Duchess of Mine (39 page)

“It appears so, aye.”

That settled it. She’d hurt Rory, make him
pay for what he’d done. No. Wait. She needed Duncan back.

“Duncan—” She’d meant to ask what was to
happen to him, but could only say the love of her life’s name.

Jamie came closer and patted her shoulder. “I
have five of my men following the train of English soldiers and the
captured men. We’ll take care of the English here, and that shite,
Rory. Pardon my language, my lady. Then we’ll fight for our
captured men.”

That was the second time skinny, too-young
Jamie had called his boys his men. At another time, Fleur would
have found humor in that. She’d think it was funny. But it wasn’t.
She didn’t comprehend until just then that the lads Jamie spoke of
were more men than they should have been. They’d been orphaned by
war, forced to become fighters for their survival, then for each
other. And they were somehow loyal to her, because she’d fed them a
few times and loved listening to their stories and how they talked
to each other. It had reminded her of her cousins when they were
young. Yet her affections were more than that. Being around Jamie
and his gang reminded her of...her. Forced to grow up before her
time. But Jaime and the boys came out swinging, while Fleur had
tucked herself into a book, like a bookmark. Looking back, Fleur no
longer felt shame for what she had done, being frozen in fear. But
right now, she preferred Jamie’s tactics.

“Thank you.” Tears sprang to her eyes, but
she promised herself a good cry once it was over. For now, she had
to get her man back. “Let me talk to Rory.”

Jamie’s dark brows furrowed.

“Rory needs to pay.”

His brows knitted together all the more, but
his glistening eyes softened. “The plan is to take out the English
guards ‘round yer house, one by one, quick and quiet. Then
Rory.”

They both heard deep baritone voices talking
at the front of the house, and they stilled instantly. The voices
were very much men’s, not the lads’. Jamie turned back to Fleur,
gripping both her arms now.

“I’m here to protect ye,” he whispered.

“Thank you. But let me handle Rory.”

The voices quieted as Jamie’s grip tightened.
The boy was so much a man already, he probably could protect her.
She believed that with every thin muscle in his body he’d try to
save her. That gave her a powerful surge of energy.

But this was one fight from which she wasn’t
going to back down.

Thunderous banging rapped on the door.
“Fleur, ‘tis Rory. I need to talk to ye, lass.” His voice sounded
calm, if not a touch pleading. There wasn’t an ounce of panic or
recrimination in it.

Something about that, about the lack of guilt
flamed Fleur’s chest until all she felt was seething outrage.
Blue-purple élan flooded her arms and legs, making her feel as
though she might be able to pick up a car if she needed to.

“Let me handle Rory, Jamie,” she ordered.

The lad gave in with a solemn bow of his
head. “I’ll hide in a nearby chamber. I’ll be here if ye need
anythin’.”

She nodded, then pushed him into her room.
After making sure he couldn’t be seen, she swept to the main
door—the door Helen had shown her through, shown her a different
life to live, one full of love, and now Rory was about to rip all
of that apart.

Jeez, Coyote had been right about him. But
why? Why would Rory do any of this?

The whys didn’t matter when Duncan was
somewhere out there in harm’s way.

Deciding to appear calm, she answered the
door, after pulling the plaid a bit tighter around her. She had
fashioned it over one of her shoulders, as Duncan had, but it was
long and brushed against the floor as she walked. It would be a
hindrance when attacking Rory, so she’d have to get rid of it when
she found her moment.

Slowly she opened the door, wondering if she
looked nervous, panicked, angry. He appeared as if he’d been
covered in soot, as if he truly had been fighting a fire, and had
tried to wash it off before coming here. He dripped seawater from
his darkened hair—the scent strong, acidic, and alarming.

“Rory.” She let him in, not sure if she could
say much more.

He looked her down and up as he passed,
assessing the plaid. Surprising her, he fingered the wool, stopping
to stand too close. “This—these colors are from the MacKay
crest.”

She glanced down at his hand far too near her
breast.

“Did Duncan ever tell ye he’s related to
me?”

She blinked, stunned. What an odd
conversation to have, and it distracted her as was his hand.
Wanting to give in and grimace from his proximity, she bit the
inside of her lip to keep from showing her emotions.

“He’s from noble blood, like me,” Rory
continued. “But his father’s father wanted nothing to do with the
title and settled for a life as a farmer. Patrick MacKay, Duncan’s
father liked the life too and never fought for a title, married a
commoner.”

“Helen?”

Rory nodded and stepped even closer,
inspecting the plaid all the more, his fingers grazed against her
collarbone. The scent of smoke suddenly became more pungent,
watering her eyes. But she could smell something else on him. A
sickly sweet aroma, similar to the earth, similar to copper. Blood.
Was it Duncan’s? She stepped back, but he grabbed hold of her
arms.

“Duncan’s line had more noble blood than even
my brother’s and mine. I often wondered if my brother breathed
easily once Duncan left. He was the only threat to the lairdship.”
Rory yanked her closer, his stomach touching hers, his chest
against hers. Panic seared through her arms and chest. Rory merely
chuckled as if he were telling campfire stories. “But then my
brother, the idiot, gave Duncan a job when he returned from Sweden.
A high-ranking one at that, working with me. I wondered if my
brother had gone mad. If Duncan were close to what once had been
his, then wouldn’t the man want it all the more? My brother,
though, thought I was being paranoid, thought Duncan was no
threat.” Then he pulled Fleur that much closer, enveloping her in a
too tight embrace.

Disgusted and wondering if she would vomit,
Fleur held still. Her uncle had taught her how to do this, how to
get close to an enemy, his weak spots more accessible.

Rory huffed in her ear. “I guess my brother
was right after all.”

Adjusting herself slightly, Rory didn’t seem
to notice as she slid a leg between his. He
did
notice
though when she slowly held onto his shirtsleeves, fisting them for
balance. As fast as she could, she hefted her knee with all her
might. He was quick though and had his own leg against hers,
shifting his pelvis away from injury. She’d missed, damn it! Then
she started pounding on his leather-clad chest, trying to reach his
face to yank off the skin.

The world suddenly blackened with the
thudding presence of intense pain along her cheek and jaw. Opening
her eyes, she was surprised to see the floor, the blurry floor.

Rory must have hit her, hit her so hard she’d
fallen. Her vision was hazy at best, and she couldn’t think,
couldn’t buck her body into action.

“Don’ ye ever do that again,” Rory seethed as
he knelt in front of her.

Startling her into complete stupefaction for
few seconds, he gently feathered his hand across her face.

“I don’ want to hurt ye,” he said softly.
“Don’ make me do that again, ye ken?”

“Get yer hands off her.”

Fleur winced as she heard Jamie’s young
voice. He sounded so threatening though. So cold.

Her vision started to define lines, becoming
less fuzzy. She saw Rory darkly smile at the boy.

He didn’t say a word, but stood slowly,
excruciatingly so. Rory reached behind him, and that was when Fleur
noticed he wore a huge sword on his back. Just the pummel showing
over his shoulder and the tip past his hip. With a sickening sound,
Rory began to pull the blade from the leather when Fleur heard it,
as if Coyote were in the room, as if her younger self were shouting
at her, a wind humming through the house: “Get up! Get up! Do
something!”

She knew what to do then.

Gripping the floor, she swung one leg then
the other under Rory. He toppled over before he could extract his
sword, his arms flailing over his head. Then she was on him, her
legs holding his down, her hand gripping his hair, the other
cocking back and punching him as hard as she could. With a
sickening crunch, his nose gave way as she hit. The pain that
radiated in her hand and up her arm was more severe than she’d
expected. She’d never punched anyone before and wanted to wince,
wanted to cradle her hand in her arm and cry. But as she saw blood
spurt from Rory’s once perfect nose, the pain suddenly
vanished.

She saw red-black rage. Clutching his hair
with both hands, she pounded his head into the floor.

“Where’s Duncan? Where are you taking
him?”

Rory gurgled and coughed the blood that
rolled down from his nose into his mouth.

Slamming his head against the floor again,
she yelled, “Where’s Duncan?”

He didn’t make a sound this time, but looked
at her with glassy eyes.

About to smack his head into the floor again,
she stopped when someone forcefully clamped his hand on her
shoulder. She glanced up, angry to be interrupted.

“Greggor,” she whispered.

Jamie was close to the man who was now a
MacKay prisoner, the man she’d nearly forgotten since she’d been
kidnapped.

“I—I released him,” Jamie said quickly,
staring at Rory. “Thought we needed as many men as possible when I
realized what Rory was about.”

“The lad will make a great chief if ever
given the chance.” Greggor smiled at Jamie, and tried to keep his
calm grin as he looked down at her with his intense light blue
eyes. “My lady, ye’ve pounded his head too hard. He’s no good
now.”

Fleur glanced again at the man under her.
Rory’s eyes rolled back, showing a sickening white. She jumped from
him. “Did I kill him?”

Greggor knelt beside Rory, a hand over his
nose. He shook his head. “Nay, but I reckon he’ll have a hell of a
headache when he wakes, which probably won’t be for hours.”

The way Greggor had pronounced hell had
sounded...weird. And at first Fleur didn’t recognize the word, as
if he’d said hail instead. But she shook herself, trying to stay
engaged in the moment.

Greggor looked up at Jamie. “Help me tie him
to a chair.” Jamie jumped into action. Fleur didn’t know where they
got the rope, but there it was. Instead of to a chair, they tied
Rory to the couch, letting him lay down as he slept. Or was
unconscious. Whatever.

After she’d been told the other English
guards were down and restrained, she returned to her room, changing
into her black jogging suit and running shoes. She felt gingerly
along her jaw line. Sure, Fleur had wrestled with her cousins, but
she’d never hit them. And they’d never hit her. She couldn’t
believe Rory had struck her so fast she hadn’t seen it coming. It
was a good lesson to learn, to keep her eyes on her enemies. Thank
God, Jamie had been there to distract Rory long enough to return to
her senses. She shuddered, wondering what Rory would have done to
her, why he had touched her so gently afterwards, why he was so
pathological.

None of it mattered though. Not when her man
was somewhere out there with English soldiers.

She raced back to Jamie and Greggor. Eight of
the lads had come in the house and bowed when she emerged from her
room. As one, they said, “My lady.”

She waved off the formal greeting and asked,
“How do we get Duncan back?”

Everyone turned to Jamie. “They have close to
twenty men. At least twenty that I saw. They have only an hour’s
time ahead of us. And they have a dozen of our men in chains, I’d
guess, making progress slow.”

“Aye,” Greggor agreed.

“If we gather horses—”

“How much time will that take?” Fleur huffed,
impatient.

Greggor shrugged and Jamie’s brows furrowed.
“Another half hour. Mayhap faster.”

“Too long,” she said. “I have to track him
down now.” She took a breath, thinking. Or trying to. “All right.
I’ll take half the men and start running after Duncan, while
Greggor and you, Jamie, get the horses.”

“Never good to divide when the stakes are so
high.” Greggor shook his head.

“But dividing makes us faster,” Jamie
argued.

Greggor crossed his arms over his chest,
biting his lower lip. He turned to Fleur and slowly sank to one of
his knees. “Ye saved my life, princess. In gratitude, I’ll give ye
mine. My allegiance is with ye. I’ll go with ye, running on legs,
while Jamie gets the horses.”

Fleur’s heart hammered at the sentiment.
Greggor somehow had her hand in his and kissed it, not like a man
wanting a woman, but like a man humbly giving her everything he
had—his life. The gift was overwhelming, and she had no choice but
to accept it, since she needed all the help she could to have
Duncan back in her arms.

The other boys attempted to go down on one
knee, murmuring something similar, and she blinked away tears as
she shook her head. “Thank you, thank all of you so much, but we
have to run now. We have to get our men back.”

In a whirl, they flew into motion. Fleur ran
with Greggor beside her and about twenty boys ranging in age from
fourteen to nine. Jeez, she couldn’t ask a nine year-old to keep
up, let alone to fight for her. But she’d think about that later,
after she found Duncan. Jamie had told her that the five boys
trailing the English train were going to leave signs to help them
find their trail. She’d found the first strip of white linen tied
on a tree branch easily enough, but after a couple miles in, she
panicked, not finding another sign.

“Over here,” Greggor called out as he found
another piece of cloth tied to a heather bush. They hadn’t taken a
torch, too scared the English would spot them. So they relied on
the moon and stars to show them the way. As soon as they cleared
Cave Smoo the smoke had lessened, making the sky brighter to see
by. But it was damned difficult, and Fleur had never done anything
remotely like it, except for playing hide-and-go-seek in the
dark.