Clover attempted to sidle around the huge man and suddenly found herself encircled by two burly buckskin-clad arms, then slammed up against a hard chest. The man was even more aromatic than she had first thought. Her concerns about his odor were overridden by the discovery that he was holding herso tight that she could not even attempt to wriggle free. In fact, she was beginning to have trouble breathing. She was able to kick her legs against his, but without any apparent effect on him.
She could not believe that fate could be so cruel. Her family had already been scarred by scandal, suicide, complete ostracization, and dire poverty. It now appeared that her rape was about to be added to that list of woes.
“C’mon, darlin’,” her captor said. “You and Big Jim gots some fun to attend to.”
“Put me down this minute, you foul-smelling heathen.” Her last word ended on a screech as he abruptly tucked her under one massive arm.
After her first shock, Clover tried to pummel him, but the pounding of her small fists against his bulk only made him laugh. Just as she opened her mouth to scream, though she doubted anyone near at hand would come to her aid, he clamped a filthy hand over her mouth. He had barely taken two steps, however, when he suddenly stopped. Clover glanced up and her eyes widened. A hand was tangled in her captor’s greasy black hair, pulling his head back, and a very impressive knife was pressed against his thick, dirt-encrusted throat.
“Put the wee lass down, Big Jim,” drawled a deep voice.
An instant later Clover found herself sprawled facedown in the dusty road. She turned to sit up and stare at the man who was now holding Big Jim. Slowly the man released Jim. Her rescuer was a lot better dressed than Big Jim and his friends, but she did not need her assailant’s recognition of the man to tell her that he too was from the frontier. He had a distinctlyuncivilized air about him. Although he had come to her aid, she was not sure that his acquaintance with Big Jim boded well for her.
“Ain’t no need to take a knife to me, MacGregor,” said Big Jim.
“I am wearing my courting clothes, Big Jim. I wasnae of a mind to risk messing them up by ‘discussing’ things. Ye all right, little girl?” he asked Clover.
Again she cursed her diminutive size as she stared up at her rescuer. For a reason she could not even begin to understand, it deeply troubled her that this man called MacGregor thought she was a child. Another thing that puzzled her was the way his deep, smooth voice with its attractive Scottish burr made her feel decidedly warm. She hastily gathered the wit to nod. As she reached out to accept the helping hand he extended, she caught sight of a movement to his right.
“Look out, sir!” she warned, then realized the words were unnecessary, for even as she spoke, MacGregor swung, blocking Big Jim’s stealthy attack and sending him sprawling in the dirt.
“Weel, I reckon this means that Big Jim wants to dicker,” MacGregor said as he slipped out of his black dress coat and handed it to one of two companions that Clover noticed for the first time. “Hold this, Lambert. It seems our old friend Big Jim didnae learn nothing from the whupping I gave him back home.”
One of the slender buckskin-clad youths took MacGregor’s coat. The other one grinned at her, then neatly grasped her under the arms and set her on her feet next to them. Just like a little child, she thought a bit crossly, before her full attention wastaken up by the ensuing fisticuffs. Mr. MacGregor looked too slender to best the hulking Big Jim, and she feared she would be the cause of some serious injury to him.
But Big Jim was quickly shown to be greatly outclassed. Even with her total lack of knowledge about the art of fist-fighting, Clover could see that. Mr. MacGregor was able to neatly avoid any damage to himself and his courting clothes while thoroughly beating Big Jim. The only part of Mr. MacGregor that came into contact with Big Jim was his swift and powerful fists. When Big Jim finally went down and stayed down, his friends hurriedly picked him up and scurried off, shouting curses as they left.
MacGregor returned to where Clover still stood and redonned his fine black coat. He had to be over six feet tall, Clover noticed, lean and possessing a wiry strength. She was a little disconcerted to discover that she only reached his broad chest. When he put one long finger beneath her chin, tilted her face up to his, and smiled at her, she became alarmingly short of breath. His rich green eyes seemed almost startling in his handsome, dark face. She noticed that the fight had not even disarranged the neat queue into which he had forced his thick ebony hair.
“Did he hurt ye, lassie?” he asked.
“No,” she managed to reply, her voice barely a hoarse croak, then she frowned. “Unfortunately, I did him no harm either.” He laughed, and it was such a rich, free sound that she was compelled to smile. “I thank you for your help, sir.”
“Ballard MacGregor,” he said as he took her by the elbow and started up the street. “The laddie on yourright is my brother Shelton, and next to him is my cousin Lambert Aldritch.”
“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Clover Sherwood.”
“Now, I dinnae want ye to be thinking all Kentuckians are like Big Jim Wallis. He isnae much liked back in Pottersville.”
She nodded. “Every town has a Big Jim, I fear.” Curiosity got the better of her and she added, “You are clearly a Scot, yet Ballard, Shelton, and Lambert are not very Scottish names.”
“Our mother was English, an Aldritch like Lambert. She told our father that since she was the one bearing us, she would be the one to name us. Our father gave us a second name to placate our Scottish ancestors. Mine is Alexander and Shelton’s is Robert.” He winked at her. “Made our names as grand as the rich folk carry.”
She smiled fleetingly, then asked, “Where are you going, sir?”
“I am taking ye home, my bonnie wee lassie. Where do ye live?”
“Bolton Street. Do you know where that is?” She knew it was not an area of town the backwoodsmen usually frequented.
“Weel, hellfire, isnae that a quirk, eh? ‘Tis exactly where I am headed.”
“Do you know someone on Bolton Street?”
“Aye, a Miss Sarah Marsten. I am courting the lass.”
“Dang fool,” muttered his brother.
“That is enough out of ye, Shelton, my lad.” Ballard only briefly glanced at his young brother as they headed up the street.
