Other than those rare occasions, he liked his mind to be completely clear. He liked to be on his game and always prepared. He sure as hell was not prepared for this.
“Nay. She left to look for Shona. I believe the search party will make its way to Perthshire.”
That’s where his mother was from. That’s where he needed to go.
“I need your help getting to Perthshire,” he blurted. “Please.” He had already deduced that he could not go striding into Kinghorn Castle. If they didn’t throw him in the dungeon because this woman somehow implicated him in his mom’s disappearance, then they’d surely throw him in the dungeon for his odd clothes and mannerisms.
“I can nae aid ye. I’m sorry.”
He released her wrist finally, jerking a hand through his hair in frustration. He was sorry, too. He was sorry that he was going to have to force her to help him. In another time—his time—he would never even consider something like that, but his life, his father’s life, and possibly—no, probably—his mother’s life were at stake. “I have to get to Shona, and I don’t have a clue how to get to Perthshire.”
Her brows dipped into a frown. “A what?”
“I don’t know which direction to go,” he said.
“Ye must be English,” she said with a derisive snort. “There is nae a Scottish man alive who’d admit he can nae find his way to Perthshire.” She backed up several steps until she ran into the tree behind her with a yelp.
He knew what she was trying to do. She was attempting to put enough distance between them that she could run from him. He clenched his teeth on his natural instinct to allow her to go. “I assure you, I’m Scottish.”
“Ye do nae talk like a Scot nor have the sense of a Scot,” she replied, taking a step to the right to get around the tree. He snaked out his hand and grabbed her wrist again. She tried to yank her arm away from him. “Let me go,” she demanded in a hushed tone.
He knew she no more wanted to get caught with him than he wanted to be seen at all. It seemed safest to interact with as few people as possible. “Listen to me,” he pleaded, gently tugging her close. “If there was any other way, I wouldn’t take you.”
“What?” she gasped, and in that moment, the sound of men laughing and talking nearby flooded the night. The woman groaned. “Please, please. I’ll tell ye how to get to Perthshire. I’ll draw ye a map! But I can’t be discovered with ye, and if ye take me, ye will ruin my betrothal, which will ruin nae just my life but that of my sister and brother. I must wed Baron Bellecote.”
He swallowed. He couldn’t take her. The knowledge sunk into him like theTitanicinto the Atlantic. He might be sealing his fate, his mother’s, and his father’s, but faced with this woman’s desperate plea and knowing he’d be ruining her life, her chances, which were precious few for women in this time, he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if his actions caused her destruction or someone else’s.
“I understand,” he said, releasing her and keeping his voice low. Whoever was out in these woods was getting closer if their increasing volume was any indication. “You said you could draw me a map?”
Her gaze darted in the direction of the men’s voices. “Aye,” she rushed out. “Wait by the water. I’ll send it down with a servant by midmorning.” He could feel her eyes on him once more. “Mayhap do nae talk to anyone if ye can help it. Ye are clearly nae from this area, and many in these parts do nae care for outsiders.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied. He took a breath to thank her when a long, thin, wiggling shadow dropped from a tree.
The woman let out a bloodcurdling scream.
“Who goes there?” a man called out from not nearly far enough away.
“Snake, snake!” the woman screamed, flailing her arms.
Rhys ran toward her to help her, knowing good and well this was one more choice that could seal his fate. His hand grazed something slimy, wet, and cold. And it was wrapped around her neck. She’d stopped screaming, and instead, she was swaying where she stood, a gurgling sound coming from her. Her hands no longer flailed, either. Her fingers just clawed at the snake around her neck.
Horses thundered behind him, and the shouting of men consumed the night. As Rhys struggled to grasp the snake and get it off her, footsteps approached. Rhys tugged the snake from the woman’s neck and flung it away just as a man said, “Having a bit of fun, are ye?”
She staggered forward, and he caught her in his arms as flames lit the darkness. She looked up, and a rough hand clasped his shoulder. Gratitude and fear shimmered in her lovely eyes, and Rhys’s chest tightened.
“Lady Margaret?” the same voice as before asked.
Her eyes grew wider, and whatever gratitude had been in the woman’s gaze—Margaret’s gaze—disappeared, only to be replaced by fear.
“What the devil is going on here?” the man demanded before the hand on Rhys’s shoulder yanked him hard, trying to turn him around.
But Rhys was not a small man. He was tall at six foot four, and he was a solid 225 pounds of muscle. He may run a shipping company, but he trained seven days a week in the ring and fought amateur matches on weekends.
He reacted on instinct. He released Margaret, swung around, swiped his hand up to dislodge the hold on him, and sent his fist into the guy’s nose. Bone crunched, and the man grunted. Rhys pulled back his fist, and before he knew it, five men surrounded him, their swords drawn.
The man he’d punched straightened, swiped a hand across his face, and withdrew his sword. He pointed it at Rhys. “Why are you with my intended?”
Of all the people and all the places,he thought with bitter humor.
