He was willing to die for her. As the thought racketed about in his brain he nearly steered the gelding into a tree. When Brian Maxton had lost his wife, he’d shot himself. Was it the same thing? Was dying to save someone equal to dying to avoid being without her?
Unexpectedly the answer came in Marjorie’s matter-of-fact tones. He wasn’t giving up. He was fighting, rescuing, protecting. It wasn’t the same.Hewasn’t the same man his father had been. The fact that he’d stayed on at the Lion’s Den, become a father and a brother to Connell and Dùghlas and Brendan proved that.
They traveled quickly, but he knew the land better, and he moved faster. He estimated it was early afternoon when he reached the edge of a clearing just as they headed back into the trees on the far side. He pulled his rifle from its scabbard to rest it across his knees.
As they started into the next meadow he kicked Clootie in the ribs. “Paulk!” he bellowed, crossing the edge of the trees to meet them broadside.
Hamish wheeled to face him. Before he could do more than open his mouth, Graeme slammed the butt of his rifle into the chieftain’s face. With a grunt Paulk fell out of the saddle and hit the ground.
Graeme aimed the rifle squarely at the short, muscular man who had a bound Marjorie facedown across his thighs. “If ye want to see another sunrise, set her doon. Gently.”
His uncle edged his bay forward a little. “Graeme, I’m trying to keep ye and the lads clear of this.”
Keeping the weapon and his gaze on Marjorie’s captor, Graeme scowled. “I dunnae know who ye are, but ye’re nae kin to me. Now,yeput the lass doon. I’ll shoot ye in the head and do it myself if ye make me ask ye again.”
“Graeme, ye’ll be starting a war,” Raibeart pleaded.
“Ye already did that when ye stole my woman from me,” he snapped. “The only question ye need to ponder is whether ye want to leave this meadow alive or nae.”
“Ye cannae shoot us all, Maxton,” one of the other men grunted.
In one quick move Graeme pulled the sharpsgian dubhfrom the top of his boot and hurled it into the man’s shoulder. “Any other idiotic thing to say?” he asked, as the rider doubled over. “I’m nae jesting!”
His uncle took an audible breath. “Nae a man dies here today, lads. Give him the Sassenach.”
Slowly the muscular man lowered Marjorie’s feet to the ground. “Move back,” Graeme ordered, urging Clootie closer and then hopping to the ground, his rifle still lifted. Swiftly he pulled a second knife from his waist, crouched, and cut the rope binding her feet and her hands.
Immediately she pulled the gag from her mouth. Clever lass, she took the knife from his hand and faced the tight group of Maxwell men. His clan, until today. Graeme swung back into the saddle, kicked his foot out of the stirrup, and held down his free hand. “Behind me,” he said.
Marjorie took his hand and stepped up, settling behind the saddle with her arms around his waist. When she seemed secure Graeme toed Clootie again and the gray gelding backed slowly.
“This willnae end here, lad,” Raibeart said, his tone glum and pleading. “Dunncraigh wants to be rid of Lattimer. She’s the way to do it.”
“Ye know where to find me, then. I’ll be waiting.”
As he turned for the trees Sir Hamish sat up, groaning and with blood dripping from his mouth and nose. Graeme shifted a little and kicked him in the face as they rode by.
“The lot of ye, get off my land. And take this pile of shite with ye.”
They broke into a canter once they reached the trees, and kept up the pace until Graeme was certain they were well away. Marjorie had never ridden double, and her wrists hurt, but with her arms around Graeme’s waist and her cheek resting against his shoulder, she felt completely safe and utterly content.
Finally he stopped by a stream and handed her down, then dismounted after her. Still without speaking he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her hard against him. He kissed her hair, and finally giving in to the fear and shakes she’d been fighting off for hours, Marjorie tangled her hands into the back of his coat and held herself as close to him as she could manage.
“Are ye hurt, my lass?” he finally murmured, swaying her slowly back and forth.
“No,” she whispered, trying to keep from crying. For heaven’s sake, she was safe now; the time for crying had come and gone. “I’m just a little tired of being kidnapped.”
“It’ll nae happen again. I’ll nae allow it.”
She nodded against his chest, then straightened, horrified that she hadn’t asked earlier. “Is Connell safe? I told him to hide, but when your uncle arrived I worried that he would—”
“He’s fine,” Graeme interrupted. “He did just as ye asked, then ran back to the hoose and found Dùghlas. The two of them rode King George the cart horse to find me at Sheiling.” He kissed her again, this time on the mouth. “I cannae ever—ever—thank ye enough fer keeping him safe, Marjorie.”
“You trusted me with him. And he’s… very dear to me.”
“Aye. He’s very dear to me, too. As are ye, my bonny, bonny lass.”
She kissed him back, relishing in his warmth, and his strength, and his very presence. She’dknownhe would look for her, that he would find her. He’d told her the truth. She wasn’t alone any longer. “I don’t want to go back to London,” she said, lowering her face against his pine-smelling coat again. “I don’t ever want to see it again.”
