Ransom Read online

  “And why did I fish you out?”

  “I was drowning.”

  “Didn’t you know how to swim, lass?” Gideon asked.

  “Much to my surprise, I didn’t.”

  She smiled again, and Ramsey’s heartbeat began to race. He was stunned by his own reaction to the woman, for he couldn’t seem to get past the fact that she was so damned pretty. It wasn’t like him to behave like this—he wasn’t a boy and he had certainly been in the presence of comely women before. It was her smile, he decided then. It was really quite infectious.

  He wondered if Gideon was experiencing a similar response to the lass, and just as soon as he could find the discipline to stop gawking at her, he’d look at his commander.

  “If you didn’t know how to swim, why did you go in the lake?” Gideon asked, trying to make sense out of such an illogical act.

  She shrugged. “Swimming didn’t look difficult, and I was sure I could figure it out, but alas, I was mistaken.”

  “You were a bold lass,” Gideon commented.

  “Nay, I was stupid.”

  “You were young,” Ramsey offered.

  “You must have turned your parents’ hair white,” Gideon said.

  “I was accused of doing just that on several occasions,” she replied before turning her attention to Ramsey again. “I understand why you don’t remember. I’ve changed in my appearance and it has been a long while. I’m grown up now, but I’m not obstinate, Laird. Truly I’m not.”

  “You should have married by now,” Ramsey said. “And it would seem to me that you are being difficult. All of the men who have proposed marriage are fine and worthy soldiers.”

  “Yes, I’m certain they are good men,” she agreed.

  Ramsey took a step toward her. She took a step back, for she knew what was coming and wanted to be close to the opening of the tent so she could make a quick exit.

  Ramsey noticed her glancing over her shoulder and thought she might be judging the distance to freedom. He maintained his serious demeanor, but it was difficult. Her panic made him want to laugh. Was marriage that repulsive to her?

  “Now another soldier has stepped forward to ask for your hand in marriage,” he said. “His name is Dunstan. Do you know him?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”

  “He’s a good man, Bridgid, and he would certainly treat you well.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Why what?” he countered.

  “Why does he want to marry me? Did he give you a reason?”

  Since Ramsey hadn’t spoken to Dunstan personally, he turned to Gideon. “Did he give you a reason?”

  The commander nodded. “He wants you.”

  Ramsey could tell from the hesitation in Gideon’s voice that he wasn’t telling her the full story. “Give her his exact words,” he ordered.

  Gideon’s face colored. “Surely the lass doesn’t wish to hear every word, Laird.”

  “I think she does,” Ramsey countered. “And Dunstan expects us to speak for him.”

  The commander scowled to cover his embarrassment. “Very well then. Bridgid KirkConnell, Dunstan swears his love for you. He treasures your beauty and worships the very ground you . . . float upon. . . . As God is my witness, those were his very words.”

  Ramsey smiled, but Bridgid wasn’t the least bit amused. Insulted by the declaration, she tried to hide her feelings, knowing that her laird wouldn’t understand. How could he? He was a man and, therefore, couldn’t possibly know what was in her heart.

  “How can this be?” she asked. “I have not even met this man, yet he declares his love for me?”

  “Dunstan is a good man,” Gideon told her. “And I believe he means what he says.”

  “He’s clearly infatuated with you,” Ramsey added. “Would you like time to consider his proposal? Perhaps if you were to sit down with him and discuss this matter—”

  “No,” she blurted out. “I don’t want to sit down with him, and I don’t need time to consider his proposal. I would like to give my answer now. Would you please tell Dunstan that I thank him for his proposal, but . . .”

  “But what?” Gideon asked.

  “I won’t have him.”

  Those were the identical words she had used to deny eight other men.

  “Why not?” Ramsey demanded, his irritation obvious.

  “I don’t love him.”

  “What does love have to do with a marriage proposal? You could learn to love this man.”

  “I will love the man I marry or I won’t marry at all.” After making her vehement statement, she took another step back.

  “How do I reason with such an absurd belief?” Ramsey asked Gideon.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “Where could she have gotten such notions?”

  Their rudeness in openly discussing her as though she weren’t even there angered and frustrated her, but she tried to control her temper because Ramsey was her laird and she should respect his position.

  “You won’t change your mind about Dunstan?” Ramsey asked.

  She shook her head. “I won’t have him,” she repeated.

  “Ah, Bridgid, you are a stubborn lass to be sure.”

  Being criticized a third time stung her pride, and she found it impossible to keep silent any longer.

  “I have been in your presence less than ten minutes, but in that short while you have called me obstinate, difficult, and stubborn. If you are through insulting me, I would like to join my aunt and uncle.”

  Ramsey was astonished by her burst of anger. She was the first woman ever to speak to him in such a tone. Her behavior bordered on insolence, yet he couldn’t fault her because he had said those very words to her, and they were insulting.

  “You will not speak to your laird with such disrespect,” Gideon commanded. “Your father would turn in his grave if he could hear you now.”

  She lowered her head, but Ramsey saw the tears in her eyes. “Let’s leave her father out of this,” he said.

  “But, Laird, at the very least she should apologize.”

  “Why? I insulted her, though not deliberately, and for that I apologize.”

  Her head snapped up. “You apologize to me?”

  “Yes.”

  Her smile was radiant. “Then I must tell you I’m sorry for being so contrary.” She bowed, then turned and ran outside.

  Gideon frowned after her. “She’s a difficult woman,” he remarked. “I pity the man who does marry her, for he will have a fine battle on his hands.”

  Ramsey laughed. “But what an invigorating battle it would be.”

  Gideon was surprised by the comment. “And would you be interested in pursuing a—”

  A shout stopped his question and he turned to the entrance just as a young soldier came running inside the tent. He was Emmet MacPherson’s son, Alan, and he looked as though he had just seen the ghost of his father.

  “Laird, come quickly. There’s been a terrible accident . . . terrible . . . at the falls,” he stammered, panting for breath. “Your brother . . . oh, God, your little brother . . .”

  Ramsey was already running outside when Alan’s next words hit him.

  “Michael’s dead.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  England, in the reign of King John

  He was hanging by a thread. In his desperation to hide from his enemy, the little boy had wrapped the old discarded rope he’d found in the corner of the stables around and around the jagged boulder, then tied a tight triple knot the way his Uncle Ennis had taught him to do, and quickly, before he became plagued with second thoughts, slithered over the lip of the canyon on his belly with the rope twined around his left arm. Too late, he remembered he should have looped the rope around his waist and used his feet to brace himself the way he’d seen the seasoned warriors do when they worked their way down Huntley Cliffs to their favored fishing spot.

  The boy was in too much of a hurry to climb back up and start all over again. The rocks
were as sharp as needles against his tender skin, and his chest and stomach were soon scraped raw and bleeding. He was sure that he would end up with scars, which would make him a real warrior, and while he thought that was a very good thing for a boy of his age to accomplish, he wished it didn’t have to hurt so much.

  He wouldn’t cry though, no matter how fierce the sting became. He could see speckles of bright red blood dotting the rocks he’d already squirmed over, and that scared him almost as much as his precarious position. If his papa could see him now, he’d surely ask him if he’d gone and lost his senses, and he might even shake his head in disappointment, but he’d also be hauling him up and making everything all right and safe too, and . . . oh, Papa, I wish you were here now. Tears came into his eyes then, and he knew he was going to forget his own promise and cry like a baby.

  He wanted to go home and sit on his mama’s lap and let her muss his hair and hold him close and make a fuss over him. She’d help him find his senses too—whatever those were—and then Papa wouldn’t get upset.

  Thinking about his parents made him so homesick he began to whimper. His fingers dug into the rope until they, too, were raw and bleeding, making his grip less sure. His arm ached, his fingers throbbed, and his belly burned, but he tried to ignore the pain, for panic had taken hold and all he could think about was getting away before the devil discovered he was missing.

  Lowering himself into the gorge was much more difficult than he’d supposed it would be, but he continued on, not daring to look into the yawning mouth of the abyss that was surely as deep as purgatory. He tried to pretend he was climbing down from one of the big old trees back home, because he was a good, nimble tree climber, even better than his older brother. His papa had told him so.

  Exhausted, he stopped to rest. He looked up and was surprised at how far he’d come, and for an instant he felt pride over his achievement. But then his lifeline began to unravel. His pride turned to terror and he burst into tears. He was certain that he would never see his mama and papa again.

  By the time Lady Gillian caught up with the boy, her chest felt as though it were on fire, and she could barely catch her breath. She had followed his trail through the thick forest, running as fast as her legs would carry her, and when at last she reached the cliffs and heard the child crying, she collapsed to her knees in acute relief. The little boy was still alive, thank God.

  Her joy was short-lived however, for when she reached for his rope to pull him up to safety, she saw how threadbare it was and knew it was only a matter of minutes before the unraveling threads completely disintegrated. She was afraid even to touch the rope. If she dared pull on it, the threads would rub against the rocks and shred more quickly.

  Shouting the order for him to stay completely still, she stretched out on her stomach and forced herself to look over the edge. Heights terrified her and she felt a wave of nausea as she looked down into the chasm below. How in God’s name was she going to get him? It would take too long to retrace her steps to fetch a good sturdy rope, and her chances of being spotted by one of Alford’s soldiers were too great to risk. There were jagged stones jutting out from the rock, and she knew that a more experienced man or woman might be able to climb down.

  But she wasn’t experienced—or nimble. Looking down made her dizzy, but, dear God, she couldn’t leave him, and time was critical. The rope would soon snap, and the child would plunge to his death.

  There wasn’t any choice, and so she said a frantic prayer to God to give her courage. Don’t look down, she silently chanted as she turned and cautiously scooted over the edge on her stomach. Don’t look down.

  Gillian cried out with joy each time her foot touched one of the protruding stones. Just like stairs, she pretended. When at last she was level with the boy, she leaned her forehead against the cold rock, closed her eyes, and thanked God for letting her get this far without breaking her neck.

  She slowly turned toward the child. He couldn’t be more than five or six years old, and he was desperately trying to be brave and bold at the same time. He had been clinging to the rope for several minutes now, holding tight with one hand and clutching a dagger—her dagger—in his other hand. His eyes were wide with terror, but she could see the tears there as well, and, oh, how her heart ached for him.

  She was his only hope for survival, but he was stubbornly afraid to trust her. Defiant, foolishly so, he would neither speak to her nor look at her, and each time she tried to grab hold of him, he thrust the dagger, slicing her arm with each jab. She wouldn’t give up though, even if it meant she died trying.

  “Stop this nonsense and let me help you,” she demanded. “I swear to heaven, you don’t have any sense at all. Can’t you see your rope is tearing?”

  The sharpness in her tone jarred the boy, and he was able to shake himself out of his terror. He stared at the blood dripping down her fingertips, suddenly realized what he had done to her, and threw the dagger away.

  “I’m sorry, lady,” he cried out in Gaelic. “I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to hurt ladies, not ever.”

  He’d spoken so quickly and his words were so garbled with his brogue, she barely caught what he said.

  “Will you let me help you?” She hoped he understood her but wasn’t sure if she’d used the correct words, for she only had a rudimentary knowledge of Gaelic.

  Before he could answer, she cried out, “Don’t wiggle like that, the rope will snap. Let me reach for you.”

  “Hurry, lady,” he whispered, though this time he spoke her language.

  Gillian edged close, held on to the indentation in the rock above her head with one hand to balance herself, and then reached out for him. She had just wrapped her bloody arm around his waist and was pulling him onto the ledge with her when the rope snapped.

  If the child hadn’t already had one foot securely on the rock ledge, they both would have fallen backward. She squeezed him against her and let out a loud sigh of relief.

  “You were just in time,” he told her as he uncoiled the rope from his wrist and tossed it down into the chasm. He wanted to watch it land, but when he tried to turn around, she tightened her hold and ordered him to stay perfectly still.

  “We’ve made it this far,” she said so weakly she doubted he heard her. “Now for the difficult part.”

  He heard the shiver in her voice. “Are you scared, lady?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, I’m scared. I’m going to let go of you now. Lean against the rock and don’t move. I’m going to start climbing back up and . . .”

  “But we got to go down, not up.”

  “Please don’t shout,” she said. “We can’t possibly climb all the way down. There aren’t enough footholds. Can’t you see the rock is sheared smooth?”

  “Maybe if you went and got a good rope, we could—”

  She cut him off. “It’s out of the question.”

  Both of her hands gripped the edge of the tiny crevice above her head and she searched for a way to lift herself. The strength seemed to have gone out of her and, though she gave it a valiant try, she couldn’t climb back up.

  “You know what, lady?”

  “Hush,” she whispered as she said a silent prayer for strength and made another attempt.

  “But you know what?”

  “No, what?” she asked as she rested against the rock and tried to calm her racing heartbeat.

  “There’s a real big ledge down under us. I saw it. We could jump down. Look down, lady, and you can see for yourself. It isn’t far.”

  “I don’t want to look down.”

  “But you got to look so you can see where it is. Then maybe we can crawl along—”

  “No!” she shouted as she again tried to raise herself to the next foothold. If she could only accomplish that little feat, she could surely figure out a way to reach down and pull the little boy up too.

  The child watched her struggle. “Are you too puny to climb back up?”

  “I suppose I am.”

&nb
sp; “Can I help?”

  “No, just stand perfectly still.”

  Once again she tried to climb, but it was a futile effort at best. She was in such a panic inside, she could barely draw a decent breath. Dear Lord, she didn’t think she had ever been this afraid in all her life.

  “You know what, lady?”

  The little boy was relentless, and she gave up trying to quiet him. “No, what?”

  “We got to go down, not up.”

  “We’re going up.”

  “Then how come we aren’t moving?”

  “Try to be patient,” she ordered. “I can’t seem to get a proper hold. Give me a minute and I’ll try again.”

  “You can’t climb up ’cause I hurt you. You got blood all over your clothes. I cut you bad. I’m awful sorry, lady, but I got scared.”

  He sounded on the verge of tears. She quickly tried to calm him. “Don’t fret about it,” she said as she made one more attempt. With a groan of frustration, she finally gave up. “I think you’re right. We’re going to have to go down.”

  Ever so slowly she turned around on the narrow ledge, and with her back pressed against the rock, she sat down. The child watched her, then spun around and plopped down beside her.

  The quickness in his action nearly gave her heart palpitations, and she grabbed hold of his arm.

  “Can we jump now?” he asked eagerly.

  The boy really didn’t have a lick of sense. “No, we aren’t going to jump. We’re going to ease our way down. Take hold of my hand and hold tight.”

  “But you got blood on your hand.”

  She quickly wiped the blood on her skirt, then took hold of his hand. Together they peered over the side. Gillian had to look to make certain the ledge was wide enough. She had to say a prayer too, and after she was finished, she held her breath and scooted off the ledge.

  The distance wasn’t all that far, but still, the impact jarred her. The little boy lost his balance as they landed, and she jerked him back just in time. He threw himself into her arms, pitching her hard against the rock wall, then buried his face in her shoulder and trembled violently.