The Devil in Plaid(6)

“Are ye all right, my lady,” Esme said, her tone altogether lacking in compassion.

Fiona looked up at her maid who stood on the edge of the ravine with a stern brow cocked, and her arms crossed over her chest.

“Ye don’t have to say it,” Fiona told her, wincing as she moved her aching shoulder to ensure nothing was broken. “I will surrender my quest to save the fawn. I’m coming up directly.” Scowling, she climbed to her feet and dusted the dirt and leaves from her tunic before she started back up the ravine.

“Blast,” she cried when loose dirt and gravel gave way beneath her feet. She took a deep breath and tried again, but no sooner had she progressed a step or two up the steep slope, than she slid right back down again.

“Try to get a running start,” Esme called down.

Fiona nodded and backed up several steps. She gripped her skirts, holding them high, pressed her lips together, and charged up the slope. Straightaway, her foot slipped and down she plunged. Releasing her skirts in time, she caught her fall with her hands.

“My lady, what are we to do?” Esme fretted, drawing Fiona’s gaze. “What if ye’re stuck down there forever?” Esme drew a sharp breath. “The wolves! Oh, my lady, what are we to do?”

Fiona straightened and wiped her muddy hands off on her tunic, resisting the urge to chastise her maid for panicking. After all, their current circumstances were becoming increasingly grim—due in no small part to Fiona herself. “Esme, take a deep breath, then find a sturdy branch and lower it down.”

With a heavy sigh, Esme turned and bent over in the woods behind her, mumbling something Fiona thankfully could not discern. She turned back a few moments later, dragging a long, thick branch out into the open. “I’d have a word to say about yer soft heart for broken animals, if it wasn’t yer compassion that makes ye such a great lady,” Esme remarked while lowering the branch over the side.

Fiona had no reply as she stetched up on her toes, struggling to reach it. “Just a little lower, Esme.” Still, the branch hovered just above Fiona’s fingertips. “Lower,” she said, her voice strained. An instant later, Esme cried out. Losing her footing, she started to tip. She dropped the branch, her arms flapping wildly. Then she fell forward. Fiona reached to catch her maid but was thrown back beneath the woman’s larger size as Esme tumbled down the steep, wet slope, landing on Fiona.

She gasped for air as she rolled Esme off her.

A low groan fled Esme’s lips. “Ye’ve killed me for certain.”

Fiona stood, pulled her maid to her feet and began plucking leaves from the woman’s hair and cloak. “To be sure, ye’ll live, although I’ve made a mess of us both.”

After they made their tunics and cloaks as presentable as they could, Fiona scanned the steep ridge. “Come along,” she said. “We’ll have to find a way out of this ravine, then back to the men.”

“What about our horses?” Esme asked.

“Alasdair will know what to do about the horses.”

Fiona continued to scan the surrounding high ridge while they picked their way around rocks and tree roots, but the steep terrain offered no gentle pass. “We’ll just have to go around,” Fiona declared. Noting the position of the sun, she took hold of Esme’s hand and continued forward. “Our greatest threat now is getting lost.”

An instant later, a sharp whistle rang out, causing Fiona to stumble to a halt.

“What was that?” Esme hissed, her eyes wide with terror.

Fiona turned around and around, scanning the ridge above. “Mayhap, it was a bird.”

The moment the word fled her lips, a tall man with massive shoulders appeared at the edge of the ravine. He gazed down at them with hard eyes. A snarl curled his lips. Long filthy hair spread out in wild tangles over broad shoulders. Fiona’s eyes darted to the muddy swath of MacLeod tartan slicing across his wide, bare chest. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling her cry of fear when a breath later, more MacLeod warriors filed out of the woods, forming a line on the ridge above her head.





Chapter Three


Jamie MacLeod was on his way home after a three-day hunting trek across the Urram Hills. Chasing after stags in the mud had more than tested his endurance and patience. Dirt and grime streaked his legs, arms, face, and hair. Several surprises had delayed their homecoming, mudslides, flooding, a band of foolhardy tinkers. But the most surprising of all—and surely the most ill-fated—was the newest delay.

He crossed his arms over his chest as he gazed down at two women he’d never seen before. One was petite and wore a fine cloak of rich blue velvet. Her raven black waves glinted in the sun. Wide, sky-blue, terror-filled eyes locked with his. She was startlingly beautiful with skin as white and pure as milk. The other woman, clad in simple homespun wool, stood tall with broad shoulders and full curves. Her blonde hair lay in a thick braid over one shoulder. She stared up at him with eyes that mirrored her lady’s, wide and full of fear.

“Who are ye?” he growled.

The women drew closer together, clasping each other’s hands, but they did not answer.

“Judging by the fear and that glimmer of animosity I detect in both yer gazes, I’m willing to bet ye’re MacDonnell lassies.” Then his eyes settled on the petite beauty in the rich cloak. “And judging by the fineness of yer garment, I can only assume ye must be the Lady MacDonnell herself.”