Chapter 2
An Ill-Mannered Laird
Alistair knew the taste of blood. Iron, cold, and the dryness that came when the body began choosing what it could still keep alive.
The woman's voice did not belong to that taste.
"Why did an Englishwoman lie for me?"
She did not answer at once. The hand pressing the cloth against the wound increased its force, and the pain moved up through his ribs. Alistair held his breath.
"Because the soldiers would have killed you before I could decide whether you deserved to die."
Flawless English. Cold in exactly the right measure. All the same, her eyes had changed when he spoke in Gaelic.
She had understood.
"Englishwoman," he said.
Her chin rose slightly. The gesture brought back a memory with no face to it: dark water, a child's voice, something lost before he could take hold of it.
"Save your breath," she said. "You are spending a great deal of it to say very little."
A voice carried over the wall.
"Miss Whitmore!"
The woman turned her face toward the road. Lady Hawthorne, Alistair assumed. The irritation in the voice made introductions unnecessary.
"Miss Whitmore, the wheel is ready!"
She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, the decision had already been made.
"I have a few minutes before she sends someone to fetch me."
"Then go."
"You insist on that with surprising dedication."
Footsteps approached on the other side of the wall. The woman lifted her hand from the wound only long enough to cover it with another folded cloth.
"Press here."
Alistair looked at her.
"Now."
He put his hand over the cloth. The pain beat under his palm.
She stood and crossed the heather to the wall. Alistair could not see her from where he lay, but he heard a young man's voice.
"I brought the water, miss. And the cloths. There was no one in the house, though the fire was still lit."
Robert. The servant who had come with her.
"Leave them with me."
"Lady Hawthorne is waiting."
"I have found an injured traveler. I need to stop the bleeding before he can be moved."
"The soldiers said he was a drunk."
"The soldiers did not examine him."
There was a pause.
"Should I help you?"
"Go back and inform Lady Hawthorne that I am taking the man to the small house. When someone returns, I will go on to the inn."
"She won't like it."
"That part of the message requires no explanation."
The servant's footsteps moved away.
The woman returned with a small pail, cloths, and two strips of wood. She set them all down beside her bag.
"You lied again," Alistair said.
"I said I would take you to the house. I can still try, if you cooperate and lose half your weight along the way."
She pushed the torn coat aside and examined the entry wound. Her fingers did not hesitate. They touched the skin around it, searched for bone, and stopped below the last rib.
Alistair closed his hand over the heather. The world lost its edges for a moment.
"The ball is still inside," she said. "And I cannot take it out here."
"Who are you?"
"Miss Whitmore."
The name gave him nothing. The voice, though, went on brushing against some old memory.
On the other side of the wall, the carriage door closed.
"Diana!" another woman called.
That voice was younger.
Miss Whitmore raised her head.
"I'm well, Eliza! Go on with Lady Hawthorne. I will meet you at the inn."
"Diana..."
"Go."
There was no answer at first. Then the wheels began to move along the road.
Alistair watched the woman's face while she listened to the carriage go. No regret appeared. Only a small movement in her throat before she turned her attention back to the wound.
"She left you here?"
"Penelope believes I am handing an injured stranger over to the people in that house."
"And when she finds out you never reached the inn?"
"She will send Robert first. Then more capable men."
"How long?"
"Less time than I would like."
A small bell sounded beyond the rise. Then another. Goats appeared on a low track, driven by a boy in a coat several sizes too large and boots tied with rope. He stopped at the sight of a woman kneeling beside a bloodied stranger.
Alistair searched for the pistol. It was still out of reach.
Miss Whitmore raised one hand.
"I need you to carry a message."
The boy looked at Alistair.
"Is he dead?"
"Not yet. His persistence has been inconvenient."
She took a piece of paper from her bag, rested it on the lid, and wrote a few lines.
Papa's case. Find a cart.
Come to the abandoned mill on the field road.
Tell Penelope you went out to look for me.
Bring no one you do not trust.
She folded the note twice and held up a coin.
"The carriage is going on to the inn at Inverness. Give this to the young red-haired woman. To her only."
"And if the lady asks for it?"
"Say you cannot read."
"I can't."
"Then you will have no difficulty."
The boy took the note and the coin. The goats followed him up the track, one of them stopping to chew the end of a bush before it was pushed along.
Alistair watched the woman put away her pencil.
"Diana."
She stopped.
"Your sister called you that."
For a second her eyes stayed on his.
"Miss Whitmore will do."
"For whom?"
"For you."
The cloth was already damp. Miss Whitmore opened her bag, found another folded one, and laid it over the first without lifting the pressure.
"You brought that when you went back to the carriage," Alistair said.
She gave him a brief look.
"You pay attention to inconvenient details."
"You said you had forgotten a cloth."
"And now it is being used. It was an efficient lie."
"For the woman in the carriage?"
"For everyone who was listening."
The wind dropped down the slope, carrying the sound of a hammer near the road. The wheel was still being repaired. Alistair calculated the distance to the wall, the number of men he had seen before the shot, and the time it would take Graeme to retrace his steps.
Too long.
"The patrol will come back."
"We agree on something."
"Get me out of here."
"Not yet."
He took hold of her wrist. This time the fingers closed.
Miss Whitmore looked at his hand, then at his face.
"If you tear anything else on the inside, I will have no way to repair it. Let go."
"My men are close."
"Your men left you bleeding alone beside a road."
The sound of a blade leaving its sheath came from behind her.
"Take your hand off her."
Graeme.
Alistair let go of the wrist before his cousin decided to remove some part of him he still intended to use.
Graeme crested the slope with mud to his knees and a short sword in his hand. His dark hair was wet. A smear of blood crossed his sleeve, though it did not appear to be his. His eyes went from Alistair to the woman and back.
"Laird."
The word came out low, carrying everything Graeme would not say in front of a stranger.
"You took your time," Alistair said.
Graeme put the sword away and knelt.
"There were men on the north track. I had to take them across the stream."
His hand went to Alistair's shoulder.
Miss Whitmore intercepted it.
"Do not move him."
Graeme looked up.
"Move aside."
"There is a ball near his ribs. The bleeding is controlled only while he stays as he is."
"There's a patrol less than half a mile off."
"And it will be closer if you make him scream."
Graeme studied the woman with the care he gave to a suspect bridge.
"Who are you?"
"The person who kept the soldiers from finding your laird."
"That's no answer."
"It answers what matters at this moment."
Alistair would have appreciated the reply if breathing had not required so much attention.
"She stays," he said.
Graeme turned to him.
"We don't know who she is."
"I know she lied to soldiers."
"She can lie to us."
Miss Whitmore twisted a clean cloth between her fingers.
"It is reassuring to see that the distrust survived intact."
Graeme did not dignify the remark with an answer. He may not have understood it. That gave Alistair an old and unaccountable satisfaction.
"I need to wrap him before he is moved," she said. "Lift the left shoulder when I ask. Slowly."
Graeme did not move.
"If you would rather carry a corpse, go on arguing."
He obeyed.
Together they raised Alistair only as far as they had to, enough to pass a wide band around his chest. Miss Whitmore guided Graeme's hands without asking permission.
She knew where to pull tight, where to leave room, and when to stop.
With every turn of the cloth Alistair's body objected. Her voice held him to the ground.
"Look at me."
He looked.
The eyes seemed gray in that light. The shape of them, though, was familiar. So was the concentration between her brows and the way she tilted her head before giving an order that did not allow refusal.
"Breathe now."
Alistair discovered he had been holding his breath.
The creak of wheels reached them from the side track.
Graeme went back to his sword. Miss Whitmore tied the last knot and stood.
A narrow cart appeared among the trees, driven by a man from the inn. Beside him sat a young red-haired woman, her skirt pinned above her boots and a long case in her lap.
"Diana!" she called. "Penelope has already sent Robert back to the road and two men on to the small house. We haven't much time."
Miss Whitmore closed her eyes for a moment.
"The case?"
"With me. I brought a blanket and a shirt as well. The boy found the carriage before the bridge."
The red-haired woman climbed down and stopped at the sight of Alistair.
"He isn't smaller than I expected."
"Eliza, this is Graeme MacLeod," Diana said. "Graeme, my sister. Try not to produce another patient."
Graeme glanced at the driver.
"Who's he?"
"Mr. Murray, from the inn where we spent last night. He owes me a favor."
Murray took off his cap.
"Miss Whitmore said a man had fallen."
Graeme looked at Alistair, then at the blood, the pistol, and the trail left through the heather.
"He fell."
Eliza handed the case to Diana.
"Papa's case. I also brought a blanket, a shirt, and half the provisions Penelope believes are under the carriage seat."
"Did she see you leave?"
"I told her I was going to look for my sister."
"That's no answer."
"I learned it from you."
Graeme put his arms under Alistair.
"Now."
Diana placed herself in front of him.
"Keep his chest in line. Do not throw him over your shoulder."
"I've carried wounded men before."
"How many survived?"
Graeme narrowed his eyes.
Eliza opened the back of the cart.
"Do as she says, MacLeod. Diana becomes unpleasant when someone dies without permission."
"She's unpleasant already."
"Then imagine the effort she is making to be kind."
Alistair heard the exchange while Graeme and Murray lifted him. His vision whitened at the edges. He set his jaw and kept his eyes open.
Diana walked beside the cart, one hand holding the bandage in place. She did not have the strength to carry his weight. When the wheel dropped into a rut, though, it was her touch that kept his body from turning.
They covered him with the blanket and empty sacks. Graeme climbed up beside him. Diana settled near the wound, the case between her knees.
"Where to?" Murray asked.
"The abandoned mill past the north fork," Diana said. "By the field road."
Graeme stared at her.
"You know hiding places in this country?"
"I know places Penelope would not set foot in without sending someone else first."
The cart began to move.
Eliza climbed on at the last moment and held the wooden side. Some of the brightness had gone out of her face. She looked at Diana.
"We haven't much time."
"How much?"
"Penelope sent two men after you. Robert told her the blood by the wall could not have come from your glove."
Diana did not take her eyes off Alistair.
"Do they know where we went?"
"Not yet."
Graeme put his hand to his sword.
Eliza took one breath before she finished.
"But Penelope has ordered them to search every abandoned building between the road and Inverness."