Judith E. French Read Online Free PDF Page B

attacker.
    “Shut your trap, slut!” the soldier growled. He backhanded her and rose to his knees, fumbling with the front of his breeches. Glynis sobbed in pain and helpless fright.
    Cailin drew herself up to her full five feet. “Let her go!” she ordered in her most regal voice. “You’ve no right to abuse my servant. Have you no sense of decency?”
    The dragoon twisted around, grimaced, and then got to his feet. “Let her go?” He braced his fists on his hips and devoured Cailin with hungry eyes. “You’ve a mind to have some of me for yerself, do you?”
    Behind him, Glynis scrambled to her feet and fled down the center passageway, disappearing through a door at the far end of the stable.
    “I am a respectable woman,” Cailin answered, taking a step backward. She’d not be bullied by this English vermin, but she was no fool. “Touch me and you shall be court-martialed.”
    He laughed again and lunged for her.
    She dodged him, but the stall wall loomed solid in front of her. He threw his arms wide to catch her, and she ducked into the only place she could go—a box stall.
    “Nice.” His thick bulk blocked the doorway. “Nice and private.”
    Heart pounding, Cailin backed up until she felt the barn wall behind her. He smelled of unwashed wool and sour sweat. One front tooth was crooked, and his thin British nose bore a scar across the bridge.
    Cailin’s mouth went as dry as oat flour. Unconsciously, her trembling fingers rose to clasp the amulet she’d worn since she was a babe. The smooth gold felt warm to the touch, and the sensation gave her strength. “You will regret this,” she warned.
    The dragoon leered, showing an empty space where a tooth used to be and mouthing something so foul that her fright drained away, leaving only white-hot rage.
    “Sassenach bastard,” she flared.
    He came toward her, step by step, backing her into the shadowy corner of the stall.
    She shook her head. “Don’t do this.”
    “Relax. You may love the taste of English cod.”
    Frantically, Cailin reached behind her, her fingernails scraping across the splintery wood. She’d not beg him, she vowed. Not if it meant her life.
    Then her searching fingers brushed an oak handle, and her eyes narrowed. “Let me go,” she whispered softly.
    “If you’re real good, maybe I’ll keep you all to myself. If not . . .” he scoffed, “I’ve got a lot of friends.” His laughter ceased abruptly when she whipped the iron-tipped pitchfork from behind her back and brandished it in both hands.
     
    Captain Sterling Gray halted his bay gelding at the crest of the hill and gazed down on Glen Garth. His gut twisted as he smelled the smoke pouring from the broken windows of the stone house and heard the jeers and scattered gunshots.
    His lieutenant, Whithall, brought his own horse up beside him and surveyed the scene below. “Looks like Major Ripton’s troops beat us to this one, Sterling. No need for us to interfere in their fun.” He raised a hand, and the weary-faced patrol behind him reined in their horses.
    Sterling’s scowl darkened as he watched the spiraling column of black smoke. Another farmstead, he mused. More weeping women and pitiful old men. How much blood and misery would it take to satisfy Cumberland? Or would the duke keep on burning and looting until the Highlands were a charred wasteland?
    Whithall swore under his breath. “I know that look. Why don’t we just ride around this one?”
    Sterling’s eyes narrowed. “You know our orders as well as I do. Reinforce Major Ripton and give whatever aid he requires.”
    Whithall grimaced. “Don’t turn your foul temper on me.” He swore again, with great imagination. “Our lads have been in the saddle since an hour before dawn. We’re all wet and tired, and our arses feel like raw liver. Bloody hell! We’ve chased hostiles from Inverness to the sea and back. We both know what you think of Jacob Ripton. Let him subdue his own dairymaids this time. What