The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,40
reins in his fist, Ciar grabbed Emma’s waist and hoisted onto a saddleless steed. Taking the reins, he took two steps back and vaulted into place behind her. “Come, Sam!” he bellowed, digging his heels into the horse’s barrel. “Ride close to the wall and follow me.”
Bellows of “Dunollie” and “Grant” rose as he galloped the horse for the road, leaning forward and shielding Emma with his body. “Keep your head down,” he hollered back to Sam.
The lad stayed right behind, handling his steed like a jockey, exactly what Ciar would expect from the son of a coachman. As they hit the road, Ciar ignored his urge to head south and led the way north—far enough to confuse anyone who made chase.
Before he crossed the river, he led them upstream to hide their tracks, then turned at an old croft and followed a rutted road through the byways of town.
“Where are we headed?” asked Emma.
“Somewhere you’ll be safe.”
“But we need to prove your innocence.”
“Correction,” he growled over his shoulder. “Only I can prove my innocence.”
“But they’ll be looking for me as well. You heard them. They were shouting my clan name as well as yours.”
Ciar clamped his molars until they hurt. It would be a risk to send her back to Achnacarry and even riskier to send her home to Glenmoriston—not to mention in entirely the wrong direction. He knew of only one place in the Highlands where he could provide her with sanctuary. Only one place where he could ensure her safety.
“Does Janet ken where you are?” he asked.
“Most likely she has figured it out by now.”
Gnashing his teeth, Ciar demanded more speed from his mount, as if he was in the race of his life. “Good God, she’s doubtless worried out of her mind.”
“It wasn’t to be helped. She would have stopped me had I mentioned what I was up to.” Emma shifted against his chest, turning her face toward him. “Regardless, we must send word straightaway. The last thing I desire is to upset her.”
If Ciar knew Her Ladyship, she’d already be beside herself with worry.
Sam reined his mount up to their flank. “Are we past the danger?”
After checking over his shoulder, Ciar slowed the pace to a fast trot. “We won’t be past danger for sennights. And mark me, Wilcox will never rest until he has my neck in a noose.”
“Or you prove your innocence,” added the lass.
He couldn’t agree more. “Aye, God willing.”
Emma yawned and shook her head. “Will we ride throughout the night?”
Sam did the same, wiping his brow in the crook of his elbow. “I’ve no idea how long I’ll be able to keep me eyes open. We rode all last night as well.”
“Ballocks,” Ciar swore under his breath. Too many things could go wrong. They needed help—mayhap send the boy home or find a boat or bloody hide. “All right, then. I’ve a friend in Corran who owes me a favor.”
“Isn’t it too dangerous to stop?” Emma asked. “The redcoats cannot be far behind.”
“Mark me, if we stop, our chances of making it safely out of here will quadruple.”
It was still dark with no sign of sunrise when Ciar reined his horse to a stop in the shadows of an enormous sycamore outside Dicky MacIain’s cottage. The old crofter ran a few head of sheep as well as the ferry across the narrows of Loch Linnhe.
“The pair of you stay on your mounts whilst I rouse him.” Albert followed as Ciar started off, but he dismissed the dog with a flick of his wrist. “Och, go wait with Miss Emma.”
She followed with a sharp “stay.” If only she had left the laddie behind, they might have fled without an army on their heels.
But hindsight was always the best teacher.
Ciar didn’t knock on the door. Dicky had a reputation for being a sound sleeper, and time was not in his favor. Instead, he climbed through a window, lit a candle from the coals in the hearth, and headed straight for the back room. Raucous snores led him to Dicky’s bedside. Thanks for small mercies, the old fella was alone.
He nudged the man in the shoulder. “Wake up. I’m in need of a favor.”
Dicky sputtered and gasped, reaching for his dirk.
As a slight glint of steel flashed, Ciar pinned his friend’s arm to the bed, dripping a bit of candle wax on the man’s forehead for good measure. “’Tis me, ye angry bear.”