Lord Carrick, her trustee, had insisted she leave the running of her family estate to him, it had made sense to the terrified fourteen-year-old orphan she had become so suddenly. But she had missed her home, all these years. Had longed for the day she would return to her people and take up her duties as she had promised her father.
The thought of recent news of Braemuir and its people had pulled irresistibly. Yet she was loath to mention it to her cousin, as she did not trust him to let her go.
So she had slipped out alone.
She offered the men a smile. ‘What clan are you?’ she asked in her rather rusty Gaelic, wishing she’d made the effort to practise more in her years of absence in England. ‘There’ll be a welcome for you at the castle, if it is food and drink you are needing.’
‘Bloody heathen language,’ the smaller of the three said. ‘Can’t anyone in this godforsaken place speak English?’ He looked towards their leader. ‘You are sure this is the one?’ He moved closer with an oddly rolling gait and a hard glint in his eyes.
Not Highlanders, then. English sailors. Her mouth dried. Her heart thudded a signal to run. She wouldn’t get twenty yards. Better to face them than turn her back. ‘I’m headed for Carrick Castle and I am late,’ she said in English. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if they havenae sent out a search party, so no need for me to keep you from your journey.’
Unimpressed by her implied threat, they moved in on her, spreading out, clearly intending to flank her like cowards.
A pistol would impress them, but hers was in its holster on the opposite side of the horse. These were desperate times in the Highlands, and while honour and hospitality ran deep among Highlanders, these Englishmen would have found little welcome. She winced. That probably accounted for their half-starved appearance and hard expressions.
The pistol was her best chance. Hands shaking, she passed the reins behind her back, jerking to make the animal shift side-on as if it was restless. ‘Stupid beast,’ she said. ‘Picked up a stone.’
The animal half turned, tossing its head, favouring its forefoot. Just a little closer … Just an inch or two and she would be able to reach. The horse balked. She took a deep steadying breath. She needed a distraction, a way of taking their minds from what she was doing. But what?
A tuneless but cheerful whistling came from the direction of town behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and her stomach dipped. Another man, his walking stick swinging, his loose-limbed long-legged stride eating the distance between them. Heaven help her, was this another of these rogues? Her heart pounded harder.
The villainous fellow directly in front of her pulled a cudgel from his belt. The other two men followed suit. They were closer now and their expressions were grim, purposeful. She backed up against her horse, swallowing to alleviate the dryness in her mouth, while this new man kept walking towards her, his whistle never faltering. He looked nothing like the footpads circling around her from the front. Plainly dressed, yes, and a square jaw roughened by two days’ growth of dark beard gave him a menacing appearance, but he also had an honest, open look in his expression that gave her hope. As he drew abreast of her she noticed a gleam of anger in his narrowed eyes. ‘Three against one, is it, lads?’ he said grimly, speaking English with a Highland burr.
Friend, she decided, trusting her instincts. But they were still two against three. She needed her pistol.
‘Charlie!’ she cried, throwing one arm about his neck and pressing her lips to his mouth, reaching out with her other hand to fumble for her weapon.
For a second the young man stood frozen, his parted lips shockingly intimate. Tingles raced from her lips to her breasts at the feel of his hot breath on her mouth, accompanied by the scent of wood smoke, heather and man.
So shocking and … and delightful all at once. Her eyelids drifted closed, the better to savour the sensations. The second lengthened to two as his lips melded to hers and a large warm hand cupped her bottom and drew her close. His tongue stroked the seam of her lips. The shock of feeling him, hard-muscled and demanding as he pressed against her, and the velvety warmth against her lips made her gasp. His tongue slipped into her mouth and explored gently and teasingly. Little thrills darted through her body like hot licks of flame. Delicious. Terrifying.
It was only the weight of the pistol as it began to slip from her grasp that brought her back to her senses. A hard tug freed it from the saddle holster. She stepped away, cocking her weapon and pointing it first at him and then the other three, who were staring at them, mouths agape.
The newcomer flashed her a breathtakingly wicked grin and, ignoring her pistol, he squared off to the three men. ‘The odds are about even, I would say.’
‘Bloody hell,’ the smallest of the ruffians said.
She’d been right. The newcomer was not with them. She lined up beside him and levelled her gun.
‘Gentlemen,’ the man she’d kissed said with quiet confidence, ‘you’ll be letting this lady be on her way, now.’ He swept his walking stick in a wide arc. ‘The first one of you to step any closer than this gets his knees broken.’
She waggled her pistol, just in case they hadn’t noticed. ‘And the second one gets a bullet in the heart.’
The young man sent her a sideways glance, but kept his attention focused on their attackers. ‘All right, my fine lads. Who wants to be first?’
The leader of the footpads gave his companions a desperate glare. ‘There’s only two of them.’ His fellows stood frozen, staring at her pistol. She aimed it at their leader’s head. ‘You first, I think.’
He raised his hands from his sides. ‘We need some coin is all,’ he whined. ‘For a bed for the night.’
‘Ye’ll make a bed in the heather like the rest of us,’ the young Scot at her side growled. ‘Oh, come on, man. Let me have at you. I haven’t broken a head in days.’
The smaller of the men looked at his friends. ‘Bugger that. She’s got a pistol.’ He tucked his cudgel back in his belt. The man to his left followed suit. Their leader glared at them. ‘Curse you, you lily-livered sons of bitches.’ He charged.
The Scot lunged for him. Unable to shoot, for fear of hitting her rescuer, Jenna kept her pistol moving back and forth between the leader’s companions. In seconds it was over. The assailant caught a heavy blow on the shoulder. He screamed in pain, his arm dropping limp at his side. Moments later, all three of them were hotfooting it between the rough clumps of gorse and making for a distant line of trees. They were out of sight before Jenna finished counting to three.
She sagged against the side of her mare, who whinnied softly.
‘Such cowards,’ the young man said in disgust. He took her pistol from her slack grip. He stared at it for a moment, released the cock and shoved it back in the holster. ‘You are taking a chance riding out with nothing but that for protection,’ he said in dry disapproving tones. ‘You might have brought one down, if you were lucky. It is no match for three.’
Her back stiffened at his obvious dismissal of her ability to look after herself. ‘I have travelled this road scores of times without the slightest problem.’
‘Alone?’ he questioned, and she felt her face heat.
‘Occasionally.’ She knew she sounded a little too defiant, but who was he to question what she did? In truth, she’d been so anxious for news she’d given no thought to the danger. Not that she’d ever heard of footpads on this road before. Not so near to the castle. ‘I would have been fine if my horse had not picked up a stone in her hoof.’
The look in his green-flecked brown eyes said he didn’t believe it.
Infuriating man. The fact that he was right only made her feel more angry. At herself. She was lucky he had come to her rescue. But it galled her to say so. ‘I thank you, sir, for your help. I do not believe I have seen you in these parts before.’
His