Cates, Kimberly (16 page)

With a groan of outrage and dismay, Rachel realized there was only one course left to her. Kicking out of the stirrups, she rolled from the animal's back.

She slammed into the ground, bruising her rump, twisting her wrist, but she barely noticed the pain. She was scrambling to her feet, scooping up handfuls of the harlot's skirt she'd been forced to wear. It was the faintest of hope that she could reach the cluster of cottages before the Glen Lyon would catch her— catch her or trample her with that demon horse. Rachel stumbled on, running as if pursued by hounds. If she could reach the break in the brush, plunge out into the meadow beyond, she'd be visible to the soldiers. She could scream...

The thunder of hooves swelled until her head felt it would burst. Her lungs were afire, her legs scratched and screaming with agony as she ran. It seemed impossible, but she managed to push her way through the brush, catch a glimpse of the scene below. The banner of Sir Dunstan's command fluttered against a painfully blue sky, the splash of uniforms scattered like scarlet blossoms in the midst of the tiny village.

She was close, so close...

"Help!" she cried. "Please, God, help me!" Yet despite her desperate, shrill cry, not so much as one soldier turned toward her. They were intent on their task—hellishly intent.

Disbelief welled inside her as she heard other cries. The sounds pierced through her, the mad whirl in the village twisting into focus. Her scream died as she saw flames shoot up from a tiny kirk and the glint of a sword biting deep into a woman's breast; she saw the children who had been clinging to the woman's skirts collapse beside her, their cries fraying Rachel's sanity, flooding her with horror.

She stumbled forward as if to stop the soldiers herself, scoop the little ones out of the way, but the sight was blocked by a swarthy figure riding down into the madness astride a fine horse. Captain Darcy Murrough—Sir Dunstan's most trusted second in command. Bone-melting relief shot through Rachel, all but driving her to her knees.

He would stop it. Rachel was certain that Murrough would stop it now, lash the men back into order.

"Death to the traitors! God and England!" The battle cries rang out in counterpoint to the screams of the dying, the terrified. God in heaven, what had the people of the village done? What horrible crime had they committed against the crown that they should pay such grim retribution? women? children?

Her ears were so filled with the screams that she didn't even hear anything behind her. Hard hands closed about her, an arm about her waist; the calloused curve of a palm clamped over her mouth.

Rachel started to struggle as she was hauled back against Gavin's chest.

She barely believed her eyes as Murrough's sword arm arced back, then swung with deadly accuracy, cleaving the back of an old man struggling to reach the wildlands.

Rachel's cry of denial was muffled by Gavin's hand as the man crumpled to the ground.

Gavin hauled her back behind the shelter of the trees, and tried to twist her in his arms so she wouldn't see.

But she yanked against him, unable to tear her gaze away from the horror below. Slaughter... they were helpless, the people of the village, helpless...

Jesus in heaven, Murrough must have gone mad! Dunstan would never allow such a horror to take place.

Rachel ripped free of the hand Gavin clamped against her mouth. Her throat was dry, burning. "Help them..." she choked out. "My God... do something..."

She turned tortured eyes to him—her captor, the rebel coward Sir Dunstan loathed. What she saw in those old-soul eyes pierced through her heart: anguish, outrage.

"Gavin!" A voice called from behind them, Adam, dusty and desperate, riding up on his mount. "Sweet Jesus! I've been riding like hell to find you! Forget the woman. All hell's breaking loose. The bastard! Hasn't he feasted on enough goddamn blood? We have to stop him—"

Rachel staggered as Gavin released her, his features grim. "There's only one way. A diversion." He reached into the pocket of his frock coat, drawing out a Stuart cockade affixed to a Scottish bonnet trimmed in red and gold plaid.

"Wh-what are you going to do?" Rachel asked, staring as he slipped the bonnet onto his tousled mane.

"I'm going to give them a more rewarding prey to hunt," he said grimly. "I'll ride to the west, draw most of them off that way."

"Gav, for Christ's sake—" Adam protested. "You can't. You'll be a blank target. One pistolball and they'll—" Adam didn't finish. He didn't have to.

"There's no time." Gavin whistled low, the demon horse coming at his summons despite the rising stench of gunpowder and blood, the shrieks that rent the air.

"Rachel, I can't take care of you.... For God's sake, stay out of sight. They'll cut you down before they know who you are—"

"Wait—look!" She cried, staring past his broad shoulder. "They're stopping!"

Gavin wheeled around, Adam facing the village as well. "What the devil are they doing?" Adam demanded, nonplussed.

The soldiers were herding the cluster of villagers like sheep, driving them into a thatch-covered cottage. Wild-eyed women disappeared through the doorway, their terrified children stumbling after them.

"I knew Captain Murrough wouldn't—wouldn't allow them to be slaughtered! I knew he would stop it!" Rachel choked out, attempting to force the image of the captain murdering the old man from her mind.

"Is it possible the bastards are just taking them captive?" Adam stopped, his craggy face wary as he saw some of the men hauling thick lengths of wood toward the cottage. They wedged them against the door, barred the heavy wooden shutters on the windows shut. "I can ride out, get the rest of the men. We can break them out when night falls. Gavin?
Gavin?"

The Glen Lyon stood rigid as stone, his face ice-white, eyes transfixed upon the distant cottage, as if he could hear every whimper, every cry of terror muffled now by the thick clay prison.

"I told you the English wouldn't—wouldn't hurt helpless women... didn't kill children," Rachel clung to the words as if they were some kind of talisman. "I told you—"

"The bastards are going to burn them alive."

Rachel turned to Gavin, thick horror clotting in her throat. "Don't be ridiculous—"

At that instant she saw it—a torch in a soldier's hand. It arced through the air in a smear of crimson. Before it could land on the thatch, Gavin was already flinging himself onto his horse.

Adam dove for the plunging stallion's reins, his face ashen as he stared up at his brother. "Gav, there are too many soldiers! We can't—"

"I'm not going to let them burn! We'll ride behind the trees, get the women and children out the back way, and pray like hell the English bastards are too busy with their plundering to notice."

With that, Gavin dug his heels into the stallion's ribs. The beast tore free of Adam's grasp.

Rachel watched in horror as the Glen Lyon plunged down into the glen—one lone warrior against the madness.

CHAPTER 10

Rage, hatred, desperation knotted in Gavin's chest as the stallion's thundering stride devoured the gap of land between the hillock and the burning cottage. Flames leaped and twisted as screams of terror from those trapped inside ripped like razor-sharp claws at Gavin.

Hungry and heartless, the flames writhed and danced, twined and twisted along the ridgepole, gorging on brittle straw; countless sparks rained down on those below, filling their lungs with choking smoke.

Gavin rounded to the rear of the cottage and saw the silhouette of a soldier in uniform—one man set to guard. Gavin grabbed his pistol as the soldier wheeled at the sound of hoofbeats. His eyes widened just as Gavin's pistol blast struck him full in the chest.

The recoil shot up Gavin's arm and buried itself in his gut, bile rising in his throat as the man flew backward into the arms of death.

Gavin waited for the horror he'd always felt, the sick, gut-clenching denial, but he felt nothing except the desperation of those trapped inside the burning building—that and his own terror that he would be too late.

He flung himself from the stallion's back, the impact slamming like a fist into his half-healed wound. For an instant, horror strangled him—the thick clay wall stretching pristine, unbroken by any window that could allow escape. The screams of those trapped within were horrendous, impaling him with his own helplessness. Rose vines clambered up the side of the cottage, the leaves curling and blackening, the petals scorching. Gavin started to bolt to the other side of the house, despite the certainty that the soldiers would see him, clinging to the hope that he might be able to get at least some of the women and children out, giving them a chance to race to freedom before the English cut him down. Yet as he started around the corner, Gavin glimpsed something dark brown beneath the rose vines. Wisps of smoke curled about a thick piece of wood barring a set of shutters that hadn't been opened for years.

Relief jolted through Gavin as he tore at the vines, thorns slashing his hands until they bled. When the way was clear enough, he wrenched the wedge of wood from the shutters, but hampered by his sore ribs and raw hands, he found the thing was too tight. Out of nowhere, Adam raced up, the giant of a man tearing back the wood with a guttural roar. Gavin flung the shutters open. Smoke billowed out, thick, choking, shrieks of terror turning into wild cries as those inside the burning building glimpsed the tiniest bit of hope.

"I'm going in," Gavin yelled.

"Damn it, I—" Adam started to object, but Gavin was already hauling himself over the thick window ledge, the clay biting deep into his wound, grating against his battered side. Gavin clenched his teeth against the wave of pain that spread through his chest, and tumbled into the mass of clawing, terrified women trying to boost their children out, battling with each other and their own bounding fear.

"Give them to me!" Gavin roared, grabbing up the first child, heaving it into Adam's waiting arms. The little one wailed, its arms scrabbling desperately to cling to its mother. Gavin grabbed a girl of about ten, the weight of her slamming like a fist into his side as he hefted her out.

The smoke melted his vision, turning the cottage into a swirling mass of insanity. The heat seared his nose and throat, as sparks from the roof ate through the thick layer of turf beneath the thatch, raining stinging sparks down over his shoulders and neck, and singeing his hair as he battled to help them escape.

God, there couldn't be much time. Though the mothers had fought to get their own little ones out, none of them attempted to push from the building themselves. Courage—never had Gavin seen it more blatantly displayed than in these women.

When the last child was out, Gavin began helping the mothers, his hand braced upon the slight bulge of a new pregnancy as he lifted one onto the ledge, his ribs bars of pulsing agony in his chest. His own head swam with the smoke, his lungs straining as he managed to help one after another, the fire hissing and crackling like some hideous dragon coiling about them.

His lungs felt ready to explode as he grasped the waist of the last woman, attempting to lever her up into Adam's arms. But though the woman was no giant, his knees nearly buckled, his ribs stabbing deep into the cavity of his chest.

Gritting his teeth, he tried again, this time managing to get her onto the ledge where she could scramble out.

The instant her skirts disappeared, Gavin hauled himself up and out, gasping for the clean air, a sick dizziness dragging at his senses. "Adam," he croaked, "head for the bog—hurry."

Adam, with three of the littlest children clutched in his arms, another clinging to his back, raced for the wilds. The women, spilling all around him, followed him. The ceiling of the building gave a horrendous groan, but at that instant, something made Gavin freeze—a thin, high wail from somewhere inside the cottage.

A baby lost somehow in the confusion? God in heaven! Gavin hurled himself back into the room, groping, desperate, trying to discern where the sound was coming from. He scrabbled along the floor, plunging deeper into the inferno. His fingers skidded over the top of a splintered table, overturned chairs, stools, and God alone knew what.

Just as the smoke sucked the last breath from his lungs, a high shriek of pain erupted from a babe a mere arm's length from where he was. Strength jolted back into Gavin's limbs as he dove for the child. It was a tiny bundle, arms flailing, fighting with all its small will to live, and in that instant, it was as if that tiny, squalling, squirming life was a symbol of everything he'd lost—as if this babe, in all its courage and frailty—could somehow redeem him.

Gavin grasped the baby, tucking it into his shirt as he raced for the window, knowing he'd need both hands to get them out. The timbers supporting the roof shook, the far corner beginning a slow, shuddering collapse. Gavin grasped the edges of the window frame, hauling himself onto his right side so as not to crush the baby. The rough clay scraped him through his shirt and frock coat, the baby beating against his chest with its little fists, almost as if it were attempting to batter its way into the world of the living for a second time—but this time it might be a birth by fire.

A horrendous creaking sounded, and Gavin ripped himself from the window, hurling himself out into the sweet air just as the roof caved in with a hellish crash. Gavin hit the ground hard, curling his body about the infant in a protective cocoon, all his efforts bent on its safety, rather than breaking his own fall.

Tangled rose vines tore at his clothes but he struggled to his knees, scrambling away as the building belched smoke and spit fire, an enraged Fury robbed of its sacrifices.

Bracing his hands against the ground, Gavin struggled to his feet, the babe still tucked tight against him. Yet before he could take a staggering step to follow those who had disappeared into the tangle of vegetation that led to the bog, his gaze locked on a burly figure rounding the corner of the cottage, the crimson of the king's uniform straining against the heavy muscles of the soldier's chest.