The Devil in Plaid(57)

*

Jack charged through the woods with his four brothers trailing just behind. They had been tracking the Redesdale coach for nearly three miles, waiting for the flat landscape to give way to a hill from which they could descend upon their prize. Having at last reached a wooded slope, Jack galloped to the top and signaled for them to don their masks. They had moved ahead of the coach, but it was almost upon them. He leaned low in his saddle. The thrill of the catch set his heart to race. Moisture beaded against the fabric of his mask as his breath quickened. He raised his fist in the air, preparing his brothers to attack. Once his fist swung down, they would be unleashed like a furious black storm upon the unsuspecting nobles. Almost there. Just a few yards to go. His breath hitched as a great crack rent the air. He jerked upright and stared with wide eyes at a tree on the other side of the road plunging in front of the coach. The driver pulled hard on the reins, but it was too late. The wheels thundered into the tree, splintering to pieces. Before Jack could draw his next breath, men, dressed in peasant’s attire, sprung out from the woods with swords raised high and attacked his prize. He threw up his hands and let loose a string of curses.

“What’s our move?” Quinn said.

Jack shook his head. “We have no move. Those thieves stole our prize.”

Rory tore off his mask. His blue eyes sparkled. “They’re Scottish rebels. ‘Tis as Bishop Lamberton predicted. Our people are once more ready fight.”

“And look at how well they do against guards on horseback,” Ian said.

Jack shot a glance back at his youngest brother. His long red hair hung in tangled disarray.

“Cover back up, lads. I want a closer look.”

Jack eased his horse further down the slope to watch the skirmish. The peasants were, indeed, making surprising progress. Three guards were slain and the others would soon be overwhelmed. He leaned forward in his saddle and eyed the ragged gang. Their humble clothing bore the wear of toil but their broad shoulders and thick waists belonged to men who did not know scarcity.

Jack shook his head. “Look at their swords. Those aren’t the weapons of farmers?”

“What does it matter?” Rory said. “They’re fightin’ the English and winnin’.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed on the scene below. “Somethin’ isn’t right.”

Quinn nodded. “Look at the skill with which they fight.”

“They are not peasants,” Jack said with certainty.

His brothers fell silent as the last guard was pulled from his horse. Several blades glinted in the sun as the tips were plunged into the wretch’s belly.

“’Tis done then,” Jack murmured. He was about to turn away, but then the coach door opened and a lady fell to the ground. Veils obscured her face. The fineness of her tunic bespoke of great wealth. Again he cursed their luck. Whatever fortune she carried with her, should, by rights, be theirs. They had, after all, tracked her for miles. She disappeared behind the sea of men.

Ian slid off his horse. “What are they doin’?” Crouching low, he darted past an opening among the trees, then squatted behind a large copse.

“Ian, ‘tis nothin’. She’s in no real danger. Whoever these brigands are, they will not harm her, not when they can ransom her for a sizable fortune. Come along, all of ye. The lady is no longer our affair. We certainly cannot rob her now.”

Jack urged his horse around, but then a sob rent the air. Several men fell on top of her, tearing at her clothes. A scream of pure terror sent chills up Jack’s spine. “Perhaps I spoke too soon.”

“Scottish rebels or not, we cannot allow them to hurt her,” Quinn said.

“Why not?” Rory said. “She’s the enemy.”

“We do not condone the rape of women, English or otherwise,” Ian snapped.

“Silence,” Jack hissed. One of the men ripped away the lady’s veils. Tears streamed down her face. “Damnation,” he cursed when he beheld her wide, terrified eyes.

Ian stood straight. “For the love of God, Jack.”

Jack turned about. “Back to the horses, lads. We’ve an English lady to save.”