The Ghost Greyson, Maeve (reading an ebook .txt) 📖

“Fair point, Raithwaite,” Cawldrake replied, sounding vaguely impressed but still quite finished with the tedious situation. “Very well, then. Let us deliver the prisoner and be done with this sorry business. I tire of it and should like to seek my supper.”

Two of the soldiers yanked at the ropes tied around Magnus’s wrists, dragging him up the mountainside. Determined to frustrate them into a state of carelessness, he dropped to his knees and rolled to his back, slowing their progress. Each time, he yanked the rope as hard as he could, bringing them to the ground with him. Repeatedly, they came to a halt and forced him back to his feet, each time rougher than the next. Magnus nearly laughed out loud. The fools had no idea that he toyed with them.

Lazy bastards. They should have attempted to knock him out by now and carried him to wherever they were headed. Whoever this Cawldrake was, the man obviously had no idea how to capture a Scot or what to do with one once he had him. And how the hell had these men learned so much about Tor Ruadh’s cave system?

As far as Magnus knew, before this invasion, nary a single Sassenach had ever accessed the caves. Who had betrayed the MacCoinnich’s? Who had given up enough information to make the English’s ambush such a bloody success? He would sort that out later. None of that mattered now. He had to escape them. Brenna had to be saved from a slow death in the darkness.

He dove to the ground again and rolled hard toward Archie, knocking the man’s feet out from under him. Before they dragged him away, he made as though he intended to bite the man’s ear but whispered harsh and low, “Give me a key to these feckin’ shackles!”

After a subtle dip of his pudgy chin, Archie acted as though he slammed his fist into Magnus’s jaw but actually shoved the key into his mouth instead. “Get off me, you bloody Scot!”

Magnus bit down on the key and covered it with his lips as a yank of the rope dragged him away. He waited for the soldiers to force him to his feet, but they let him lie. He craned his neck to peer up over a small rise lit by the strange lights he had seen before. The small plateau shelved into the side of the mountain held several saddled horses. Lads with lanterns suspended from sticks surrounded them.

“We’ll put him on the mare,” Archie said. “Drape him across her. Never sit a Scot in a saddle,” he warned. “She’s sturdy enough to carry him and too slow to escape should he coax her into running.”

It took Archie and three of the soldiers to accomplish the task. Magnus wasn’t about to make anything easy for these bumbling fools. Blood pounded in his ears as he hung across the saddle. He stared at the ground and clenched the key between his teeth, waiting for the perfect moment. If he untied his feet from his hands and threw himself off the horse, he would make quick work of the shackles thanks to Archie. By his reckoning, they were on the west side of the mountain, so Fort William wasn’t that far away. Whatever he planned to do, he needed to figure it out and get on with it. He had been inside the garrison several times when visiting Lord Crestshire. The layout of the place seemed simple enough, but he had no idea what the cells of the dungeons might be like, nor did he wish to find out.

“Forward on,” Archie called out.

The small, docile horse ambled along, seeming like a child’s toy compared to the warhorses of Tor Ruadh. The farther they moved away from the entrance to the caves, the more he tensed for his dear, sweet love, back in the darkness, waiting for his return. God forgive him for leading her into that hellish place. This was madness. He had to make his move now.

Thanks again to Archie’s help, Magnus undid the loosely knotted rope from around his ankles but not from the chains binding his wrists. No matter. He would make this work. Rolling off the horse’s back, he hit the ground running and jogged alongside the plodding beast. As soldiers galloped forward, he used the mare as leverage to launch his body upward and land well-placed kicks into the men. He and the MacCoinnichs had often played this game as lads, and he had been the best. Knocked from their saddles, the English bounced down the steep slope, cursing as they rolled off into the darkness.

“Get out of the way and hold the lanterns high! I’ll shoot the bastard.” The order came from the only soldier left other than Archie, Lieutenant Cawldrake, and the unarmed lads with the lanterns suspended on poles. All the rest had tumbled down the mountainside.

“Hold fire!” Archie countered as he headed off the mare and blocked her path. “Commander Barricourt specifically ordered the Scot to be brought in alive. You heard him, sir.”

“Raithwaite is correct,” Cawldrake agreed. “Do not shoot him—yet. Lash him tight enough, so he does not escape again. I weary of this heathen and am sorely tempted to accept a reprimand for bringing him in dead rather than alive.”

Archie and the remaining soldier flanked Magnus.

He pulled the rough length of rope between his hands and brandished it like a heavy cat-o’-nine-tails, whipping the men with it each time they drew close. He didn’t wish to hurt Archie, but if the man impeded his escape, he wouldn’t hesitate to take him down as well. As they inched toward him, he sidled off the path and edged down the mountainside. Nearby, scrabbling in the darkness, warned him the soldiers he had kicked from their mounts were climbing their way back up to the path.

“Draw and fire!” Cawldrake sounded awake and interested for the first time since the debacle had started. “Wing that man or shoot him