The young lass forced her eyes open wider, revealing their beguiling sapphire blueness for the first time since her return to the living. She aimed a confused frown at him. “Why are you dressed like eighteenth-century pirates?”
“Highwaymen, mistress.” Tobias moved a step closer. “And this is the eighteenth century. The twenty-first day of June, year of our Lord 1760, to be exact.” The blow to the lass’s head must have addled her. “And I feel certain yer mother just realized that the two of ye have fallen into the clutches of some of the most uncivilized Highlanders that Scotland ever begat.” He politely touched the brim of his hat. “But I assure ye, we could never be as ruthless as the English.”
“1760,” the lass repeated. Her voice cracked with emotion. “June 1760?”
“Aye.” He lifted his tricorn and raked back his long black hair that had slipped its tie. “And now that I have enlightened ye about yer mother’s fears, would ye mind telling us how the two of ye happened to be here?”
“Can that not wait until we are warm and dry and my daughter is better?” Mistress Amaranth glared at him while scooting in front of her daughter as if to shield her.
His men shuffled in place, clearly uncomfortable with his brusque treatment of the women. It could not be helped. Too much was at risk.
He shook his head. “Nay, Mistress Amaranth. It canna wait. For ye see, I dinna ken what to do with ye until I hear yer tale. I willna risk the lives of many for the needs of two.”
“I promise we’re not dangerous,” Mistress Jovianna said, while weakly pushing herself upright. One eye squinted shut and still holding her head, she swatted her mother’s help away. “Just because we are English doesn’t mean we’re as awful as those you’ve dealt with.” She attempted a tremulous smile but failed. Instead, she lurched forward and heaved out more water, retching hard and long.
Tobias flinched for the poor lass even though he had yet to decide if she and her mother were some sort of trap.
After several deep, shuddering breaths, Mistress Jovianna swiped the back of her hand across her mouth and eased back down onto the ledge. “Sorry. I guess I swallowed half the waters of Finnich Glen.”
Regrettably, he still needed to know more about them before offering them further aid. He eased a step closer and fixed his scowl on Mistress Amaranth rather than her ailing daughter. “Ye may not be dangerous at the moment, but forgive me if I require a bit more information. Again, I ask—how do ye happen to be here in bonny Scotland instead of England? And are not only dressed strangely but appear to be alone and unprotected.”
Without opening her eyes, Mistress Jovianna took hold of her mother’s forearm and squeezed. A sure sign she was trying to silence the old woman. Mistress Amaranth lowered her gaze, placed her hand on top of her daughter’s, and remained silent.
Tobias’s apprehension churned harder. Too many depended on him and were already at risk because of England’s determination to break the Scots. Their homes, their means of survival—hellfire, their very lives were his responsibility. These two and their silence left him no choice.
“Fine, then,” he said, and turned to his men. “We are done here.”
“What about them?” Fitch asked.
“Aye.” Cade stepped forward, his concern focused on the mother. “Ye dinna mean to leave them here?”
Tobias gave an unconcerned shrug. “What choice have they left me? Ye ken as well as I what is at risk here.”
“They are helpless women,” Fitch said.
“They are English.” Tobias stared the man down. “Need I remind ye of the helpless English widow who led the soldiers to yer father and his men after she won their trust with food and shelter?”
Fitch bowed his head and turned aside, but old Cade stepped forward. “This is different, and ye know it.”
“We are no safer now than we were right after Culloden when the Butcher hunted us like animals. Our survival depends on our wits and the ability to beat them at their own cruel game.” Tobias tossed a glance over at the women. His conscience would have yet another thing to damn him for if he left them here wounded and helpless because they refused to give him a reason to save them. But he had no choice. He had learned to live with a damning conscience long ago. This would be no different.
Mistress Amaranth turned and stared at her daughter while fisting her hands in her lap. With trembling fingers, she smoothed the wounded lass’s wet tresses away from her forehead. Her daughter’s eyes barely opened and met hers. Somehow, the two communicated without saying a word.
The old woman rose, her chin lifted as she stepped forward as though ready to fight. “We are on the run. Again.”
“Again?” Tobias asked while watching for evidence of lies.
“We left London because my husband owed someone money and couldn’t pay.” She stared at him without blinking, defiance in her eyes. “And when he died, they came after my daughter and me.” She spoke clearly and stood in front of her daughter in a protective stance. So far, everything about the woman seemed truthful.
“Who are these people chasing after ye?” Tobias kept his tone grim and uncompromising.
“The Earl of Tenbury is the leader,” she said. “He and his associates are quite adept at fleecing the hopeful fools turned away from White’s. They are happy to escort their unsuspecting prey to more questionable gaming hells.”
Tobias knew of White’s. His useless brother had lusted after acceptance into the exclusive gentlemen’s club ever since receiving his earldom by groveling his way up King George II’s arse. And if Mistress Amaranth’s husband had tried to enter the place, the man must have thought his place in society warranted it. “Yer husband frequented such dens?”
“Yes.” Mistress Amaranth’s jaw tightened. “My husband was one of their fools.” She squared her shoulders and restored herself with a deep breath. “So, we left London and found sanctuary with my distant cousin in Glasgow. He was our only living relative, and we thought ourselves safe. Until Tenbury’s men found us again.”
“Who is this cousin?” Tobias wanted to believe her. So far, everything she said made sense. Perhaps too much sense. Almost like a well-constructed tale.
“Samual Walkersby. A merchant of cotton, linens, and silk.” Sorrow filled her voice as she bowed her head. “They killed him on the way here. Shot him in the back.” She turned and looked at Mistress Jovianna, who was once more trying her best to rise from the stone bench. The old woman’s gaze then shifted to the narrow passage the water had carried them through. “We tried to take refuge in the gorge.”
“But the treacherous gorge spat ye out at the feet of a wicked Scot,” Tobias said. His focus shifted to Mistress Jovianna.
Pale and looking ready to heave yet again, the lass weakly stumbled to her mother’s side. “See?” she said, barely hiding her contempt for him. “The English treated us like rubbish too. Now, will you give us refuge? At least until we’re whole again and can take care of ourselves?”
Not entirely convinced but feeling somewhat better about taking them in, he nodded. “Aye, mistress. We will offer ye what safety we can.” He gave her a dark smile. “Bear in mind, though, we are who some might consider hardened criminals ripe for deportation for enslavement on the plantations either in the colonies or the Indies.”