“What would we have done? Hailed a carriage and ridden out?”
He suspected Rose was the type of person who could be bleeding from an artery and still would not open her mouth in complaint or ask for help. She intended to carry her own burden whether she be his hostage or nay. So it surprised him when she squeezed her eyes shut, clearly afraid of what he saw.
“Is it . . . horrible?”
He could see it was deep but she had done a fair job of stopping the bleeding. “I will know more when I see the injury in the light of day.”
“Bind it tightly, but not so tight you cut off the circulation to my leg.”
Though he knew quite well what he was doing, he did not mind her instruction if it gave her the illusion that she held some power over her life.
Conscious of how she looked, her eyes and hair awash in a checkered patch of moonlight, and wearing a nearly transparent shirt, more undressed than other women he’d bedded, he concentrated on applying the cloth firmly to her thigh and wrapping the makeshift bandage around the wound. And for one moment, decency reared its symbolic head, denouncing him for a bastard.
“Between what remains of my shirt and yours, we are running out of medical supplies,” he said. “At this rate we will both be down to our breeches.”
“Then ’tis fortunate you allowed me to keep my dirk.”
The tendons stood out on his arms as he leaned forward. “Indeed.”
He peered at her, reminding himself she was cold and in pain, and then suddenly looked past her down the narrow trail.
Something, a noise, voices in the night, touched the periphery of his senses. But he heard nothing now. “What is it?” Rose asked.
He didn’t answer. His body tensed. He stood. “Remain here.”
The path hooked sharply just ahead, and he walked toward an outcrop of rocks. Farther from the invading sound of the river, he could hear voices. Torchlight glow speckled a hollow below. He crouched behind the rocks and scrub. It was a group of some twenty or thirty redcoats bivouacked for the night.
Bloody Sassenach soldiers.
The flames from a central fire flickered over their faces and red coats and knee breeches. Some of the men were drunk. Others played dice. The late-evening breeze carried the sounds of their subdued laughter and voices as they sat around the fire. All, without exception, were well armed.
Rose suddenly came up behind him. “Dragoons—”
He clapped his palm over her mouth and dropped to the ground on his belly beside her, looking back down at the hollow. One of the men made a searching glance toward the rocky ledge but returned his attention to the tin plate in his hands as the bloke beside him said something that caused laughter.
Ruark pulled back slightly and peered at Rose, who glared back at him from over the rim of his hand. “A scream carries too easily,” he said softly against her ear. “If you make a sound, Rose ...”
He meant the threat in his words. “This is a well-armed British detachment and by the looks of it they have been drinking. Trust me. I can guarantee they will not treat you nearly as kindly as I have thus far.”
She nodded in understanding, and he eased the pressure of his hand. The ferocity in her eyes dimmed only slightly as she spit dirt from her mouth.
“I donottrust you.” But her anger with him did not preclude her recognition of the danger she also faced. “What are we going to do?”
They’d followed the only trail out of the wash. Rose was physically unable to go back the way they’d just come. He studied the hollow and found a row of tents at the wood’s edge, and he smiled to himself.
“We steal a horse.”
“Are you insane?”
The wind was rising and the sound of restless trees replaced that of the river. He could always count on rain in Scotland. Tonight he wouldn’t mind. “The patrol has bivouacked for the evening,” he said.
Careful not to dislodge any stones, he edged them down the trail, helping Rose walk with one arm beneath her shoulders. He could have slung her over his shoulder like a sack of oats and been done with it but he saved her the indignity. Much to her dislike some moments later, he borrowed her dirk. The thing was bloody convenient to have, and he didn’t know when he’d have use of a weapon. He wouldn’t have allowed her to keep it otherwise.
An hour later, he had secured himself a fine black horse belonging to the officer in charge, and a pair of boots that actually fit. He had also acquired a knapsack and a cloak, which he gave to Rose when he returned to where he had left her, gagged and tied to a thick exposed tree root. He hadn’t trusted her not to crawl away while he hunteddown a horse and food, and the moment he’d come across rope, he’d used it. As he knelt in front of her, he warned her again of the consequences if she should cause him any more strife. Then he lifted her onto the saddle and climbed behind her. Only after they’d ridden a distance from the Sassenach camp did he remove the gag, which was all that had been left of his other sleeve.
“You are an ogre, Roxburghe. The French pox is too good for you!”
He laughed and gathered her closer with one arm, liking the warm feel of her between his thighs. “What do you know about the French pox?”
