“No one,” she said miserably. “I came here on my own and lost my horse just as I told you. No one else knows that I am here.”
Lem chuckled. “Ye followed your man, did ye? Ye ha’ more courage than sense, lassie. I think ye’ll make our sergeant a fine gift, but mayhap we should just test that to see if ye’ll be worth his sport.”
Appalled at his obvious intent, she jerked away and tried to free herself from Gibby, but Lem caught her free wrist and yanked her toward him.
Gibby let go before she was stretched between the two of them. “Lem,” he said anxiously, “I dinna think—”
“Hush your gob, lad. A chance like this does not come to a man every day. She’s a wee winsome one in breeks, is she not? I’ve a mind to see her without them, though, and I’ll warrant ye won’t mind taking your turn when I’m done wi’ her.”
Janet tried to scream, but the sound caught in her throat, and before she could force it free, Lem had clapped a filthy hand over her mouth, stifling any second attempt. His other hand grabbed the front of her jerkin. She grabbed for her dagger.
“Mind her feet, Gib,” Lem warned when she struggled, “and get them breeks off her. Quick now!”
Quin and the others, having struck swiftly and without warning, had successfully taught the citizenry of Kielbeck a lesson in raiding. Hob the Mouse and Willie Bell swept the livestock from the green in a trice and were driving them swiftly toward the Larriston Fells. They had taken no sheep, but they had taken every horse and cow in the village, many of which they recognized as their own from earlier raids on Liddesdale and Upper Teviotdale.
Quin rode ahead of the livestock with half of his men. The other half followed to protect them against an attack from the rear. With such a small party, he had not left anyone to guard their route, trusting to his instincts and knowledge of the land to get them home safely.
As they approached forestland at the foot of the fells, he slowed and turned to Curst Eckie Crosier, who rode beside him. “Fall back and tell the others that you and I will ride ahead. They are to proceed carefully, listening for warning from us. If we encounter a patrol, I’ll fire a shot to draw its members after us, and you and I will lead them away. If our lads see anyone, tell Jed to sound his horn, and we’ll return at once.”
“Aye, I’ll tell them,” Curst Eckie said. Wheeling his pony, he rode off, returning minutes later. “They’ll listen and watch well, master,” he said.
“Then let’s ride.” Urging his horse to a faster pace, he led the way into the woods, knowing from experience that English patrols generally did not ride without light. They carried torches that threatened to set fire to any woodland through which they passed, and they rode without giving much thought to the noise their passing created. So long as he could hear night birds calling to each other from the trees, he knew that he and his men were safe from all but the more silent, generally well-hidden two-man patrols. Tonight, though, he thought he could count on the English to mount only plump watches. Against those, a small group like his would remain safe if they stayed alert.
He slowed to let his eyes adjust to the deeper darkness of the forest, and soon he could pick his path easily by the pale glow of mist-veiled moonlight where it filtered through the canopy. His pony’s hooves made but slight noise on the soft forest floor, and although he could hear Curst Eckie’s pony behind him, he doubted that the noise carried more than a dozen feet, if that far.
The burn flowing through the forest on its way to join the Tyne made a hushing sound like the rustling of a lady’s silk skirts. As they made their way toward the heights, he kept his ears attuned to the forest sounds, particularly for any alteration in them. He knew that when they reached the heights, the route would grow more perilous, for recent rains had made boggy areas more treacherous than usual. At the same time, though, those rains were responsible for the soft footing beneath them, so he could not complain.
So certain was he that no one lurked nearby that the figure that sprang out of the shrubbery just ahead startled him into a hastily choked cry as he snatched his sword from its scabbard.
“Nay, master, hold!” The muttered words carried easily to his sharp ears, and possibly to Curst Eckie’s, although they would not have carried farther.
“Tip! What the devil are you doing out here? You frightened the liver out of me. What’s amiss?”
“The mistress,” Tip said. “English louts ha’ captured her, and they dinna sound like gentlemen.”
“Where? Never tell me you’ve come afoot all the way from Broadhaugh!”
“Nay, master. They be yonder, on the heights.”
“How did you escape?”
“I left her and the ponies for a few wee moments to look for watchers. She were well away from the ponies, though, and well concealed,” he added hastily. “I thought she’d be gey safe, master, truly! But when I crept back, I heard voices. There be but two of them wi’ her, I think, but they mean her nae good.”
“I won’t ask what the devil you meant by bringing her here. There is no time for that now, but tell me this. Did you follow our tracks?”
“Aye, sir, as near as I could.”
“Then I know where to go. I’ll take Curst Eckie, for he’ll be more use in a fight than you would be. You wait for the others here and ride with one of them. You and I will talk later.”
“Aye,” Tip said miserably. “I dinna doubt it.”
Signing to Eckie to follow, Quin urged his pony to greater speed, no longer caring if there were patrols about.
When Janet tried to grab her dagger, Lem stopped her and tossed it aside. She fought like a netted wildcat then, kicking and scratching whatever part of either man she could reach, and she had the satisfaction of feeling her foot connect hard with a soft part of Gibby’s anatomy just as she sank her teeth into someone’s hand. Her sole reward was a double bellow of pain that told her the hand belonged to Lem. In moments, though, her breeks were down around her calves and the jerkin she wore had been ripped open and shoved halfway down her arms, pinning them back as tightly as any ropes could have done.
No sooner had she bitten Lem than he slapped her hard across her face. The next thing she knew she was on her back with her legs tangled in the breeks, her arms twisted painfully beneath her, and nasty-tasting cloth jammed into her mouth, threatening to choke her.
Lem’s big hands clutched her breasts, his long, skinny fingers squeezing and pinching till she groaned with pain, gaining little protection from the shirt she wore.
Gibby muttered, “Make haste, Lem! What if someone comes?”
“Shut yer gob! I thought I told ye to get them breeks off her.”
“She kicked me in the bollocks!”
“She won’t do it again. Yank them off!” He put his face inches from Janet’s, adding, “If ye kick, lass, I’ll use my fist to knock your teeth down your throat.”
His breath stank, and she turned her face away, still working her tongue to push the horrible gag from her mouth. He pawed at her shirt lacing, then grabbed a handful of the material and tried to rip it off her, but the coarse cloth did not yield. Finally, putting a leg across her body to pin her to the ground, he used both hands and ripped the shirt down the middle, baring her breasts to the cold air. At the same time, Gibby yanked hard on her breeks, jerking them to her ankles.
“Get off her now,” a stern voice said grimly, “and I’ll grant you each one more minute of life before I send you to the devil.”
Janet felt Lem stiffen atop her and heard Gibby gasp. She did not instantly recognize the disembodied voice in the darkness. Only as the two men scrambled away from her did she hear its echo in her mind and know that it was Quinton. Relief surged through her, and she grabbed the torn bits of shirt and clutched them together, concealing her breasts as she struggled to sit.
“Godamercy, ’tis Rabbie Redcloak,” Gibby gasped. “We’re sped!”
Lem snarled, “Shut yer gob, ye blazing fool. D’ye want him to shoot us down like dogs?”
“I have considerably more regard for dogs,” Quinton said gently.
“Ye’d best be gone from here whilst ye can,” Lem muttered. “Ye’re a murdering thief, and half the Border’s aroused the night, searching for ye.”
“Aye, but they are not here now, my lad.”
“If ye fire that pistol, we’ll soon see how far away they be.”
“A point to you,” Sir Quinton admitted. “Moreover, despite what you may have heard to the contrary, I am no murderer. Have you got a sword, lout, or must we wrestle like bairns?”
“Master, no!”
Janet heard the second voice, but she was not certain that either Lem or Gibby had. She did not recognize it, so she knew that it was not Tip or Hob the Mouse. She wondered where Tip had gone. Was it he who had fetched Sir Quinton, or had Sir Quinton and the second man stumbled onto them just as Gibby had stumbled onto her? And where were Hob and the rest of Rabbie Redcloak’s Bairns?
She managed to sit up and to shrug the leather jerkin up where it belonged, but pulling up the breeks would require extreme finesse it she were not to bare her nether parts again. Where the devil had her cloak gone?
Quinton had not said a word to her. Another thought followed that one, and the profound relief she had felt evaporated. She dared not speak to him either—not as a wife to her husband in front of Lem and Gibby. Her eyes pricked with tears, and her throat ached, but she dared not cry. Even if Quinton forgave her for the rest, she would not soon forgive herself. She realized that her cloak lay beneath her. Using it to cover herself, she struggled back into the breeks.
For the few short moments that had passed since Quinton’s demand to know if Lem carried a sword, she had watched their dark shapes and Gibby’s. Quinton had slipped from his saddle, ignoring his companion’s warning. Neither Lem nor Gibby had said another word.
“Well,” Quinton said, “have you got a sword or do you patrol unarmed?”
“I’ve got a sword,” Lem growled. “’Tis yonder where I set it whilst I—”
“Whilst you raped a defenseless lass, or did you think her a lad you could—”
“I never!” Lem seemed more upset by the suggestion of buggery than by the imminence of his death.
“What of you?” Sir Quinton said to Gibby, ignoring Lem’s indignation. “Have you got a sword? I’ll fight you both at once, if you like. I warn you, though, if you do not fight fair, my man will shoot you down where you stand.”
“I do not want to fight you at all,” Gibby said, sounding close to tears.
Choosing her words and accent with care, Janet said, “He did try to stop the other one, sir. I dinna think he would ha’ troubled me on his own.”
Sir Quinton did not glance her way, but he said to Gibby, “Stand aside then, lad, but heed my warning. If you interfere, you’ll soon meet the devil in Hell.”
Scrambling back out of the way, Gibby held his hands out at his sides as if to assure him that he carried no weapon. Janet also moved aside, not wanting to watch, yet terrified that somehow Lem would gain the upper hand and Sir Quinton might die. If that happened, it would be no one’s fault but her own, and she did not think that she could live with such knowledge about herself.
Quinton raised his sword but made no attack, waiting for the other man to come to him. Lem, watching him, feinted slightly, but when Quinton did not leap to the bait, he lunged forward with more confidence, thrusting directly at his heart. Quinton parried the cut easily on the outside of his blade and returned a thrust to Lem’s face, holding short.
Janet, who had often watched Hugh practice his swordsmanship, needed only a short time to recognize that her husband was by far the better swordsman, that he was merely toying with Lem. To behave so in such poor light when he might easily misjudge the other man’s movement seemed foolhardy. Also, she noted, he had failed to remove his cloak, which was another gesture of foolhardiness, since it could only encumber his movement. It was as if he mocked Lem. He seemed to encourage Lem’s thrusting and parrying, giving him a false sense of confidence.
Lem threatened with a series of sham moves and false attacks, feints that Hugh called “fluttering,” but Sir Quinton parried each with a gentle twist of the wrist, deftly keeping his blade where he could deflect Lem’s point.
Janet saw that Lem was tiring, that his footwork had grown less sure. He slipped, and Sir Quinton quickly pulled back his sword, waiting for him to recover.
“Be damned to ye, Redcloak! Make an end of it.”
“Did he hurt you, lass?” Sir Quinton asked matter-of-factly as he parried another thrust.
“Only my pride,” she answered. “You arrived in time to prevent the rest.”
“I do not need a female’s protection,” Lem snarled, leaping forward again, his sword aimed straight at Sir Quinton’s midsection. “By God, ’tis not me who will see the devil in Hell!”
With another deft parry, Sir Quinton picked up the tempo, lunging forward, catching Lem’s blade and disengaging only to attack again. Leaping forward, he forced the other man back and back, then eased, letting Lem come to him again.
When Lem did, cutting and thrusting more recklessly, Janet’s chest tightened. She could feel her heartbeat and hardly dared to breathe, for the two men looked like shades from Hades flitting about in the moonlight. The only sounds were their breathing, the faint noises of their feet on the ground, and the metallic clashing of the swords. Even the hushing sound of the burn had faded away. Sir Quinton’s cloak flapped around him, making him look like a giant black moth.
“Yield,” he snapped suddenly, harshly. “I’ll grant your life if you’ll yield.”
“Never! You shall yield to me, Rabbie Redcloak,” Lem cried. “They’ll sing ballads to me from this night on.” He leapt forward, sword flashing.
Instead of parrying the straight thrust. Sir Quinton whipped out his left arm and caught the blade with his cloak, at the same time thrusting hard and true with his sword at full length, deeply piercing Lem’s exposed right armpit.
With a gasp of dismay, the Englishman collapsed. Horrid sounds followed, and Janet turned away, feeling sick.
A moment later, she felt strong hands on her shoulders. They turned her and she looked up into her husband’s grim face.