Page 5 of Sweet Hellion

Chapter Three

Justice stood within her reach, but like everything else she’d touched in the past two years, she’d failed in this, too. The truth was bitter. She was a sister who couldn’t avenge her own brother, her very own twin soul.

Emma swallowed. The great hulk of a Scotsman who stared down at her was every bit the dark Highlander she’d heard described. Who knew God made men so large? She took measure of his wide shoulders, long legs and muscled calves. Could she outrun him? A scar slashed the side of his face, lending him a dangerous air. And his hands… Tarnal. Hands that size could snap her neck as easily as a twig.

“Sweet Mary,” he whispered, “you look so much like him.”

Emma froze.

Only a madman would forget that mere minutes ago, she’d pressed a gun to his back. She’d erred in judgment. She wasn’t equipped to deal with a mad beast the size of a bull. She’d have to run.

His brown eyes softened, and he held out a hand as if steadying a skittish horse. “There’s no cause to fear me, Emma.”

“How do you know my name?” She inched back.

“Tory told me of you, lass.”

Emma studied him. How different this man reacted than Lord Munro. His eyes didn’t stray to her breasts, but remained locked with hers, his strong, freshly shaven jaw relaxed, his brow creased with sorrow.

“Tory bid me to—” He hesitated, then added in a gentle voice, “He bade me to tell you, ‘Tell the wee stinkpot I’ll watch o’er her from above.’”

The words pierced her heart like a dagger. Wee stinkpot. Only her father and Tory called her by that name. She shuddered. There was no denying the truth of the words, even without the resounding sincerity ringing in every syllable.

“I cannot hear this.”

Blinded by tears, she stumbled out of the stable. She ran through the courtyard and out Blackstone Abbey’s gates. The gelding she’d tied to a nearby tree still waited there, nibbling on the scant grass.

Emma stepped into the stirrup, then pulled the reins to the left as she dropped onto the saddle. The horse lunged forward, then broke into a gallop. They flew over the heath, the wind burning the tears that coursed down her cheeks. She didn’t care what direction the horse took. She didn’t want to think. She just wanted to run.

She rode until the horse began to breath heavily and finally slowed. She spied a village at the bottom of a hill and wondered where she’d strayed. She directed her horse through the trees and, a short time later, arrived before a tavern with ‘The Crown and the Thistle’ painted on a sign hung above the door.

Not until she shoved open the door did she realize she planned on drinking until she could think no more. She’d tasted a stout beer once or twice, and was accustomed to a glass or two of wine with dinner, though, of late, such luxuries had been out of reach. While she’d never had whisky, she’d witnessed its wondrous effects upon her father the night her brother left to join the Green Jackets.

“Whisky,” Emma said when she reached the counter, and fumbled in her pocket for a coin.

The tavern keeper raised a brow. “Are ye sure now, lassie?” He glanced toward the door, as if searching for her companion.

Emma slammed the coin on the bar. “Now,” she replied, striving for haughty, but thinking her tone overly much so, added a milder, “Please.”

The tavern keeper lifted a brow. “Tea’s more to your liking, eh?”

“Surely, you have seen a woman drink?” She jabbed her finger on the bar. “And fill the glass to the brim.”

The man snorted and folded his arms across his chest.

“Give the lady what she wants,” a deep voice murmured behind her.

Emma whirled. The Highlander—her brother’s murderer—had followed her.

He bowed. “Rhys Macleod, at your service, lass.”

“I know your name.” No doubt, he’d come to exact payment for her attempt on his life. Emma faced the bar. She needed the whisky more than ever.

Rhys stepped to her side. “If you will take a seat at a table, I will bring your whisky, Miss Bamfield.”

Emma hazarded a glance his way. The thin light filtering through the tavern’s windows caught on the scar running from just under his temple straight down to his jaw. It was a horrific wound.

“The table,” he repeated.