Page 7 of The Scot Who Loved Her

He snapped his fingers toward a stack of crates where the lad he’d been paying coin to keep a watch for him the past few days lurked. Thin, yet tall for ten years, Jeremiah had piercing, dark gray eyes that shone with the kind of cynicism a child shouldn’t have. A mop of ashen curls topped his head, which had been dark as soot from chimney sweeping when they first met. The poor lad was missing the small finger on his right hand, the price he’d paid for stealing bread when he was hungry. That painful moment in Jeremiah’s life was when Malcolm had first come across him, and given the bastard who’d done it a beating that he’d not soon forget.

“If theBluebellsets sail, go to this address and tell John the butler. Tell no one else.” Malcolm slipped him an extra coin as compensation, along with a piece of vellum paper with the address of the townhouse in Edinburgh that “W”—his superior—had secured as their secret headquarters. “Stay hidden. Tell no one what ye’ve seen here.”

“Aye, my lord.” The lad looked a lot less hungry about the eyes since Malcolm had found him. Malcolm was proud of that.

A rustlingin the woods behind him had Malcolm stilling. He was a far away from Edinburgh, in a forest just north of the English-Scottish border.

Had he been followed? He was certain no one had seen him at the docks, and the alleyways behind their headquarters were well hidden. Still, there was always the possibility.

Still on his haunches, Malcolm pulled his dirk from the knife-sheath at his hip and slowly scanned the forest around him, listening for familiar sounds. He’d gone through rigorous training with the Black Watch, Scotland’s greatest army, and even more training when he’d signed on to be a part of His Majesty’s Secret Scots. That training had paid off and saved his life more than once.

The trees were still, save for the gentle sway of leaves when a slow breeze blew. Water trickled. A squirrel scurried. That sound—it had not been the scuttle of a squirrel or wood mouse. Nor the wings of a bird taking flight. Nor the cautious steps of a stag. But something bigger. Something unhindered by fear.

A flash of golden curls came into view between the trunks of trees. A curvy figure on a horse. Awoman. Unassuming, apparently out for a casual ride. What was a woman doing in the middle of the forest? Alone?Blast. What if she’d spotted him? He supposed she might take him for a trespasser, but there was nothing else about him that ought to suggest his true employment. But then she kept on going, seeming not to have noticed him at all. Well, he wasn’t going to go after her if she’d not seen him.

The rustling came again. Not the usual rustling of a man walking through the forest or a horse’s hooves. Nay, this was something...heavier. Something infinitely more erratic.

Malcolm sniffed the air, catching the unpleasant yet familiar scent of a boar.

“Ballocks,” he growled, just as the boar shot out with a mighty squeal from the brambles where it had been scavenging. Just his bloody luck to successfully fight off four traitorous idiots only to be later gored by a bloodthirsty boar.

Boars were bastards. The bane of his existence. He’d fought one on the day his mother had shown her true colors and abandoned him, taking with her his wee sister. And he’d hated the creatures ever since with a nearly irrational zeal.

Given the way the boar was looking at him, the feeling was mutual. The boar puffed angrily through its slimy snout, its horns glistening from where the sun broke through the trees.Blast! Malcolm didn’t have time to tangle with it, but the boar was endangering his horse. “Away, Kelpie!” he ordered, sending his mount into the trees. Then Malcolm removed his coat, tossed it aside and waved his hands in the air, leaping to draw its attention. No way in bloody hell was he going to lose his prized horse today.

“Come on, ye maggot-muncher,” Malcolm taunted as the animal pawed the earth and let out a mean shriek.

As his heart pounded, excitement rushed through his blood. He still vividly recalled when he’d faced off with such a beast back home in the Highlands. His father, the late Earl of Dunlyon, had watched, shouting that it was a test of his manhood.

Now the boar rushed, its weight pounding against the earth as it neared. Malcolm remained steady until the last minute when he leapt aside, the boar missing him. The animal skidded to a halt, its hooves tearing into the forest floor, unearthing clumps of moss. The boar let out an angry bellow as it turned to charge again. Malcolm readied himself once more, making certain his mount was nowhere near, else the boar might attempt to attack an easier target.

Thank goodness Kelpie had stayed put. The boar charged, and Malcolm dodged three more times before he was finally able to leap onto the animal’s back, stabbing him in the neck with his dagger. At the same moment, a shot rang out, dulled by the boar’s scream but still discernible. Grouses fled from their perches, and pain ripped into Malcolm’s right shoulder.

Someone had bloody shot him! Malcolm let out a curse as pain seared through his upper body. And still, he held onto the raging boar, keeping his dagger buried deep in the animal’s neck.

“Oh, no!” a very feminine voice called out behind him.

“Oh, no?” Malcolm wanted to shout. A woman? Was the world playing a dirty trick on him?

The boar fell forward, collapsing, giving a few last shuddering breaths. Malcolm dropped on his back to the side of the animal, staring up as the golden-haired hellion came into view, the end of her pistol still smoking. Pale, angelic face, a mask of horror and deep blue eyes wide as the Scottish sea. The tips of her tiny, brown, barely scuffed boots poked from beneath the hem of her riding habit, and she wore no discernible jewels.

What was she doing out here? Hunting? And why would a well-bred female have a pistol? What a fool he’d been. He should have heard her coming well beforehand. He’d never live this down. A beautiful she-devil had downed one of England and Scotland’s most notorious spies with one tiny lead ball.

“Ye shot me,” he accused, placing his hand over the bloody wound to slow the bleeding.

“I...” She stumbled forward onto her knees beside him, the scent of roses a cruel reminder of her fairer sex. She looked at the pistol in her hands and tossed it aside as though it burned. “I didn’t mean to.”

No matter how she tried, he wasn’t going to let her pull the wool over his eyes. “Ye fool,” he muttered. “What were ye thinking?”

“I was aiming for the animal. I was trying to help.” She glanced sideways at the boar. “I see I missed.”

“Clearly.” Slick blood oozed between his fingers. Malcolm palpated the wound, trying to ascertain the damage. Just to the left of his collarbone and into the tissue and muscle. From what he could tell, the bullet had not gone through but was lodged.Bloody hell.

“I will go get help,” she said, leaping to her feet, her face ashen, her mouth drawn. At first glance, his impression had been of scarcely scuffed boots and a handsome pale face framed by golden curls, but now he realized with a start that she was lovely. More than lovely—

one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on. If she’d not just shot him, he might have stopped to admire her, but as he was lying there bleeding, staring was infinitely inappropriate.

“Nay!” he ground out. “Yewill help me.”

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