She will know what to do.”
There was a short, angry pause.
“I told you not to send for her.” The first man swore. “Damn it to hell, you know what she will say.”
“She doesn’t like unnecessary bloodshed.” The second man sounded as though he was quoting. Lucas could not help but wonder if the shedding of his blood would nevertheless be deemed necessary.
Lucas kept silent. He was cold, wet, tired to his bones and starving hungry.
Who was the lady? Some ruffian as brutal as her trade?
Sidmouth had briefed him on the illegal Highland whisky trade. The government in London demanded that every Highlander who distilled whisky should pay tax on it. The Highlanders declined. The government sent excise officers to hunt the smugglers down, which was no doubt why this gang suspected him of being a spy. Which he was. A very incompetent one.
Damnation.
Lucas remembered the whisky he had tasted on the back streets of Edinburgh. They called it the Uisge Beatha in Gaelic, the water of life, but he had thought it was rougher than a badger’s backside.
A faint drift of a salt-laden breeze stirred the noisome press of air in the cave, and the smugglers fell silent. It was a wary silence. Lucas felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and his skin prickle. He found he was holding his breath.
The air shifted as someone walked past him. The lady. She had arrived. Lucas had heard no footsteps. Nor could he see anything from behind the blindfold. The material was thick and coarse. He was wrapped in darkness. Yet he could feel her presence. She was close.
He tried to rise to his feet and immediately one of the smugglers placed an ungentle hand on his shoulder and forced him back down on his knees.
“Evening, ma’am.” The tone of the men’s voices had changed. There was respect in their muttered greeting and a note of caution. Lucas realized that they were on their guard. They could not predict her reactions. And in their uncertainty lay his hope. Suddenly the moment was on a knife’s edge between life and death.
“Gentlemen.”
Lucas’s heart was beating violently against his ribs. All his senses were straining. One word from her and he would be dead. A knife between the ribs, quick, lethal. He fought back the suffocating fear that beat down on his mind. He had nothing in particular to live for, but no particular wish to die, either.
He sensed the lady was very close to him now. He could hear the shift and slip of a material that sounded rich and fine, like silk or velvet, and then he caught the most elusive of scents, a fragrance of bluebells—very sweet, very innocent. The incongruity of it almost made him smile. The infamous leader of a band of criminal renegades and she smelled of spring flowers.
Someone kicked him hard in the ribs, and the thought disintegrated in a blaze of pain. Lucas toppled onto his side under the force of the blow. They were crowding in on him now like a pack of wolves. He could sense their malevolence. There was another blow, and then another. He twisted and rolled in a vain attempt to avoid them, hampered by his bound wrists, blinded, utterly at their mercy. He was too proud to beg a pack of ruffians to spare his life. Perhaps that was a weakness that would kill him but he did not care.
“Stop.”
It only took the one word from her to halt them. She spoke sharply and with such an edge of authority that they all fell back. For a moment Lucas could focus on nothing but the hot flare of pain in his ribs. Then as it dulled to an ache, he drew in a labored breath.
“Here...”
She was helping him to sit; his back was against the wall of the cave. It was cold and damp, but the solid rock helped to steady him. Her touch was gentle but firm. He sensed she was between him and the men, shielding him, protecting him. He felt a wave of shame that he could not defend himself and a fierce, hot tug of emotion toward her that he did not understand.
The silence in the cave was absolute, but the atmosphere still simmered with violence. Lucas could feel it in every cell of his body. He could sense, too, some ripple of feeling in her that belied her confidence.
Fear? No. She was not afraid of these braggarts and bullies.
Revulsion.
Lucas’s heart bounded. Extraordinary as it was, he sensed in her a hatred of brutality.
The smugglers’ words made sense now. This was why the more bloodthirsty amongst them had not wanted her to know of his capture.
They were afraid she would save him.
He felt as close to her as though he could read her thoughts, closer, as though he shared the sensations and emotions that drove her.
He had never felt like this before. He hated the intimacy of the feeling and he hated that he did not understand why he felt it. Most of all he hated his own powerlessness.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am.” One of the men sounded abashed, like a naughty schoolboy, but there was rebellion beneath his brusque apology. “We caught him on the track above the bothy. He was following us—”
“Spying,” one of the others put in.
“We need to get rid of him.” There was a rumble of agreement.
“Over the cliff,” the first man said. “Now.”
“Is that so?” Unlike the men, her voice held no trace of a Scots accent. It was low and smooth, as rich and soothing as honey. She truly was a lady born and bred.
“Stand back.” There was a rustle of skirts as she shifted beside him. Lucas could not rise as he was once again pinned by the large boot of one of the men, which was lodged in his aching ribs. The boot pressed harder and he sucked in his breath on another wave of pain.
“If you could restrain your tendency toward violence, please.” She sounded weary now but the boot eased its pressure a little.
Her hand was beneath Lucas’s chin. He imagined she was turning his face to the light. She wore no gloves; her skin was soft and her fingers felt gentle against the roughness of his stubble. For a moment they brushed his cheek in a sweet caress. Lucas felt a shiver down his spine of something that was not fear. He fought it back angrily. His life was on the line and all he could think about was her touch.
Get hold of yourself, Lucas.
“What sort of a spy would be caught so easily?” There was mockery in her voice.
“A bad one,” one of the men said dourly.
“Or an innocent traveler,” the woman said. Her tone was sharp. Her hand fell. Lucas sensed she was sitting back on her heels.
“Innocent or not, the sea is the place for him,” the man growled. He seemed to be the spokesman. The others were content to let him talk. “It’s the only thing to do, ma’am.”
“Nonsense.” She sounded angry now. “Our quarrel is not with the likes of him and you know it.”
“And you know he’s a danger to us.” The man was curt. “We’ve no choice.”
