hint of a bow, he nodded for his men to join him outside.
Colster rolled to his feet. Seeing that Mr. Lachlan had moved his men a respectful twenty feet away, he offered Charlotte her dress, then held up his greatcoat to screen her from prying eyes. “Relax,” he said. “Take your time. We don’t dance to their tune.”
“There are so many of them,” she whispered.
He pulled on his own shirt and tucked it in his waistband before turning her around and tying her laces. His head close to hers, he said, “I want you to get away.”
A shot of anxiety went through her. “What about you?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about me.” He reached for his jacket. Keeping his back toward the Scots, he pulled out his money purse and the letter, folding it around the leather bag. He slipped the package to her. “If the opportunity arises, I want you to run. Save yourself.” He removed his signet ring from his finger and slid it on the thumb of her right hand, the only place it would fit. “Use this however you see fit.”
“What of you?”
He pulled a piece of hay from her hair and tossed it aside before meeting her worried gaze. “I was meant to be here. That was decided the day I was born. I will settle this matter now.” He picked up his stockings and boots and started to finish dressing.
The boot reminded her of helping him the night before and its aftermath. They shouldn’t have lingered. They should have known the danger they were in and run while they’d had a chance.
Raising his voice, Colster said, “Lachlan, my lady’s shoes and stockings are out in that field. Bring them to her.”
None of the Scots liked being given an order. Lachlan frowned like the others, but turned to a tall, dark-haired, bearded man dressed in homespun. “Tavis, fetch the lady’s shoes.”
Tavis did as bid. He must have been accustomed to taking orders, for he didn’t even so much as offer a parting scowl in Colster’s direction.
Colster was on his feet now. He’d left the collar of his shirt open since the neckcloth had been used to hobble Homer. In spite of that, he still cut a dashing figure. He swung his greatcoat over one arm.
Charlotte had not moved from where he’d left her. “They could kill you,” she warned, her every instinct saying this was true.
Colster boldly laughed away her fears. “They won’t. Not yet, at least.”
“I don’t know that is true,” she whispered. “Don’t the Scots have a history of slitting throats?” Before she could say more, Lachlan’s man Tavis arrived with her shoes and one stocking.
“This was all I could find,” he said, his voice deep and musical with its soft accent. There was a kindness in this man that she sensed the others lacked.
“Thank you,” she murmured, so upset she couldn’t look at him.
“Charlotte,” Colster said, when Tavis had joined his compatriots.
She shook her head. Her nerves were stretched thin. She had a bad feeling in her stomach.
Colster took her in his arms in front of everyone. “Look at me.”
She raised her gaze, holding back tears.
He smiled at her and lightly ran his thumb across her lower lip. A lover’s gesture. “Be brave.”
It was what she’d needed to hear. She straightened her shoulders. “Laird MacKenna won’t hurt you. I won’t let him.”
“Any authority you have over him will be greatly appreciated,” he assured. “I’m not proud when it comes to my own neck. Now come. Let us show them our courage.”
The stocking by itself was worthless, and the red garters she’d once been so proud of were lost in the hay. She slipped on her nearly ruined shoes, allowed Colster to take her hand in his own warm, reassuring one, and let him lead her outside.
The day was going to be warm. The skies were clear and blue. The air was filled with the gurgling sounds of the stream and birdsong. Nothing untoward could happen on such a beautiful day, or so Charlotte told herself.
Mr. Lachlan was already mounted on a
Colster rolled to his feet. Seeing that Mr. Lachlan had moved his men a respectful twenty feet away, he offered Charlotte her dress, then held up his greatcoat to screen her from prying eyes. “Relax,” he said. “Take your time. We don’t dance to their tune.”
“There are so many of them,” she whispered.
He pulled on his own shirt and tucked it in his waistband before turning her around and tying her laces. His head close to hers, he said, “I want you to get away.”
A shot of anxiety went through her. “What about you?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about me.” He reached for his jacket. Keeping his back toward the Scots, he pulled out his money purse and the letter, folding it around the leather bag. He slipped the package to her. “If the opportunity arises, I want you to run. Save yourself.” He removed his signet ring from his finger and slid it on the thumb of her right hand, the only place it would fit. “Use this however you see fit.”
“What of you?”
He pulled a piece of hay from her hair and tossed it aside before meeting her worried gaze. “I was meant to be here. That was decided the day I was born. I will settle this matter now.” He picked up his stockings and boots and started to finish dressing.
The boot reminded her of helping him the night before and its aftermath. They shouldn’t have lingered. They should have known the danger they were in and run while they’d had a chance.
Raising his voice, Colster said, “Lachlan, my lady’s shoes and stockings are out in that field. Bring them to her.”
None of the Scots liked being given an order. Lachlan frowned like the others, but turned to a tall, dark-haired, bearded man dressed in homespun. “Tavis, fetch the lady’s shoes.”
Tavis did as bid. He must have been accustomed to taking orders, for he didn’t even so much as offer a parting scowl in Colster’s direction.
Colster was on his feet now. He’d left the collar of his shirt open since the neckcloth had been used to hobble Homer. In spite of that, he still cut a dashing figure. He swung his greatcoat over one arm.
Charlotte had not moved from where he’d left her. “They could kill you,” she warned, her every instinct saying this was true.
Colster boldly laughed away her fears. “They won’t. Not yet, at least.”
“I don’t know that is true,” she whispered. “Don’t the Scots have a history of slitting throats?” Before she could say more, Lachlan’s man Tavis arrived with her shoes and one stocking.
“This was all I could find,” he said, his voice deep and musical with its soft accent. There was a kindness in this man that she sensed the others lacked.
“Thank you,” she murmured, so upset she couldn’t look at him.
“Charlotte,” Colster said, when Tavis had joined his compatriots.
She shook her head. Her nerves were stretched thin. She had a bad feeling in her stomach.
Colster took her in his arms in front of everyone. “Look at me.”
She raised her gaze, holding back tears.
He smiled at her and lightly ran his thumb across her lower lip. A lover’s gesture. “Be brave.”
It was what she’d needed to hear. She straightened her shoulders. “Laird MacKenna won’t hurt you. I won’t let him.”
“Any authority you have over him will be greatly appreciated,” he assured. “I’m not proud when it comes to my own neck. Now come. Let us show them our courage.”
The stocking by itself was worthless, and the red garters she’d once been so proud of were lost in the hay. She slipped on her nearly ruined shoes, allowed Colster to take her hand in his own warm, reassuring one, and let him lead her outside.
The day was going to be warm. The skies were clear and blue. The air was filled with the gurgling sounds of the stream and birdsong. Nothing untoward could happen on such a beautiful day, or so Charlotte told herself.
Mr. Lachlan was already mounted on a
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