The Heiress Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 3)

Philip crept out of the castle at ten o’clock that night. He wasn’t scared, not so much that he couldn’t think, anyway. Any fear he did feel was overcome by his worry for Sinjun.

He made the stables without a single bark from George II, whom he saw just in time to scratch behind his mangy ears before the dog could howl the house down.

Philip didn’t pause in the stables. The lads were asleep in their chambers off the tack room. He saddled his pony, Bracken, and quickly led him well down the drive before mounting.

He had a long ride ahead of him, but he was determined. He just prayed that he would be in time.

He’d wanted to tell Dulcie what he was going to do, but he knew deep down that she wouldn’t be able to keep her mouth shut. He told her instead, as he was yawning deeply, all ready for his bed, to please look in on his stepmother, and give her water to drink and keep her covered with as many blankets as she could find.

Dulcie had promised. He prayed as he sent his pony into a gallop that Aunt Arleth wouldn’t come upon Dulcie and dismiss her, or worse, hurt her.

There was a half-moon overhead and the dark rain clouds of the past three days had disappeared, replaced by soft white ones that did little to obscure the moon or stars. He could see quite well enough.

When he heard hoofbeats behind him, Philip thought his heart would burst through his chest. He quickly guided Bracken into the thick brush beside the road and clamped his fingers over the pony’s nostrils to keep him from whinnying.

There were three men riding toward him. When they neared he heard them speaking clearly.

“Aye, ’tis a wee-witted lassie she be, but I’ll hae her non’ the less.”

“Nay, she be fer me, ye louthead, her father promised me an’ th’ laird is fer th’ banns.”

A third man laughed aloud, a smug, triumphant laugh. He spat and said, “Well, yer both off the mark, ye are. Dinna ye ken, I already bedded wi’ her, she’s all mine. I’ll tell th’ laird, an’ ’tis done. I’ll tell ye something else, lads, her tits bain’t be wee.”

There were howls and yells and curses, and the horses were whinnying and plowing into each other. Philip stayed still as a stone, waiting, praying that the strongest of the men would get the wee lassie and the other two would go to the devil.

The fight lasted another ten minutes. Finally, Philip heard a loud curse and then the loud report of a gun. Oh God, he thought, swallowing so hard he nearly choked himself.

There was a yell, followed by a profound silence.

“Ye kilt Dingle, ye fool.”

“Aye, he bedded wi’ her, he deserved t’ croak it.”

The other man groaned, then shouted, “An’ wot if she’s got his seed ’n her belly? Yer a stupid sod, Alfie, MacPherson’ll have our guts fer his breakfast.”

“We’ll nae say a word. ’Tis a bloody Kinross wot kilt him. Away, then! Away!”

They left the third man there. Philip stood irresolute. Then he left Bracken tied to a yew bush and quietly made his way back to the road. The man was sprawled on his back, his arms and legs spread wide. There was a huge red stain covering his chest. His eyes were wide with surprise, his teeth still bared in a snarl. He was quite dead.

Philip threw up. Then he ran back to Bracken and sent him back onto the road.

He’d recognized the man. It was a bully whose name was Dingle, and he was one of the MacPhersons’ meanest fighters.

His father had pointed him out once to Philip on a visit to Culross Palace, telling him that the fellow was a cretin and an excellent example of the caliber of MacPherson’s men.

Philip rode until Bracken was winded and blowing hard. He fell asleep astride his mare. It was Bracken who nudged him awake. Philip, not knowing how much time had passed, panicked. But his pony couldn’t sustain a steady gallop and he was forced to slow. He saw more men and several peasant women. What they were doing up and about in the middle of the night would remain a mystery. He avoided them, though he heard one of the men shouting after him.

He was on the ferry to Edinburgh at four o’clock in the morning, paying the ferryman every shilling he had taken from his father’s strongbox save one. He nestled down between two bags of grain for warmth. He reached his father’s house in Abbotsford Crescent just past six o’clock in the morning. It had taken him a good hour to find the house, and he’d nearly been in tears when, finally, he’d spotted it.

Angus opened the door, yawning deeply as he did so, and stared down at the boy, mouth still agape.

“Oh och, ’tis ye, th’ young master! By gawd, bain’t this be a treat fer th’ laird. Who be wi’ ye, laddie?”

“Quickly, my father, Angus. I must see my father.” While Angus was gaping at him, trying to gather his wits together, Philip ducked around him and raced up the stairs. He didn’t stop running until he reached the laird’s bedchamber and flung open the doors, banging them loudly against the walls.

Colin came awake in an instant and bolted upright in bed. “Good God, Philip! What the devil are you doing here?”

“Papa, quickly, you must come home. It’s Sinjun; she’s very sick.”