If You Dare (18 page)

While Molyneux directed the boardinghouse matron for clean linen to be cut into bandages, Court brushed her hair behind her ear and watched her eyes move behind her lids.
He'd ridden as far as he'd dared, and only hoped his men could prevent the Rechazados from getting through that pass. Regardless, they needed to get on the road as soon as possible. “When will she regain consciousness?”

“Right now she's just sleeping.”

He gave Molyneux an irritated look.

“I could wake her right now if I wanted to. But I don't want to.”

Court's brows drew together when Molyneux put some tincture on her arm and began to roll the bandage around. “Do you no' need to suture it?”

“No, it looked deeper than it actually is because of all the blood.”

“You need to suture it. You should always sew these things.”

“Mr. MacCarrick, the wound simply wasn't that grievous. It bled profusely, and I'm sure it gave you quite a scare, but the actual damage to the skin wasn't enough to warrant stitches. I understand that you are worried about your . . . your Mrs. MacCarrick, but this is the best course.”

Court set Annalía aside, then stood. “Gunshot wounds get sewn.”

The doctor craned his neck to look up at Court, steadfastly meeting him in the eyes, though he swallowed hard. “Aside from this, your wife is the picture of health. It would be injudicious of me to put thread in her skin. Thread that can swell and break, and get dirty.”

“My
wife,”
he said without the slightest hesitation, “may be the picture of health, but she's small and of a delicate constitution. I'll no' have her walking around with an open gash in her arm.”

“How long have you known her?”

“A while,” he answered evasively.

“I don't know how
well
you know her, but your wife is not
of a delicate constitution, I assure you. I'll bet she's told you she rarely gets ill.”

“She might have mentioned it,” he answered, though they'd never had more than one civil conversation.

“We'll keep the wound together with linen bandages. I'll show you how to put this tincture on and how to wrap it. Just make sure she doesn't reinjure it. And of course,” he added with a disapproving look, “that she isn't shot again.”

Court was shaking his head. “She'll get fever.”

“Yes.”

“And then what should I do?”

“Let it burn.” That was his maddening answer. “Just don't let it spike. You can run a cool cloth over her if it rises too high, which I doubt it will, and summon me again, but otherwise let her handle this. She's strong.” And then with a last fond look at Annalía that almost got young Molyneux killed, he left Court alone with her.

A
pparently, Annalía finally believed her brother was dead. And blamed Court for it.

“How can you want to be near me knowing how much I despise you?”
That had been her deadened response when he'd told her he was taking her on to Toulouse. After she'd called him a brute, a filthy barbarian, and a lowly Scot, and told him with a steady gaze that she hated him as she'd never known she was capable of hating anything.

She hadn't wanted to leave with him and would've told everyone that she was a prisoner had he not convinced her that if she stayed she'd be getting the people there killed as well as herself.

Now Court glanced back to see her lagging behind again, her expression lost. The horse he'd been able to find for her was not what she was used to, and though he'd dropped her saddlebags at the house matron's feet and said, “Fix these dresses so she can ride more comfortably in them,” Annalía
hadn't seemed to notice the changes. It seemed she noticed nothing.

The journey to Toulouse normally would have taken Court only a full day of fast riding. The land grew flatter as they followed the Ariège River away from the Pyrenees until it became a table plain dotted only with small hills. An easy jaunt, but he'd been keeping a much slower pace for her, and one day had turned into three.

For those last three days, she hadn't spoken, had hardly eaten, and had not uttered a word but for her only response to Court's every question,
“Fot el camp.”
Go to hell.

She obviously couldn't wait to be rid of Court, and he would oblige her. When he met up with his crew, he'd ride and never look back, but until then he'd taken his responsibility seriously. Each night he had found them a place to stay, some room where he could rebandage her arm as Molyneux had shown him.

The first night when he'd removed her blouse—not her shift, just the blouse—she'd fought him as if he were stripping her, risking a reinjury. “I can do you the way I threatened with the dress,” he'd told her. “Or you can let me tend to your arm.” Though she was stiff and stared straight ahead, she cooperated. Each night it looked better.

Afterward, while she took the bed, he'd sink into a chair in the room, thinking about their situation, wondering why it pained him more than anything ever had to see her balled up under the covers, shuddering when she silently cried.

Simply taking care of her was so far beyond his realm of experience, it was staggering. Much less that he was caring for a woman who blamed him for her brother's death.

In less than three days under his protection, she'd been marked for death by a fanatical order of assassins and shot. He'd known he was shadowed in life, could bring ruin to
those he cared for, but this was ridiculous. Still, a selfish part of him thought,
Better than married to Pascal.

Today as they rode, closing in on the posting house, he reasoned that this was not the curse raining down on him. He'd made a decision that affected her badly. Nothing metaphysical or mystical about it. Besides, he didn't
care
for her—he
took
care of her, and only temporarily. Just to get her to safety.

He stopped to wait until she caught up with him. She sat very still in the saddle, staring blankly ahead, looking small in her bright dress and wrapper. This couldn't go on any longer. She needed to stay close to him because they weren't out of danger by any means. He reined his horse around to tell her she needed to buck up—

He turned, saw movement from the corner of his eye, and spotted a cross tattoo.

A Rechazado attacked her from the brush.

•  •  •

“You can't just leave me here,” Olivia snapped, her face red with fury, her full lips thinned.

She'd demanded he stop at an inn for food—Aleix hadn't been hungry, wouldn't be until he found his sister and got her away from the Scot. Things became clear.

He knew better than to try to reason with her, but still said, “I will return for you, but right now finding Annalía is my primary concern.”

She leaned forward over the table they'd taken, planting her elbows between plates. “Dealing with Annalía will take longer. Best to complete the bargain with me.”

He leaned forward as well, catching her gaze. “Not a chance. That's not the order.”

“So you won't honor our deal until you find her?”

“Correct.”

“Then obviously I must expedite the search.”

He gave her a short, harsh laugh. “I'm going on alone. We're already at least a week behind them.”

She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “You need me. This MacCarrick is a villain.
I
am a villain. I know how he'll think.”

He had to hear this. “Please, share your wisdom.” “Our leads indicate he's alone with Annalía. Highlanders are clannish people. He'll be quick to meet up with his men.”

“Very good. Any notion of where that will be?”

“They'll have a predetermined meeting place. Somewhere rural where a group like them won't attract so much attention, but close to a large city where they can find ammunition.”

His eyes narrowed. “Toulouse?”

“Is the first possibility.”

Aleix had suspected she had more information about the Highlanders than she was presenting, and now his suspicion grew. She was cunning, and knowing her, she would deal it out piecemeal, using it as leverage.

Damn it, he'd have to keep her with him. But only until she no longer proved useful. “We've got to ride faster.”

She stood and gave him a bored look. “I'm waiting on you.”

•  •  •

The assassin dragged Annalía down with little effort. Court spurred his mount—she wasn't fighting. Why the hell—

His horse's head was wrenched to the side. Court took his eyes from Annalía to find another Rechazado had snatched the harness and trained a pistol on him. Court stared down at the hollow black barrel, a chilling sight he'd hoped never to see this close again. If it hadn't been a foot away, he would've chanced it—the other was pulling Annalía into the bushes.

He'd never forget what happened next. She screamed. She screamed, and he didn't care if he got shot.
To hell with it.
Court kicked out, catching the Rechazado's arm just as the sound distracted him. Luck was with him, and the gun flew to the side. Court dove from the saddle at him.

As they wrestled, the man drew a smaller pistol. They grappled for control.

Before his injuries, Court would've been stronger, but now . . . now the man could win. And if he did . . . Court yelled with rage—suddenly felt as strong as he'd been before. A shot rang out.

The man stared up, eyes growing blank, blood steeping his shirt in an even circle from his heart.

Court snagged the other pistol, sprinted for Annalía, then forced himself to slow, to surprise the one who had her. He looked past the bushes and found a scene he'd never expected—Annalía standing with the Rechazado unconscious at her feet and a bloody rock by his head.

Most likely one she'd been saving for Court. That's why she hadn't fought. She hadn't wanted to drop it.

Stunned, he watched her kick the man in the gut, then scan the woods, no doubt deciding where to run from Court.

“Annalía, stay,” he ordered, though he was scarcely able to keep the disbelief out of his voice. She turned to him and rolled her eyes, but she didn't run.

When he reached her, he clasped her good arm, “Are you unhurt? Is your arm all right?”

She shrugged.

“Did the shot frighten you?”

“No. I saw him tussling with you over the pistol.”

He dropped her arm abruptly. “I'm glad you dinna wait around to see if I would live.” In truth, he
was
glad she'd planned to get away, no matter how riled he sounded.

She squinted at him as if she didn't recognize him. “Tell me again why I should care about that outcome?”

He scowled until she asked, “Is he one of Pascal's men?”

“Aye.”

“Did I kill him?”

Court saw his chest rise and shook his head. When she bent to pick up her rock again, he strode over and took it from her hands. “You doona want to kill him.” Court would do that. Retribution for touching her.

“I really do.”

“No, Anna.” When she continued reaching for it, he added, “It'll do things to you. No' worth it.”

She informed him crisply, “I—need—that—
anyway.”

He held it high from her. “For me?”

She nodded without shame.

Clever, brave woman. His brows drew together as he remembered the way he'd reacted to the thought of her being hurt. The way he'd decided a bullet between his eyes was
incidental
to the need to save her.

He swore under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Why don't we wake up this son of a bitch and find out how many more are coming?” Her eyes widened, and he could tell she hadn't thought about that prospect. She looked alive for the first time in days. He heaved the rock away, then bent down to slap the man, but whipped his head back around. “Annalía, doona think of hitting me again.”

“Two with one stone,” she said waspishly.

“Be smart. They'll keep coming. You must prefer me over them?”

“I prefer none of you.”

“They will no' kill you at first.”

Her face paled, and she finally said, “Very well.”

He recognized the man before him. He was called Ruiz the Scarred. Court only remembered him because the moniker fit so well. When the assassin roused, he spit blood.

Court had always been heartless in battle, emotionless
with the enemy. Now he felt rage building once more, making him hide his clenched fists from Annalía. This was a man who wanted to murder a defenseless woman. Once he let go of that fury, she'd never look at him the same. “Anna, go see if you can find the horses.”

“No, I want to stay. I must ask him about Aleix.”

“I promise you this is no' anything you want to see.” She hesitated.
“Go now.”
His tone was lethal. “And if you try to leave, I swear to God you will regret it.”