The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,66
With a shove, Ciar released him and sped outside while the slap of footsteps followed. He stole a glance behind. Livingstone.
A dark shadow disappearing around the front of the building caught his eye, and he sprinted toward it, leaping over barrels and old crates.
Skidding, Ciar rounded the corner.
Ahead, Riley headed for the wynd across the road while shouts came from the alehouse. The wee street twisted toward the river, but there was no other way out but to double back.
“There he is!” yelled Livingstone, with MacDougall men in his wake.
“Cut him off around the bend. I’ll follow.” Ciar glanced back. “We cannot lose him!”
Trusting his men, he darted straight for the water. It was a risk, but dividing forces was the best chance to nab the scoundrel.
Sprinting along the river, Ciar sucked in deep breaths, ignoring the burn of his thighs. He slowed a tad, scanning the river’s edge, peering into building doorways, squinting to discern objects in the shadows. With a sudden burst, a barrow clattered to its side as Riley darted out of the wynd. Over his shoulder, the dragoon spotted Ciar and sharply swerved east.
Anticipating the change of direction, Ciar ran after him. He reached out, stretching as far as possible, his fingers almost skimming the sentinel’s coat while mud from Riley’s shoes splattered his face.
The brigand swung back with a fist. “You’ll hang!” he screamed, his voice high-pitched and breathless.
Ciar ducked and dove, wrapping his arms around Riley’s legs and tackling him to the road. “There will be a hanging, but it will not be mine.”
“Move your beastly arse off me!” Riley shrieked, kicking his feet, his fists thudding against Ciar’s back. “I am a soldier of the crown.”
Rising to his knees, Ciar threw a hook across the man’s jaw. “You are a murdering deceiver, and I aim to make you pay for the misery you’ve caused me and Tommy MacIntyre’s kin.”
But Riley didn’t hear a word. He dropped to the dirt, out cold from Ciar’s punch.
Wheezing, Livingstone came running. “Haste. Half the dragoons from the alehouse are headed this way.”
“Where are the men?” Ciar asked.
Livingstone crouched with his hands braced on his knees as one named Willy approached. “I ordered the rest of them back to the ship,” he panted. “They’re preparing to set sail.”
Ciar stood and hefted Riley over his shoulder. “Keep an eye out. The last thing we need now is an escort to Dunbarton’s dungeon.”
Together they slipped through the shadows, listening for troops, ready for an attack. Just as Ciar thought they’d make it without a fight, a dragoon leaped from behind a fence, swinging his saber. Ciar tightened his grip on Riley and bobbed away from the hiss of the blade. With the lout’s recoil, he darted with the speed of a falcon, jabbing an elbow to his opponent’s nose, dropping the dragoon to his face.
“Must ye knock everyone unconscious?” asked Livingstone.
“Better them than me.” His muscles burning with fatigue, Ciar lumbered down the steps to the wharf. Riley had to weigh fifteen stone at least.
“Halt!” someone yelled from above.
“Faster,” Ciar growled, willing his legs to pump harder, grunting with the agony of the weight across his back.
Livingstone took the lead, signaling for the men to cast off.
Just as the galley drifted away from the pier, Ciar hoisted Riley from his shoulder. “A bit o’ help here!”
A musket fired as two men grabbed the redcoat and dragged him into the boat. Ciar covered his head as he leaped for the hull. Rolling to his back, he looked upward.
The sail hadn’t yet picked up wind. He hopped up and grabbed an open oar, pulling with all his strength. “Keep your heads down, and row as if the devil is blowing hellfire up your arse!”
* * *
Humming a Celtic ballad, Emma stirred the pottage Nettie had brought and tapped the wooden spoon on the edge of the kettle, the sound ringing throughout the chamber. “I think we’ll both like this, Albert.” After all, every morsel Nettie had delivered to the Gylen cellars had been exceedingly delicious compared to the bland fare they had been eating.
The dog moved beside her and growled—not exactly the response she expected.
“What is it?” she whispered, listening while the hairs on her nape stood on end.
The echo of muffled footsteps came from the passageway, but it wasn’t Ciar’s bold stride. This gait was slower and precise, as if each step was being placed with careful calculation.
Her stomach turned over. Dear God, please don’t let him be hurt.