The Prince Kidnaps a Bride Page 8

  Instead he said, “I knew you weren’t a nun.”

  “Is that all you have to say?” He hadn’t understood a word she said!

  “What else?” He scratched his ear.

  “Doesn’t the peril on the road worry you?”

  “As long as the men who chase you carry these kinds of purses”—he lifted the laden pouch—“I’m well paid for traveling with you. And as long as you knock them out like you did today, I’m safe enough.”

  She didn’t know what impressed her more—his foolishness or his greed.

  Going to the gelding, he removed the saddle, then placed it on the mare and cinched it tight. “Tomorrow we’ll be in Glenmoore, a fair-sized market town. I can trade the horses—”

  “You can trade them? Are you better at trading than you are at fighting?”

  He hesitated, then shrugged sheepishly. “I’m pretty good at all kinds of things.”

  “That what I thought.” If she had to sell St. Donkey, she intended to make sure Donkey’s new owner would love her properly. “I’ll do the trading.”

  “You’ll do the trading,” he repeated. “I’ll just trail along.”

  Chapter 9

  Glenmoore was a den of thieves.

  The streets were narrow. The houses small, dark, and mean. Every citizen prided himself on his ability to pick a pocket or cut a purse.

  As Rainger and Sorcha rode into town, Rainger kept a sharp eye out. With no more than eight hundred people living here and the promise of winter discourging the travelers, he suspected they made their livings stealing from each other. If he weren’t on his guard, he and Sorcha would be fresh victims on which the bloodsuckers could feed.

  And clad in her silly boyish disguise, Sorcha was determined to set off alone and sell the assassin’s horse and her own pony.

  She didn’t know it, but he wasn’t going to let her leave his sight.

  When they reached the town square, she instructed, “You stay here. I’ll find a buyer for St. Donkey and Wulfgar.”

  She’d already named the assassin’s horse. The horse trader would know at once she was soft. Once she forgot to keep her voice at a low pitch, he’d know she was a woman. The sale was doomed, and Rainger wanted to smack his head against the nearest wall.

  “You guard Conquest”—she petted the gelding she’d claimed as her own—“and Alanjay.”

  She’d named their horses, too. Of course. But at least he didn’t have to call either of them St. Donkey. A man had to draw the line somewhere.

  Warily, she glanced around the street. “I suspect this town has more than its share of villains.”

  At least she had the good sense to recognize that!

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t wander off!”

  “Aye, Sorcha.” He found it wasn’t difficult to fake compliance when he had no intention of obeying.

  “Don’t talk to strangers!”

  “Aye, Sorcha.”

  “And whatever you do, don’t let the horses out of your sight!”

  “Good luck, Sorcha!” he called, and waited only until she turned the corner before eyeing the available scum and making his choice.

  A pickpocket worked the meager crowd: a youth not yet twenty, burly, selecting his victims with an eye to the best profits for the least trouble.

  That was Rainger’s man.

  Rainger made a great show of counting his coins, then carelessly stuffed the pouch on his belt. He could only hope that in this crowd his man would be the first to the bait.

  When he felt the weight of the pouch vanish, he whipped around and nabbed his pickpocket by the ear.

  The youth struggled and howled.

  “Shut up.” Rainger tightened his grip, rescued his pouch, and led the wincing lad around the corner to a quiet street. “What’s your name?”

  “Farrell.”

  “Farrell, you’re a lucky young man.” Rainger grinned at him. He didn’t grin as he grinned at Sorcha, broadly and stupidly. For Farrell, he used a toothy grin that showed his sharp white teeth and predatory nature. “I’ve chosen you to be the guard for my horses.”

  “Why would I do that?” Farrell’s eyes shifted back and forth as he sought an escape.

  “Perhaps because I caught you cutting my purse and I’d be glad to give you up to the constable. I’m sure the constable would be pleased to get his hands on a man of your reputation and skills. He might like to make an example of you—I hear hanging is painful and lasts a long, long time.” Rainger let Farrell mull that over. “But you should guard my horses because I recognize a youth with talent and want to pay you five shillings for the privilege of caring for these fine beasts.”

  The youth stopped fighting and eyed Rainger suspiciously. “Let me see.”

  Rainger pulled the coins from his pouch. “Five shillings.” He tossed them in the air, let the sun glint on the edges, and caught them with one hand. “Two right now, three when I come back and you, and my horses, are still here.”

  “That sounds easy!” Farrell’s eyes gleamed with avarice and an ill-hidden laughter.

  “And if you and my horses have disappeared”—Rainger used Farrell’s ear to bring them face to face—“I’ll hunt you down and shake my shillings and whatever you were paid for my horses right out of your arse.”

  Rainger knew very well the effect of his icy stare on a younger man, and he wasn’t disappointed now. Farrell blenched. He tried to duck away, but couldn’t tear himself free. “Dunna fancy the job,” he muttered. “I could get hurt.”

  “That’s too bad, because as far as I’m concerned, the job is yours—whether you want it or not.”

  Impatient with Rainger’s lack of understanding, Farrell snarled, “No, ye dolt, ye dunna understand. The others’ll steal the horses from me and there’s na a thing I can do aboot it, or not much.”

  Rainger showed Farrell the two shillings, then shoved them in the youth’s pocket. “What do you think would be our horses’ best protection? Running with them from one place to another or putting them in a stable and guarding them there?”

  “Stable,” Farrell squeaked. “Na, wait. Keeping a move on. Then everyone will think I’m taking them t’ sell.”

  “Good idea.” Rainger shoved the reins into Farrell’s hand. “Start moving and I’ll find you when my business is done. And remember what I told you. If my horses are gone, I’ll hunt you down. Do you believe me, Farrell?”

  “Aye! I believe!” Farrell started toward the square. “I believe,” he called back again.

  Satisfied he’d frightened Farrell enough to keep him honest for at least as long as the bargaining required, Rainger walked after Sorcha. Two women gossiped by the well; he stopped, bowed, and asked, “Have either of you two women seen a young man, about so tall”—he indicated Sorcha’s height—“with blue eyes and—”

  “Ach, ye mean the beardless youth with the horseflesh t’ trade.” The woman who spoke should recognize a beard; she sported a heavy mustache as well as wild, iron-gray eyebrows and a scarf tied over her dirty hair. “He asked for the most honest buyer in Glenmoore. We sent her t’ MacMurtrae’s Stable.”

  “He’s na honest, but he’ll na kill the young man for the gold in his teeth, either. Besides, he’s the only buyer in Glenmoore.” The younger woman had no mustache, but Rainger had no doubt it would sprout soon. “He’s a nice lad and doesn’t deserve that fate.”

  “Follow this street almost t’ the end and take a left,” the older woman instructed. “You’ll recognize the stables when ye get there.”

  “Thank you, ladies.” Rainger tipped his hat and stalked grimly toward MacMurtrae’s. After not even an hour in town, Sorcha had made herself known to half the citizenry. How did she do it?

  He knew he’d found his target when the houses thinned, the street grew ever more muddy, and he rounded the corner to find himself staring at the back end of St. Donkey and Wulfgar. Lurching to a stop, he backed into the shadows and surveyed the scene.

  Sorcha s
tood with her back to him, the reins in her hands, arguing vehemently with a squint-eyed, ill-dressed, middle-aged horse dealer.

  MacMurtrae, Rainger assumed.

  MacMurtrae wasn’t arguing back. He just stood with his thumbs tucked into the lapels of his plaid jacket, shaking his head with a smug expression on his face.

  If Rainger had interpreted the scene correctly, that expression meant MacMurtrae knew he was dealing with a woman—in Sorcha’s indignation, she had forgotten to lower her voice. And as all men knew, women were always easy to gull.

  But last night Sorcha had prepared for this trade, asking Rainger what he thought the horses were worth and adding her opinion based on the discussion she’d had in Hameldone with the stable owner. To Rainger’s surprise, she shrewdly discussed the process of selling the beasts, and it was only MacMurtrae and his monopoly that held her back now.

  “That’s outrageous!” Sorcha’s light, cultured, very feminine voice carried clearly to Rainger. “These horses are worth twenty times what you’re offering.”

  “They’re worthless beasts, old and bandy-legged.”

  “They are not!”

  “Yet there’s na one else t’ sell them t’.” MacMurtrae sighed in fake sadness. “So I guess ye’ll take what I’m offering.”

  “I’ll ride them all the way to Edinburgh before I sell them to you!” She meant it, too.

  Rainger would have to step in.

  “What will ye feed them, young man?” MacMurtrae asked. “Between here and the capital there’s little but rain, mud, and soggy grass. No shelter, barely a path through the dales and o’er the passes. Ye’ll have trouble riding those other two animals ye brought int’ town, so ye might as well offer them t’ me, too.”

  She laughed, and the carefree sound startled Rainger—and MacMurtrae, for he jumped and nervously fingered his stained cravat. “We’ll eat the horses first.”

  “Don’t say that, lad! Ye don’t eat fine beasts like these!” Realizing what he’d admitted, MacMurtrae swore long and colorfully.

  With a smile, Rainger backed up again.

  Sorcha was good at barter, but she couldn’t win in this town with this buyer. Not without some help, and Rainger was the man to give it.

  “I’ll give ye twenty-five guineas for the two o’ them,” MacMurtrae declared.

  “I want twenty guineas for the pony and two hundred guineas for the horse.”

  “Twenty pounds... and two hundred... .” MacMurtrae sputtered at her cheek. Trying to regain control of the situation, he said firmly, “Twenty-five guineas and na a tuppence more.”

  Stepping out of the shadows, Rainger stared long and hard at MacMurtrae.

  MacMurtrae’s eyes narrowed, and he laid his hand on the pistol at his side.

  Sorcha swiveled to see why MacMurtrae glared over her shoulder.

  Rainger slipped back around the corner.

  He heard her say with authority, “Two hundred and twenty guineas for the two of them, and not a tuppence less.”

  Rainger moved back into view. With the tip of his knife, he indicated the price should rise.

  The horse trader glared, his male pride offended.

  Rainger grinned at him, that toothy grin he had perfected which didn’t indicate happiness but rather a willingness—no, a desire—to beat MacMurtrae into calf’s-foot jelly.

  Amazing, how an unspoken threat could make a bully like MacMurtrae straighten up and take notice. The color drained from his face and as quickly as he could he said, “As a favor t’ ye, I could give ye an extra twenty guineas... ”—at a gesture from Rainger, he changed it—“twenty-five guineas. But no more!” He pointed his finger at Sorcha and tried to ignore Rainger, but when Rainger’s grin changed to a snarl, MacMurtrae jumped like a hunted rabbit.

  Sorcha recognized that she’d suddenly developed the upper hand. In a persuasive tone, she said, “The pony’s well broken in, the perfect mount for a child or as a beast of burden. The horse is young with good lines, with years of service ahead of him, and MacMurtrae—you should see him run. He’s like harnessing the wind!”

  By the time the negotiations were finished, Sorcha had over two hundred guineas for both beasts and MacMurtrae was sweating like the horse when it had run flat out for a mile.

  When the final terms had been agreed upon, Sorcha petted St. Donkey. “MacMurtrae, this sweet girl has to go to a good home, and Wulfgar needs a good master, one who’ll understand his wild spirit.”

  “Would ye like t’ interview the buyers?” MacMurtrae asked sarcastically.

  Rainger sighed at MacMurtrae’s folly.

  “Can I?” Sorcha’s eager question echoed up the walls.

  “Nay.” MacMurtrae took the reins from her.

  “But you’ll make sure St. Donkey has a good life, won’t you?” Sorcha gave the pony a last long, loving pet. “She was named after the donkey that carried Mary to Bethlehem.”

  Rainger thought it was probably the first time since MacMurtrae was out of diapers that his expression softened. But it did and he, too, petted the pony. Then his face regained its usual surly scowl. “Do ye want me t’ interview the children she’ll carry t’ make sure they’re kind?”

  “That would be lovely.” Sorcha beamed at him. “I knew that gruff exterior hid a kind heart.”

  “Buried deep,” MacMurtrae growled. “Verra deep.”

  “It was a pleasure to deal with you, sir.” Taking his hand, she pumped it enthusiastically.

  When she released him and walked away, MacMurtrae wiped his palm on his pants.

  Rainger relaxed and prepared to return to his horses.

  Then Sorcha turned back to MacMurtrae. “You’ve been so fair, given me such an enjoyable barter, and I know I can trust you—so can you tell me, please, where can I get a meal? Someplace I can eat and pick up food for someone else?”

  Rainger saw it happen before his very eyes.

  An evil scheme took root and blossomed in MacMurtrae’s head. With a cheerful gloat in Rainger’s direction, he dipped his head and whispered in Sorcha’s ear.

  “Thank you!” She started toward the edge of town.

  “Hell!” Rainger followed.

  MacMurtrae collared him as he walked past. “Ye got what ye wanted, man—a blasted guid price for the horses and yer woman’s pleased wi’ herself.”

  In return, Rainger collared MacMurtrae. “She’s a lad. Remember that. She’s a lad.”

  “If she is,” MacMurtrae reported, “she’s a damned silly lad.”

  Rainger shoved past MacMurtrae.

  But by the time he turned the corner behind Sorcha, she had disappeared.

  Chapter 10

  With her wonderful, hard-won two hundred pounds jingling in her pocket, Sorcha almost danced down the street and toward the inn recommended by Mr. MacMurtrae.

  Arnou would be so pleased with her success! And surprised, too, for although he’d tried to hide his doubts, he clearly had misgivings that she could get the amount they’d decided would be appropriate. Plus she had the added satisfaction of knowing MacMurtrae would place the horses in good homes. Beneath that gruff, tough exterior, MacMurtrae was obviously a good man.

  Sorcha knocked on the narrow door in the wall to which he had directed her, and when the serving girl opened it, Sorcha smiled. Careful to keep her voice at a masculine pitch, she said, “I’ve come to eat.”

  The girl looked Sorcha over, then said, “All right. I’m Eveleen. This way.” Eveleen led her into a small, dim foyer decorated with two marble statues—nymphs holding water vases on their shoulders. An odd choice for an inn, but the whole place looked odd. Or rather—too nice to be a common inn.

  As Sorcha followed Eveleen down a long corridor, she noted that this place was larger than it appeared. A series of closed doors lined one side of the hallway. A shut set of double doors were right in the middle of the wall on the other side. The walls were plastered, whitewashed, and decorated with framed paintings of lovely women in various stages of undress
. Sorcha lingered by one, a well-rendered scene of a female bathing in a moonlit waterfall wearing nothing more than a startled expression. On the cliff above her, a man and his horse stood in shadow, looking down at the girl. His air of brooding intent made Sorcha’s heart beat faster. The woman had no chance; he would capture her and have his way with her.

  “Come on.” Eveleen grabbed Sorcha’s arm and tugged. “Ye can admire the art on the way oot. There’s better stuff ahead.”

  “Really?” Sorcha stumbled after her. “Because I know something about art, and that painting is amazing. It tells a story. Is it supposed to be Zeus and one of his paramours?”

  “I dunna know.” Eveleen was clearly a workingwoman who wasted no time. “Ye’ll have t’ ask Madam.”

  “Madam? Does she run this inn?”

  “Wi’ an iron fist in a velvet glove.”

  They passed an open door—a bedroom! how odd to find one on the ground floor—and the light from the open window shone on Eveleen. She was very pretty, even exotic-looking. Her clear skin was a lovely tan, her eyes were large, brown, and lined with dark lashes, and her shoulder-length hair was a magnificent mahogany color and caught at the nape of her neck with a bow. But her costume... it was very odd for a serving girl. Daring, even. Her dress was cut like a nightgown, with a low neckline, a marvelous amount of lace, and was created of a material that looked almost transparent. Perhaps the outfit might tease forth coins from stingy men’s purses.

  No—Sorcha had learned a lot since she’d left the convent. Without a doubt that outfit would tease coins from any man’s purse.

  “What’s your specialty?” Sorcha hoped this place used herbs to cook. So far on this journey Scotland’s cookery hadn’t impressed her.

  “My specialty?” The girl glanced at her. “Blowing the hornpipe.”

  “What’s that? Some sort of sausage dish?”