The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

“Oh, hell,” he muttered.

Knowing that he invited trouble but unable to do anything else, he swung her up in his arms and whipped around into the narrow stairwell. Adjusting his grip on her, he rushed down the steps, praying that the Grants wouldn’t hear the thud of his boots on the wooden treads. Or if they did, they’d just assume it was a servant on his way back to the kitchens.

The girl curled up against him, as if making herself smaller would aid their escape. Her erratic breath was warm on the side of his neck.

“Hold on,” he whispered, as he started down the last flight of stairs. When they rushed through the hot, crowded kitchen, he caught a host of curious glances, then he was crossing the yard at a run.

Rose was already leading a saddled Sigurn out of the stables. “I’m gey sorry, Mactavish. I tried my best to keep them downstairs. But they’re awfu’ sparse conversationalists.”

“Thanks, Rose.” He tossed Mrs. Grant into the saddle and mounted behind her. As his arms closed around the girl’s trembling body, he cursed the fact that more physical closeness was inevitable. “Ye did your best.”

“I’ve told my people that if any of them says a word about what’s happened, they’re out of a job. I willnae have your name or the lady’s disparaged in my hearing. And I’ve packed some food in your saddlebags.”

“You’re an angel.”

She smiled at him. “Aye, that’s me.”

Angry shouting rose from inside the inn. Diarmid had a suspicion that the staff were doing their best to impede the Grants’ pursuit. Rose wasn’t the only Mactavish working at the Thistle.

He caught up the reins. “God bless ye, Rose.”

“And God go with ye, Mactavish.”

He clattered out of the yard while behind him, the Grants rushed into the open, yelling blue murder. When he heard the sharp crack of a gunshot behind him, his principal reaction was rage rather than fear.

What the devil did those madmen think they were doing? To Hades with them.

The stakes, already high, rocketed up into the sky, now that this rescue turned into a killing matter. With a muttered curse, Diarmid dug his heels into Sigurn’s sides and urged her away from the inn.

Chapter 10

After the terrifying gunshot, Fiona heard Allan shout after them to stop. She suppressed a whimper and shrank against Diarmid Mactavish. She didn’t like men touching her, but at this moment, that strong chest behind her seemed the closest thing to safety she’d known since her father died.

Mr. Mactavish’s grip tightened, and he urged the horse to greater speed, as they raced along the pale ribbon of road toward the hills. “They willnae catch us. Dinna be afraid.”

Stupid that those words of reassurance in his deep, musical voice should soothe her rising panic. But they did. He’d balanced her across his saddle bow, and one powerful arm lashed around her. She wasn’t afraid of falling. He wouldn’t let her go. “We’re still too close to the inn.”

“They’ve got to saddle their horses before they come after us, and Rose will make sure that’s no’ easy. Even then, they dinna ken these hills like I do.”

“But the road…” They were riding between two hills with a river running along beside them. When she looked back, she could no longer see the inn.

“We’re no’ staying on the road. Trust me.”

Despite everything she knew about the male sex, she’d almost started to trust Diarmid Mactavish. Until he handed her over to her tormenters, and she had to accept that despite Colin’s death and all her frantic efforts, she’d failed Christina.

Fiona had spent the ride from Invertavey to the Thistle lost in a thick fog of despair. Even Allan’s spite hadn’t had the power to hurt her.

Now she took her first full breath since Mr. Mactavish had appeared in her room at the inn. The Grants’ arrival at Invertavey had crushed all hope. It revived now, frail and uncertain. But definitely there.

“Hold on.” He angled the horse down the steep riverbank, and the sudden lurching had her clutching at his waist.

“They’ll find a way to follow us,” she said, partly to hear him deny the fact.

As they splashed across a ford, he cooperated, bless him. Every time he spoke, she felt stronger, as if she might have a chance of winning after all. “We’re well ahead of them.”

She wanted to argue that it wasn’t enough, but what was the point? For the moment, she was free. When Allan Grant tied her to that hard little bed at the Thistle, she’d feared she’d never be free again.

The horse labored up the opposite bank. The hem of Fiona’s dress was heavy with water. The eerie half-light of a summer night in the northern Highlands revealed more hills and a narrow track winding ahead. Mr. Mactavish ignored the track and guided the horse along the lush, green bank. Brambles caught at her wet skirts as they progressed.