Seven #3
The men hurried away to carry out his orders.
But Gordon didn’t join the search.
No, he’d wait right there with the horses.
His earlier erotic thoughts of Constance vanished with the onset of his temper. He’d thought she’d given up that nonsense about running away to America. It was too dangerous a journey for a young woman alone.
However, if she wanted to make Edinburgh in three days, she needed a horse—and she was bold enough to try and steal one.
Gordon turned Tempest into the herd before moving toward the center of the grazing horses. He knelt among them. Tad came loping back to join him, obviously aware that something was amiss.
“Lay still,” Gordon ordered. The wolfhound stretched out beside him, his head down. He’d remain that way until given the command to rise.
Shouting could be heard throughout the camp.
Gordon let them carry on. The more noise, the more confident Constance would be that she knew where everyone was.
A cramp started in his left foot. He was just about ready to stand and shake it out when the horses paused from their grazing.
A few lifted their heads. Others returned to eating but were watchful.
And then Gordon saw her. She’d stolen one of Emma’s shawls and thrown it over her head to hide her hair. The tartan around her shoulders covered her fine dancing dress. His tartan, he noted. She’d not given it back earlier.
That she would attempt an escape didn’t shock Gordon. What did surprise him was how she ducked under the rope paddock with the ease of a young boy, grabbed a hank of the mane on the nearest horse, and hoisted herself up onto the animal’s back.
She was going to ride the horse without a saddle. All the way to Edinburgh.
He had to admire her courage, and was tempted to let her do it just because she’d be saddle-burned for weeks. Not to mention the fact that the horse she’d chosen so hastily was an aged mare they all called “the Bitch.”
Actually, it was Constance’s modesty that proved her undoing.
She took a moment to rearrange her skirts so she wasn’t showing as much shapely leg.
Her attention was on the task at hand and the shouting in the camp.
She never even heard him make a sound until he came up beside her and said, “Going somewhere?” in the mildest of voices.
She let out a yelp of surprise.
The sound startled the Bitch, who was ready for a fight. The mare pinned her ears and bucked. Constance went flying right for Gordon. The two of them fell to the ground, but the Bitch wasn’t done bucking.
Gordon tried to avoid the mare’s hooves while protecting Constance with his body.
Tad rose with a snarl and began barking at the horse. The dog’s attack gave the Bitch a target for her anger. She kicked out at him, but Tad moved to the left, drawing her away from Gordon and Constance.
Unfortunately, the bucking and Tad’s barking had riled up the other horses, who started running. For a second it was chaos. Gordon anticipated being trampled at any moment. He jumped to his feet, half carrying, half dragging Constance to safety on the other side of the rope fence.
Everyone in the camp heard the noise and came running from all directions.
Fearing for his dog, Gordon leaned over Constance’s body and commanded, “Tad, come back here.”
The dog immediately came to his side just as Thomas and Brian arrived.
“What the devil?” Thomas said, and caught up short when he saw who Gordon had.
Constance was the worse for wear. Her skirts were hiked up over her knees, she’d lost a shoe, and apparently her mouth was full of dirt because she made a face and spat it out.
Ignoring a pain in his side, a sign that the Bitch might have caught him with a hoof, Gordon stood and brought his captive to her feet by lifting her with one arm. “She was attempting to steal a horse.”
“You could have been killed, Gordon,” Thomas said, a comment quickly seconded by the growing number of people gathering around them.
“We need to calm the horses before they run through the fencing,” Gordon said to Brian, who turned and barked an order at some boys to see to the matter.
Meanwhile, a grumble of anger rolled through the crowd. They weren’t pleased with Constance.
“Emma hurt her wrist,” Sarah Kimball self-righteously informed Gordon.
“You should have seen the way she acted,” Old Rae said to the others, as if to justify losing their captive. “She’s wicked. Maggie was right!”
“Let me have her,” Thomas said, his eyes hard. “I’ll school her in manners. We’ll tie her up in the center of the camp, the same way the English treated the Widow Harrell. Do you remember what they did to that old lady, lads?”
“No,” Gordon said, drowning them all out before matters grew out-of-hand. “Colster doesn’t want her abused. We’ll treat her with respect.”
“He’ll never see a mark on her,” Thomas promised, the intent of his threat clear.
Constance was still too disoriented from her wild escape to realize what was being said, and Gordon knew he had to act fast before his clansmen decided her punishment for themselves.
“Give me that lead line,” he ordered Jamie Allen, an eleven-year-old lad, standing closest to the rope he wanted.
The boy handed it to him, and Gordon retied Constance’s hands. He then tied the other end of the rope to his left wrist. He raised his wrist and hers for all to see. “There. Let’s see if she can escape me.”
“Are you going to keep her with you all the time?” Thomas asked.
“Aye, day and night,” Gordon answered.
“And where will she sleep?” Emma Reivers wondered.
“With me,” Gordon said.