The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,41
need you to ferry a lad across the loch, and I’ll be trading a gelding for the lend of your skiff.”
Bloodshot eyes grew round. “Lend?”
“I’ve no time to haggle. The horse is sound. Whatever you reckon is a fair difference in price, send a note to my factor and it will be paid.” Ciar spotted an old sword propped in a corner and examined it in the candlelight. “And add this piece of rusted iron to my accounting.”
“That was me granddad’s.”
Smirking, he rubbed his thumb across the blade. It was duller than a butter knife but better than nothing. “I’d reckon he was the last one to run it across a sharpening stone as well.”
“Bloody miserable Highlander waking me in the dead of night. A man needs to be shown some respect. I ought to charge a shilling just for the pain in me backside.” Mumbling curses like a peg-legged sailor, Dicky rose and belted a plaid around his waist. “I thought Wilcox was aiming to hang ye.”
Ciar set the candle on a table and shoved the weapon into his belt. “He won’t if I can prove my innocence.”
“Good luck there.” Dicky shoved his feet into his boots. “Everyone from Tarbert to Inverness kens ye’re innocent.”
“There are three scheming dragoons who ken it as well. The same three who murdered MacIntyre and pointed the finger at me.”
“Good God, ye’ll never win against such odds.”
“Not behind bars I won’t.” Ciar marched through to the main room. “Haste. Redcoats aren’t far behind.”
“That would be right, bring a retinue of backbiting government troops to me door, ye thoughtless whelp.”
Ignoring Dicky’s grumblings, Ciar led the way to the sycamore. “Emma, Wilcox kens who ye are, but what about the lad?”
“I told them Sam was my footman.”
He grasped the lad’s bridle. “Did ye speak to anyone? Tell them where you hailed from?”
“No, sir.”
Ciar turned toward Emma. “Did anyone ken you rode in from Achnacarry?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No one asked.”
“Fortunate.” He slapped Sam’s knee. “Dicky will ferry you and your horse across to Ardgour. From there it’s a straight ride up to Lochiel’s fortress, but I do not recommend making the journey at night. Lord kens where Wilcox is sending his troops.”
“Ye intend for me to go alone?” asked the lad.
“Aye.” Ciar stepped away from the horse. “You said you were tired. Once you’re across, ride into the hills and take a bit of rest. Dicky will give you some food.”
“I will?” asked the old man, pulling Sam and his horse toward the loch. “Next ye’ll be giving away the plaid off me back.”
“Do you have a spare?” When Dicky responded with an audacious scowl, Ciar chuckled. “Thank you, friend. I’ll nay forget your kindness.”
The old man beckoned the lad. “Come, there’s a parcel of dried meat in the boat.”
Ciar’s humor faded in the blink of an eye. He reached up to help Emma dismount. “We’ll be rowing a skiff from here.”
“Will that be safer?”
Rather than set the lass on her feet, he cradled her in his arms. “Faster. I reckon safer as well.”
She patted her hip. “Come, Albert.”
Ciar looked toward the rickety wooden pier where the skiff was tied. Dicky had already shoved off. “Blast, I should have had Sam take the pup with him.”
“But he’s my dog.”
“And he nearly got us killed before we had a chance to flee.” Ciar hurried down to the pier and helped her to the bow seat of the boat. “You’ll need to keep him quiet.”
“I will. I promise.” She patted the bench, and Albert hopped into the hull, sat, and put his head in her lap. She ran her hand along his fur. “You mustn’t bark.”
Ciar untied the rope, then climbed onto the rowing bench and took up the oars.
“Och!” Emma gasped, her back stiffening while Albert’s ears pricked. “Riders are coming.”
Ciar’s gaze darted northward toward the road. Seeing nothing but the outline of trees through the darkness, he whispered, “Can you hear them?”
“Two horses…no, three.”
“Ballocks,” he growled. “Duck your head, I’m pulling the skiff under the pier.”
She bent forward, grasping the medal around her neck. “Saint Lucia save us.”
Ciar released his grip on the dock’s slats long enough to move the sword into his lap, but quickly grabbed hold again to ensure the skiff remained hidden. “Can you keep Albert quiet?”
“Aye.” Emma slid an arm around the dog’s back. Holding him firm, she gently clamped his muzzle closed. “Sh, stay,” she whispered in the dog’s ear so quietly it was barely audible. “Good laddie.”