Scottish Brides (19 page)

“Now, Jem. Petey will be all right.” Rose prayed that was so. “We're going to get him out, too, so you needn't worry.”

The cave entrance was low and just wide enough for Rose to squeeze through. She knew the narrow passage widened just past the entrance, then turned sharply to the right. She was about to kneel down and wriggle in, when Duncan's hand closed on her shoulder; he spun her around.

“Here.” He pushed her hands through the armholes of his jacket, the wrong way around.

“What?” Rose frowned at the jacket.

Ruthlessly, Duncan hauled the jacket up her arms and around her, buttoning it up at the back. “They're presumably down that hole you used to disappear into. I can probably get into the passage, but I don't think I'll be able to get around the corner.”

Rose glanced at him, at the width of his shoulders: there was indeed a great deal more of him than there had been all those years ago.

“So,” Duncan continued, speaking fast and low, “you lead the way in. We'll get Jem out and get him back into the passage; then you'll have to slide into the hole and lift Petey out to me.”

Rose nodded. “So why the jacket?” She examined her new coat; because of the width of his shoulders and back, it did not restrict her movements.

“Because,” Duncan tersely explained, “you're no longer a scrawny fifteen—you won't be able to simply wriggle, chest and belly to the rock, out of that hole like you used to.”

Rose's expression blanked. “Oh.”

“Indeed.” Duncan gestured her inside as Jem called out again. “I'll have to haul you out—and I don't want any of your anatomy damaged in the process.”

Rose couldn't help a grin, but she sobered the instant she scraped through the entrance—and discovered she couldn't even stand upright in the passage. “We're nearly there, Jem. Don't be frightened.”

The light in the cave was poor; Rose blinked rapidly, then headed for the corner. Duncan wriggled through the entrance behind her; she heard a rip as his shirt did not quite make it through with him.

Then she eased around the corner, through a narrow constriction; looking hard, she could just discern the pool of shadow on the dusty floor—which was, in fact, a large hole. Crouching down, she looked in and saw the pale moon of a face looking up at her.

“Oh, miss!”

At Jem's tearful wail, Rose reached down and tousled his hair. “Come on, now. We'll need to get you out first.” She held out her hands to him. “Take them, and sort of walk up the side of the hole.”

The hole was nearly six feet deep; when Jem's hands found hers, Rose reached farther and wrapped her fingers around his wrists. “Now, up you come.”

She braced herself to take his weight; luckily, he wasn't that heavy. With a grunt and a sob, he was in her arms; Rose hugged him briefly, then pushed him toward the main passage. “Go on now, so we can get Petey out.”

Clearly torn, Jem looked back at the small body, only just visible in the darkness at the bottom of the hole.

“Jem—come on.”

Jem looked up, blinking as Duncan, still in the entrance passage, beckoned him out. “Come out here, and let Rose get to Petey. She'll lift him out to me; then we'll need you to watch him while I get Rose out—all right?”

The plan, including a part for him, reassured Jem. He gulped, nodded and slipped back into the main passage. In the dark, he didn't recognize Duncan; Duncan gripped his shoulder reassuringly, then sent him to sit by the entrance.

Looking around the corner again, Duncan saw—nothing. Precisely what he always used to see. Rose would taunt him, then slip into the cave and disappear; it had taken him forever to realize there was a hole there.

Just then, her head popped up; she looked at him over the lip of the hole. “Broken bones—his arm at least, maybe more. He's unconscious.”

Duncan nodded. “Nothing for it—we'll have to lift him out. Can you manage it?”

Rose disappeared again—and came up with a small, twisted body in her arms. “Here.” It was an effort: she straining to support Petey, a dead weight on her arms, stretching as far as she could; Duncan, wedged as deeply into the contriction as possible, reaching, straining to get a good grip on the small body. Teeth gritted, he managed it and lifted Petey from Rose. Backing took a moment or two, easing out of the trap he'd forced himself into.

“Don't,” he said to Rose, seeing her place her palms on the lip of the hole. “Just wait, dammit.”

He took Petey to Jem, and laid him down gently, then returned to find Rose trying unsuccessfully to hike herself out of the hole. “Here—give me your hands.”

She did. It was the work of a minute for him to haul her out; his coat, of course, would never be the same, but it had gone in a good cause.

Returning to the boys, he clasped Jem's shoulder; when Rose joined them, he sent her out, then Jem, then handed Petey through and followed.

They splinted Petey's broken bones as best they could using strips torn from Rose's petticoat. Then they set about the difficult task of climbing back up the cliff face, Rose leading Jem, Duncan carrying Petey. Rose insisted that Duncan go ahead; he tried to argue, but she refused to budge. It was full twilight by the time they reached the horses, and edging into night before the long, necessarily slow ride, with Rose carrying Jem before her, and Duncan carrying Petey—thankfully still unconscious—came to an end at the Swinson farm.

The family hadn't gone to join the festivities down by the loch; they'd been frantically searching every burn, every field, every hayrick.

“Oh, thank the Lord!” Meg Swinson, the boys' mother, spotting them as they neared the gate, came running, arms reaching. Her face fell when she saw Petey so still.

Duncan quickly explained; then Rose reined in beside him and set Jem down. Meg pounced on him and enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug; Doug Swinson, the boys' father, gently lifted Petey from Duncan's arms. Rose quickly reassured him, relieved when she saw the boys' grandmother, Martha, squinting from the farmhouse door.

The Swinsons hurried their lost lambs into the farmhouse; Malachi, Doug's brother, nodded to Duncan and Rose. “Don't know as how we'll ever be able to thank you enough, m'lord, Miss Rose. But if ye'd like a pint o'ale and some biscuits before ye set out back, we'd be proud to supply both.”

They hadn't eaten since luncheon; Duncan slanted a glance at Rose, who kicked her feet free of her stirrups and slid down. “Just a small glass for me, Malachi, but I'm sure his lordship would like a pot.”

They sat on the bench beside the front door, their backs to the wall, and sipped their ale, their gazes roaming the valley spread before them, a mass of dark, not-yet-black shadows, with the loch a smooth slate under the light of the rising moon.

Behind them, inside the cottage, the Swinsons fussed and fretted; Petey had yet to regain consciousness. Duncan rolled the ale on his tongue, then swallowed. “Do you think he'll be all right?”

Rose leaned her shoulder briefly against his. “Old Martha Swinson knows what she's about—if she says Petey will be all right, he will be.”

Night slowly fell; a deep silence enveloped them, not empty, but enriched with the glow of shared achievement from a challenge successfully met, of harmony from shared goals successfully served. Neither moved; neither needed to look to sense what the other felt.

And in that timeless moment, Duncan finally understood all that Rose meant to him. She was terror and delight, irritation and gratification—a thorn in his flesh who had bloomed into his Rose. His. She had always matched him so effortlessly, so instinctively, it had been easy not to notice. Yet when she was by his side, his life was whole, complete, somehow richer—he never wanted another day to dawn when she wouldn't be by his side.

The night deepened, and still they sat, each quietly savoring their mutual contentment, neither wanting to break the spell, the magic of perfect accord.

Beside the loch, on the bank close to the bridge, a torch flared; then a bonfire surged to life. The Midsummer's Eve revels had begun.

Then a reedy wail issued from the cottage; a minute later, Doug Swinson emerged. “Praise be, but he seems well enough.” The big man grinned with relief. ‘‘Two broken bones, Ma says, but clean breaks—and she's already set them, thanks be. Once he drinks some of her sleeping potion, he'll be down for the night. Safe, thanks to you.”

Duncan shrugged and stood. “Just luck that we were there.” He drained his tankard.

Rose grinned and handed Doug her empty glass. “Tell Meg her biscuits were delicious as always, and her ale as well. I hope you both get some time to join in the fun.” Scrambling into her saddle, she nodded to the bonfire, now a roaring blaze leaping into the night.

“Oh, aye.” Doug looked at her and Duncan. “But I'm thinking it's you should stop at the bonfire.”

Mounting, Duncan laughed; atop her mare, Rose laughed, too, rather less sincerely. “Good night, Doug.” With a wave, she headed the mare out of the gate; Duncan's powerful chestnut quickly came up alongside.

She felt his gaze on her face. After a long moment, he asked, “Want to stop by the bonfire?”

It was tempting, so tempting. But . . . “Your mother would wring your neck—and mine—if we did.”

“Actually . . . I don't know about that.”

“With half the Argyll waiting in your ballroom? It's a certainty.”

“Hmm.” Duncan grimaced. “Well, if we must, we'd better hurry. As it is, we'll be lucky to make the last waltz.”

Rose shot him a glance. “Race you.”

She sprang her mare on the words; Duncan whooped and followed. They thundered over the fields, down tracks they didn't need to see to follow, tracks engraved in their memories. Duncan had the more powerful horse, but he rode much heavier; over the distance and terrain, they were evenly matched.

The ride was wild, neither giving an inch or expecting any quarter. They rode like demons, on through the night, skirting the loch, the glittering magnificence of his home their ultimate goal. Their route took them close by the bonfire—roaring, spitting flames high into the night. Despite their streaking progress, or perhaps because of it, they were recognized. People called and waved; by unspoken accord, they reined to a walk as they approached the bridge and waved back.

Some of the men called suggestions through the night; breathing quickly, her blood stirred by the ride, Rose blushed and set her mare onto the bridge. She reined in at the center and sensed Duncan doing the same, to look down the length of the loch, at the reflection of the lights of Ballynashiels dancing on its dark surface.

Her heart thudded; her nerves tingled, sensitized to the excitement flickering in the air, the anticipation evoked by traditions older than time. Her wayward senses reached for Duncan—and he reached for her.

One arm snaked about her waist, lifting her from her saddle, locking her against him; his other hand framed her face as she turned, gasping—and his lips covered hers.

The kiss was as wild as their ride—untamed, unrestrained, hot and demanding, He took her mouth and she gave it, sinking into his embrace, returning every caress greedily, avidly, unable to mask the desire he evoked, incapable of reining it in. She had more chance of stopping the moon in its orbit than controlling the passion he unleashed in her.

Sensations battered her; compulsion dragged at her. Her wits, what was left of them, reeled. Where they were headed, she had no idea, but they were still riding far too fast.

When his hand dropped to her breast, already swollen and aching, she dragged her lips free. And groaned, moaned, then managed to gasp, “Duncan—we
have
to go home, remember?”

If they'd stopped anywhere but on the bridge, if there'd been grass beneath them rather than stone, he would have taken her down, off her horse, and taken her, then and there. She sensed it, knew it—heard it in his eventual, reluctant groan.

Breathing deeply, his chest expanding dramatically, he rested his forehead against hers. “Am I
forever
destined to have to let you go?”

She managed a shaky laugh, but gave no other answer.

With a frustrated sigh, Duncan set her back in her saddle. He was prepared to wager a significant sum that both his mother and her father would rejoice if he stayed out all Midsummer's Eve with Rose, but there were benefits to be had in returning to Ballynashiels. A bed, among others. He picked up his reins. “Let's go.”

No longer racing, they still rode like the wind, neither seeing any reason to do otherwise. It was indeed late; to make any appearance at the ball at all
,
they needed to fly.

They clattered into the stableyard. Duncan leapt from his saddle; Rose all but fell out of hers. Duncan caught her hand and hauled her upright; grinning widely, ignoring his startled stablemen, he raced across the cobbles, dragging Rose, giggling, behind him.

They erupted into the servants' hall. Duncan flung orders left and right, striding without pause for the back stairs, leaving chaos in his wake. Maids and his valet fell over their toes in their rush to follow; the housekeeper set houseboys drawing hot water from the kettles and dispatched burly footmen to fetch the copper baths.

Duncan didn't wait; he hauled Rose, giggling helplessly, up the stairs to the second floor. He stopped in the private gallery—and kissed her witless.

When he raised his head, she was reeling. Eyes glittering, he looked down at her face. “Hurry—I'll
wait for you here.”

With that, he let her go. The first of the maids bustled up the stairs; turning on his heel, he strode for his room.

Rose watched him go, then laughed, pirouetted once—and dashed for hers.

The next half hour was the essence of madness. A bevy of maids helped her strip; others filled the bath; still others raided her wardrobe at her instruction. Her own maid, Lucy, stood at the room's center issuing directions. Everyone grinned—a sense of wild excitement had infected them all. Rose bathed, dressed and had her hair coiffed in record time. Lucy scurried behind her, still fastening the clasp of her necklace as she headed out of the door.