Page 55 of The Major's Mistake
“Times are very hard here, Sykes,” explained Angus. “The locals may not have any doings with such a bad lot, but they also ain’t likely to bark to the authorities about what they know. There’s a chance one of those men back there has seen or heard something that may be of use to us.”
Sykes looked dubious. “Why would they tell you, then?”
“Because Lady Miranda has already made herself well-liked and respected round these parts. They won’t abide by that sort of violence against her. Besides,” he growled. “They hold anythingback and I’ll thrash ‘em within an inch of their bloody lives.” He trotted off, leaving Sykes no doubt that if there was information to be had, the big groom would have it out of them with no argument.
Sure enough, he returned shortly with a grim smile on his lips. “A bit of smoke, even far up in these hills, doesn’t go unnoticed.” He indicated a direction that led up into the most forbidding part of the moors. “Follow me.”
Though Sykes did not like above half the idea of leaving the marquess on his own, he had to agree that the groom’s plan seemed to make the most sense. With a reluctant sigh, he fell in behind the gray filly.
Julian reachedthe stone cottage and turned his stallion into the adjoining pasture. He approached the clearing near the trees with great caution, his pistols loosened in their holsters, his gaze sweeping the surroundings with a practiced scrutiny. It took little time to pick up the signs of recent disturbance—the scuffed earth, the bent grasses, the snapped twigs. A clear trail had been left by the numerous footsteps. It skirted the edge of the forest and led into the higher grazing lands. The marquess had no trouble discerning the direction they had taken, even on horseback, for the group had made no effort to hide their tracks.
That was cause for some concern. The fact that they had little worry of being followed boasted of a certain brash overconfidence. Whoever the leader of this band of ruffians was, he had lost all fear of being caught. No doubt his continued success at eluding the authorities had imbued him with a sense of invincibility.
And that made him a very dangerous fellow.Very dangerous indeed.
Julian felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach as he thought of Miranda at the mercy of such a man. He urged his stallion to a faster pace while his eyes raked the way ahead for any sign of movement. Surely he must be cutting into their lead, he told himself. And surely he would reach them before any harm could befall her.
Thinning his mouth thinned to a determined line, he dug hid spurs into his horse’s flanks yet again.
He had no intention of losing her for a second time.
Thirteen
McTavish glanced back down the rocky slope, then turned away, satisfied that no one would be able to follow their trail over the rugged terrain. Hurrying ahead, he seized Miranda by the arm and took charge of leading her over the short distance that remained.
As they entered the small clearing surrounded by tumbled boulders and thin, windswept pines, the four men left behind looked up from a blazing campfire. Their expressions of surprise quickly turned into ones of thinly veiled disapproval. The rest of the band straggled into the camp, and though no words were spoken, the mutinous air was suddenly thick enough that Scofield and Gibbs loosened the pistols at their belts and cast warning looks all around.
With deliberate roughness, McTavish shoved Miranda forward with enough force that she stumbled and fell to her knees. She merely looked up at him with icy calmness, then began to slowly brush the dirt from her hem. Her failure to weep and carry on seemed to pique his anger to greater heat.
“Get up, you doxie,” he snarled, dragging her up to her feet.
“Here now, McTavish. Have a care,” cautioned one of the men who had participated in the kidnapping. “If the marquess pays the blunt, he ain’t gonna want to see her marked up.”
“Keep yer mummer closed, if you know what’s good fer ye.” He gave Miranda a shake. “And you—you better hope the bloody marquess comes up with the money.” A nasty leer spread across his swarthy features. “Because I don’t intend to go unrewarded for the risk I have taken.”
Miranda was more frightened than she allowed herself to appear. She doubted that McTavish’s threats were idle ones. He looked thoroughly capable of any sort of violence and the fact that his own men seemed cowed by him only heightened the feeling that she was in real danger.
Why, even if the marquess went along with the ransom demands—no sure thing—she was not entirely convinced the man was going to release her. After all, she had seen his face, knew his name. She dropped her eyes to the ground, hoping that McTavish would not see her growing apprehension.
To her great relief, he released his hold with a muttered oath and stalked over to the earthenware jug sitting near the fire. Lifting it to his mouth, he took a long swig, then passed it to his two cronies.
Ignored, the other men drifted over to sit around the crackling logs and wait in sullen silence for a pot of water to boil. Miranda ventured to sit as well, hoping to escape further attention. She had no idea what the ransom demands entailed, but as she watched the sun move ever closer to the horizon, she felt her own spirits sinking as well. It seemed likely that she would be forced to spend the night here among these men.
A shudder ran through her at the thought. At least Justin was out of their clutches. Surely he must be home now, safely enfolded in the arms of Lady Thornton.
Her eyes pressed closed at the thought of home and she bit her lip to hold back the tears. Her aunt would be dreadfully worried about her, of that she had no doubt. And what of Julian? What would he be feeling?
Miranda forced herself to put questions of that nature out of her mind. No matter what he felt, at least it seemed likely that a sense of duty would impel him to alert the authorities to what had happened.
She bucked up her flagging courage by telling herself that she was not entirely without hope of rescue, that even now, the magistrate must be gathering a party to begin a search for her.
As she looked up, her gaze fell on one of the men across the dancing flames and she realized with a start that she had seen him before, several years ago in Scotland, while treating a sick child. For a moment, their eyes locked and he flashed a fleeting look of sympathy before turning back to his steaming cup. The ragged fellow next to her made a bit of room nearer the fire and nudged a battered mug of tea in her direction, all while taking care not to give so much as a glance in her direction.
Nor daring to speak any thanks, Miranda took a furtive sip, feeling much better as the strong brew spread its warmth within her. After all, she had faced down fear in the past and had found the strength to overcome it. She would keep a cool head and do the same now.
But any hope that McTavish might have reined in his belligerence soon ebbed away. The jug had only fueled his volatile mood and as his voice rose another notch, it became clear trouble was brewing. The comments, mostly about her person, became bolder and bawdier, encouraged by the snickers of his two cronies.
After one more swig, he lapsed into an ominous silence, then slowly rose and started toward her.
