Chapter 6
“If any of ye witless bastards put yer filthy hands on her, ye’ll find yerself without them.”
Hannah felt the voice that spoke to her left in her chest. A good octave lower and angrier than the three men who had managed to surge onto the road ahead of and behind her and block an escape before it had even been attempted.
She and the three men turned their heads in unison, and she felt her mouth drop open in astonishment as she realized who was swinging down from a stocky gray mare with one hand already on the hilt of a broadsword. In the gathering darkness, the mount beside him looked more ghostly than flesh.
She felt a chill race down her spine as the man who’d been speaking inches from her face laughed and revealed several missing teeth.
That chill had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the man who had just dismounted a mare that cut a terrifying figure all on its own.
She was fairly sure her pony would have come to about the beast’s shoulder.
“Who’s going to be relievin’ us of ‘em? Ye?” The one who spoke and was closest to her turned his gaze back to her, and she squeaked as he caught her cloak and pulled her a step toward him.
His grip was harsh, and her head snapped back on her neck at the unexpected force.
He had a firm hold on her until very suddenly… he did not.
A moment later, he was stumbling back with an astonished look on his face, and a gasp tore from her throat when she saw him turn toward the Laird as dark red painted the dusty road in the fading light.
His remaining hand went for the dirk at his belt, and a shout of warning died in her throat as the Laird’s sword plunged into the bandit’s chest with stunning finality.
It had been a scant few heartbeats from the moment the bandit had reached for her to when he hit the packed earth, courtesy of the Laird simply pushing him backward and off the large blade in his hand.
The other two moved quickly, and Hannah reacted nearly as fast. She surged from where she’d reflexively withdrawn to the rough rocks that nature had stacked a bit too high behind her back and snatched the bottle of whiskey from the hand of the rightmost bandit, hugging it to her chest tightly.
Even though she felt her heart thundering in her chest at the daring choice, that bottle could mean the difference between having her sister and being alone.
Last week had seen a tremendous improvement in Violet’s health, and she no longer appeared as if she were looking heavenward. There was little Hannah wouldn’t risk to make sure that improvement continued and could be shared amongst the others in her village.
The bandit she’d relieved of the bottle didn’t seem to notice as he scrabbled at his waist for his own dirk and charged toward the Laird, who moved with a speed that didn’t seem possible for a man of his size.
Red flashed inside the basket hilt of his broadsword and at the throats of the two bandits who had tried to flank him on either side.
It all started and ended so quickly that she could only stand stock-still with her whiskey bottle in hand, mouth agape, staring at the three fallen bodies and the black-haired man who stood among them, catching his breath.
Eventually, he looked up at her. He had speckles of crimson across his face. Her gaze was drawn to the way they shone in what light was left as he leaned down to wipe his sword on the cloak of one of the fallen men.
For a moment, she was almost afraid he would come after her with that blade next, as if he intended to leave no witnesses.
“Lass?” he spoke gently, and her irrational fear fled as quickly as it had crossed her mind.
She realized she was shaking, her teeth chattering, her breath coming faster the longer she stared at the trio, and she began to comprehend exactly what had been about to happen if not for the Laird’s interference.
She vaguely heard the clatter of his sword as he slammed it home in its scabbard and approached her on swift feet. “Lass? Hannah? Hannah, are ye alright?”
She could barely hear him over the pounding of her heart in her ears.
Her gaze finally moved from the bandits and up to the Laird’s face. “I’m nae sure.”
The words were barely audible. She wasn’t sure if it was because she’d spoken them so softly or because all she could hear was the rushing of her blood.
The Laird spoke to her again. She couldn’t understand what he said. All she could do was hug the whiskey bottle to her chest like the priceless lifeline it was as her vision grew darker.
Hannah felt her legs give out. She felt large hands catch her about the waist. She felt her head tip back as her vision went black.
When her senses finally found her again, it was to the sensation of being carried as if she were weightless. She knew that couldn’t be true.
Hannah had always been well fed, and her curves were generous, especially compared to her sister’s frail form of late. Still, she felt as though she was weightless as she was placed effortlessly on something soft, though that could have had something more to do with waking from a dead faint.
She flexed her hands and realized there was no whiskey bottle clenched in them anymore. Her heart nearly stopped, and she immediately braced her arms beneath her and heaved herself upright.
“Ach!” It was the Laird before her, catching her shoulders and pushing her back down flat.
“Nay. Ye’ll rest. Ye cannae have anything so urgent to address in this moment, lass.
” His grip was gentle but impossibly firm as he squeezed her shoulders to emphasize his intention to put her back where she was if she tried to get up again.
Her wits quickly returning, Hannah couldn’t help but heave a sigh of relief when she realized she was safely inside a room she supposed belonged to an inn and not on the side of the road in the dark with a trio of wicked men who intended to do her harm.
Seemingly satisfied she wasn’t about to leap from the stuffed straw bedding beneath her, the Laird nodded his head and stood. He strode to the door and called out into the hall. Moments later, he returned with a clay bowl in his hands and dragged a chair to the side of the bed.
Hannah watched with burgeoning curiosity. For now, she did as she was told, letting her head rest against the feather bolster serving as a pillow, half-reclined and still trying to fully gather her wits. Trying to understand where she was and what was happening.
How had they gotten to this inn so quickly? Why was she so dizzy?
She very vaguely recalled the way her stomach had suddenly soured.
The way her vision had suddenly become so terribly narrow, and she’d gone from feeling the evening chill despite her wool cloak to feeling entirely too hot and sweaty in a flash.
She knew she’d seen the Laird dispatch the three men who’d had her backed into a corner.
If he hadn’t arrived when he had, she also knew she’d be in far more trouble than she was right now. If she was still breathing.
The thought sent another little shudder through her.
The memories were largely visceral. The stench of the breath of the man who’d been inches from her face with his gap-toothed leering grin and eyes that had been the muddiest hazel she’d ever seen, as though whatever darkened his soul was leaking into his irises, the sudden tension of her cloak about her throat as he’d dragged her forward.
The sound of a severed limb hitting the dirt and the stunned shout of the man who’d been attached to it.
The way the pressure at the back of her neck had vanished.
The impulsive moment she’d snatched that damned bottle of whiskey from the hands of the man to her right, who she’d been so certain was going to drop it and ruin everything.
She had no idea if the Laird would have had any patience for a delay in his whiskey delivery.
The heather infusion took her four days to prepare.
It required more of the plant than one might have thought, and she didn’t have another bottle ready.
The second delivery would be days late. So, even if she had survived the encounter on the road, the Laird may not let her gather more of the angelica in retaliation for her tardiness.
Her stomach churned, and the nauseating heat washed over her again.
Finally, she realized the obvious. She’d fainted on the road, directly in front of the Laird himself. Who likely now thought her a wilting flower.
How deeply humiliating.
“Easy, lass.”
She glanced up, jolted out of her reverie by his voice.
He sat, sweeping his belted plaid back from where it draped over his shoulder and around his waist so he could move freely. “Ye’ve gone pale again.”
With controlled movements, he dipped a spoon into the bowl in his hand and held it to her mouth.
Finally understanding what he was doing, and thoroughly mortified, Hannah opened her mouth to a spoonful of broth laden with vegetables. After she’d accepted another three, miraculously keeping herself from asking exactly why he thought she needed so much help feeding herself, he finally spoke.
“What in God’s name were ye thinkin’, being on the road at night alone, lass? Where is yer pony?”
Hannah pushed the next spoonful away carefully. “He threw a shoe this afternoon. I had to leave him with the farrier.”
In truth, she could have waited until her pony was shod once more and risked cutting the delivery close, hoping the farrier who had told her he didn’t have time that day and would see to it on the morrow would have her pony ready to ride the next morning instead of the next afternoon.
Now, she wished she had taken that risk, compared to putting herself directly in the path of the trio of brigands who had gotten far too close to taking something precious from her.
Speaking of that precious delivery, it was missing.
The realization crept across her awareness with dawning horror.