Page 7 of The Devil in Plaid
Esme made the sign of the cross, her eyes looking heavenward. “God save us.”
“Wheest,” Fiona hissed. “Ye’ll frighten the poor sweetling away.”
“But, my lady, ye have a farm of wounded animals already healing at the keep.”
Ignoring Esme’s continued protests, Fiona quietly followed the fawn. She wove through the trees, keeping the slender, tawny beast in sight. But the thicket snagged at her clothing, slowing her progress, and soon she lost sight of it.
“It must have squeezed through here,” Fiona called back to Esme, who begrudgingly tramped behind her. Pushing through bramble that tore at her cloak and hair, Fiona glanced back at her maid. “I’m sure it must just be on the other si—” Her last word turned into a scream as she stepped with not but air to catch her weight. Falling, she twisted and landed with a thud on her side. Pain shot through her shoulder and hip. She lay, unmoving, while the world around her spun. When the shock of the fall faded, she rolled onto her back and gripped her dizzy head between her hands and fought to calm her racing breaths. Then she slowly sat up.
“Are ye all right, my lady,” Esme said, her tone altogether lacking in compassion.
Fiona looked up at her maid who stood on the edge of the ravine with a stern brow cocked, and her arms crossed over her chest.
“Ye don’t have to say it,” Fiona told her, wincing as she moved her aching shoulder to ensure nothing was broken. “I will surrender my quest to save the fawn. I’m coming up directly.” Scowling, she climbed to her feet and dusted the dirt and leaves from her tunic before she started back up the ravine.
“Blast,” she cried when loose dirt and gravel gave way beneath her feet. She took a deep breath and tried again, but no sooner had she progressed a step or two up the steep slope, than she slid right back down again.
“Try to get a running start,” Esme called down.
Fiona nodded and backed up several steps. She gripped her skirts, holding them high, pressed her lips together, and charged up the slope. Straightaway, her foot slipped and down she plunged. Releasing her skirts in time, she caught her fall with her hands.
“My lady, what are we to do?” Esme fretted, drawing Fiona’s gaze. “What if ye’re stuck down there forever?” Esme drew a sharp breath. “The wolves! Oh, my lady, what are we to do?”
Fiona straightened and wiped her muddy hands off on her tunic, resisting the urge to chastise her maid for panicking. After all, their current circumstances were becoming increasingly grim—due in no small part to Fiona herself. “Esme, take a deep breath, then find a sturdy branch and lower it down.”
With a heavy sigh, Esme turned and bent over in the woods behind her, mumbling something Fiona thankfully could not discern. She turned back a few moments later, dragging a long, thick branch out into the open. “I’d have a word to say about yer soft heart for broken animals, if it wasn’t yer compassion that makes ye such a great lady,” Esme remarked while lowering the branch over the side.
Fiona had no reply as she stetched up on her toes, struggling to reach it. “Just a little lower, Esme.” Still, the branch hovered just above Fiona’s fingertips. “Lower,” she said, her voice strained. An instant later, Esme cried out. Losing her footing, she started to tip. She dropped the branch, her arms flapping wildly. Then she fell forward. Fiona reached to catch her maid but was thrown back beneath the woman’s larger size as Esme tumbled down the steep, wet slope, landing on Fiona.
She gasped for air as she rolled Esme off her.
A low groan fled Esme’s lips. “Ye’ve killed me for certain.”
Fiona stood, pulled her maid to her feet and began plucking leaves from the woman’s hair and cloak. “To be sure, ye’ll live, although I’ve made a mess of us both.”
After they made their tunics and cloaks as presentable as they could, Fiona scanned the steep ridge.“Come along,” she said. “We’ll have to find a way out of this ravine, then back to the men.”
“What about our horses?” Esme asked.
“Alasdair will know what to do about the horses.”
Fiona continued to scan the surrounding high ridge while they picked their way around rocks and tree roots, but the steep terrain offered no gentle pass. “We’ll just have to go around,” Fiona declared. Noting the position of the sun, she took hold of Esme’s hand and continued forward. “Our greatest threat now is getting lost.”
An instant later, a sharp whistle rang out, causing Fiona to stumble to a halt.
“What was that?” Esme hissed, her eyes wide with terror.
Fiona turned around and around, scanning the ridge above. “Mayhap, it was a bird.”
The moment the word fled her lips, a tall man with massive shoulders appeared at the edge of the ravine. He gazed down at them with hard eyes. A snarl curled his lips. Long filthy hair spread out in wild tangles over broad shoulders. Fiona’s eyes darted to the muddy swath of MacLeod tartan slicing across his wide, bare chest. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling her cry of fear when a breath later, more MacLeod warriors filed out of the woods, forming a line on the ridge above her head.
