Regency Proposal: The Laird's Forbidden Lady / Haunted by the Earl's Touch

But if Dunstan was threatening to charge her with complicity in smuggling, she needed an alibi. Someone who could vouch for her presence elsewhere.

Alice had been the only person she could think of. But her husband, Hawkhurst, might well not approve. Selina had always had the feeling he didn’t like her very much.

They travelled west, away from the sea and the keep. After an hour or so, Ian slowed the horse to a walk. The beast’s head hung low, foam white around the bit.

He threw one leg over the horse’s withers and jumped down. He lifted her off. ‘We’ll walk for a while.’

She rubbed at her thigh, easing the stiffness that always beset her after sitting for too long. It felt good to be off the horse and on her feet. The doctors had advised lots of walking to strengthen the muscles in her leg, though nothing would cure the hesitation in her step. She was lucky Dunstan hadn’t cared that she was no longer a diamond of the first water, no longer the perfect pocket Venus, but then money solved many problems.

‘Where are we headed first?’ she asked.

He grinned and grabbed the bridle. ‘Into the glens. Where the Scots always go when plagued by the English.’

She matched his pace. ‘That I know. But where?’

‘There is a place I know where we can spend the night, if we can reach it before nightfall. It is a long hard walk, so save what you can of your breath.’

She stumbled on a rock hidden in the heather.

He caught her arm before she fell. ‘Be careful. I always forget what a little bit of a thing you are.’

‘I’ll try to be taller.’ She took bigger steps.

He laughed. ‘You are a surprising woman, Lady Selina. Any other lady of my acquaintance would be twisting her hands together and bemoaning her fate.’

‘If hand-wringing would do me any good, be assured I would put it to good use.’

He glanced over his shoulder. ‘We are far enough from Dunross that we can slow our pace, I think.’

‘I’m not an invalid. I am perfectly capable of walking.’

‘I see that.’

Still she couldn’t help but be aware that he had adjusted his stride to match hers. She decided there was no point in saying anything. It clearly wouldn’t do any good. He saw her as crippled, no matter what she said.

After what felt like hours, with the sound of the curlews and the wind the only noises, he stopped by a stream. ‘We will let the horse drink and then ride for a while.’

She tried not to sigh with relief at not having to walk as she sank down and she scooped up water in her hands and enjoyed the cold trickle down her parched throat.

He drank, too, once he had seen to the horse, then crouched down beside her. ‘It would be better, if we meet anyone, if you do not give your real name.’

A pang tightened her chest. Of course he would not want it known he was in her company. She smiled brightly. ‘Who shall I be? Mary Queen of Scots?’

He frowned. ‘The cousin of a friend, on her way to her family. I don’t suppose you speak any Gaelic.’

‘A word or two, but I can speak with a Scottish burr,’ she said in broadest Scots.

He nodded. ‘Och, I remember you doing that before. It was days before I realised you were English.’

‘I’m like a chameleon,’ she said with a laugh that was a little more brittle than she intended. ‘I fit in with my surroundings.’

It wasn’t true. She fit in London. Not here.

‘We can say you have been away to school in England and lost the Gaelic. Come, we must keep moving.’

‘How long do you think it will be before they give up looking for us?’

He shrugged. ‘For you? Until you send them word you are safe, I assume.’ He bent and laced his fingers together beside Beau.

‘And you?’ she asked as he tossed her up.

‘With no evidence, there will be no point in them looking.’

Once more she found herself clinging to Ian’s waist, thoughts churning around in her head.

She just wished she could be sure she was doing the right thing running away with Ian instead of seeking out her father and denying it all. Unfortunately, that kind of blatant lying was not her forte.

If only she could think of a logical explanation for being gone in the middle of the night. Something that would not leave them suspecting her of betraying what should have been a confidence, though no one had specifically asked her not to speak of it.

Unfortunately McIver was right—the smugglers’ escape and her disappearance were just too much of a coincidence. She wasn’t even sure that Hawkhurst could, if he even would, give her the alibi she needed.

On the other hand, no one but the smugglers had seen her.

She stared at Ian’s back. One of his own men had betrayed him; if that person had seen her, it wouldn’t matter what kind of alibi she had, there would be a witness against her.

Was that why McIver had drawn Ian aside? Did he know who had betrayed them to the Revenue men?

She bit her lip. Perhaps it was better not to know. The thought gave her a horrid churning feeling in her stomach. Surely Ian wouldn’t … Smugglers were known to be exceedingly dangerous if crossed.

Oh, dear. Had she gone from the frying pan into the fire? She could not, would not, believe Ian would do her any harm. He was simply trying to help her escape the consequences of her folly, because she had helped him. Nothing more.

‘Do you have any idea who gave you away?’

His back stiffened. ‘I have been thinking about it, to no avail.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘No doubt he was forced to it by circumstance.’

‘What do you mean?’

His shoulders rose and fell. ‘Who knows what people keep hidden? It could be debt. Or illness. Or fear of being turned out. There are many ways to make a man betray his loyalty.’

And it depended on where you stood as to what was or was not deemed loyal. ‘Which means we can’t trust anyone in your clan.’

He didn’t answer for a long while. ‘Let us put it this way. There are people I know I can trust and people I am not sure of.’

‘What about me?’ She winced. Did she have to ask? How could he possibly trust an Albright. A Sassenach.

‘I trust you.’ He sounded almost surprised. ‘But I have to be honest, I also believe your first loyalty is to your father.’

She could not deny it, though Father might not exactly see it that way at this moment.

They kept moving all day, sometimes riding, sometimes walking, the hills becoming higher and steeper with every passing hour. They travelled in silence, saving their breath for travelling. And always she felt his urgency, though he never gave a sign he thought she was holding him back. He didn’t have to—she knew she was. Often she had the feeling he only stopped because she needed to rest.

The farther away from Dunross they got, the more she began to fear that her running away was not the right answer. Surely she could have bluffed her way out of the mess. Batting her beautiful eyes, as Ian had said.

He thought her eyes beautiful. When he had said it, she had been too worried to let the words sink in. Now strangely, they made her feel warm inside.

On foot once more, she lifted her gaze and became aware of her surroundings. It was all so wild and beautiful. Misty hills stretched in every direction, their outlines softened by heather and scarred by the odd outcrop of ancient granite. She’d been enchanted by it all that long-ago summer when her father had brought her here after her mother had died. He’d been desolate and had wanted to return to the place where he had spent his honeymoon. Then he’d run off to Inverness—for business reasons, he’d said—leaving her to mourn alone.

Later, he’d admitted that she reminded him too much of her mother and he just couldn’t bear it, but at the time she’d felt abandoned. By them both.

Sixteen and utterly lonely, she’d been ripe to fall in love with the first handsome young man who came her way. Naturally it had to be the worst possible person. Had Ian actually suggested she run away with him then, she would have said ‘yes’ in a heartbeat.

He’d been a knight in shining armour the day he carried her back to the keep in his arms. He’d made her feel soft and feminine. A rush of longing for that feeling filled the empty place in her heart she’d refused to acknowledge.

She shouldn’t be noticing now when they had so many more important things to think about.

‘Do you think we will make it to this place you know of by nightfall?’

He glanced up at the sky. ‘Yes. It is not more than a mile or two now. You’ve done very well for a Sassenach lass. Far better than I expected.’

Praise indeed, though she could have done without the reminder that she was English. Even so, she found herself smiling. He grinned back. How odd to feel happy in such peculiar circumstances.

‘How long do you think it will take to reach Hawkhurst from there?’

‘Once we cross the border and pick up a stagecoach, it shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.’

They crested the rise of a hill and, as nothing but hills stretched before them, the enormity of the distance they would have to travel became real.

‘What will you do, after?’

He shrugged. ‘Come back and continue on as before.’

‘More smuggling, I suppose. Until they finally catch you.’

He shot her a look that was both devil-may-care and world weary. ‘They won’t. And what else can we do until the law punishing us for supporting the true king is changed—the one separating the Highlands from the rest of Scotland and making it impossible to survive?’

Such bitterness. ‘Can the law be changed?’

‘Who will take our part in Westminster?’

Not her father. He had no interest in his Scottish estate, except for sport and a means to political advantage. ‘Lord Carrick?’

‘He does what he can, but Carrick is one voice among many. Highlanders are not popular with the English aristocracy.’

‘It shouldn’t be a matter of what is popular. The laws should be fair.’

He grinned at her. ‘So they should. But since they are not, then we deal with them our own way.’

There was more than a smidgeon of pride in the way he spoke. Clearly it would irk a man like Ian to be begging for help. But if he had brought his case to her father, might he not have tried to assist?

She stopped and looked at him. ‘Did you ask my father?’

‘Albright? Ye jest.’

The bitterness and scorn in his voice cut like a knife.

A shot rang out, the sound bouncing off the hills.

Ian jerked and clutched his arm with a cry, then spun around. He grabbed her arm and drew her down to the ground. ‘Keep your head low.’

‘They were shooting at us.’ The shock of it left her dizzy.

‘Aye.’ He got up on his knees and looked down the hill they’d so recently walked up. He cursed. ‘Soldiers. It won’t be long before they are upon us.’

Crouched low, he ran the few steps to the stallion, whipped the blanket from the animal’s back, rolled it up and tied it lengthways along the horse’s back.

‘What are you doing?’

He shot her an impatient glance, then began talking in a low voice into Beau’s flickering ear. To her shock, he whacked the horse hard on its rump. It took off at a gallop.

Lying flat in the heather, she stared after the horse in dismay. ‘Why did you do that?’

Crouching low, he picked up the saddlebag and reached out to take her hand. ‘Buying time. Keep your head down until we get over the brow of the hill.’

And then they were running, at first at a crouch, then, once they had crested the rise and were going downhill, at full tilt.

Her heart thumped against her ribs. Her breath came in short little gasps. She skittered along after him, trying to keep her head down, imagining at any moment a bullet slamming into her back, all the while wanting to lie flat on the ground and put her hands over her head. She sensed she wasn’t going fast enough for Ian. Breath rattled in and out of her lungs. Her legs, already tired, felt as heavy as lead. She really could not go any farther.

She let go of his hand and sank into the heather, gasping for breath. ‘Go. Leave me here.’

The look he gave her from beneath his brows was fierce and uncompromising. Before she realised what he was about he swept her up in his arms and tossed her over his shoulder. He took off, in an awkward jolting run.

With each step his shoulder dug into her belly and pushed the air out of her chest. The blood rushed to her head where she hung over his back.

She didn’t know which was worse, the pain under her ribs, or her difficult breathing, but she bore it in silence, glad he hadn’t abandoned her to save his own skin. He didn’t seem to even notice her weight. He was as lithe and sure-footed as one of the deer that roamed these hills, but after a while even his breathing became harsh and laboured.

They crested two more hills and then he stopped. ‘Get your head down.’ He threw himself flat and she did the same, lying on her back, trying to catch her breath.

‘If I tell you to run, head for the burn at the bottom,’ he instructed, his voice a rough rasp. In a crablike crawl, he went to the top of the rise behind them and once more lay flat, looking out. She tried to listen, but all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. She kept her gaze fixed on Ian, ready to run should he give her the signal. Or at least try to run. She wasn’t sure she could take another step.

He sauntered back to her with a grin on his face. He actually looked as if he was enjoying himself. She wanted to shake him. She pushed to her feet. ‘I assume they took the bait?’

‘They did that.’ His grin widened. ‘If we are lucky, Beau will beat them back to Dunross.’

She couldn’t help an answering grin.

His expression turned serious. ‘We are not out of the woods yet. They no doubt have a glass and, if they realise there is no rider, then they will circle back. We must hurry.’

‘Hurry where?’

He grinned. His blue eyes danced. ‘Over there.’

This time he directed her across the hillside, rather than down. He seemed to be searching the ground, for what she couldn’t imagine. There was nothing here.

He dropped to his knees and parted the heather around a large boulder. ‘Ah, here it is.’ He pulled aside what had looked like twisted clumps of dead heather on solid ground, but was really more like a thatch covering a deep scoop in the side of the hill.

‘In you go.’

A quick breath of fresh air and she crawled in. A strange smell filled her nostrils. Peat smoke and something else. Trusting he knew what he was about, she turned around and waited.

He followed, pulling the undergrowth back in place. It wasn’t completely dark inside. As her eyes adjusted, she realised they were in some sort of earthen room and that daylight came in through chinks in a roof made of brush.

The space, a sort of earthen cave, contained a couple of stools, a rotten straw pallet in one corner and a rusted metal object standing on the remains of a fire. A twisted piece of metal hung down beside its chimney. ‘What is this place?’

He drew her close and placed a finger to her lips. ‘Listen.’

Over the thud of her heart, she heard a different kind of thud. Horses. The sound vibrated up through her feet. They sounded very close. Would they trample over what was a very flimsy roof and end up falling in on top of them? The sound of her breathing and her heartbeat filled her ears.

She could only imagine what was happening outside. Without thinking, she drew close to his large protective form. Strong arms went around her, holding her firmly. She snuggled closer, listening to the strong steady beat of his heart instead of the sound of nearby horses, drawing strength and courage from his warmth and his closeness, wanting to burrow deeper every time they came so close she could hear the laboured breathing of the horses.

Slowly the sounds receded.

‘Whoever is in charge has a brain,’ Ian murmured into her hair. ‘I’m thinking the rest of the group followed Beau, but he sent a couple this way just to be sure. No doubt they will be back the moment they discover they were tricked.’

‘How comforting,’ she said, easing away from him. It seemed to her that he was reluctant to let her go, as if he had drawn some comfort from having her in his arms.

What an imagination she had. The sooner they left here the better.

She patted her hair, smoothing her skirts, hoping she did not look as if she had just huddled against him like a frightened child.

He hissed in a sharp breath. One of pain.

She recalled his jerk and the cry right after the shot. ‘Did they hit you?’

She felt sick. Nauseous. Her father wouldn’t have ordered him shot. He wouldn’t.

‘A scratch. The ball was spent.’

Her knees went weak. ‘I should look at it.’

‘It is fine.’

She wanted to believe him. ‘Perhaps I should look at it just to be sure? It’s too dark in here to see anything. We should go outside.’

‘Not yet. Not until we are sure they are not coming back. It will be hard for them to return to this exact spot. Since they will expect us to run, we will stay put. We’ll move on in the morning. More carefully.’

‘What of Beau?’

‘He’s used to these hills. He’ll go home.’

‘And if they catch him?’

He shrugged. ‘They will eventually. Either on the hoof or at my house. He was an army horse before I bought him. He’ll probably be happy to rejoin.’

But Ian wasn’t happy. She could hear it in his voice.

She once more looked around the cave. The smell had an underlying musty scent. ‘What is this place?’

His mouth tightened as if he preferred not to say. She stiffened her spine against the hurt of his distrust. ‘It was an illegal whisky still.’

He had trusted her after all. Something inside her softened. She sat down on the stool, looking up at him. ‘How did you know it was here?’

He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the gloom. ‘Just brimming with questions, aren’t you, Lady Selina?’

‘How do you know the soldiers don’t know about this place?’

‘No one does.’ He crouched down and poked around in the fire. ‘It hasn’t been used in years. It was my father’s.’

No wonder he hadn’t wanted to say where they were headed. In a strange way she felt honoured.

‘Is your arm really all right?’

‘It stings like the blazes.’

She winced. ‘You could have been killed.’ Or she might.

‘Aye.’ He picked up the saddlebag and sorted through it, setting out its contents on the floor. ‘Flint. A couple of candles. Oats. Bannocks wrapped in cloth. A flask.’ He shook it and something gurgled inside it.

‘What is it, water?’

He opened the stopper and sniffed. ‘Something better. Whisky.’

She huffed out a breath. ‘Water would be better.’

He chuckled and the sound was warm and low and easy. ‘There’s clean water in the burn, lass.’

‘So now we just sit here and wait for morning,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Do you have somewhere we can go next?’

‘I’ve a friend to the south and east of here. Captain Hugh Monro. He has contacts. He might lend us a horse. Or even a cart.’ He looked at her. ‘The thing is, I am just not sure he would see my side of it. He’s a law-abiding man. I doubt he’d approve of smuggling, no matter the reason behind it. And he is more than a day’s walk away.’

More walking. And worrying about being shot at.

‘We’ll make ourselves as comfortable as we can tonight,’ he said. ‘When it gets dark, I’ll fetch water from the stream. We will eat the bannock and we will soak the oats for the morning.’

‘It sounds most appetising,’ she murmured.

He cracked a laugh. ‘A banquet.’

She rubbed her arms. The warmth she’d gained from walking and running had faded. Chill now seeped into her from the surrounding damp earth. In a while, it would be dark and much colder. ‘Do you think we can light a fire?’

‘If we hadn’t been seen, I’d risk it, but they might come back once they catch Beau.’

They would have to make do without heat, then. They had one blanket between them. Sadly, the other had gone with the horse. Although he did have his kilt, which had dried over the course of the day.

‘Why did your family abandon the still?’

He grimaced. ‘The gaugers get wind of them and destroy them. See, the kettle’s been split with a hammer.’

She stared at the odd-shaped stove. ‘How does it work?’

‘This metal kettle here is a wash still, and when it is heated up over the peat fire, the steam containing the alcohol passes up the chimney and then down the worm, the coiled pipe there, and into a spirit still. All that’s left here is the first part of the process. Father used to prepare the mash in a local farmer’s barn and then bring it up here to turn it into whisky. Good whisky, too. We’ve a dram or two left in our cellars.’

There was pride in his voice. Over illegal whisky. It was a world in which she was a foreigner. The thought made her feel rather dismal.

‘We should eat now, while we can still see.’ He glanced upwards and she became aware of just how much the light had faded.

He unwrapped the bannocks and handed her one. They were surprisingly tasty. Or was she so hungry that anything would have tasted good? There were six altogether. She ate two. When he had wolfed down three of them he eyed the one remaining. ‘Do you want it?’

‘Oh, no,’ she said lightly. ‘I couldn’t eat another bite. You finish it.’

He didn’t speak.

She looked up to see him watching her. It was hard to fathom his expression, his eyes looked so dark. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Why do you do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Lie to me in that stupid little voice. Eat the bannock.’

She flashed hot. ‘You need it more than I do.’

‘Right, and I am the kind of man who takes the food out of the mouths of women and children.’ He stood up and bent to rake around in the rubbish in the corner. A grunt of satisfaction told her he’d found what he was looking for. When he stood up, she saw he had an old and bent metal pot in his hand. She couldn’t understand why he looked so pleased.

He must have sensed her puzzlement. ‘I recall using it the last time I was here. If it had been gone, we would have had to use the flask for water.’

‘And thrown out the whisky,’ she said.

‘Never.’

‘You’d rather do without water, than waste the whisky. I should have guessed.’

‘Uisge-beatha, lass. The water of life.’

She watched him leave, a smile on her lips, then tackled the last of the bannocks.

Chapter Nine

By the time he returned with water, their dwelling was pitch black and a chill permeated the air. Perched on the stool, wrapped in her blanket, she really wished they could light a fire. She forced her teeth not to chatter, though stilling her shivers was harder.

The sound of Ian’s breathing filled the small space. She sensed him fumble around, heard the clang of metal on rock and guessed he’d set down the pan of water. ‘I’d forgotten how dark the night can be out here,’ he muttered.

And how cold, she wanted to add. She shivered. ‘Are you sure we can’t light a fire?’

He hesitated, then sighed. ‘It would be a mistake. I think we can light one of the candles, though. Its flame is too small to be seen at any great distance.’

The sound of steel striking against flint only made her think more of warm fires. Yet when the wick caught and the small light flared, putting shadows in the corners of their small den, it did seem a bit warmer.

Then she noticed his grimace and the way he flexed his left hand.

She got up from the stool. It was a rickety old thing and did not sit flat on the ground, but it was all they had. ‘Sit down and let me look at your arm.’

‘Getting a little bossy, aren’t you?’

‘Sit.’