Page 12 of The Scot Who Loved Her

Malcolm let out a whistle, expecting that Kelpie would be close by, as he’d been trained to stay with his master. But there was no appearance of his mount. Not even the faint noise of him hurrying forward. This was a blow. He’d trained Kelpie since he was a foal, and to have him simply vanish... Nay, he’d likely been stolen by the lass too!

As much as he wanted to search, Malcolm didn’t have time. The country’s security was at stake. The only other option he had was to—

Then he heard it. Wagon wheels. All right, so be it. He’d steal a horse from the wagon. Holding his arm across his middle to keep from jarring his injury, Malcolm stealthily bolted through the trees until he found the retreating vehicle moving at a snail’s pace. Hell’s bells, but the damned boar was in the back of it. There was no sign of the lady, but the lad driving the horse had to be her accomplice.

Malcolm managed to reach the wagon and hopped silently into the bed beside the boar. His shoulder screamed with his efforts, but he ignored the pain. His gaze drilled into the back of the lad, who did not seem any wiser to his presence. With a quickly drawn breath, Malcolm leapt forward and wrapped his uninjured arm around the lad’s neck, unsettling the woolen cap that had covered his brown hair. “Stop the wagon.”

At Malcolm’s growl and the life being choked out of him, the lad halted his horse and then put up his hands in surrender.

“I...mean you no...harm,” the lad choked out. Malcolm guessed him to be about two and twenty. “Honest.”

“Where were ye taking the boar? To the lady?”

“No! My cottage. I swear. The lady asked for my help.”

So hewasin on it. “Who do ye work for?”

“Lord Helvellyn.”

Helvellyn. Though the moniker was not familiar to him, Malcolm would remember it. There were a lot of English lords with properties in Scotland. Many of them came to Edinburgh when the London season was over to enjoy the season here all over again. Fake Scots. Men who likely hobnobbed with his mother, who couldn’t be bothered to return to the land of heathens.

Sweat beaded on the lad’s brow, slipping down the sides of his temple.

“What is the lady’s name?” Malcolm demanded.

“Miss Olivia Aston.”

“Tell the lady I will not forget her.”

The lad nodded, and Malcolm put him out of his misery for the time being with a hard knock to his head, then laid him gently on the bench.

He made quick work of unhitching the wagon post from the horse, but damn it, no saddle. Bareback it was.

But he needed a weapon. He couldn’t traverse the rest of Scotland without one. Not now that he’d been injured, and he had possibly two different parties following him.

Quickly, Malcolm searched the lad and found his knife and a black satchel. In the satchel were all sorts of medical supplies. He yanked out a few strips of linen and a small vial that looked like spirits, stuffing them into his coat pocket. The ride to London was still at least two days if he rode hard and stopped to rest on briefly, and he’d need to change his bandaging at some point.

Lastly, he divested the lad of his shirt. He pulled it on, gritting through the pain. The garment was a bit snug, but at least it wasn’t covered in blood and cut to shreds. He donned his jacket and tucked his knife into his boot.

He mounted the horse and turned around in the woods. He looked toward the sky, noting the sun’s position, then headed south. As soon as he came to a traveling post, he traded out the horse for a sturdier one and kept on riding through the night. When the pain in his shoulder became excruciating, and he was working hard to stay upright on the horse, he stopped at an inn, took a room for a few hours—which turned into nearly twelve hours—cleaned his wound, slept, ate, then traded horses for more excruciating hours of riding.

Nearly three days later, he crossed over London Bridge and was on his way to the Secret Scots London office. A groom greeted him, taking the horse. Smelling just as bad as he looked, Malcolm made his way into the clandestine townhouse and W’s domain.

“Your Grace.” He bowed low to the man he called W—the man who’d given him this most honored job—the Duke of Wellington.

W sat behind his massive oak desk in his wood-paneled office, the scent of cigars and woodsmoke heavy in the dimly lit room. The duke eyed him from across the way, taking in the snug shirt, the tiny dot of blood that seeped from his wound and pulled the cheroot from between his teeth. “What the hell happened to you?”

Malcolm shut the door and walked across the Turkish carpet to stand before his superior officer. “North of the English border in Scotland, I was made. Lady shot me while I wrestled a boar.”

“A lady?” W’s brow rose. “An actual boar?”

Malcolm swallowed his pride, gritting his teeth. “Aye.”

“Most intriguing. Do go on.”

“She shot me. When I came to, the manifesto was gone from my boot. I found her accomplice with the boar. Got two names from the lad. Lord Helvellyn and Miss Olivia Aston.”

The duke narrowed his eyes, a strange look passing quickly through and then gone. “Tell me what was on the manifesto.”

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