Chapter Three
Hugh strode through the campsite that lay scattered on a small plateau halfway up an imposing mountain and returned the greetings hailed his way from its itinerant inhabitants.
It had been more than six weeks since he and Symon had left Eire and returned to Symon’s displaced clan, just days before they’d left their previous site to travel here.
Six weeks since the MacGregors had, if not exactly welcomed him, at least allowed him to stay, after hearing from Symon of Hugh’s tireless exploits against the damn sassenachs.
Six weeks, during which he’d felt like the worst kind of betrayer.
It couldn’t be helped. Three months ago, he’d heard rumors that Douglas was back in Argyll and had sent word to the earl through his network of spies.
A network that hid in plain sight, of messengers and couriers, and seemingly innocuous missives that were shrouded with secret codes.
For the sake of security, he never knew for sure which ones were working for the earl or not, but the system worked and, by whatever means were employed, the messages reached their destination.
The earl had commanded him to return to Eire and maintain his subterfuge, in the heart of the rebel MacGregors’ outposts, and to continue to keep him informed of anything he unearthed.
Was it treacherous of him to be thankful he’d yet to uncover plans of rebellion against the Earl of Argyll?
It was. If he did discover any such plans, he knew his duty and he’d inform the earl. In the meantime, he merely relayed whatever he heard regarding Clan MacGregor.
The only thing he didn’t divulge was his exact location. There were women and bairns in the camp and while he doubted the earl was interested in launching an attack, since it would shut down his line of communication, Hugh wasn’t prepared to risk it.
Symon emerged from a nearby tent and raised his hand in greeting.
His exuberant nature had faltered when they’d joined the camp and he’d discovered his sweetheart had wed another and moved south in his absence, but lately he appeared to have recovered from his loss.
At least he no longer made mocking references to Hugh’s elusive lady love, for which he was thankful, since any chance he’d once had of winning Lady Roisin’s favor had well and truly perished.
“Are ye up for hunting?” Symon asked as he fell into step beside him.
“Aye.” He often went on hunting trips. They were dangerous, since it necessitated riding deep into Campbell-held territory with the risk of being recognized. But he’d only be recognized if he were caught, and he had no intention of that happening.
But that wasn’t the only danger. Clan MacGregor had been outlawed, and poaching was the only way they could now survive. And MacGregor poachers ran the risk of being killed on sight.
He went to get his horse, a fine stallion he’d acquired in Eire as part payment for his services.
How he wished the beautiful creature he’d named Deagh Fhortan had the comfort of a stable instead of facing the elements every night, but it couldn’t be helped.
Maybe one day he would, if Hugh ever returned home.
Good fortune. It seemed a fanciful name to call his horse considering his current circumstances, but it wasn’t only because of the stallion’s outstanding performance in battle. It was a promise to them both that this life wouldn’t be their fate forever.
He and Symon rode away from the camp. They never hunted locally, despite the nearby forest and loch, since the less attention they drew to themselves the better. And while it was uncomfortable hunting on the land of lairds he knew, he could scarcely object without raising suspicion.
A starving man didn’t question where he found his food. And without these hunts, the MacGregors would starve.
He pulled his kerchief higher, so it covered his face more securely as ominous clouds rolled across the summer sky, obscuring the sun, and he and Symon went to work.
It was several hours later when, with their bags filled with small game, they were on their way back to the camp when the drizzle that had been their constant companion finally broke into a full-scale downpour.
They urged their mounts forward, as thunder rumbled overhead, when through the slashing rain Hugh saw a commotion from the corner of his eye.
He frowned, squinting in the distance, cursing the mist that obscured his vision. But he could see enough, and it seemed the skirmish was not going well for the ones defending the wagon.
Symon pulled up beside him. “Bandits,” he said. “Make haste, Hugh, before they see us.”
It was good advice. It was foolhardy to get involved, but he didn’t urge his horse on. Because two riders broke away from the melee and his heart smashed against his chest. “Christ, Symon. There are women. We can’t leave them.”
Not when it looked as though the bandits were winning and there was no prize for guessing what the bastards would do to the women once they caught them.
Symon cursed under his breath. “Aye, Sergeant.”
They drew their swords and galloped over to the fray. Bodies were strewn across the ground and as the last defender fell, the two remaining bandits turned their attention to the fleeing women.
Their mistake. They hadn’t noticed either him or Symon, and Hugh had no compunction in using their negligence against them.
The element of surprise that they’d clearly used to slaughter their victims worked just as efficiently, and with brutal economy, Hugh dispatched his opponent to hell.
Since Symon needed no help, he pulled his horse about and galloped in the direction he’d seen the women fleeing.
God, he hoped they hadn’t changed direction, or he might never find them in this forest.
A dark flash ahead alerted him and he charged forward, gaining on the riders with every passing moment. One lagged behind the other, and he focused on the one ahead. When he rescued her, the second rider would undoubtedly halt too.
He swerved into her, inching closer. A shawl covered her head, hiding her face, but it was the ungainly basket in front of her that momentarily distracted him.
Whatever she’d salvaged from the wagon surely wasn’t worth the inconvenience, when for all she knew she was fleeing for her life from the bandits.
In the end it didn’t matter, since the bandits were dead. He lunged and grasped the reins. “Ye’re safe,” he yelled above the sound of the relentless rain and thudding hooves. “Slow down. ’Tis all right.”
She ignored him, bending low over the basket, and with a muffled oath he tugged sharply on the reins, bringing both of their horses to a halt. Before he could regain his breath to reassure her once again there was no cause for alarm, she turned to him, and he saw her face.
The words lodged in his throat as the world plunged sideways and all he could hear was the sound of his heart thundering inside his head.
God’s bones, she was Lady Roisin. Stupefied, he stared into her dark green eyes. Eyes that were filled with terror, and belatedly he realized the kerchief still hid his face.
Without releasing his grip on her mare’s reins, he pushed the kerchief down and only when shock froze her features did it occur to him that he’d just made a fatal error.
Lady Roisin knew who he was. If she said anything to Symon about him being a Balfour Castle Campbell, his cover was blown.
“Hugh.” He scarcely heard her whisper, but his gaze fixed on her lips as though they were his only salvation. “What are ye doing?”
A section of his mind was aware that Symon had caught up with her companion and they were but a couple of horse lengths from him and Lady Roisin. He had to make her see it was safer for them both if she pretended not to know him and there was no time to lose.
“My lady.” His voice was urgent. “Ye cannot know who I am, do ye understand? I cannot guarantee yer safety otherwise.” Or his own, but that was of minor concern when Roisin gazed at him as though he were a demon from hell.
His grip on the reins tightened until his knuckles ached. All he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and reassure her she was in no danger, but that was the last thing he could risk with Symon so nearby.
He leaned in close until their breath mingled. God help him, but her elusive scent of crushed rose petals swirled about him like a tortured promise, and it was a struggle to recall that he needed her word.
“Promise me on yer honor.” His whisper was harsh, and she flinched. She couldn’t have wounded him more had she plunged a dagger through his heart.
“I promise.”
He should be relieved, but only a dull sense of gloom-laden inevitability wrapped around him. He still needed to elicit another promise from her, and he had the certainty it would destroy any lingering fragment of tenderness she’d ever held for him.
“Ye can tell no one ye saw me. Do ye understand?”
She glared at him as though she’d like nothing better than to slap his face. Instead, her arm tightened around the basket before she drew in a ragged breath. “Ye have my word.”
Goddamn it. In all the many wretched dreams he’d had of seeing her again, none had come close to this bitter nightmare.
But no matter how dire the circumstances, he couldn’t tear his gaze from her.
Her dark auburn hair was drenched, and he had to fight the urge to push errant tendrils from her cheeks with his finger.
Symon came to his side, gripping the reins of the second horse. “Sergeant, we should retrieve the wagon. ’Tis sure to be loaded with goods we can use.”
For a moment, Hugh stared at the other man, his words making no sense. The wagon belonged to Lady Roisin. And then a flicker of anger stirred as Symon’s remark penetrated the fog clouding his mind.
They weren’t going to damn well steal her goods. They needed to escort her to wherever she’d been heading, to ensure she arrived safely.