Page 6 of Kidnapping Cordelia

“Aye,” he said. “That I must, lassie. I told ye I’d be off in the morning, did I nae?”

“Yes, only ’tis a shame. I don’t start work until this afternoon.”

Muir chuckled and got to his feet, moving to the bed. He bent and kissed her before chucking her under the chin. “Sorry, hen, but I must away. I’ve to be in Scotland before the end of the week or my da will tan my arse.”

“Aren’t you a bit big for that?” she asked sceptically.

“Aye, but ye dinnae ken my da,” he said, grinning at her. “Thanks for everything,” he added, blowing her a kiss before he made his way out of the cottage, careful to take the back door and keep out of sight in case anyone was watching.

Striding out, Muir hurried back to the Rising Sun to grab his bag and his horse. Once he’d paid his shot, he headed out into the stable yard where one of the grooms recognised him and hurried off to fetch his mount. Kicking his heels for a moment, Muir set down his bag and leaned back on a heavy oak post, reading a newspaper that he’d picked up inside.

To his eternal relief, the news reported that Narcissa Anson was out of danger and making a swift recovery. The paper also related the truth of the events surrounding Lord Richmond’s murder. Thank God for his da, Muir thought, though he had no illusions that the story wouldn’t stick to him for the rest of his days. Where there was smoke, there was fire, was what most people believed, and he doubted the ton would ever completely exonerate him of the crime. He sighed and folded the paper, stuffing it in his bag before he straightened to watch the activity of the yard. A large carriage rumbled in at that moment and suddenly everything was chaos as the ostlers leapt into action, changing the horses while the passengers alighted for a quick meal and stretch of their legs.

Muir’s attention was so focused on the bustle before him that he almost didn’t hear the muffled scream, but he turned his head to the side, where there was an open doorway set into a high brick wall. For just a moment, he glimpsed a woman struggling in the arms of a man. The scream must have come from her, but the fellow clapped his hand over her mouth before she could draw attention to herself, and dragged her on, out of sight.

Muir straightened, hardly able to believe his eyes, but he did not doubt what he’d seen. Moving quickly, he ran to the opening and peered round. His breath caught as he saw the man half dragging, half carrying the struggling woman towards his carriage. The brave little lass kicked and fought with all her might. Turning in his arms, she caught him a good one with her knee, right in the privates. The fellow let her go, sucking in a sharp breath before backhanding her so hard she hit the ground with a thud.

Fury exploded in Muir’s soul as he watched the girl reel back and fall with a cry of pain, and he did not stop to think. With a bellow of rage, he took to his heels, bearing down upon the bastard like an unstoppable tide.

Delia’s head spun, her cheek burning and throbbing. Half in a daze, she forced herself to look up, certain Malmsey must be about to grab her again and knowing she must try to escape, for she might not get another chance. A scream rose in her throat as he towered over her with murder in his eyes.

“You little bitch,” he muttered, and grabbed hold of her hair.

At that moment came a sound like no other she had heard in her life before. It was a bellow of rage, the kind of noise she had imagined coming from a pirate king as he boarded a well-laden vessel ripe for plunder. Even Malmsey seemed struck by it, for he spun around, the colour leaving his face as his eyes widened in horror.

Delia followed his gaze and felt her heart stop, for there, barrelling towards them in full flight, was a Highland warrior. Kilt flying, and with an expression of such fury on his features, she could well understand Malmsey’s obvious terror at the sight. Lord, but he was magnificent, though he was moving so fast she could only gain an impression of a roaring warrior, big and broad and ready to do battle. Her heart thudded hard with relief as Malmsey let go of her hair, moving to defend himself. Delia scrambled back, just as the Scotsman tackled Malmsey, crashing down on top of him with such force she felt the impact herself and heard the breath expelled from Malmsey’s lungs.

A fight ensued, of the kind Delia thought she had read about, though the reality was brutal and far more frightening than any description in a book. The urge to flee and leave the two men to their fates tugged at her, yet how could she leave her heroic rescuer? Instead, she ran back to the stables and, though she knew she was about to ruin herself quite comprehensively, she would not have an innocent man’s blood on her hands. The Scotsman might look entirely in charge of the encounter, but she did not trust Malmsey as far as she could throw him and would not be surprised if he had some dirty trick up his sleeve.

This time her cries were heeded at once, and a crowd ran after her, hurrying to the scene of the fight. Instead of trying to stop the two men from murdering each other, however, the wretched mob started taking bets.

“Oh, do stop them,” Delia begged, running to the man she recognised as the innkeeper. “Please, sir. That wicked man kidnapped me, and the other has only come to my aid. You must help him.”

“The Scot? No, miss, don’t you fret none. I think the lad has his lordship’s measure and I’m glad of it. I’ve been waiting this age to see someone take the shine off that self-satisfied bastard—excuse my French—but there’s no denying he’s a blackguard, is Malmsey.”

Delia let out an exclamation of frustration and turned back to the fight. The men were on their feet again, though Malmsey looked the worse for wear. As she watched, however, he bent and reached into his boot, then he threw himself forward. Delia saw the flash of a blade and screamed with all her might.

“He’s got a knife!”

There were gasps throughout the crowd as Malmsey sent the Scotsman to the ground and thrust the knife towards his chest. The Scot grasped hold of Malmsey’s wrist, holding it off, though Malmsey shifted, grasping the knife with both hands and putting his entire weight behind it as he drove it down.

“Don’t just stand there!” Delia screamed with incoherent fury.

Belatedly, the innkeeper moved forward, just as the Scot forced the angle of the knife back, turning the Malmsey’s hands away from him. The angle must have put the man off balance, for his weight shifted, his boots scrabbling for purchase on the dusty ground as he slipped, falling heavily.

Delia watched in horror as the crowd surged forward, pulling Lord Malmsey off the Scotsman, and revealing his lordship with his own knife plunged deep into his belly. Malmsey gasped, his mouth opening and closing as he clutched at the knife, his eyes wide with terror.

“He’s killed me, he’s killed me!” he rasped, his accusing gaze on the Scot.

“Fetch a surgeon,” the innkeeper bellowed. “Take him inside, quick now.”

Delia watched in a daze, swaying on her feet at the appalling sight. Suddenly it was too much. The effects of the ether had still not worn off, she had barely eaten a morsel in the past days, and now the terror of the past few moments and its violent denouement were more than her senses could take.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured, which seemed a very inadequate thing to say but appeared to be all she could manage.

“Lady Cordelia? Christ, lassie, I had nae idea it was ye,” came a startled voice and Delia’s eyes drifted to the man addressing her. “Are ye hurt?”

“Mr Anderson?” she murmured in surprise and then fainted dead away.