Page 29 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)

Thirteen

M cTavish glanced back down the rocky slope, then turned away, satisfied that no one would be able to follow their trail over the rugged terrain. Hurrying ahead, he seized Miranda by the arm and took charge of leading her over the short distance that remained.

As they entered the small clearing surrounded by tumbled boulders and thin, windswept pines, the four men left behind looked up from a blazing campfire.

Their expressions of surprise quickly turned into ones of thinly veiled disapproval.

The rest of the band straggled into the camp, and though no words were spoken, the mutinous air was suddenly thick enough that Scofield and Gibbs loosened the pistols at their belts and cast warning looks all around.

With deliberate roughness, McTavish shoved Miranda forward with enough force that she stumbled and fell to her knees. She merely looked up at him with icy calmness, then began to slowly brush the dirt from her hem. Her failure to weep and carry on seemed to pique his anger to greater heat.

“Get up, you doxie,” he snarled, dragging her up to her feet.

“Here now, McTavish. Have a care,” cautioned one of the men who had participated in the kidnapping. “If the marquess pays the blunt, he ain’t gonna want to see her marked up.”

“Keep yer mummer closed, if you know what’s good fer ye.” He gave Miranda a shake. “And you—you better hope the bloody marquess comes up with the money.” A nasty leer spread across his swarthy features. “Because I don’t intend to go unrewarded for the risk I have taken.”

Miranda was more frightened than she allowed herself to appear. She doubted that McTavish’s threats were idle ones. He looked thoroughly capable of any sort of violence and the fact that his own men seemed cowed by him only heightened the feeling that she was in real danger.

Why, even if the marquess went along with the ransom demands—no sure thing—she was not entirely convinced the man was going to release her. After all, she had seen his face, knew his name. She dropped her eyes to the ground, hoping that McTavish would not see her growing apprehension.

To her great relief, he released his hold with a muttered oath and stalked over to the earthenware jug sitting near the fire. Lifting it to his mouth, he took a long swig, then passed it to his two cronies.

Ignored, the other men drifted over to sit around the crackling logs and wait in sullen silence for a pot of water to boil.

Miranda ventured to sit as well, hoping to escape further attention.

She had no idea what the ransom demands entailed, but as she watched the sun move ever closer to the horizon, she felt her own spirits sinking as well.

It seemed likely that she would be forced to spend the night here among these men.

A shudder ran through her at the thought. At least Justin was out of their clutches. Surely he must be home now, safely enfolded in the arms of Lady Thornton.

Her eyes pressed closed at the thought of home and she bit her lip to hold back the tears. Her aunt would be dreadfully worried about her, of that she had no doubt. And what of Julian? What would he be feeling?

Miranda forced herself to put questions of that nature out of her mind. No matter what he felt, at least it seemed likely that a sense of duty would impel him to alert the authorities to what had happened.

She bucked up her flagging courage by telling herself that she was not entirely without hope of rescue, that even now, the magistrate must be gathering a party to begin a search for her.

As she looked up, her gaze fell on one of the men across the dancing flames and she realized with a start that she had seen him before, several years ago in Scotland, while treating a sick child.

For a moment, their eyes locked and he flashed a fleeting look of sympathy before turning back to his steaming cup.

The ragged fellow next to her made a bit of room nearer the fire and nudged a battered mug of tea in her direction, all while taking care not to give so much as a glance in her direction.

Nor daring to speak any thanks, Miranda took a furtive sip, feeling much better as the strong brew spread its warmth within her. After all, she had faced down fear in the past and had found the strength to overcome it. She would keep a cool head and do the same now.

But any hope that McTavish might have reined in his belligerence soon ebbed away.

The jug had only fueled his volatile mood and as his voice rose another notch, it became clear trouble was brewing.

The comments, mostly about her person, became bolder and bawdier, encouraged by the snickers of his two cronies.

After one more swig, he lapsed into an ominous silence, then slowly rose and started toward her.

Julian began to see understand why the band he was following showed little fear of being followed.

As the trail twisted up into the forbidding moors, their tracks had all but disappeared into the steep slopes of flinty scree and weathered rock.

McTavish and his band had not, however, reckoned with the marquess’s years of experience in the hardscrabble terrain of the Peninsula.

His keen eye had little difficulty in picking out the subtle signs that marked their passage.

He had to stop for a moment, both to catch his breath and to allow the searing pain in his leg to ease just a bit.

The unstable footing and rocky outcroppings had forced him to abandon his horse some way back, so that his progress had slowed considerably, though not through lack of effort.

Sweat soaked his once-crisp linen shirt and several times he had nearly lost his footing and taken a nasty spill.

Eyes narrowed, he surveyed the way ahead, noting with grim satisfaction that he was nearing the top of the crag.

Just ahead, a narrow ledge was the only way around a slide of large boulders.

Julian took several cautious steps, straining to hear any sound from the other side.

His boots inched slowly over the uneven stone until he could manage a glimpse of what lay beyond.

There was no sign of Miranda and her captors, only a ghost of a path that threaded back through a stand of scraggly pines and up into a series of narrow ravines.

Before the trees, however, lay a short traverse over flat ground, completely exposed on all sides. It was risky, but there was no other choice. He would simply have to move quickly, he thought grimly as another twinge shot through his knee.

As he picked his way ahead, a shard of stone suddenly broke loose from the ledge. Julian fought to regain his balance, but his bad leg twisted, then buckled under his weight. He pitched forward, then felt himself tumbling over the edge.

The drop was precipitous, with nothing to break his fall but the litter of rocks over one hundred feet below.

Pain lanced through his leg as it smashed into the side of the cliff, and he grabbed desperately for any sort of hold in the weathered rock.

His fingers managed to lodge in a narrow crevasse, though the force of his momentum nearly wrenched his shoulder from its socket.

Stifling a groan, he began to pull himself back to the top of the ledge. Finally, his hands raw and bleeding from the effort, he was able to twist up to safety.

Although muzzy with pain, Julian remained alert to the danger of being seen.

With barely a pause, he forced himself to crawl forward to what little shelter the windswept pines afforded.

Once there, his weary limbs gave way and he rolled onto his back, gasping for breath.

His heart felt as if it might burst through his chest and as the rush of adrenaline receded his muscles felt as limp as wet felt.

It took several long minutes before he could begin to assess the extent of his injuries.

The scrapes and bruises were hardly cause for concern, but the blow to his already weakened leg had cause some damage.

By craning his neck, he could make out a small stain of crimson slowly seeping through his breeches just above the boot, and an attempt at flexing the knee nearly brought on a wave of nausea.

His jaw tightened like a vise as he stared up at the scudding clouds.

Was he to lay there in ignonymous defeat, in need of rescue as well?

Such a thought was made even more bitter to swallow by the fact that he couldn’t repress the uneasy feeling that somehow it was not the first time he was failing Miranda in a time of need.

His hands slowly felt at the pockets of his coat. Thank God the pistols were still there.

Damnation. He would go on if he had to crawl on his hands and knees.

As Julian took in another lungful of air, he noticed a thin white plume of smoke wafting up against the darker grey of the sky. Surely it must mean Miranda and her captors were close by. Spurred on by the encouraging sign, he found the strength to haul himself to his feet and push onward.

“Get up!” ordered McTavish.

When Miranda hesitated for just a fraction, he grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. “When I give an order, you will jump to obey it!”

She said nothing but the rise of her chin and the flare of defiance in her eyes spoke loud enough.

His hand slapped across her cheek again, this time hard enough to raise an ugly red welt.

A low murmur ran through the group of men seated around the fire. McTavish spun around, his grip still locked on Miranda’s arm. “Any of you looking for the same?

The sound died away.

“You see—no hero is going to jump up to yer rescue,” he sneered. “So I suggest you find your manners and begin to act sweet with me.” His hand began to snake its way up her arm. “Just like you do with His Lordship.”

Miranda tried to pull away.

“Oh, no you don’t. Perhaps he likes a show of spirit in his doxies, but me, I prefer my females obedient—very obedient.”