Part 11 (1/2)
Emma tried not to shudder, thankful her mother hadn't made it to the rudiments of childbirth when instructing her in the duties of a wife.
After bidding Jamie a tearful farewell, Muira threw her arms around Emma, hugging her as if she was a long-lost daughter. Somewhat taken aback by the show of affection, Emma gently patted the old woman's back.
Only then did Muira whisper, ”Never forget, la.s.s, that a mon doesn't always need poetry to court a woman.”
Emma glanced around to see if Jamie had heard her but he had already mounted his horse and was holding out his hand in invitation. He wasted no time in tugging her up into the saddle behind him. As he urged the beast into motion, Emma twisted around in the saddle, surprised to find a lump in her throat as she watched Muira and her cozy cottage melt back into the woods.
JAMIE RUTHLESSLY DROVE THEM up the mountain until they could no longer outrun the gathering shadows of dusk. When a dark wood loomed up before them, those shadows threatened to engulf them completely. up the mountain until they could no longer outrun the gathering shadows of dusk. When a dark wood loomed up before them, those shadows threatened to engulf them completely.
The rest of the horses balked at the edge of the wood, leaving Jamie with no choice but to tug his mount to a prancing halt.
The horses milled about, tossing their heads and whickering nervously. The men sawed at the reins and fought to keep them from bolting, showing a bit too much white in their own eyes for Emma's comfort. The towering pines swayed and creaked in the wind, guarding the invisible entrance to the forest like enchanted sentinels planted there by some ancient king long forgotten by both time and history.
”Where are we?” Emma asked softly, tightening her grip on Jamie's waist as she abandoned all pretense of pride. It was almost as if they were about to cross some invisible boundary into a territory from which there might be no return.
”Nowhere of any consequence.” His tones were terse but he briefly rested his big hand over both of hers as if seeking to soothe her fears.
Bon edged his sorrel toward them, still struggling to control the beast. The fitful shadows had robbed his face of color, leaving it pale and gaunt. ”The lads don't want to go on, Jamie. They want to know if we can go 'round?”
”Not unless we want to add another two days to our journey. When Graeme returns with the earl's response, we have to be where he can find us but the Hepburn's men can't.”
Bon stole a look over his shoulder at his companions, his Adam's apple bobbing in his skinny throat. ”Ye can't blame them fer bein' sore affrighted. They've never forgotten what happened to Laren or Feandan.”
Emma would have never taken Angus and Malcolm to be pious sorts, but at the mere mention of those names, both brothers signed a hasty cross on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
”No one ever found Feandan's body, only his horse,” Jamie pointed out with a sigh. ”For all we know, he's in Edinburgh right now with his face buried in some barmaid's bosom. And Laren was a fanciful young fool who got spooked by his own shadow on a misty night and rode straight off a cliff.”
The men exchanged uneasy glances, no more comforted by their leader's words than their horses were.
The commanding timbre in Jamie's voice deepened. ”I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm going to let some silly legend stand between us and what's on the other side of these woods. If you're not men enough to ride through them with me, then feel free to stay behind like a gaggle of superst.i.tious auld women and wait for the Hepburn's men to come pick you off one by one.”
He urged his horse through their ranks, forcing them to give way or be trampled. After a tense moment of hesitation, they began to wrestle their own mounts into submission and reluctantly fell in behind him.
They entered the forest in a single line, leaving behind the light of the rising moon for a dappled web of shadows. Emma s.h.i.+vered as a gust of wind danced past them, making the silvery leaves of the birches rattle like dry bones. It occurred to her that if these rugged men were afraid of whatever dwelled in these woods, then she might be wise to be afraid as well.
”What sort of legend were you talking about back there?” she asked, wis.h.i.+ng she could see Jamie's face. ”Just what exactly has your men so spooked?”
”The silly fools believe these woods are haunted.”
Emma stole a glance at the ghostly white trunks of the surrounding trees, feeling a fresh tremor dance down her spine. ”By whom?”
”My parents,” he replied grimly.
Without another word, he gave the reins a sharp snap, urging their mount into a canter and driving them all deep into the very heart of the forest.
Chapter Eighteen.
HE'S ALWAYS REFUSED TO talk aboot it but I heard they was both found with their heads cleaved clean off.” talk aboot it but I heard they was both found with their heads cleaved clean off.”
”Well, I heard the blade of a single claymore was rammed right through both their hearts.”
”What a lot o' piddle and nonsense! If that was true, then why would they still be wanderin' these woods with their bluidy heads tucked under their arms?”
Finis.h.i.+ng off a tart chunk of cheese Muira had packed for their journey, Emma sidled closer to the circle of men seated around the fire, both appalled and transfixed by their gory gossip. A low-hanging mist was wending its way through the pale trunks of the birches that ringed the clearing. That same mist had forced Jamie to call a halt to their harrowing rush through the wood and order his men to make camp for the night. Despite their visible unease, they had complied with a minimum of grousing and grumbling. They might fear whatever haunted this wood but they also knew that to continue racing blindly through it would mean certain destruction for both their horses' legs and their own necks.
Their voices were hushed, with none of the jovial banter or ribald taunts that usually marked their conversation. Instead of competing to see which one of them would be the first to drink too much whisky and pa.s.s out, they took furtive sips from the earthenware jug being pa.s.sed from hand to hand, as if they didn't wish to dull their wits on such a night.
Or in such a place.
As Malcolm-yes, Emma was quite sure it was Malcolm-cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, she could almost feel the damp, spectral fingers of the mist brus.h.i.+ng the back of her own neck. She edged a few steps closer to the comforting glow of the campfire, inadvertently catching Bon's eye.
Giving her a snaggle-toothed grin, he patted the stretch of fallen log next to him. ”Come join us, la.s.s, before the bogles creep in and carry ye off.”
”I'm afraid you're too late, sir. They already did,” she retorted, drawing a chuckle from the other men.
When the fellow next to him failed to scoot over quickly enough to suit Bon, he earned a painful jab from Bon's bony elbow. Emma settled herself gingerly between the two men on the log, an effort that would have been impossible in a corset and heavy petticoats.
Bon pried the jug of whisky from Malcolm's hand and handed it to her. ”Drink up, la.s.s. 'Tis a good night fer a wee bit o' liquid courage.”
Remembering her experience with Muira's whisky-laced tea, Emma took a tentative sip of the stuff. It seared a fiery path from her throat to her gullet. She sucked in a desperate breath, tears scorching her eyes.
Bon gave her a hearty clap on the back, dislodging the cough trapped in her throat. ”No need to be ashamed, la.s.s. Scots whisky is fine eno' to make even a grown mon weep with joy.”
Emma had no choice but to nod, since she was still incapable of speech.
”Our mum told us Jamie's da was the jealous sort,” Angus said, taking up their conversation right where they'd left off. ”That he took the notion Jamie's ma was dallyin' with another mon and strangled her with his bare hands, then shot himself with his pistol.”
Emma winced. When Jamie had strode off into the woods without a word of explanation shortly after they'd made camp, she had felt a ridiculous flare of alarm. Now she was almost relieved he wasn't here to listen to such terrible speculation about his own parents.
Angus leaned closer to the fire, sweeping his gaze around the circle of bug-eyed men. ”They say some nights when the mist comes stealin' in from the moors, ye can still hear her beggin' him for mercy.”
”Balderdash.”
The voice came from just behind Emma, its crisp cadences cracking like a whip. She jumped, barely managing to bite back a startled shriek. Lemmy wasn't so lucky, which earned him a flurry of snickers from his companions. He ducked his big head, hiding his sheepish grin behind his untidy fall of hair.
Jamie slanted her a mocking glance as he came sauntering around the fire, making Emma wonder if he had been eavesdropping even longer than she had. The shadows from the firelight flickered over his features, making it impossible to tell if he was annoyed or amused to discover that she had once again been invited to join his men's ranks.
”I'm sure our guest appreciates a good yarn as much as the next la.s.s,” he told them, ”but you should remember that Miss Marlowe's notions of entertainment are far more sophisticated than ours. She wasn't raised on gruesome tales of kelpies, goblins, baby-stealing bogles... or ghosts. You should take better care not to offend her delicate sensibilities.”
As he moved to claim a low, flat rock on the opposite side of the fire, Emma said, ”I can a.s.sure you I'm not so quick to take offense as you would have your men believe, Mr. Sinclair. Even Lancas.h.i.+re has its share of headless hors.e.m.e.n and white ladies.”
Stretching his long, lean legs out before him, Jamie tilted his head to the side to survey her. ”So you do believe in ghosts?”
”I most certainly do not. We are are living in the Age of Reason after all. Science has judged most apparitions to be nothing more than the inevitable result of superst.i.tion and ignorance.” living in the Age of Reason after all. Science has judged most apparitions to be nothing more than the inevitable result of superst.i.tion and ignorance.”
Of course she hadn't believed men like Jamie Sinclair still existed either until he had come riding into that abbey. It was almost as if he'd materialized from another age, an age where might was prized over manners and pa.s.sion over propriety.