Hamish caught up to him as he reined in near a stand of rowans. Kylemore saw his own fears reflected in the older man’s eyes.
“If the lassie came this way, she’ll be safe until she reaches the cliffs, laddie,” Hamish said reassuringly.
“Unless she slips into the water,” Kylemore said, narrowing his eyes against the dazzling sunlight as he checked along the steep bank.
In spite of the loch’s apparent placidity, it was deep and full of treacherous currents. A ghillie had drowned in its waters when he was six. Kylemore remembered the men carrying the pale, sodden body back to the house and the women wailing in grief. There had been more servants then, of course, to care for his father.
“Och, she’s a canny lassie. I doubt she’ll go so close tae the water. She’ll use the trees instead.”
Something in Hamish’s tone caught Kylemore’s attention. “You don’t sound surprised she’s run off.”
The older man shrugged. “She asked me tae help her, but I couldnae break loyalty with ye. I warned her of the dangers. But she’s a willful wee thing.”
The patent admiration in Hamish’s voice when he spoke of Verity nettled Kylemore. “You’ve never approved of me bringing her here,” he snapped. “But you don’t know the full story.”
He should have guessed his display of ducal temper wouldn’t cow Hamish. “No, I dinna approve. But ye know weel ye have my obedience.” His voice hardened noticeably. “But I’ve kept a close watch on her since she came tae the glen. And she’s a braw kindhearted lassie. I canna imagine what she’s done tae deserve being kept prisoner.”
&
nbsp; Stung at the criticism, fair as it was, Kylemore retorted, “She’s no blushing virgin, man. She’s been my mistress for the past year.”
The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. They made him feel small and shabby, especially after what Verity had told him last night.
Hamish’s eyes expressed equal disappointment. “Whisht, laddie. No need tae blacken her name. If she wants tae bring herself back tae virtue’s path, she’s tae be commended. If Your Grace’s lust stops her, ye bear the shame, no her.” The old Highlander kicked his pony into a trot and rode ahead as if he could no longer tolerate his employer’s presence.
Kylemore hardly blamed him. He could hardly tolerate his own company either.
He slumped in the saddle. If any shred of goodness clung to Kylemore’s black soul, it was thanks to the man who had just left him. The man who plainly now believed he’d wasted his regard on Kylemore.
Hamish had every reason to be disgusted at his protégé’s behavior. More than he knew.
But it was too late for second thoughts. Or second chances.
Verity sighed in frustration as she surveyed the smooth cliff face before her. She wiped palms clammy with nerves on Kate’s worn brown kirtle.
She’d walked for hours to reach the end of the valley. Now she was tired and sticky and stinging, courtesy of a nettle patch she’d unwittingly stumbled into. She took a deep breath of the humid air and tried to whip up her courage, but it had shrunk into a cold, hard kernel inside her.
With every step, she’d feared the duke would catch her. The morning was well advanced, and he must know by now she’d gone. Nausea rose in her throat as she imagined his anger at what he’d consider yet another betrayal.
One thing was sure—he’d pursue her on horseback. She’d briefly considered taking a pony, but horses still scared her silly, not to mention she risked waking the giants who slept above the stables.
If luck was with her, Kylemore would concentrate his search on the road over the mountains. But then, luck had been notably absent from her life lately, and her lover was clever enough to guess she’d make for the coast, a coast she now realized lay on the other side of this monolith.
Her heart sank with defeat. The rocks before her were unscalable. She’d already tried and failed to find a way up several times. Swimming across the loch was too risky, given the speed and depth of the current through the defile. And what would be the use? A second steep cliff loomed on the other side.
Now her only hope was to follow the base of the ridge south until she found somewhere to climb up. The scheme was uncertain but the best she could devise.
She took a mouthful of water from her flask, told herself to be brave—an admonition losing its power through sheer repetition—and trudged on.
When Verity heard the horses approach, it was past midday and she still hadn’t found a way out of the valley.
Immediately, she crouched low. Sheer exhaustion had dulled her constant dread. Now it welled up sharp as ever, making her head spin. Awkwardly, she edged into the thick undergrowth and fought to control her ragged breathing.
Kylemore and Hamish Macleish rode into view. The duke wore his rough country clothes. She had a sudden sharp recollection of his perfectly turned out London self. His immaculate tailoring had been famous, yet here he seemed content to dress not much better than his henchmen. Although nobody would mistake the tall, handsome man with the commanding bearing for anything other than the aristocrat he was.
He turned his head to speak to Hamish. Hungrily, she stared at the clear profile, with its high forehead, long haughty nose and strong jaw. The older man bowed briefly and rode back the way they had come.
The duke wheeled his great gray horse in the direction she’d intended to go. Before he cantered away, she had a brief glimpse of flashing eyes and a mouth set in a determined line. He looked resolute and angry.