and that was probably all he needed.
This might take a while. The man was obviously besting Stratford, judging by the blood at the corner of his friend’s mouth. When Duncan stepped forward, the man smiled.
And then his smile froze. It only took Duncan a moment to realize why. He too heard the growl. With a smile, Duncan spotted Loftus behind the reiver, crouched low, teeth bared.
“Put yer fists down, and I’ll call him off,” Duncan said. “Otherwise, I’ll let him eat ye for dinner.”
The man put his fists down, his eyes wild with fright.
“Loftus, come,” Stratford said.
Loftus trotted to his side, his eyes still trained on the large Scot. Sensing his opportunity, the man ran. Loftus started to go after him, but Duncan grasped him by the scruff of the neck and held him. “Let him go, boy. He willnae trouble us more.”
Stratford bent at the waist, catching his breath. “How do we know they won’t lick their wounds and ambush us?”
“Because I killed their leader.”
Stratford’s head came up. “Bloody hell.”
But Duncan felt no remorse. The man had touched Ines. He’d abducted her, bound her, and God knew what he had done to her while he’d had her. And he’d probably terrorized countless other travelers or nearby landholders. The man did not deserve to live.
And he knew that was not the only reason. He’d lost his temper, lost control. He had been worried for Ines, but that was not all. He’d wanted revenge, though of course the man he killed wasn’t the one who’d really deserved it.
As Duncan and Stratford caught their breath, the small group of men began slinking away, limping and staggering. Two of them took their leader by the arms and dragged him off as well.
Stratford straightened. “I told her to stay with the dog,” he said.
“And when has Emmeline Wellesley ever done as anyone bade her? Take the dog and find her. The roof of the cottage has a few holes, but we can sleep in here tonight. It will be better than huddling out in the rain.”
“Where is Miss Neves?” Stratford asked, looking about the gloomy darkness.
“Let me worry aboot her.” He knew exactly where she was. He’d seen her run into the brush and duck down. He was pleased she had enough sense to stay there, hidden.
Stratford slapped him on the back and started away, the dog leading him. Duncan started for Ines, covering the ground between them in a few steps. She popped up when she heard him coming. “Is it over?” she asked.
It was so good to see her face, to see her alive and well. His heart ached at the sight. “Aye,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion.
“Did you win?” she asked.
“Aye.” He reached her, scooped her into his arms, and began to carry her. She squealed in surprise.
“What are you doing, senhor?”
“Getting ye inside.” And holding her. He needed to hold her in the moment.
He reached the crofter’s cottage, kicked the door open, and carried her in. It was dark and chilly inside, but at least it was mostly dry. He remembered the dry corner where he had waited for Stratford’s signal—a signal he’d forgotten about as soon as he saw Ines fall to her knees—and deposited Ines there. He’d taken off his coat inside because he’d known he’d want more freedom of movement when he attacked, and it had proved a wise decision as it was still warm. He dropped it over Ines’s shoulders and felt around for several abandoned birds’ nests he’d seen.