Celebrated actor John Kemble might be able to afford to bring real horses and even the occasional elephant on stage over at the Royal Opera House, but Pamela’s previous experience with horses had been limited to those of the stick variety. The beast seemed large and dangerous and unpredictable to her…much like the man leading them deeper into the forbidding shadows of the forest and farther away from civilization with each of his long, confident strides.
She scowled at his broad back. Although their lengthy trek had led them over some wild and rocky terrain, he might have been enjoying an afternoon stroll through the pastoral climes of Hyde Park. Judging from his casual saunter, he could probably walk all night without breaking a sweat—even while leading a horse with both hands bound behind his back. As they scaled a particularly daunting hill that had Pamela clinging to the beast’s shaggy mane for dear life, he even had the temerity to break into a whistle. The cheery notes drifted back to her ears, borne by the brisk wind.
“What, pray you, is that tune, sir?” she finally called out, hoping to silence him.
“A wee ditty they call ‘The Maiden and the Highwayman,’” he replied.
She snorted. “Given your people’s dour dispositions and fondness for the romance of tragedy, I’m sure they pledged their eternal love to each other, then met some gruesome and bloody end.”
“On the contrary. The highwayman seduced the maiden into his bed only to discover she was a lusty wench who couldn’t get enough of him.” He tossed her a roguish smile over his shoulder. “He robbed her of her maidenhead and she stole his heart.”
Pamela was thankful her cheeks had already been rubbed raw by the wind so he wouldn’t see her blush. He resumed both his pace and his cheerful whistling, bringing the tune to an end with a trilled flourish.
Just when she had given up any hope of them ever reaching their destination, the trees began to thin and the wind to roar. They emerged from the sheltering boughs of the pines onto a broad shelf of grassy meadow.
Pamela gasped, the breath snatched right out of her lungs by the greedy fingers of the wind and the unexpected sight before her. She had served her entire life at the altar of make-believe without ever once imagining that such a place could exist in the real world.
It was as if the castle before them had risen out of the sea itself, flung heavenward on its island of stone by some mighty pagan god. Moonbeams slanted through the gusting clouds, painting its walls, turrets and towers in a glowing wash of silver. She blinked at the magnificent sight, wondering if she, like Sophie, had somehow dozed off and slipped into a dream.
But a dream wouldn’t explain the gooseflesh rippling across her skin or the briny scent of the sea in the air. It was no longer just the roar of the wind she was hearing, but also the thunder of the waves hurling themselves against the jagged cliffs surrounding the castle.
She had expected the highwayman to lead them to some ramshackle barn or perhaps one of the many abandoned crofters’ huts they had passed on their journey. She most certainly hadn’t expected…this.
Sophie awoke with a start. Her snore deepened to a wheeze as she too caught sight of their destination. “Oh, my!” she whispered. “Perhaps he’s not truly a robber at all, but a king of some sort.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pamela replied. “Scotland hasn’t had its own king for two centuries. King George is his liege, just as he is ours.”
“Then perhaps he’s a prince. A robber prince,” Sophie suggested, the note of awe in her voice undiminished.
Pamela shifted her troubled gaze from the castle to their host, wishing she hadn’t been the one to point out that there was a regal quality to his bearing.
As he tugged on the reins to urge the horse forward, she saw the narrow, meandering bridge of land that connected the meadow to the castle for the first time. Far below, the wind whipped the sea into a swirling mass of whitecaps pierced by jutting rocks.
Letting out a moan, Sophie clutched at Pamela’s waist and buried her face against her back. “Tell me when we arrive. If we do.”
Given the battering force of the wind and the dizzying height of their perch, Pamela should have been equally fearful they were about to plunge to their deaths. But their mount started forward with brisk confidence, no less sure-footed than his master.
They were halfway to the castle when icy needles of rain began to spill from the sky. Before Pamela could tug up her bonnet to cover her hair, both the rain and the cloud that had spawned it were gone, blown on their way by a chill gust of wind. Instead of cursing the mercurial weather as she might have done earlier, Pamela threw back her head and laughed aloud, feeling a strange exhilaration at the beauty and wildness of it all. It was as if they were riding straight into a fairy tale on the wings of a dragon.
As a second cloud passed over the moon, bathing the highwayman in shadow, her smile slowly faded. It still remained to be seen if their guide was prince or ogre.
The great chasm between castle and land should have formed a natural moat impenetrable to men and the brutality of their cannons. But as they passed beneath what must have once been the castle gatehouse, Pamela saw that it had failed miserably in its duty.
The highwayman drew their mount to a halt in the courtyard of the mighty fortress. The once gentle moonlight now seemed harsh and unforgiving, spilling without mercy over the shattered walls and heaps of crumbled stone. It seemed the fairy tale castle was only an illusion after all, no more real than a painted backdrop in a production of King Lear. As she surveyed the ruins of what must have once been one of the crown jewels of the eastern coast, the pang beneath Pamela’s breastbone felt oddly like grief.
Even in its advanced state of decay, there was no denying the melancholy beauty of the place. Although some chambers and towers appeared to be intact, all that remained of the castle’s chapel was a lone wall overlooking the sea, its stark silhouette standing guard over a crumbling white cross hewn from limestone. Moss had crept over every inch of exposed stone, softening the jagged edges with a thick veil of green.
A gaping window that must have once housed a bell was set high in the wall. Pamela could almost hear the ghostly echo of its pealing, calling those who were long dead to worship or battle.
With nothing but the endless indigo sweep of sky and sea beyond the wall, it was as if they’d reached the edge of the world itself.
“What is this place?” she asked, lowering her voice to a reverent whisper without realizing it.
The rich timbre of the highwayman’s voice paid its own respects to any lingering ghosts. “This is where Clan MacFarlane made their last stand against the forces of Cromwell’s army over a hundred and fifty years ago. Rather than let the castle fall into the hands of their enemies, they blew it up themselves—set the charges and went marchin’ off into the night, their bagpipes wailin’ a final farewell.”
As she gazed around them at the heaps of rubble and the shattered dreams they represented, Pamela wanted to weep at the tragic waste of it all. “Are you one of these MacFarlanes? Were they your clan?”
A cloud skittered across the moon, casting a fresh shadow over his face. “I’m afraid my grandfather lacked both the courage and the scruples of old Angus MacFarlane. He sold out our clan at Culloden for thirty pieces of English silver.”
An involuntary shiver danced down Pamela’s spine. She’d never heard the word English uttered with such icy contempt. Before she could consider digging her heels into the horse’s sides and making a mad dash for freedom, the clouds parted to reveal the highwayman gazing up at her, his expression guarded.
“So here we are,” he said. “All the comforts of home. I’d help you down but…” He shrugged his broad shoulders to remind her of his bound hands.
“That’s all right. We can manage,” Pamela assured him, throwing one leg over the horse’s neck and sliding to the ground.
She would have kept right on sliding until she landed on her bottom if the highwayman hadn’t stepped forward to brace her with h
is weight. She hadn’t taken into account how long they’d been riding or how unaccustomed she was to such exercise. She clutched at his shirt, her thigh muscles quivering like a pot of jam. His chest felt as sturdy as a rock beneath her trembling hands, reminding her of those dizzying moments back at the coach when she had clung to him while he sipped tenderly from her lips.
“Thank you,” she murmured, keeping her eyes lowered. She quickly untangled her fingers from his shirt, telling herself it must be the near tumble that had left her so breathless. As she stepped away from him, the bitter wind whipped stinging strands of hair across her eyes. “It’s no wonder you Scots are such a hale and hearty lot. If you weren’t, you’d never survive this climate.”
“Once you get a wee dram of Scot’s whisky in your belly, you’ll discover the wind is nothin’ more than God’s breath whisperin’ against your cheek.”
He watched through heavy-lidded eyes as she lifted her arms to Sophie, hoping to spare her sister a similar embarrassment.
As soon as Sophie was settled safely on her feet, she drew the little pistol out of her sash and leveled it at him, hoping to regain their only advantage. His pistol was safely secured in the horse’s saddlebag. “If you would be so kind as to lead the way, sir.”
“’Twould be my pleasure, lass,” he drawled, offering her a mocking bow before turning away and striding into the shadows.
As they fell into step behind him, Sophie slipped a hand into hers and whispered, “Are you certain we’re not making a terrible mistake?”
“No,” Pamela whispered back, her own courage faltering as they followed him down a grassy path that brought them closer to the churning sea with each step.
At first she thought he was going to lead them right over the edge of those towering cliffs. But he shifted direction at the last minute, guiding them beneath a stone arch to a set of flat, narrow stairs that seemed to disappear into the earth itself.
“Watch your step,” he warned them. “I can’t catch you if you fall.”
Nor could he catch himself if he stumbled, Pamela realized, fighting a twinge of guilt. But as he disappeared into the murky gloom, his steps were as sure and steady as they’d been in the forest. She and Sophie exchanged a nervous glance before following. The roaring of the wind soon faded. As they descended deeper into the earth, they were enveloped by an oppressive hush broken only by the steady drip of water on stone and the shallow rasp of their own breathing.
Pamela was beginning to wonder if the steps led straight down to the bowels of hell itself when she spotted a thin sliver of light below. The highwayman paused, waiting for them to catch up.
He nodded toward the broad oak door set deep in the stone wall. “Would you mind doin’ the honors?”
Pamela closed her icy fingers around the iron handle and gave the door a push. It swung open easily, inviting them inside.
She brushed past the highwayman without a second thought, unable to resist the seductive lure of warmth and light. The chamber was no rat-infested dungeon as she had feared, but simply a long-forgotten vault to a tower that no longer existed. A fire crackled on a stone hearth set against the opposite wall. Pamela breathed a sigh of relief. The long, low-ceilinged room was not only warm and dry, but also cozy and welcoming.
That is, until the air resounded with the echoing clicks of a dozen pistol hammers being drawn back at once.
One by one, the men holding those pistols emerged from the shadowy corners, their eyes gleaming with lust, their lips twisted into delighted leers.
The largest of those men wore a silver hoop in one ear and a leather vest hanging open over his sun-bronzed chest. He looked Pamela and Sophie up and down with a jovial familiarity that made Pamela’s blood curdle with dread.
Firelight glinted off the gold tooth set in the front of his mouth as his meaty lips split in a grin. “Och, Connor, and what have ye brought us tonight?” he inquired of their guide. “Bawds or brides?”
Chapter 4
Neither,” Connor replied, shaking the length of rope from his wrists as if it were a silken ribbon and neatly plucking the pistol from Pamela’s hand. “If you want bawds or brides on this night, you’ll have to hunt them yourself.”
Pamela gaped at him in disbelief.
He tucked her pistol into his breeches and tipped her jaw closed with one finger. “Don’t blame yourself, lass. I once used the same skills to escape the hangman’s noose and his knots were much better than yours.”
Pamela began to sputter. She couldn’t have said why she was so outraged that he had foiled her one pathetic attempt at a kidnapping by leading them straight into a trap, but she was. “Why, you—you—”
“Blackguard?” one of the men provided.
“Rapscallion?” offered another.
“Swivin’, whoremongerin’ son of a—”
“That’s enough,” Connor snapped. “I doubt the young lady needs any help comin’ up with a vile-enough insult for me.”
Pamela snapped her mouth shut and folded her arms over her chest. “He’s right. There’s no need to waste your breath. There is no insult vile enough for the likes of him.”
The giant who had perused her and her sister with such glassy-eyed lust chortled with glee, a cloud of copper braids bristling around his head. “Oh, she’s a spirited one, isn’t she? I do love a spirited lass. I’ll give ye a jar o’ whisky and a pouch o’ tobacco for an hour alone with her.”
Pamela instinctively edged closer to Connor, preferring the devil she knew to this leering ogre.
Connor snorted. “And just what do you plan to do with the remainin’ fifty-seven minutes, Brodie?” When the rest of the men burst into raucous laughter, Connor included them in his glare. “I’ll thank you all to get your tongues back in your mouths and your pistols back in your breeches. The lass belongs to me.”
That bold claim silenced the men and sent a peculiar shiver rippling across Pamela’s flesh. One by one, both the grins and the pistols disappeared.
“What about the wee one, then?” Brodie asked, his voice rising to a childish whine that seemed at odds with his impressive girth and the beefy slabs of muscle that composed his upper arms. “I’ve no doubt ye could handle the both o’ them with yer hands still tied behind yer back, but there’s no need to be greedy, is there?”
Connor’s face went so still that Pamela feared he was actually considering the cretin’s request. She curled her hands into claws, fully prepared to launch herself at the first man who dared to lay a finger on her sister—even if that man was Connor.
Especially if that man was Connor.
“What I’d like you to do, Brodie,” he finally said, “is take the ‘wee one’ into the next room and fix her a nice cup of hot tea with a splash of whisky to warm up her blood.” When Brodie’s expression brightened, he narrowed his stormy gray eyes in warning. “The lass is a lady and I’ll expect her to be treated as such.”
Brodie’s broad face fell. Connor reached to draw Sophie forward. She dragged her feet and cast Pamela a beseeching glance, her eyes huge and her beautiful face as pale as wax.
“She won’t come to any harm,” Connor murmured, his smoky voice dangerously close to Pamela’s ear. “You have my word on it.”
Pamela had no idea why she was so inclined to believe him. Especially when he wasn’t offering her any similar promises.
For Sophie’s sake, she managed to dredge up a comforting smile. “He’s right, dear. You must be chilled to the bone. Why don’t you go and have a hot cup of tea with the nice man?”
“What about you?” Sophie asked, shooting Connor a worried look.
Pamela held her breath, waiting for him to proclaim that she too was a lady and would be treated with all the tender regard due to such a delicate and refined creature.
As his stony silence stretched, she was forced to fill it with a burst of high-pitched laughter. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me. This will give me and Mr….” She slanted him a questioning look.
>
“Kincaid,” he volunteered.
“…me and Mr. Kincaid a chance to discuss our business in private.”
One of the men nudged the fellow next to him, his stage whisper clearly audible throughout the room. “The lass’ll be walkin’ bow-legged for a fortnight after discussin’ her business with our Connor.”
His friend nodded in agreement. “Aye, there’s some that say the hangman had to let the lad go after he realized he couldna hang him no better than he was already hung.”
As several of the men snickered, Pamela bowed her head, wishing desperately that she could sink through the stone floor.
At Connor’s curt signal, Brodie stepped forward and offered Sophie his burly arm. One would have thought he was about to escort her into supper at a private ball in Mayfair.
“So are ye married, lass?” he inquired of Sophie as she gingerly tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. When she shook her head, still eyeing him warily, he beamed down at her, his gold tooth winking in the firelight. “Would ye like to be?”
Pamela sighed. She had rescued her sister from the viscount’s lascivious offer just so Sophie could receive her first legitimate proposal from a randy bandit with a silver hoop in his ear and a tattoo of a wriggling serpent on his upper arm.
Connor sent the other men fleeing from the room with little more than a look. Although they muttered beneath their breaths and scuffed the stone floor with their booted toes as they filed out, they didn’t seem any more inclined to defy him than the coachman had been. Apparently he didn’t even require a loaded pistol to impose his will on others.
Which didn’t bode well for her own future, Pamela thought grimly.
A future that grew even darker when Connor bent to scoop up the length of rope she had used to bind him. When he came for her, she stood her ground, knowing it would only embarrass them both if she tried to flee. She held herself stiff as a plank as he wrapped one powerful hand around her upper arm and backed her toward the wooden chair nearest the hearth with a grip that warned it would brook no disobedience.