“Aye.” But the garrons were a dozen feet away. Gillian crossed and loosened the first one she came to, and reached for a second, but the beast pulled away, whickered an objection to the smell of blood on her hands, and Alan looked up. He leaped to his feet, yelling and reaching for a weapon.
But Duncan rose as well. Gillian saw his feet tangle with Alan’s. Alan sprawled on the ground next to the fire. They had precious seconds. She turned to find John, but he was already beside her. They needed weapons, a cloak, but there wasn’t time. She saw John’s pouch on the ground, reached for that. John tossed her onto the garron, and she grabbed the reins.
Alan was rising, reaching for a dirk, and John staggered, put a hand to his forehead, wincing. “Hurry!” Gillian’s heart hammered against her throat as he leaped onto the horse behind her. But Alan was beside them now. He grabbed a handful of her gown, held on. Gillian used the dirk, slashed at Alan’s hand, and he let her go. “Ride,” John said.
But Rabbie Bain strode into the clearing in front of them, standing in the way of escape, and Alan was rising behind them. “Bitch of a MacLeod!” Rabbie screamed.
He drew the dirk from his belt—her dirk—and threw it.
Gillian kicked the horse hard, swerved, and the knife flashed past, too far to the right. Rabbie ducked as the horse charged at him, threw himself out of the way as the beast raced into the dark wood.
“Stay low,” John yelled in her ear, pulling her against his body, covering her, protecting her, and she leaned forward over the garron’s neck and drummed her heels into the horse’s sides.
“Run!” she bellowed at the creature as it struggled through ferns and brush. “Run!” She cursed it, pleaded with it, cajoled it to go faster. Branches whipped her face and she clung to the horse’s mane as they flew into the dark, left the clearing behind.
A sob burst from her chest for all the kinsmen she’d lost that day—and for Hugh, as well. It had all been so pointless, such a terrible waste of life, and for what? Life was too precious, too short, to waste.
Then she dashed her tears away. They weren’t safe yet. Crying would have to wait.
* * *
Pain sang through John’s head as the garron stormed through the woods. He could smell pine, imagined for a moment that he was in the endless forests of the New World, on the edge of Hudson Bay . . . But he was in Scotland—God knew precisely where—and Gillian was beneath him, warm, safe, alive—and wearing a silk ball gown that flew around them like a sail, rustling in the wind. She was kicking the horse and yelling like a warrior. Their escape had been desperate and dangerous, clever and courageous, and he loved her.
Having her wriggling and shifting beneath him might have been delightful in other circumstances. It was still damned arousing, even now, running for their lives. She was magnificent. He grinned against her hair, kissed it. His head wound wasn’t serious after all, then, if he could still feel desire. He looked behind them, but there was nothing but darkness. No one followed. They were going to make it.
He almost laughed aloud. This shy, biddable lass—the one Fia had calleddelicate—had saved them both.This fierce, brave lass.
But it was dark, and he had no idea which way they were going. “Gillian,” he said, interrupting her argument with the garron. “We need to stop before we get lost.”
* * *
Gillian pulled the horse to a stop. She feared John was fighting terrible pain for her sake. She tried not to think of the dying boy, or Rabbie’s evil face, or Duncan’s grief. She reached for John’s hand, wrapped tight around her waist. He twined his fingers in hers and squeezed.
She was shaking, but she was alive.Theywere alive. And free.
She looked around. The garron stood belly-deep in ferns, and there was no track in sight. Aside from the horse’s labored breath, all was quiet.
Still, the thieves might be following them, hunting them. They knew this territory. And if they caught them now, they wouldn’t care about ransom. She shivered, and John’s hand tightened. “Shh. We’re safe now, sweetheart.” He straightened, drew her back against him, and she laid her head on his shoulder and shut her eyes for a moment.
John was right—she had no idea where they were. She was giddy, exhausted, bereft, and shaking.Imagine escaping from a band of outlaws only to get lost in the wood!For a moment she grinned.
Then her smile faded. It was too cold to be out in the wood at night in a silk gown. They needed shelter and rest, a healer for John, and someone to find her kinsmen and take their bodies home. It was her duty to them. They couldn’t stop yet.
“We’ll ride to the top of that hill,” she said to John, and she took up the reins and urged the winded horse on again, leaning forward, her bottom as high off the saddle as she could raise it. She murmured endearments and praise to the labored beast crooned encouragement.
“Oh, lass, you’re killing me,” John groaned against her back, and she feared he meant his head, but realized it was another matter when she sat back. She felt a blush rise in the dark, warm her all over.
She stopped at the top of the rise. In the wide glen below, the river shone like a silver ribbon in the darkness. It was surrounded by hills, and there wasn’t a light or a farmhouse in sight.
“They’ll expect us to follow the river,” he said against her ear.
“Perhaps we should anyway. You need a healer.”
“I’m fine. Sassenachs have very hard heads,” he quipped.
“Don’t joke, John. Not now.” She thought of her clansmen, and the wounded lad who was surely dead by now. She couldn’t lose John, too.
“We need to stay in the wood and out of sight until morning,” he said.
