The man had more courage than Fergus had credited. Perhaps he and his daughter were more alike than he’d thought. “Aye, you’ll do,” he murmured.

Fergus whistled up his dogs and mounted Banshee. He wheeled the mare in the direction of the castle and set off through the rain at a gallop.

Chapter Two

By the time the high-handed Scot with the long legs and impressive shoulders rode back into sight, Marina was soaked and close to frozen solid, despite her coachman’s thick and pungently scented coat. Her father had lapsed into a restless doze, fueled by whatever filthy spirit the silver flask contained. Darkness had descended, and the rain settled into a steady drizzle.

“Are ye all right?” the man asked from the saddle. That voice retained its quality of command, even when he expressed concern. “How is your father?”

“He’s drifted off.” She was relieved to see the Scotsman again, although she’d known he’d come back for them. Men with chiseled jaws like his tended to be true to their word.

Behind the gray horse looming out of the murk, she saw lanterns bobbing along the road. Their rescuer, whoever he was, had summoned an army to their aid. She felt so shaky and upset, the sight of the approaching lights made her feel ridiculously emotional.

The two big black dogs trotted up and sat on either side of her like sentinels. Holding her breath against the odor of wet dog, she reached out and patted both of them.

The man dismounted. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness well enough to appreciate the powerful, liquid grace of the movement, despite her current predicament. Her rescuer was annoying, but handsome and strong. His strength, if not his good looks, was welcome. However much she might bristle under his autocratic manner, she appreciated his efficiency. And his speed. He’d only been away about half an hour.

“I’ve got a wagon coming. We can lie him flat, and it will be easier for him than a carriage. It will be a bumpy trip home, I’m afraid.”

She stumbled upright on legs that felt as if they were made of wet string. Cold, wet string. “Then it’s a good thing he’s near unconscious,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady.

She knew she hadn’t succeeded, because the Scot cast her a worried glance, visible even through the gloom. The lanterns came closer, and when she wiped the rain from her eyes, she saw a flat-bedded cart with a canvas roof, drawn by two draft horses. Beside it strode half a dozen brawny Highlanders who should have no trouble lifting her father.

The man tugged something from the saddle and passed it to her. “This might suit your dignity better than the coat ye have on. And it’s dry.”

She had to admit he was thoughtful. Her independent air discouraged most men from trying to look after her, which was the way she liked it. She told herself that she was capable of standing on her own two feet, however wobbly, but when she discarded the coachman’s coat and wrapped the soft woolen cloak around her, she almost wept in gratitude. “It’s very kind of your wife to lend me her clothes.”

The man’s grunt of amusement was brief. “It would be, if I had a wife, but the cape belongs to my sister Clarissa. She left it at the castle last time she went back to Edinburgh.”

He wasn’t married. Not that that should be of any consequence. Then she realized what he’d said. “Castle?”

“Aye. I told ye that’s where I was going.”

She supposed he had. Through her fear for her father and her need to hide how much she didn’t want to stay behind on the bare hillside, she hadn’t paid close attention.

Any chance for private conversation came to an end. Everything turned to action under the authority of the tall man with hair like flame and eyes like gray ice. She mightn’t appreciate him giving her orders, but right now, she appreciated the way he gave orders to other people. Orders that resulted in her father gently lifted and placed on a wagon bed lined with furs and blankets.

Marina sagged with relief now she transferred her father’s care into capable hands. Her overwhelming concern for Papa had kept her panic and pain at bay. She hadn’t been hurt in the accident, but she’d been bruised and tossed around. Her legs turned to jelly, and she fought against collapsing in a heap and bursting into tears.

Then she caught her rescuer’s eye. Although she had no clue why she couldn’t bear to betray any weakness, she straightened her spine and raised her chin.

“Would ye like to come up with me on Banshee, or travel in the wagon with your father?” he asked as the procession was set to go.

Some reckless part of her, the part that she’d spent most of her life struggling to suppress, wanted to ride like a rescued princess behind this handsome man on that high-spirited horse. But she was old enough to know that in the end, the one person capable of rescuing her was herself. And her father needed her. “Thank you for the offer, but I should go with Papa.”

“Ye willnae be very comfortable, lassie, and it’s unsuitable transport for a lady.”

“I’m sure it will be fine.” It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to treat her as if she was too delicate for this mundane world. He seemed to labor under the misconception that females were made of gossamer and butterfly wings.

“Aye, well, if ye insist.” He didn’t seem too disappointed with her refusal, blast him. “It’s only a wee way, a mile or so.”

First she had to climb into the cart. Her traveling gown with its stylish military frogging was à la mode, but its narrow skirt wasn’t designed for getting in and out of farm vehicles. Dismayed, she surveyed the gap between road and wagon bed. Then hard hands closed around her waist, she rose into the air, and she was sitting on the back of the wagon with her booted feet dangling in space.

Her heart set off on a wild swoop. Partly from shock. Partly from foolish feminine pleasure at a strong male hoisting her about, as though she weighed no more than a feather.

This quivery feeling was utter nonsense, but something about knowing her autocratic rescuer could pick her up without effort made her pulses race. He had a penchant for grabbing her and putting her where he wanted. She needed to stop acting like a silly goose and tell him she was capable of moving under her own volition.

“I need my portfolio,” she said, sounding disgracefully breathless as she pointed to the leather satchel lying on the edge of the road.

Tags: Anna Campbell The Lairds Most Likely Historical
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