Savage Possession Page 22

  “Liar, liar,” her voice rose hysterically. She started screaming. “Liar, Liar.” In a frenzy, she turned on him, pummeling at his chest. He let her hit him until she was spent. The tears came, great oceans of them. He held her close, letting her cry without saying a word, in the hope this would expunge her grief and despair.

  Alistair caught up with them, but her face was buried against his chest and she sobbed so hard she did not notice him. “She’s all right. Go home before I give you the flogging you deserve.”

  Alistair started to dismount.

  “Get, or I’ll see Fergus and tell him how you dumped your sister at a brothel,” he threatened in a low, deadly voice.

  “Go to hell, Mulvaney.” Alistair dug his heels into his horse’s sides and galloped off.

  Time passed, Martin didn’t know how long it was before she stirred in his arms, didn’t really care. He only wanted the terrible hurt he had inflicted on her expunged. What kind of man would compare his pregnant wife to a prostitute? Black Jack would have enjoyed the anguish caused by such cruel words. If he had known how to, he would have wept for what he had done.

  “Did you really get threatening letters?” she whispered.

  “Yes. Some sonofabitch wants to get even with me by hurting you.” He put his arm around her so she could rest her head against his shoulder.

  A volley of shots rang out. One took Martin’s hat off, several others thudded into the buggy and the terrified horse bolted. He pushed Elizabeth under the seat then fought for control of the buggy. A couple more shots missed them, but hit the thoroughbred he had ridden into town. The shock of this impact caused the buggy to plunge out of control into the trees, until the weight of the dead horse, acting like an anchor, finally brought them to a standstill.

  More shots rang out. The buggy horse toppled over. Kicking and screaming in its death throes, it dragged the buggy to the edge of a cliff, which dropped a hundred feet or more to the valley floor below. Martin grabbed Elizabeth and jumped for his life, landing on the ground with her on top of him. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, heard her screams and glanced up to see the buggy disappearing over the edge.

  “Quick, into the bushes,” he urged. “Let them think we went over too.”

  They crawled on their hands and knees into the shelter of the bushes. The minutes dragged by while they waited. Dear God, someone must want him dead badly. If he thought they could be trusted, he would surrender himself so Elizabeth could go free.

  “You all right, my sweet?”

  “Yes.”

  Thankfully, his body had cushioned her against the fall.

  “What can we do, Martin?”

  “Wait until they leave. I’ve only got a pistol with me.”

  She shocked him by saying, “I’ve got a little gun. Alistair gave it to me a few weeks ago, said I should always carry it if I left the castle.”

  So, the boy did use his brains occasionally. Given a free hand, I would make a man out of him.

  “Sh, I think they’re coming.” Martin heard the horses followed by the murmur of voices.

  “You didn’t need to shoot them,” one man whined.

  “Shouldn’t have got in our way,” a guttural voice replied.

  “You think they’re dead?”

  “Course they bloody are. Nothing survives a hundred foot drop. Pity about the horses though, we could have used them.”

  These men were cold-blooded murderers, prepared to kill people just to steal their horses. Apprehension shivered down her spine.

  “Here, best check around before we go.”

  “You think we’ve thrown the police off our trail?”

  “Don’t know, let’s get out of here,” the guttural voice replied.

  “I don’t want to go back to prison.”

  “We won’t.” The voices faded away as the riders rode off.

  “Escaped prisoners, by the sound of them,” Martin whispered. “We’ll stay here for a while longer to ensure they don’t come back.”

  Thank God, they were escaped prisoners, intent on stealing their horses, not someone trying to get even with him. The thought gave him hope the threats were just that, and nothing more sinister.

  “We’ve got a long walk home in the dark, storm girl. Do you feel up to it?”

  Her hand slipping into his told him she did. His shoulder stung. I must have cut it on a stone. He was grateful, to have been let off so lightly. Thank God, Elizabeth and the child were unhurt.

  “If I could carry you all the way home, my sweet, I would.”

  She gave a tremulous laugh. “This isn’t the romantic moonlit walk I’ve been asking you to take me on.”

  Clouds scudding along obliterated the stars, and Martin hoped the rain would stay away. He knew the countryside well, having roamed over it as a boy trying to escape his father’s brutality. If he only had himself to consider he would have taken a short cut straight through the forest, but the going would be easier on the road.

  They trudged along under the dark, threatening sky. He tried to match his pace to her slower one, and not badger her to hurry up. When the rain came, he took his coat off and helped her slip into it.

  “You’ll get cold now.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t feel the cold.”

  As she snuggled into the coat, he hoped to transfer his body warmth to her.

  The fine misty shower turned into a heavy downpour. It nearly killed him having to suggest they make for Fergus Campbell’s place. Elizabeth’s steps had shortened to such an extent she almost tottered along now.

  “Your grandfather’s place is much closer, we’ll go there.” He forced the distasteful words out, wondering why he did not gag on them. Never in his worst nightmare would he have envisaged those words coming from his own mouth.

  Imperative for him to put her welfare ahead of his hatred of Fergus Campbell. He was soaked to the skin, but was used to being out in foul weather. The bottom of Elizabeth’s gown looked saturated and she trembled with cold and exhaustion.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lights from the Campbell cabin appeared like a beacon in the distance. Elizabeth swayed with fatigue, although she had not complained, and he admired her courage. She stumbled and fell to her knees.

  “You’re exhausted, my sweet, but we’re nearly there.”

  He helped her up, supporting her with an arm around her shoulders. When she stumbled a second time, he picked her up and strode toward the light. She was soaking wet, icy cold. When they arrived at the cabin, he hammered on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Martin Mulvaney.”

  “Go to hell,” Fergus growled.

  “Open up. I’ve got Elizabeth with me.” Martin was tempted to kick the door in. As it swung open, he shouldered his way into the room.

  Fergus stepped back to let them pass. “What happened?” He glared at Martin.

  “Oh, grandfather.” Beth’s voice broke. “S…S someone tried to shoot us.” Tears flowed down her cheeks.

  “Sh,” Martin soothed. “You’re safe now. Get towels and blankets, we have to get her out of these wet clothes before she catches a chill. Where’s the boy?”

  Fergus pulled a chair up to the fire and threw on a couple more logs.

  “In his room. Alistair, laddie, come out here.”

  Alistair rushed into the room. “What’s wrong?” He skidded to a halt. “Mulvaney, Beth, what happened?”

  “Escaped prisoners ambushed us,” Martin snarled. “They shot our horses. And you know whose fault it is, don’t you?”

  “Get blankets and towels for your sister,” Fergus ordered.

  “I’m silly to be crying now.” Beth sniffed. “When I’m safe.”

  “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal.” Martin lifted the tears off her cheek with his thumb. “I hope they hang those sonsofbitches when they’re caught.”

  Alistair returned with a towel and a blanket. Martin snatched the towel out of Alistair’s hand. “Have you got som
ething she can wear?” He rubbed her hair with brisk, circling movements.

  Alistair went off again and Fergus removed her shoes and rested her feet on a towel.

  “All right, get undressed,” Martin ordered.

  Elizabeth fumbled with the buttons on her bodice. She shook uncontrollably. He cursed under his breath as he pulled her to her feet and unhooked the buttons that started at the neck and finished an inch or two above the waist.

  “Get your filthy hands off her, Mulvaney.” Alistair flung himself at them.

  “I’m her husband.” He savaged Alistair with a ferocious look. “I have the right to do as I please with her.”

  Her tears fell even faster now, and Martin gritted his teeth to stop an even angrier retort from flying out of his mouth.

  When he had stripped her down to her underwear, he turned to Fergus. “Warm the nightshirt up for her. As for you,” he glowered at Alistair. “Get out and give your sister some privacy.”

  “You’re a pig, Mulvaney.”

  “Do like he says, laddie.” Fergus turned away and prepared the tea while Martin stripped the last of Beth’s clothes off. He slipped the nightshirt over her head and wrapped her in an ancient tartan blanket.

  “Here, Bethie.” Fergus put a cup of tea in her trembling hand. “Drink this, it will warm ye.” He did not speak to Martin, but shoved a mug at him.

  “Ye better stay the night,” Fergus growled. “I’ll get Alistair to put clean linen on my bed.”

  “Loan me a horse and I’ll ride home, Elizabeth can stay here.”

  “No, you stay, too,” she sobbed, clutching Martin’s arm.

  “I’ll bring the buggy over for you tomorrow.”

  “No, no, stay here.” Her voice rose hysterically. “Stay here.”

  “You’ll be safe here with your grandfather.”

  “Aye, Bethie, ye be safe with me.”

  “Those evil men might ambush you.”

  “They’ll be miles away by now.”

  “No, no.” Sudden tremors racked her body and she gasped for breath.

  “All right, all right, I’ll stay.” He dragged his wet shirt off and put his arms around her. “I’ll stay here, all right. What’s wrong with her breathing?”

  “She used to get these attacks as a wee lass if she got cold or upset. Eucalyptus oil rubbed into her chest always helped.” Fergus left the room.

  Martin peeled off his wet pants and wrapped a blanket around his waist.

  “You’re safe now, no-one is going to hurt you,” he soothed.

  Fergus returned and shoved a brown bottle into Martin’s hand. “Rub the oil on her back and chest, it will help with the breathing. She’s always been a bit weak in the lungs.”

  Martin undid the top two buttons on her nightshirt, tipped some of the potent smelling liquid on to his palm and rubbed it into her back. When a scowling Alistair returned, he pushed the nightshirt down over one shoulder and applied the eucalyptus to her chest.

  “Feel better, storm girl,” he whispered, rubbing the oil into her chest with his palm. “Slow, deep breaths, come on.”

  She did as he instructed. “You’ll stay here, Martin?”

  “Yes, if it means so much to you.” The thought of even being under the same roof as Fergus Campbell disturbed him, but sleeping in his bed was an abomination. Years of hatred and bitterness between the two of them filled his head until he thought his skull might explode. Fury built up inside him, churned and twisted at his guts until he felt physically ill. He gritted his teeth to stop the hatred spewing out of his mouth.

  A glance at Fergus’ blazing eyes and Martin knew his old enemy fought a similar battle, putting his own bitterness aside because of the love he felt for his granddaughter.

  I’m not doing this for love, I’m not capable of such an emotion, Black Jack saw to that. I am doing this for the child. His hand instinctively caressed her stomach. She still shivered, and her face, peeping out from her tumbled hair, looked deathly, her eyes wide with fear. Not for herself, but for him, and her concern moved him. Except for Sam, no one had ever worried about his safety before.

  “You’ll stay here with me until tomorrow?” she whispered.

  He gently tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’ll stay if you stop worrying.” He trailed his fingers across her cheek, and the skin warmed up under his touch.

  “Have you got any food you can give her?” he asked Fergus.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Martin ignored her protest. “She hasn’t eaten since lunch time.”

  “I’ll make some porridge, Bethie. Mulvaney?”

  “No, nothing for me.”

  “I won’t eat if you don’t.” Her voice quivered with exhaustion and shock. The shivers started to subside, her breathing still sounded harsh and erratic, though.

  “We’ll all have some,” Fergus declared. “We’ve got plenty of oatmeal.”

  They sat around the fire to eat. Martin forced himself to swallow down a few mouthfuls. “The last time I ate porridge was at boarding school.” He detested the stuff then and still did.

  “Mrs. Irvine makes me eat a big plateful every morning.” Beth smiled. “But she doesn’t cook it like you do, grandfather.”

  The old man chuckled. “There’s not a Scotsman worth his salt who can’t make decent porridge.”

  After a few mouthfuls, she stopped eating. She looked so weary and drained, even lifting the spoon to her mouth seemed too much of an effort.

  “Eat a bit more,” Martin urged, watching her with worried eyes. The pinched whiteness had returned to her face, and he noticed a marked tremor in her hands. “Finish this off before you go to bed.”

  She shook her head.

  He picked up the spoon. “Just a little more,” he said as he started feeding her. After a couple of mouthfuls, she turned her head away.

  “A few more mouthfuls,” he wheedled, “please, for me.”

  “You heard her, Mulvaney, she doesn’t want any more.” Alistair rushed to support his sister.

  “Shut your mouth,” Martin growled, “you’ve done enough damage for one day.”

  “Hold yer tongue, laddie. Eat some more, Bethie.”

  Fergus gabbled a few words in Gaelic. Martin’s heart turned over when she gave a tremulous smile and put a hand out for the spoon. He shoveled a couple of spoonfuls into his own mouth and tried not to gag. He suddenly realized each time he took a mouthful, so did she. He shot Fergus a savage look. Sly old dog. He would wager a considerable chunk of his fortune the words in Gaelic were a challenge for Elizabeth to pit herself against him to see who could eat the most porridge. Fergus would have known by his grimace of distaste how much he loathed the horrible gruel, but he was forced to keep eating to ensure she did the same. Crafty old devil.

  How could Fergus be so vindictive and downright vicious to the Mulvaneys, belligerent and unfriendly to everyone else, yet show such great affection for his grandchildren?

  “I feel really tired now.” Her soft voice intruded on his brooding. “Come to bed now, Martin.”

  “I’ll sit by the fire for a while longer, have to let the porridge digest.” He curled his lips in a grimace. If she fell asleep, maybe he would not need to lie in Fergus Campbell’s bed. I would rather stay awake all night, or even sleeping out in the rain would be preferable.

  “No, come with me.”

  Fergus’ eyes bored into him, speculative, assessing. Damnation. He felt raw, exposed and somehow vulnerable. Did the old Highlander have the gift of second sight? Why was he thinking crazy thoughts like this? That wretched porridge must have gone to his head.

  “Please.” Elizabeth’s plaintive plea intruded on his bitter thoughts again. “I’m cold. I need you to warm me up.”

  He glanced around the room for divine intervention. None came. This place was primitive, the floor made from anthill clay, the walls lined with old newspapers and the ceiling with calico.

  This one room, kitchen and parlor combined, felt warm and coz
y. He guessed they had sacrificed the sitting room so they might have three separate sleeping areas. Alistair’s room was behind a calico curtain; the other two bedrooms had wooden doors.

  “Martin.” She stumbled up to him and stood drooping with exhaustion, while he waged an inward battle with himself. What’s wrong with me? I’m prepared to risk the health of my wife and child over a damn bed.

  He stood up and could not decide which was worse, sit by the fire with Fergus Campbell, or sleep in his bed. “Where do you keep your horse’s gear?”

  “In the barn, but I’ll be milking long before you’re up and about, Mulvaney,” Alistair taunted.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.” Strange, how the boy went on the attack tonight. He glanced at Fergus again. What had happened to them had shaken the old man to the core. He only cared about Elizabeth, of course. Those attackers could have killed me and he would not have cared. Fergus realized how close to disaster they had come, whereas the boy had no conception of the trouble his irresponsible actions had caused.

  Without a word, Fergus lit a lamp for them. Martin moved the wet clothes around so they would dry all over.

  Beth stood watching Martin. Her head pounded, her legs felt weak and her chest tightened. She feared she would never be warm again.

  “Don’t worry about me.” She stumbled over and kissed her grandfather. “I’ll be all right after a good night’s sleep,” she reassured, because he looked sick with anxiety.

  Martin glanced at her, the strangest expression on his face. A mixture of surprise and puzzlement darkened his eyes.

  “Of course ye will, Bethie, I thank God nothing happened to ye.”

  “We’ll all be better for a decent night’s sleep.” Martin swept her up into his arms. “This has been one hell of a day. Goodnight. You bring the lamp, boy.”

  Alistair made to argue, but obviously decided against it.

  Fergus Campbell’s bedroom contained a double bed covered by a patchwork quilt. Several pictures hung on the walls. Alistair placed the lamp on a shelf jutting out from the wall at the side of the bed. Martin rested Elizabeth on one knee as he turned the bedclothes down.

  “Goodnight, Alistair,” she murmured. “Make sure grandfather takes his herbal medicine so he gets a good night’s sleep. Let him have your bed in case mine’s damp, so his rheumatics won’t play up.”