Page 62 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
“Now, I have explained to ye the nature of how Miss Bolton and I ended up ridin’ here, and how it was that she chose to come wi’ me,” Edward was saying to the other three men, “I should like to hear yer thoughts on how ye wish to precede, Faither.”
Charlotte heard the Laird sigh deeply. She heard him get to his feet, his heavy footsteps thumping on the hide-covered flags. There was the sound of goblets being moved on a table, the relaxing glug-glug-glug of liquid being poured, and then more footsteps.
Charlotte turned at the unexpected sound of someone gruffly clearing their throat.
The Laird of the MacQuarrie clan was standing behind her, looking at her gravely. His arm was extended to Charlotte.
“It was remiss o’ me nae to offer ye somethin’ to steady yer nerves, Miss Bolton,” the Laird said. “It was nae the actions of a kindly host.” He was not smiling, but looking into Charlotte’s face with an earnestness that she at once recognized as having been passed to his son.
“Thank––thank you,” Charlotte stuttered. She was still in quiet awe of the man. He was as lordly as any English nobleman that she had ever met, but with the added attribute––one that he shared with Edward––of seeming quite capable of taking on a company of armed men by himself.
The Laird nodded and went and sat back down.
“Well, Edward,” Charlotte heard him say, as she turned back to the window so that she would not have to watch Mulloy and Guthrie scrutinizing her. “It is clear that ye have spent adequate time gettin’ to ken this lass on yer journey here.”
One could say that.
“Ye hold her in some regard, that much is plain,” the Laird said.
“In as much regard as any man should hold someone who has saved his life,” Edward replied.
“Very true, son,” the Laird said. “So, kenning this woman as ye do; what would yer advice be to me––assumin’ that one of those tracking devils got away as ye suspect.”
Charlotte heard Edward clear his throat. She took a large gulp from the goblet.
Wine, and very good too.
She took another fortifying gulp and braced herself for the explosion.
21
Bloody and bedraggled, Hirst hauled himself further up the bank and into the long, dry grass of the meadow. For a few moments, he simply got his breath back.
The entire right side of his face was a seething patch of agony. He touched a hand to his cheek and cried out at the pain that it caused. Despite having been washed down, out of the little lake and down the river a way, the wound––whatever it looked like––was still bleeding profusely.
“Don’t even have my damned jacket,” he fumed to himself, putting his arms around himself.
Gingerly, he probed at the gash in his face with a cold forefinger. It felt bad. Though, when he thought about it, it could have been a great deal worse. At least he was still alive. He was lucky not to have had his head taken off. Lucky not to have drowned after being knocked senseless by the blow, and washed up just downstream.
Hirst gritted his teeth. He tore a strip from his sopping shirt and held it to his face. He looked around himself. He and his late colleagues had left their horses down river and approached the camp of the Highlander and the Bolton wench on foot. The mounts would not be far from where he was now.
Still seething with suppressed fury, shivering with cold and grimacing with pain Hirst trudged off. He would ride hard for the English encampment and report his findings to the Captain.
Hirst smiled a hard, strained smile. He could bear the excruciating pain in his face for only a heartbeat or two before he had to stop.
Ah, the Captain. What a delight he will be when he hears that his own daughter ran off with…who?
He had a name––Edward––and the two fugitives were heading in the direction of land belonging to the MacQuarrie clan. It would not have taken a man with even the late Mr. Savage’s intelligence to come to a conclusion with those two pieces of information.
One thing was for certain; the Scotsman would pay dearly for what he had done.
* * *
“What in the blazes do ye think ye are talkin’ about?” the Laird of the MacQuarries thundered.
Edward had just explained his plan to his father; the plan that he had divulged to Charlotte on their approach to the castle.
“Ye want to get married to the lass whose faithermurderedyer Mither, Edward? Have ye lost yer senses, lad?” the Laird said, in a tone only slightly less likely to bring dust sprinkling down from the ceiling.
