Page 70 of Hunting for a Highlander (Highland Brides 8)

“Oh my, this is so much better. Thank ye, m’lady,” Father Machar murmured, tugging his robes down to cover his legs and then getting to his feet as well. “What do we do now? I suppose we canno’ just walk out, can we?”

While Father Machar asked the question, it sounded to her like he was hoping she had some way that they could just walk out the tent flap and into the center of camp, but that wasn’t going to get them anywhere. Turning slowly, Dwyn examined the items in the tent with them. Much to her relief it wasn’t just where Brodie slept, but where he kept anything of value, she noted as her gaze slid over several weapons. Moving to the table where a dirk, sword, belt, shield and several other items lay, she picked up the dirk and then glanced at Father Machar.

“Which do ye want? The dirk or the sword?” Dwyn asked as he moved to join her.

“Oh, my dear, I canno’ carry a weapon. I’m a priest. How would it look?” he asked with dismay.

“Like ye were interested in surviving?” she suggested dryly.

When the priest merely pursed his lips, Dwyn sighed and turned back to the table to lift the sword experimentally. It was extremely large and heavy, of course. Not something she could carry with one hand or swing easily even with two, so she left it and merely took the dirk and moved to the back wall of the tent.

“What are we doing now?” Father Machar asked in a whisper, practically treading on her heels.

“Making a new way out,” Dwyn whispered in response, and knelt to slide the dirk into the bottom of the tent about six inches up from the ground, and started to pull it up. Once she had a gash that ran about five feet up the tent wall, she eased the sides apart and slowly stuck her head out to take a peek around.

Much to Dwyn’s relief, the only thing behind the tent was woods. They started not far from the back of the tent, and she didn’t see anyone to the left or right, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be seen by someone to the side of the tent once they got close to the trees. They’d have to move quickly, Dwyn decided, and pulled her head back in to offer Father Machar a reassuring smile. “I do no’ see any soldiers back here. I think we can get to the cover o’ the woods if we are quick about it.”

Much to her relief, Father Machar nodded assent.

“I’m going to slide out and wait while you slip out and then we’ll make a run for the woods together. All right, Father?” she asked.

When he nodded again, she turned and cautiously eased her head out again. Not seeing anyone, she then began to push her shoulders out through the slit. Her chest followed next.

“He’s probably keeping them in the tent.”

“Aye,” Geordie said in response to that whispered comment from the MacGregor. The men were no doubt already in position farther up the hill in the trees that surrounded the small but deep valley. It had taken he and Conn some time to make their way here to this spot halfway down the hill. Brodie hadn’t left the trees unguarded. There were men patrolling to ensure no one snuck up on them, and they’d already taken out five men on their way down the side of the valley. Posting the patrols was about the only smart thing Brodie had done. Choosing to camp in the valley had been incredibly stupid to Geordie’s mind. He would have chosen a high flat hill himself, so that he could see anyone approaching for a good distance. But he wasn’t going to complain about his enemy making things easier for him. Especially if it raised his odds of getting Dwyn back safe.

“I say we make our way down to the tent, listen fer a minute to see if Brodie is inside and then slice a—”

Geordie glanced to the man with curiosity when he fell silent mid-speech. Eyebrows rising at the startled expression on the MacGregor’s face, he then turned to peer back at the tent, his own eyes widening incredulously as he saw that a gash had appeared in the back wall of the tent and a head was pushing out to look around. Geordie knew at once by the pale gold hair that it was Dwyn, and the tightness that had felt like a hand crushing his heart since he’d woken to find her gone eased its grip a bit. She was alive. He couldn’t see her well enough from this distance to tell what shape she was in, but she was alive and on her feet . . . and the smart little minx was making her own escape.

Grinning, Geordie watched as she glanced around. When her head disappeared back into the tent, he eased out of his crouched position and began to move silently forward through the trees even as the MacGregor did. They both paused again about twenty feet later when Dwyn’s head appeared again through the slit. Geordie immediately scoured the area to both sides of the tent in search of any soldiers who might be a problem for his wee wife. He then glanced back to the MacGregor when the man sucked in a hissing breath. He was expecting to see one of Brodie’s men approaching or something else, but there was no one about. Following the man’s gaze back to the tent, he saw that Dwyn’s shoulders had followed her head out, and now her bosom was framed by the tent as it pushed out as well. The sun had set not long ago, and night was falling. It was that twilight hour when it wasn’t quite dark, but not really light either. But what light there was seemed almost to be caught by her pale hair and skin where her gown didn’t cover it, and the sight of Dwyn’s beautiful breasts swelling over the top of her gown was enough to make him sigh.

“Ye’re a lucky man, Buchanan,” Conn MacGregor murmured.

Geordie nodded as he watched her stomach and hips slide through the gap now.

“Most lasses would sit about waiting to be ravished or rescued,” MacGregor added.

“Me Dwyn’s no’ like most lasses,” Geordie assured him, and they began to move forward again as if by agreement.

Dwyn suspected that maneuvering herself through the slit she’d made in the tent was much like being born, though less messy and probably with less resistance than a body would offer. But then the tent also didn’t have muscles contracting to push her out, but she made it through the slash she’d cut, and then stood to the side of it and glanced nervously around as she waited for Father Machar to push his way out as well.

The priest was a slender man, but still bigger than her and seemed to have some difficulty forcing his way through the slit. Dwyn was beginning to think she should cut a cross slit in it to help him out when he suddenly stiffened, his eyes going round with alarm.

“Get back in here, ye bloody bastard!”

Sucking in a sharp breath of alarm at the sound of Brodie’s voice, Dwyn caught Father Machar by both hands and yanked with all her might. She threw her whole body into the action, but was still amazed when it worked and the priest suddenly shot from the hole. Dwyn gasped as Father Machar came crashing down on top of her, and then pushed him off and leapt to her feet.

“Come,” she hissed, grabbing his arm to drag him to his feet. Brodie was bellowing away furiously, and trying to push his own way through the slit she’d made in the tent. Fortunately for them, he was twice as big as Father Machar and was stuck, at least briefly. Not wanting to stick around to see how long it would take him to break loose and tumble out after them, Dwyn caught the priest by the hand and dragged him after her as she rushed for the trees.

Dwyn wasn’t surprised when she glimpsed Brodie soldiers running around both sides of the tent after them. Faolan Brodie was making enough noise that she was sure the entire camp was coming. Refusing to let herself think about what might happen to her if those jackals got their hands on her, she kept her head down and put all her effort into running. Within seconds they were slipping into what little cover the trees offered. Running became more dangerous then, the ground suddenly uneven with roots and fallen branches to trip them up. Dwyn didn’t slow though, and didn’t look up either until she heard her name shouted over the sound of the gasping breaths she was taking.

Finally raising her head, she spotted two large shapes ahead of her and nearly turned to swerve around the pair, until one of them called out again. “Dwyn, love, this way.”

“Geordie,” she gasped, recognizing his voice this time. Squeezing Father Machar’s hand reassuringly, she managed to put on a burst of speed. The problem then became that she wasn’t sure which one of the two large shapes was her husband. Both men were of a size, and she couldn’t see features or hair color in the dark woods, so she flipped a coin in her mind—left, right, left, right. Right. Dwyn rushed the man on the right, nearly running right up his body and into his arms. She realized the moment she caught a whiff of his scent that it wasn’t her husband. He smelled nearly as nice as Geordie, but different, and she pulled back sharply.

“Lady Buchanan,” a deep rich voice full of amusement greeted her, “Conn MacGregor at yer service. Pleasure to meet ye,” the man said even as he passed her off to another set of arms.

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