Chapter Eight
The moment Bridget left his sight, Alasdair ran. Not after her. Into the trees. He needed to divide his attackers. There were twenty, not counting the four who’d ridden off with Bridget. All trained men, not common ruffians. He should be flattered. He wasn’t. He was livid.
He’d let himself be distracted. He’d stopped the damn curricle, given them time to circle the forest. Why? Because of his feelings. Feelings! He ground his teeth. In over ten years of working for the Crown, Alasdair had never once permitted feelings.
Not until his brother died. Not until he returned home. Met her.
He ducked a low branch. His booted feet were sure on the pitted, uneven forest floor. Loose leaves, rabbit holes, these would relieve him of at least two assailants. Three others wouldn’t make the run. Not with the injuries he’d already dealt them. He knew plenty of ways to rid himself of the rest.
He dodged around an ancient maple. Sighting a large rock behind the broad trunk, he leapt onto the jagged stone, pushed off and grabbed a low limb on the back side of the tree. Momentum carrying him, Alasdair swung, pivoting his body upward. In moments, he lay atop the limb. He stood. Three leaps took him high in the concealing branches.
He went still. Though his lungs cried out for air, he dragged each breath in slowly and let it out in silent increments that only lightly stirred the leaves before his face. Footsteps pounded past below. He counted fifteen sets.
The trouble was, he meant what he’d said to Bridget. He would not deal death on Scottish soil. Something deep in his soul balked at the idea. Killing these men would rob him of some small precious part of himself. Selfishly, he wanted to keep that vestige of humanity. Not only for his own salvation, but for Bridget.
He closed his eyes. She would be so afraid. She couldn’t know they wouldn’t harm her. Not if Alasdair was right. Not if the spy was Baron Sollier.
The one person Fiona hadn’t followed. She said the old man never left the keep. Alasdair would bet his life, was betting Bridget’s, that Sollier had a way out of that windowless office. One he employed with impunity.
The baron’s men, his suspiciously well-trained staff, thrashed through the forest, calling to each other. They’d realized they no longer followed their quarry. Alasdair considered leaving. He could track the men on horseback who’d taken Bridget.
The country beyond was open, though. If he left so many enemies behind, he risked being followed. Not to mention, they knew where they were going. They might split up, some going ahead to give warning.
They must be neutralized here and now. Without his newfound resolve, he would have killed six already and likely not needed to run. He cursed his newly unburied conscience. He would be careful not to damage them too much, no matter how that goal hampered him.
He stripped off his tattered coat and bright white cravat and folded them over one of the maple’s limbs, then slipped back down to a lower branch. The forest lay in shadow about him, the canopy permitting only a defuse, green-tinged light. The birds had gone silent, scared off by the intrusion of man. He could tell from the sounds filtering through the trees that the baron’s men had broken into small groups to search for him.
He dropped to the forest floor, silent as the mist that drifted across the moors, and set out after his prey. First, he went back for the five he and the forest had already injured. They sat in a semicircle near the horses. He drifted past the beasts, inspecting them. They were quality mounts. If he used two and switched off, he would make good time.
When he got to the end of the picket line, he strode up behind the wounded men and smashed two of their heads together. They sprawled, unconscious, in the tall grass. He punched a third before the remaining two could struggle to their feet, and the fourth before he got his fists up. The fifth fumbled at his belt and pulled out a pistol.
Alasdair raised an eyebrow. The man grinned in triumph. Alasdair dropped low and slammed his fist into the man’s gut. He grabbed the gun as he came back up. He pivoted and brought the handle of the weapon down on the head of the doubled-over would-be killer.
A quick inspection of his unconscious foes yielded six knifes and a second pistol. He freed several of the horses, keeping their tack. One of the knifes quickly turned reins into bonds and gags for the five men. The rest of the blades and the more inferior of the two pistols he tossed out into the long grass, after dumping the weapon’s powder. A second, more careful inspection of the baron’s men revealed rope-burned hands and the faint odor of fish. Taking that information with him, Alasdair went in search of new prey.
He found three near the tree in which he’d hidden, attempting to interpret his tracks. He slammed a thick branch into the back of one’s head, then swung his makeshift weapon around to take the next in the face as he turned. Alasdair dropped the now-cracked wood and pulled the pistol. The man before him crouched low, arms spread wide.
“What’s the name of the baron’s ship?” Alasdair asked.
“Go to hell, Lochgeal,” the man snarled, undoubtedly clueless that his lack of denial confirmed his master’s identity.
“No one would name a ship that.” Alasdair threw the pistol.
Hard metal slammed into the man’s forehead. He stumbled back. Alasdair leapt. His fist finished the job the pistol had begun. Looking down at the three sprawled forms, he decided not to go back for tack to tie them up. He planned to move quickly now. He would send the remaining horses away before these men woke.
He subdued two more groups before any of the baron’s men were cowardly enough to reveal the ship’s name,Maiden’s Honor. Alasdair was impressed with Sollier’s skill at choosing underlings. Well trained and loyal. Alasdair could almost respect the man.
When he found the next three, he took down the first two and shot the last in the leg. The report of the pistol rang through the murky forest, birds rising from the trees about him in a dark, raucous wave. He nodded, pleased by the tumult. He didn’t want to take the time to hunt the final group.
He devested the three of their weapons, ignoring the pain laced curses of the one who writhed on the forest floor, blood from his leg spattering last year’s dead leaves. He kept another pistol, and a second knife. He stood, tossing and catching the well-balanced blade, while he waited for the final group.
They blundered up like a pack of duck hounds, trained to retrieve, not for stealth. Faces intent, they spread out around him, moving to his flank and sides.
“When does theMaiden’s Honorleave Inverness?” he asked.
“They already left,” one said, smug. “She’s gone.”
Alasdair revised his initial assessment. Not that well trained, after all. The man had confirmed the ship’s name and location, and no vessel would sail free of Abhainn Nis or Linne Mhoireibh until the evening tide. Which reminded him. The sun was getting low.
