Читать книгу Seduced By A Scot - Julia London - Страница 16

CHAPTER SIX

IT WAS TRULY maddening that a man could be in complete control of his deeds, of his desires, of his thoughts, with no more than a wee bit of effort. But lie next to a beautiful woman and it took every ounce of willpower Nichol could summon not to touch her.

He was a lad again, fighting against his urge to taste the cake the cook had made. He was a greenhorn, desperate to catch the scent of a woman. He was a man who had denied himself the pleasure of flesh for an eternity.

None of these things were true, but nevertheless, he felt as if they were, and he thought he’d never sleep. He couldn’t quiet his mind, couldn’t stop feeling her presence at his back, all soft and warm and pressed against him, her breath tickling the back of his neck. He couldn’t stop imagining her without a stitch of clothing, of covering her beneath the blankets on this starry night, his body in hers, his eyes on her clear blue eyes.

But sleep he obviously did, for when the sun made its first appearance over the tops of the trees, he roused himself from the unsettled rest, and into his conscience crept the realization that his back was cold.

Nichol rolled over. She was not there, bundled in her cloak, her hair spilling about her. A jolt to his heart sat him up, and he looked about, trying to make sense of it.

She was gone. And she’d bloody well taken his plaid.

Nichol sprang to his feet with a roar, startling the lad, who sputtered awake. “Have you seen her?” Nichol demanded as Gavin tried to disentangle himself from his bedding.

“Who?” the lad asked stupidly.

Perhaps she’d gone to the creek. Nichol whirled about, but what he saw there made his heart sink even deeper. One of the horses was missing. Bloody hell, why had he not remained awake? Why had he been so damnably complacent? He let forth a string of swearing that made Gavin’s face turn four shades of red, but Nichol was livid. He didn’t like surprises—he was the one to control the circumstances. If there was one thing he detested, it was when a client did not behave properly. He was furious with himself for assuming that a young miss would not have the sense or the courage to make a muck of his carefully laid plans. And he was absolutely irate because it was entirely possible she’d gotten herself killed by now.

And maybe he was grudgingly impressed, too, because he’d never known a woman who would run off in the middle of the forest in the middle of the night. He doubted he would have had the guts to do it, without anything to protect himself, without provisions. Could she even ride? How did she put herself on a horse that was at least two hands taller than her? How far did the wench think she would get before she was lost, or fell or was set upon by thieves?

“Aaaiiieee,” he roared, and kicked a log with all his might.

“What’s happened to her, then?” Gavin asked timidly, his dark hair sticking up in several directions.

“She’s gone off, that’s what.”

“By herself?”

“Aye, by herself,” Nichol bit out.

Gavin’s eyes rounded.

Nichol stomped down to the brook, thinking. He looked around, for any sign of where she might have gone. There was the horse’s hobble lying on the ground. But the saddle was precisely where he’d left it. He shook his head at her audacity.

He knew where she was heading, if she could manage to determine the direction. He knew because she had done quite a lot of talking yesterday. She was so angry, and she wanted to give Miss Garbett a piece of her mind. Had she not said so more than once? Nichol didn’t pretend to understand how a woman’s mind worked, but he’d been with enough of them to know that a woman scorned was like a dog with a bone.

He was entirely confident that Miss Darby was on her way to Stirling just now.

There was no question that he had to go and fetch her. He couldn’t have her appear in Stirling on the back of a horse with nothing but her fury—his reputation would be ruined! Not to mention he would lose his fee. Bloody stupid lass. Stubborn wench.

He squatted down and splashed water on his face. She would have kept to the roads. He could ride through the forest and catch her before she reached Stirling. But he couldn’t catch her if he was riding with the lad.

He stood up, hands on hips, and stared at the rising sun.

What was he to do with the lad? He couldn’t send him back to Aberuthen—the inn there was too bleak. There was no question that he could not return to Rumpkin’s house of horrors. Nor could he send the lad on to Luncarty, as that was too far away—Nichol didn’t trust him to make it there on his own without a horse.

There was one other option, unthinkable until this moment—Cheverock, the home where he was born. A half-day’s ride from here at most.

Nichol had been toying with the idea of paying a call to his boyhood home, but to appear at Cheverock in this way after all these years was not what he wanted. Ivan would not understand a lad showing up and claiming to have been sent by Nichol. The last Nichol had seen Ivan, he’d not quite reached his majority. What would he think? And why had Ivan grown silent? Had he forgotten Nichol?

He hoped it was no more than that.

But he sensed it was much more than that. All the messengers had been turned away.

Never mind that now—this sudden development would force the issue for Nichol. He had no other viable choice so it would seem at long last, he was going home.

Gavin could walk there and arrive by nightfall if he set out now.

Nichol glanced over his shoulder—Gavin was watching him anxiously, twisting the corner of his plaid that he’d draped around his shoulders. What was he, fourteen years? Fifteen? Too young for this, that much was apparent.

Nichol turned around, and the lad blinked. He clearly suspected the news for him would not be good.

Well, then, there was nothing to be done for it—Nichol was in a corner. He trudged back to the campsite, stood with his legs braced apart, his arms folded across his chest, and eyed the lad. After a moment, he said, “I must go after the lady, aye?”

“Where’s she gone?” Gavin asked.

“I canna say for certain, but I’ve a good idea where,” Nichol bit out. “She’s got a good head start on me, aye? I need move with haste.”

Gavin nodded. “I’ll gather our things.”

Nichol stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. “Gavin, lad, I canna catch her with two of us on the horse.”

Gavin’s brown-eyed gaze filled with uncertainty.

“I mean to send you off to a place where you may wait for me.”

Gavin’s lips parted. “Where?” he asked, his voice faintly tremulous.

“The seat of the Baron MacBain.” Perhaps Nichol was imagining things, but Gavin looked suddenly very pale. “I grew up there,” he explained. “You will speak to my brother, Ivan, and he will see that you are looked after until I come for you, aye?” At least he prayed that was the case.

“Should I no’ go to Stirling?” Gavin pleaded.

“It’s too far to reach on foot, aye? Do you know how to shoot, lad?”

Gavin shook his head. He was beginning to breathe heavily, almost in a pant. Diah, but Nichol wanted to shoot something just then. He would not like to be without his pistol, but he would not rest knowing the lad had nothing with which to defend himself. So he withdrew his pistol from his waist and held it out to him. “Watch me closely, then. We’ve no’ much time.”

He showed Gavin how to load it, to cock it, to fire it. He made him do it three times until he was satisfied that he’d at least not shoot his own foot. “You’ll no’ need it, but you ought to have it. Now off with you, straight up the road. By day’s end you will come to an old castle ruin. The road forks there—turn east. You’ll be two miles from Comrie. Cheverock is about two miles more.”

“What if I get lost?” Gavin asked, his voice shaking now.

“You’ll no’ be lost. Look at me, Gavin,” he said, and went down on one knee before him. “You canna get lost if you follow the road. Walk until you reach the old castle ruin, then take the eastern fork,” he said, pointing east. “Tell Ivan I’ve sent you and I’ll come for you by week’s end, aye?”

Gavin was trying very hard not to cry. He nodded and looked at the gun in his hand.

“Look here,” Nichol said softly. “You’re a brave lad and a clever one, you are. You have everything you need inside of you, Gavin. Everything is there,” he said, tapping his chest. “You donna need me, no’ really.”

“What if they donna believe me, then?” he asked through a sniffle.

It was a fair point. Nichol suddenly stood and went to his satchel. He looked inside, in a pocket there, and withdrew a ring. It was an insignia ring, one that had belonged to his grandfather, a man he remembered with fondness. He turned back to Gavin and pressed the ring into his palm. “Give my brother this. Tell him I’d no’ ask for his help if it were no’ imperative. He’ll believe you.”

Gavin looked at the ring, then slowly put it in his pocket.

“There’s a good lad,” Nichol said. He patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, then handed him the bags. “There is food and ale. Put your pistol here, aye? If you see anyone on the road, hide in the forest until they’ve passed. You’ve nothing to fear, Gavin.”

He hoped to God above that was true. Nichol didn’t know what the lad might expect when he reached Cheverock, as the estrangement between him and his father, and perhaps his brother, made it impossible to know. But he believed Ivan to be a decent man. He would not turn the lad out.

Gavin looked up, and Nichol would have kicked himself squarely in the arse if he were able. He had no desire to send Gavin off into the deep of Scotland all alone, any more than he desired to ride like a thief across Scotland to catch Miss Darby before she ruined everything for him. “I must go—I canna risk losing the wench, aye? Go as quickly as you can. You’ll reach Cheverock by nightfall if you donna tarry.”

He turned away from the lad whose eyes were as big as moons, grabbed up his things and stuffed them into his satchel and strode to where the lone horse stood. In minutes, he was saddled. He glanced back at Gavin, who had at least gathered his bedroll and the bag. Nichol threw himself on the back of the horse and reined him around. “God’s speed,” he said to Gavin, and set the horse to a trot, which he would turn to a run as soon as he reached the road.

Miss Darby, that wee half-wit, would sorely rue the moment she stole his horse and escaped. Aye, he would make damn certain of it.