The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,39
few minutes.”
“Aye, I’ve noticed that as well. But how did you slip through the gates?”
She found his hand and pulled. “A wee iron lock pick. A gift from my brother, six years past.”
“Wait.” Ciar didn’t budge. “When did the guard last walk by?”
“At pace twenty-two behind the barn.”
“A few minutes ago?” he asked.
“Possibly. My heart’s been hammering so, it seems as if hours have passed.”
He pulled her inside and closed the door. “Let us wait here until the next sentry makes his round, then we’ll go.”
She nodded. “Very well. Good thinking.”
Ciar kept hold of her hand as they silently stood, the sound of his breathing making her heart soar. Just standing here with him made the danger and the terror of venturing into the unknown worthwhile.
Good heavens, she’d done it! She’d spirited inside the most highly guarded fortress in the Highlands and found him. If only she could tell this man how much he meant to her. She ached to wrap her arms around him this very minute and never let go.
“I cannot believe you took such a grave risk.” His warm breath skimmed her ear while the deep, bass resonance of his voice made a shiver course across the back of her neck.
She squeezed his big palm. “There was no other way. If you stay here, Wilcox will hang you for certain.”
“You’ve come now, and that’s what matters. But I should not have told you the only way to prove my innocence is outside Fort William’s walls.”
“I spoke to the governor, and it is the truth. Everyone kens you’re innocent except Wilcox.”
“And his army.”
She gulped. “Aye, you would mention that.”
Albert growled at the sound of an approaching soldier. Emma quickly pulled him to her side and held his muzzle. “Shhh.”
This time two guards came past, the murmur of their voices rising over the sounds of the night. They stopped and chatted for a time while Emma hardly dared to breathe. Albert jerked his head, trying to free himself.
“No!” she whispered, fighting him and keeping her fingers clamped. “S-stay!” she hissed, and the dog immediately settled. For heaven’s sake, “stay” had worked before; she shouldn’t have changed the command.
After what seemed like an eternity, the soldiers continued on their watch and Emma released her fingers. “That was close.”
“The dog’s young.”
“But he’s smart. And he helped me find you.”
“Bless him.” Ciar tugged her fingers. “Let’s go.”
“Skirt around to the left, ’tis eight paces to the wall, and then we’ll have the shadows of the stables to keep us hidden.”
“You will never cease to amaze me,” he murmured, taking her hand and moving into the lead.
Chapter Thirteen
Ciar held tight to Emma’s hand, praying the dog wouldn’t see a rabbit and bark, let alone charge off and make chase. It was a miracle the lass had managed to spirit inside with the pup and not be caught.
She never should have risked entering the stronghold at this hour, let alone traveling to Fort William with but a boy as her escort. Nonetheless, she possessed a backbone hewn of steel. Hands down, Emma Grant was the bravest, if not the foolhardiest, woman he’d ever encountered.
As they reached the edge of the stables, Ciar stopped.
“There’s eleven paces to the sally port,” she whispered.
Thank God. He could barely discern the shadow marking the gateway. The moon illuminated the clouds above. It was dark but not dark enough.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready never to set foot on Fort William’s soil again.”
“I’ll second that.” Though Ciar knew he’d return. It was the only way.
Emma’s estimation of eleven paces hit the mark. He squeezed her hand as he checked all sides to ensure they were alone. “The first step to the gate is here.”
“The first of seven.”
“How—?”
Sam’s shadowy face peered through the gateway. “There you are.”
“Arf!” barked Alfred. “Arf, arf!”
“Hush,” Emma squeaked as voices rose, coming from the gatehouse.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ciar spotted a flash. “Get down!” he shouted as a musket fired from across the grounds. “Run!”
“Sam!” Emma called. “Fetch the horses.”
Ciar started to pull her toward a moored skiff. A boat would take them home faster, but a good marksman might shoot them dead before they could row out of gunshot range. In the blink of an eye, he changed directions and headed for the horses.
A cacophony of bangs and shouts came from the barracks as the troops stirred. God save them, the entire regiment would be upon them in seconds.
“Haste!” Ciar roared, spotting redcoats with muskets racing atop the wall-walk.