Saving Grace Page 3

  "I had thought those pipes were . . . lost," the mud- faced Grace said pointedly.

  Duncan fiddled nervously for a moment, then opened his mouth and took a step at the same time. He tripped on a goose cage before he could speak.

  The geese in the back of the wagon began to honk so loudly Colin almost longed for the sound of Fiona's bagpipes.

  Clumsy Duncan. Colin watched the lad try to shush all the geese, which made them honk all the more.

  "I found my pipes this morning," Fiona said brightly. "When ye were still in bed. Ye'll never guess where they were, Grace."

  "Oh, I’m sure," the shrew said and clearly had trouble keeping the sarcasm from her voice. "Where were they?"

  "They were in an old arms chest with a big lock, and that was beneath a blanket, which was under a pile of wood, and that was behind an old table, behind a huge haystack, way, way, way over in a corner of the stable loft." Fiona paused, then added in a puzzled tone, "I dinna know how on earth my pipes got there."

  The shrew turned and mumbled, "I don't know how you found them."

  Fiona tore her gaze away from the bagpipes and looked at Grace. "Did ye say something?"

  "No," the shrew lied. "Put the pipes down now, and go guard the road." She looked around the glen, then called out, "Iain! Seamus! Is all well?"

  "Aye!" two lads answered at once.

  Colin glanced toward the third wagon, which was farther back than the first two. Two boys of about twelve stood guard at it. One of the boys held a pike, and the other one had a rusty crossbow. Both weapons were aimed at the driver.

  The pike was about a century old and so bent with age it looked as if one good wallop would break the thing in two. Colin doubted the crossbow had been used in the last three hundred years.

  But it didn't matter, since the lad had the arrow cocked wrong.

  Colin wiggled his hands more and felt them finally slip from the belt. He shook his head. Never had he seen a more inept band of reivers. Had the drivers been anything else but drunken old men, this band of McNish outlaws would be the captives, that is, if they were very lucky and weren't dead instead.

  Their clothing was as poor as their reiving skills. Every plaid was ragged or torn. The lads' shirtsleeves were too short, the seams split and gaping, the saffron color faded to a pale yellow. And there wasn't a single pair of shoes worn among the pack of them.

  He shifted his position and began to untie the wad of knots they had tied in his own shoes.

  "Hold still, you devil's lackey of a driver, or I'll cut out your drunken McNab liver and feed it to the wolves!"

  Ahhhh, the shrew speaks.

  He glanced at her.

  She had her dirk against the driver s neck. Her face was covered in brown mud that was beginning to crack. Leaves and twigs hung from her long hair. All he could truly see was that tangle of black hair and the whites of her eyes."Get down from that wagon, you drunken fool!"

  The first driver wobbled drunkenly, then hiccupped twice before he climbed down.

  She followed him, her dirk waving madly this way and that.

  The other driver joined him in the middle of the clearing, prodded along by the lad with the pike, which he kept near the man's throat while the other lad fiddled with the crossbow and arrow, stopping every so often to scratch his head and frown in frustration.

  Grace turned to Duncan. "Wake up that driver over there!"

  But Duncan couldn't move easily. Two of the caged geese in the second wagon had his shirtsleeve gripped in their bills, and every time he'd tried to pull it loose, a third and fourth goose would stretch out their long necks and nip him.

  Grace walked over and pinched the snoring driver on his leg.

  The man sat up quickly, blinking and cursing as he looked around, his hand rubbing his leg.

  "Get down!" She poked him with the point of her dirk, and he slid from the wagon, then, at knifepoint, staggered over to join the others.

  "The McNab isna going to like this," one of the drivers told her.

  She laughed. "And I care what Donnell McNab likes?"

  One of those fools started to move toward her.

  She spun around with dervish speed, and mud flew in clods from her face and hair. She looked like a leper, mud clinging to her skin in spots, as she stalked the drivers in a circle, her dirk slicing back and forth through the air.

  The old man jumped back out of the way. "Watch out with that thing!"

  "You watch it." She grinned, a surprisingly pleasant smile with its straight white teeth. "Tell the McNab that the Clan McNish greatly appreciates his gift of the food in these wagons. 'Twill be a bonny fine Michaelmas at the Isle of Nish this year."

  She laughed, but there was little humor in that sound. Her shoulders went straight and her chin went up. She strolled by each servant and waved the dirk beneath his nose. "And be sure to tell him we have taken one of his oafish sons."

  "His son?"

  "Aye," she said. "The big one that doesn't have the wee sense needed to control a horse."

  Colin took a slow, long, deep breath.

  "Tell him—" she continued, "tell him that he'll see the cattle-handed lug in hell if a McNab sets one foot on what's left of McNish land!"

  The servant shook his head as if he were trying to comprehend; then he looked to the other two, who shrugged. "I dinna ken which—"

  "You do not need to understand. Go! Take my message to Old Donnell. Tell him to wait to hear our ransom demand!"

  The old men looked at each other.

  She fanned the dirk in their faces again. "If you favor your livers, get your scrawny legs moving!"

  One of the men started to speak. "But—"

  An arrow shot past the shrew's nose with a deadly whine. She gasped and froze.

  The old men ducked, cursing.

  Colin hit the ground, flat as an oatcake.

  The deadly arrow struck the tree next to him.

  He lay there for a moment, still feeling the wind from that arrow. Slowly, he turned and looked back through the bushes toward the glen.

  The McNab drivers had straightened and were standing there slack-jawed. That arrow had passed just inches from them, too. Their faces were very pale. A second later they ran down the road as if chased by the devil himself.

  "Seamus?" The shrew's voice sounded controlled. She turned slowly. Very slowly.

  The deadly crossbow lay in an empty spot, the same place where the lad had been standing only a moment before.

  She looked at the boy with the pike.

  He turned quickly around and dropped the pike, ready to run, too.

  "Do not move, Iain," she warned, walking toward him.

  The lad looked ill.

  "Where's Seamus?"

  "I dinna ken, Grace."

  She took a threatening step toward him, one that placed her right in front of him.

  "I saw nothing! I swear." He held his hands up.

  She stepped past him, searching the woods as she called out, "Seamus?"

  A bush near the road quaked like an aspen.

  "Seamus?" She moved closer to the wiggling bush.

  The bush stilled.

  "Seamus..."

  The bush sneezed.

  She took two more steps closer and then stood over it. "Seamus. I know where you are."

  " 'Twas only a wee slip of the trigger!" said a small voice from the quivering bush.

  "Come out of the bush, Seamus."

  "Look ye there!” A small finger pointed out of the bush. “I hit a tree." His voice was cheery, as if hitting anything were quite the accomplishment.

  "Come out, Seamus."

  "Be ye vexed, Grace?" the bush asked.

  "Aye. Come out now, Seamus."

  The bush was silent and still.

  "Seamus!"

  His head popped up from the bush, looking like that of a wide-eyed weasel.

  "Grace! Grace!" Fiona came running up, something clutched in her hands. She skidded to a stop in front of th
e shrew and held out her hands."Here. Look. I have it!"

  Grace frowned and looked down. "What?"

  "The toad," Fiona answered proudly.

  "What toad?"

  "Ye ordered me to hoard the toad. It wasn't easy to find, either." She lifted it up. "This is it. I kept it close to my chest. Although why ye want to hoard toads, I canna imagine."

  "I told you to guard the road."

  "Huh?"

  Grace leaned toward the girl's other ear and yelled, "I said guard the road!"

  "Oh." Fiona stared at the toad for a long moment, then dropped it and wiped her hands on her old plaid. She gave a relieved sigh. "Thank heaven, I was afeared ye were turning to witchcraft."

  Colin sat there, unable to believe he was watching another one of their trout- brained conversations. When he glanced at the shrew, she had moved to a water barrel in the back of one of the wagons. Her back was to him as she toweled the mud from her face and hair.

  He smiled without humor, prepared to face the ugly mud witch, the shrew from the Isle of Nish.

  She tossed the cloth away and turned around.

  Colin felt the smile fade from his face. He just sat there, frozen, not moving, not breathing. "Good Lord ..." he muttered. For the mere glimpse of a face that lovely, a man would make a bargain with the devil himself.

  Her skin wasn't pocked and ruddy, but the color of Highland snow, the kind of skin that looked soft enough to make a man crave its touch, crave its taste, crave the feel of it against his own.

  Her features were proof of God's perfection—a heart-shaped face, fine high cheekbones with a barest hint of a blush, full pink lips that turned his thoughts carnal, and eyes that slanted slightly upward, misty, exotic eyes that fired lust in a man, because men knew that a woman's eyes turned slanted and misty when she had been loved long and well.

  He rested his hands on his bent knees and took a deep breath, then just continued to stare at her, unable to will himself to look away. She was the most exquisitely perfect young woman he'd ever seen.

  "Duncan!" she hollered. "Go over to those bushes and check on the oaf!"

  Except...for her mouth.

  Quickly Colin reached beneath his cloak and unfastened the Campbell brooch hidden beneath his borrowed plaid, then retrieved the belt and twisted his hands into it so it looked as if they were tightly bound. He lay down, eyes closed, his breathing slow and shallow, the brooch clutched in his fist.

  The bushes about him rustled. There was a moment of telling silence when he could feel the lad looking at him.

  "He's still knocked out!" Duncan shouted.

  "Good." Her voice was coming closer.

  Colin waited.

  "We'll lug him to the wagon," she said finally. "Iain? Seamus? Come help us."

  Soon he felt four pairs of hands try to lift him; one small set of fingers dug deeply into his shoulder muscles. He knew where Grace McNish was.

  Colin let every muscle in his body relax. At six foot three and thirteen stone that was plenty of dead weight.

  She grunted, and the lads groaned and staggered a little.

  He heard her mutter a curse on the black soul of the McNab who "had sired the heavy lummox"; then they hauled him toward the wagon.

  As they went past the bushes that lined the road, Colin dropped his brooch, a sign for his men to find.

  The McNishes fumbled and stumbled repeatedly with his limp body, stopping to catch their breath and grunt and groan.

  At this rate, his men could be here before they had him loaded into the wagon. He had nothing to fear, other than becoming deaf from a blast of those bagpipes. Then he remembered that arrow, the one that had just missed his head. He decided that these fools could surely kill or maim him, but if they did, it would never be because they were trying to.

  Duncan and the shrew had climbed into the back of a wagon, and now they tugged on his shoulders, while the others tried to heave him up. Grace sat down as she pulled his head and shoulders into her lap.

  She smelled of lusty wet Highland earth and female musk. One side of his face was cradled against a soft woman's breast. He thought of that face. Perhaps he didn't want his men to come soon, after all.

  "He's a brawny one, he is," one of the lads said.

  " 'Tis all that stolen mutton and beef they eat," Grace said, still cradling his head.

  He moaned and turned so his mouth rested against the tip of that breast. Then he groaned loudly against it, trying not to laugh when she gasped and scooted away.

  There was a another telling moment of silence. He could feel her face just inches from his, searching his for a sign he was awake. He could feel the warmth of her breath when she finally breathed. Then she moved away.

  "He's waking up. Don't just stand around! Iain and Seamus! You take the last wagon. Fiona!" She raised her voice. "You'll ride up here and guard the oaf." She paused, then asked, "Did you hear me?"

  "Aye. Guard the loaf. Where is the bread?"

  "The oaf!"

  "Oh…him."

  "Aye, him. But first go fetch that branch again. Duncan, you take the second wagon." Grace paused, then whispered, "Is Fiona gone?"

  "Aye," Duncan replied. "She went over by the tree to pick up the branch."

  "Good."

  "Why?"

  "First chance you have, Duncan, hide the pipes again. Over in the wagon with the geese. She's afraid of geese."

  Soon the wagons were lumbering down the road, wheels rattling, axles creaking, and in the back of one of the wagons, amid sacks of oat flour and barrels of ale, lay the Lord of the Isles, a wee ghost of a smile on his lips. Colin Campbell hadn't laughed this much in years.

  * * *

  A little while later a group of armed men entered the clearing. The man in the lead dismounted and knelt on the ground, carefully examining the footprints and the wheel ruts.

  He looked up at the others. "An ambush."

  Another man was walking the circumference, eyeing the broken bracken, tree branches, and bushes. He pulled the brooch from the bush and held it up. "Look ye at this."

  They did look.

  The man kneeling on the ground turned away, his gaze following the wagon tracks. He stood and mounted his horse quickly and ordered, "Come! Ride this way!"

  A moment later they rode from the clearing in swift pursuit.

  Chapter 3

  Her stomach growled again.

  Grace looked down into the wagon bed at her prisoner, who was still unconscious. Since he was a McNab, she lifted a water bucket and dumped the whole thing on him.

  He didn't sit up coughing as she'd hoped. He didn't even flinch. He slowly opened his eyes as if he had all day, as if he were dry as summer air instead of dripping icy water from a nearby brook.

  He stared straight at her from eyes that were not a cold blue, as she had expected, but an odd shade of yellow gold—the eyes of a Highland wildcat, sharp and keen.

  He gave her the most unsettling look she'd ever received.

  For a brief instant she forgot he was a McNab. She forgot to breathe. She forgot to move. But she would never forget that look. Some weak part of her wanted to turn away, but she couldn't, wouldn't

  Their gazes were suddenly weapons, each one of them trying to overpower the other with a look.

  Her chin came up, yet she didn't blink. She would not let herself look away or even blink. Not first, anyway.

  She couldn't guess his thoughts, but had the uncanny feeling that he knew hers better than she did. Why was it that he was her captive, yet she felt like the hunted?

  "Grace!" Duncan shouted. "Come here!"

  She blinked. "I'll be there in a moment."

  He smiled mockingly, arrogantly.

  She drew her dirk and smiled back slowly, arrogantly.

  He didn't react.

  She moved the dirk toward him, waiting for some reaction from him: fear, a tensing of his muscles, a tightening of his jaw. She got none, yet her own heart began to pound in her ears.

&nbs
p; He never took his gaze from hers.

  She felt her smile slowly fading. She moved the dirk down, pausing above his heart.

  No response. His manner was completely unchanged.

  She moved the dirk to his belly.

  Still nothing. Not a flinch, not a sign that he was aware of her weapon. Her bluff wasn't working. She took a deep slow breath and moved the dirk lower.

  She waited. No man wanted a knife of any kind near their groin. What would those men think with if something happened to their staff?

  Time felt as if it had stopped. The tension between them grew rapidly until the air was as taut and silent as a war ground before the battle charge.

  "Grace!" came the impatient call again.

  Damn his eyes for never flinching. She raised the dirk high. What will he do now?

  He didn't even blink.

  Damn her, she thought, for giving in. She sliced the small knife downward toward his feet and cut right through the knotted shoelaces.

  "Get down." She waved the dirk in his face. "And if you try to run away, you'll find this dirk in your back." She gripped the splintery rim of the wagon bed with one hand and leapt to the ground.

  She never saw the exposed nail.

  Two steps and the sound of tearing fabric ripped through the air. She turned to find her plaid had a hole in the back of it that was the size of the oafs grinning blond head. She jerked the brown plaid fabric from the nail, spun on a heel, and marched toward the others, her head high as she ignored his snort of laughter.

  "McNish!" His voice was so deep it sounded like the thunder in Cairngorms. In fact, it took her a moment to realize that God was not calling her.

  She took a deep and settling breath, but did not turn around.

  " Tis no more bonny and rosy a view in all of Scotland!"

  She stopped. View? What view? She cast a glance over her shoulder to see what he was braying about.

  He stared at her back, grinning.

  She tried to follow his gaze, but couldn't see over her shoulder. With a sinking feeling of pure dread, she reached a hand around, over the plaid. Over her hip. Over the tail of her shirt...and lower.

  She touched bare skin. The hole was right over her rump. She jerked the folds of her plaid, adjusting them in her belt. She stuck her chin high and marched off, calling vivid and vile curses down upon the obnoxious and hard-headed McNab.