Lydia stirred just before dawn, her entire body aching, as though she had slept on a bed of rocks. She rubbed her cheek against her pillow, only to wince as something hard and cold dug into her face. She came awake with a start and stifled a moan as she found she had indeed slept on a bed of rocks.
The sky overhead was a murky gray that still bore hints of the passing night. The campfire was nearly dead, with bits of logs aglow with burning embers and the smell of the smoke teasing her nose. On the opposite side of the fire, the three Scottish bandits were lying on thin pallets on the ground, seemingly asleep.
Rubbing her eyes, Lydia sat up. The movement caught Willie’s attention.
“Don’t move, lass,” he warned.
“Would you prefer I relieve myself here?” she whispered.
Willie kicked Fergus’s stomach. “Wake up, you arse. She needs to piss.”
Fergus rolled over and scowled up at the sky. “So?”
“I said git!” Willie kicked him again. Fergus got to his feet, grumbling as he grabbed Lydia by the arm and dragged her to the nearby woods.
“Go and piss,” he grunted.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot go with you watching me,” she said, meeting him stubborn stare to stubborn stare.
“If ye really need to go, you’ll go, me watchin’ ye or not.”
Lydia crossed her arms. “Are you so backward that seeing me would arouse you?” It was completely uncouth to say that, but she wanted him to know how foul he was being.
“Fine. I’ll turn my back, but don’ do anything stupid like try an’ run. Ye willna get far, and I’ll take more’n a might of pleasure dragging ye back.”
Lydia wanted to tell him exactly what she thought of him, but she had a feeling it would end with another slap. Instead, she turned and headed for the nearest clump of bushes. She saw to her needs quickly, and when she returned she held out a hand. “Your flagon, please.”
“What for?”
“I wish to wash my hands.”
He passed her the flagon from his hip, and she poured water over her palms before drying them upon her dress. She didn’t feel as clean as she wished, but it was better than nothing. She plucked a few larger leaves and twigs off of her gown.
“Let’s be getting back,” Fergus snapped.
Just as they returned to the small clearing, Fergus tensed and stopped dead in his tracks. Lydia, who’d been focused on the ground so as not to trip over a root or rock, walked right into him.
“Oof!”
“Shush!” he hissed, and slowly pulled out a long dagger from his coat.
“What is it?” Lydia asked in a whisper. Fergus ignored her, and his head swiveled back and forth as he surveyed the campsite, where the other two men were still sleeping.
Smoke billowed up from the dying fire as a fresh breeze stirred the embers to life. Suddenly, through the haze, she saw a man running toward her. Lydia’s heart leapt into her throat as she saw Brodie bound from the trees opposite her and Fergus. He was sprinting, his feet a blur as he charged the sleeping men on the ground between them.
“Willie! Watch out!” Fergus bellowed. Willie and Reggie bolted up, pulling daggers from their boots.
Brodie skidded to a stop, raised a pistol, and fired a shot. Reggie sank to his knees and toppled over.
“You bastard!” Willie rushed at Brodie, and the two clashed in a clang of knives and fists.
Both she and Fergus stood their ground as the two brawny Scots fought like ancient Celtic warriors. But Fergus soon shook off his shock and grabbed Lydia from behind, pressing a dagger to her throat.
“Not a sound,” he warned in a deadly tone. “Or I’ll cut your pretty neck to ribbons.” He dragged her back deeper into the woods. She was still able to watch Brodie battle the other man through the trees.
Willie dealt a glancing blow to Brodie’s shoulder. Blood soon stained the fabric of his clothes, but he didn’t stop. He kept fighting, pushing Willie back toward the fire. He caught Willie’s fist in one hand, and the other held the blade now aimed at his heart.
Holding Willie’s wrists, he forced the man back through sheer brute strength. When Willie’s feet touched the burning fire, stirring up sparks, he hissed and tripped. Brodie fell with him, both men rolling until they came to a sudden halt, with Brodie lying beneath the other man. Lydia nearly screamed, but the knife at her throat kept her silent.
“Ha! Willie got him!” Fergus hooted.
“No, please no . . .” Brodie couldn’t be dead. Not because of her. He couldn’t be.
Tears blurred her eyes as Willie shifted and rolled off Brodie. As she blinked the tears away, she realized that it wasn’t Willie who had moved, but Brodie. Willie fell onto his side, and she saw that a dagger was buried in Willie’s chest, hilt deep.
“No!” Fergus yelled.
Brodie scrambled to his feet, pulling his own dagger again as he searched for the source of the cry. When he spotted them, he started forward slowly, his blade at the ready.
“Not another step!” Fergus shouted, and he pushed the knife deeper into Lydia’s throat. She couldn’t help it—she yelped at the prick of pain, and Brodie froze.
“Release the lass and I willna kill you,” Brodie called out.
“No!” Fergus snapped. “Ye killed my brother!”
Brodie retrieved the pistol he had dropped and calmly began to reload it in the clearing. “You wish to join him?” His movements were slow and eerily calm as his gaze moved between them and the pistol as he worked to reload it.
Fergus took another few steps into the woods, keeping her in front of him. After a tense minute of her and Fergus watching Brodie, he faced them again.
“Let her go, man. Or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.” He calmly raised the pistol level with their faces.
“You’d better let me go. He’s a crack shot.” Lydia honestly had no clue how good of a shot Brodie was. Likely he was good, but she did not wish to test that by risking her own life.
“All right!” Fergus hollered. “I’m letting her go.” He released his hold and pulled his knife away from her throat. Lydia took a few tentative steps forward before she was sure she was free. She dashed toward Brodie, who opened his arms, and she leapt into them without a thought. He swept her up and spun her behind him, putting himself between her and Fergus. She clutched Brodie with relief, but when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Fergus running toward Brodie, his dagger raised.
Without thinking, Lydia shoved Brodie out of the way. Fergus crashed into her, and she felt a blinding pain in her left arm.
Brodie stabbed his blade into the other man, sinking it deep into Fergus’s chest. The man stumbled, caught the blade, and pulled it out. The look of surprise on his face lasted a few seconds before he fell to his knees and collapsed.
Lydia stared down at the knife wound on her arm.
“Are you hurt?” Brodie saw the bloody gash on her upper arm.
She raised her eyes to his and tried not to gasp with the pain.
“Christ, hold still, lass. You’re bleeding.” He pulled a handkerchief from his coat and lifted her arm.
Lydia gasped as he pulled the fabric of her sleeve away.
“I’m sorry. I wish you didna have to feel that, but there’s no time for gentleness.” He examined the wound and then wrapped a handkerchief around her arm. “Hold that tight.” He knelt at her feet and lifted her skirts. She was in too much pain and shock to question what he was doing. He cut part of her petticoat off and used it to wrap around the handkerchief and cinch it tight.
“That should do for now, but we need to find a doctor.” He glanced at her body. “Can you walk? I have a horse waiting. It isna far.”
“Yes.” She gladly followed him when he offered her a hand, placing her good hand in his outstretched one.
By the time they reached the horse hidden a good distance away, her legs were trembling and she was beginning to stumble. Brodie caught her just before she collapsed in his arms.
“Hold on to me, lass.”
“I’m so—sorry.” She buried her face against his chest as tears flowed down her face.
“You have nothing to apologize for, lass, you hear?” He brushed a kiss to her hair and then against her forehead. “It is I who should apologize. I shouldna have let you go off alone, modesty or no. I kept telling you how beautiful Scotland is, lass. But I forgot to remind you that it’s dangerous.” He held her for a long moment in the thicket, until she found her panicked breathing had eased.
“Now, can you ride?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” He grasped her by the waist and lifted her onto the horse’s back before climbing on behind her.
“Sorry there’s no saddle. Lean back against me. You can rest while we ride.”
She leaned back as he suggested and started to close her eyes. “How far are we from the coach?”
“Quite far, lass, but we aren’t going that way. Those men meant to trade you at an inn farther up the road. I dinna know how far away it is. Rafe wanted to come with me, but I feared I wouldna find you in the dark and might be too late. So I sent him to the inn with the coach to pay your ransom if I couldna catch up to you first.”
Lydia hadn’t realized how exhausted she had been until she was safe in Brodie’s arms. Funny that she would think of being with him as safe, given that he had also abducted her. Yet here she was, resting against him, grateful that he was the one who’d found her.
She tried not to think about the men he had killed. She did not mourn them, yet at the same time she couldn’t help but see them as desperate men doing what they felt they must to survive. She felt oddly guilty that Brodie had taken their lives to save hers. Would he hate her for it? Perhaps he didn’t care at all. Perhaps that was life in Scotland.
During the ride, she somehow managed to drift in and out of a light sleep. The horse’s quick canter was at first jostling, but it soon became a soothing rhythm. At one point she thought she was dreaming, but she realized she was half-awake as Brodie sang a song to her in Gaelic. The language was soft, seductive, and exotic in a way that made her feel homesick for a land that wasn’t even hers.
“We’re here, lass.” Brodie gently stirred her awake as they neared a small coaching inn, with a faded painted sign that read “The Boar’s Head Inn.”
Rafe, who had been standing outside the door, rushed toward them. “Bloody Christ!”
“Take her inside and find a doctor,” Brodie said.
“Come on, kitten.” Rafe carefully helped Lydia to dismount. “Who is the doctor for?”
“I got stabbed . . . but only a little,” Lydia replied, raising her wounded arm, giggling at the absurdity of it all.
“Only a little? Hell’s teeth, you’re in shock, my dear,” Rafe muttered. “Best to get you some warm food, a bed by a fire, and a stout glass of brandy.”
“That sounds lovely,” she agreed, and let him escort her inside the inn.
Brodie dismounted and walked his horse over to the stables, where a young groom took charge of his beast.
“Give him a few sugar lumps when you’re done brushing him down. The horse has earned it.”
“Yes, sir.” The lad clicked his tongue and led the horse away to be looked after. Brodie remained inside the stables a moment, and when he looked down, he noticed that his clothes were covered with blood and dirt, as were his hands. He turned his hands over, and they suddenly trembled.
He had killed three men. Killed them with so little thought except that they had taken Lydia from him.
Was he truly a monster to kill without hesitation like that? Lydia would fear and despise him now, he was certain of it. She would always look at him and see a man who took lives, brutally and bloodily. What she thought shouldn’t matter. But it did—it mattered far too much.
He remained in the stables contemplating his actions another ten minutes before he returned to the inn. The valets were downstairs, but Rafe and Fanny were missing.
“Alan, where is Lennox and the maid?”
“With Miss Hunt, sir. She was in a bad way, all shaky and sort of laughing, like she’d gone mad.”
Brodie sighed and dragged a hand down his face. He supposed he’d been facing the same thing, though in a different way.
“Do you need anything, sir?” Alan looked politely at Brodie’s bloody attire.
“Aye, clean clothes.”
“Of course, sir. Let me show you to your room.”
Brodie followed the valet upstairs. “Has Lennox sent for a doctor yet?”
“Yes, sir. Apparently there’s one not too far from here.”
“Good.” Brodie began to strip out of his clothes, while Alan unpacked a fresh set of stockings, trousers, shirt, and waistcoat for him.
Once undressed, he asked Alan which room Lydia had been taken to.
“She’s next door on the right. There were plenty of rooms, so Mr. Lennox chose separate rooms for you, him, and Miss Hunt. Fanny will stay with her.”
Brodie didn’t like the idea of staying a full day and night, in case those highwaymen had friends, but Lydia was in no condition to travel today. Besides, he would need a doctor to assess her injuries.
He stepped into the hall and knocked on Lydia’s door. Rafe opened it and sighed. “There you are, I’ve been wondering if you ran off.”
He stepped back to allow Brodie to enter.
“How is she?” he asked in a quiet tone.
Rafe nodded toward Lydia, who lay curled up on one of the two beds in the room, covered in blankets. “Better now.” Fanny was watching her eat a bowl of stew.
Rafe and Brodie moved to the opposite corner of the room, so as not to be overheard by the women. “What happened to her?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Brodie admitted. “I found their camp just before dawn, but I canna tell what they did to her before I arrived.”
“And the men?”
“Dead. There were three men. Two were sleeping, but Lydia and one man were in the woods. I shot one. Your pistol is in my room. And I used a blade on the other two.” He wondered if Rafe would judge him for killing the men.
“I’m glad you killed them,” Rafe said. “If I’d been there, I certainly would have.” He glanced toward the bed. “We’ll likely know more when the doctor arrives. She’s been asking for you, by the way,” Rafe added.
Brodie stole another glance toward Lydia. “She has?”
“Yes, I don’t think she wanted you out of her sight.” Rafe’s easy smile was softer than usual. The rakehell normally didn’t show his gentle side, but it was quite visible now.
“I thought she wouldna want to see me again after I killed those men in front of her.”
“I don’t think she’s worried about that, old boy. She’s worried about you. She said you were hurt.”
“Only a scratch. I barely even bled. But she caught a knife to her arm, and she didn’t scream or cry. The lass is both bonnie and brave.”
Lydia had finished the bowl of soup and was now speaking quietly to Fanny. She still looked pale, but her expressions were animated.
“Why don’t you go over to her, Kincade? I’ll watch for the doctor’s arrival downstairs.” Rafe patted Brodie’s shoulder as he left.
Brodie drew in a deep breath and walked over to the bed. Fanny turned at his approach. “You may sit if you wish to stay, or you may tend to anything you need to,” he told her.
“Thank you, sir.” Fanny looked to Lydia. “Do you need anything, miss?”
“Not for now. Thank you, Fanny.”
The maid excused herself and left them alone.
Brodie sat down beside her on the bed. “Rafe has sent for a doctor.”
Lydia reached across the blankets, her fingers brushing against his. He turned his palm over, inviting her to touch him. It felt good to have her caress him, even in the smallest ways.
“Lydia, I hope . . .” He choked down his fear and continued. “I hope you can forgive me for killing those men. I shouldna have done that.”
She continued to move her fingertips over his palm in soothing patterns as her lovely blue eyes fixed on him.
“You were trying to rescue me. They would have killed you, Brodie. I don’t need to forgive you. I only hope you can forgive me for putting you in such a position. You came for me. You didn’t have to.”
The brave, bonnie lass.
“The men who took you brought their fates upon themselves, lass. You have no blame for that.” His gaze drifted down to her arm. “Does it hurt much?”
She blinked, as if he had broken some spell. “Does what hurt?”
“Your arm.”
“Oh.” She shook her head. “Not too much. Mr. Lennox gave me a stout glass of brandy.” The sight of her smile fairly stole his breath. “And I do mean stout.” She opened her other hand to indicate the size of the glass, and he couldn’t resist chuckling.
“Rafe’s answer to everything is a good drink.”
“I think he’s quite right in this case.” Lydia lay back and winced.
“What’s the matter?”
“I think I have some twigs in my hair from sleeping on the ground last night.” She brushed at it with her good arm a little. “Brodie, could you . . . ? That is to say, would you mind very much if I asked you to comb my hair out? I meant to have Fanny do it, but I forgot.”
Brodie had never been asked by a woman to brush her hair before, and if any other woman had made the request, he would have thrown back his head and laughed. But for Lydia? At that moment, he would’ve done anything she asked.
“Aye. Where’s your brush?” He looked around the room until he found her luggage.
“In the smaller valise.” She pointed to the case next to the large trunk.
He dug through the contents until he found the hairbrush and a mother-of-pearl-handle comb. He held them both up to her, utterly baffled as to where to start.
“The comb first, and go gently, please. I suspect it’s in quite a mess.” Lydia sat up and turned her back to him. She searched for pins, removing them before he started. Brodie carefully began to use the comb to thread the tangles loose. He did find a surprising number of twigs and bits of leaves in the silken strands.
“Lass, I think you hid half the forest in your hair.” He added another twig to a growing pile on the table beside the bed.
“It was a very bad night of sleep.”
“I imagine it was. Cold ground, no blankets or pillows, no feather-tick mattress. Just hard, unforgiving earth,” he said.
“It sounds like you’ve slept like that before.” She looked over her shoulder at him, and he was entranced by her profile. She was lovely beyond measure. Lovely in a way her sister would never be, and it was only partially to do with her looks.
“My father used to be rough with me and my siblings. I spent many a night sleeping in the woods. If he couldna find me, he couldna hurt me.” It was one of the things he did often back then. Run away and hide from anything that could hurt him. His father’s abuse had made him a coward, and he would always hate his father for that.
“Oh, that’s awful.” Lydia tried to turn around to face him. He gently urged her to stay still so he could brush more tangles out. Her hair was smoothing out into a glossy golden waterfall down her back.
“The old man is dead. I no longer need to fear him,” he said quietly.
Lydia did turn then. “That doesn’t mean that what he did to you didn’t leave a scar. Our hearts carry scars as much as our bodies.”
She was wise for one so young, and he realized more than ever that he had ruined this good young woman’s life all because of his temper and his pride. Now she was giving him compassion when he least deserved it. His face heated, and when she noticed, her head tilted to the side as though she was puzzled by his reaction.
“Lydia . . .” He started to speak, but the door opened and Rafe entered with a doctor behind him. Brodie wasn’t sure whether he was frustrated or glad for the interruption.
“This is Dr. Jacobs.”
“I was told this young lady is my patient?” The Scottish gentleman raised a pair of pince-nez to his nose and approached the bed.
“Aye. This is Miss Lydia Hunt,” Brodie introduced her.
“A pleasure, Miss Hunt.” The doctor made a short bow, and Lydia thanked him. “Though I do hate to meet lovely young ladies under such circumstances. Gentlemen, you may go, unless the lady wishes for you to stay. But I urge you to leave, in case I must make delicate inquiries.”
Brodie and Rafe stepped into the corridor, where Fanny was already waiting. She was nervously twining her fingers in her apron and watching their faces for news.
“Fanny, would you go and keep the lass company?” he asked the maid. “I dinna want her to be alone.”
“Of course, sir.” The maid rushed inside and closed the door. Brodie wanted to be in that room with her, but if he learned of any other injuries that he hadn’t noticed, it might bloody well kill him.
“I think you’re the one in need of a brandy now.” Rafe nodded his head to a door across the hall.
“I certainly am.” Brodie followed his friend, but his mind and thoughts were still with Lydia.