Adventures of a Scottish Heiress by Cathy Maxwell Read Free Book Online Page A

wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly.
    “A trapdoor,” she explained, a touch of impatience in her voice. “There is a trapdoor in the floor.”
    Ian ran his hand along the floor. He could feel the door’s outlines. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? Let’s get out of here.”
    “I would if you weren’t lying on top of me. You are a heavy man. I can’t move.”
    Ian frowned down at her. “Has anyone told you there are moments when absolute truthfulness is not appreciated?”
    “Often.”
    “You should listen to them.” He rolled off of her, pulling her close so he had room to reach for the handle. The wagon was going up like a tinderbox. Already, flames lapped the roof.
    She reached beyond him for a book.
    “What are you doing?” he asked.
    “I can’t let my books burn. Especially this one.”
    “Yes, you can,” he answered, and holding her close, clasped his fingers around the iron ring handle of the trapdoor and pulled up. Without a heartbeat’s waste of time, he shifted his weight and sent them both tumbling to the ground.

Chapter Four
    L YSSA would have screamed, save she didn’t have time.
    They plunged through the trapdoor where, at the last moment, the Irishman flipped himself so he hit the ground first, cushioning her fall with his body.
    His breath left him with a soft grunt. He lost no time in rolling them both from under the wagon, away from their attackers. When they came to a stop, Lyssa threw a dizzy glance backward. The wagon was engulfed in flames and she could see the silhouette of someone peering inside to see if they were burning to death.
    The Irishman didn’t give her time to think. He was on his feet in a blink. His pistol in one hand, he grabbed her with his other and half lifted, half dragged her to the protective darkness of the forest. Nor did he stop there. He ran her through the trees with enough speed to make her think he had a direction in mind.
    In seconds, they burst into a small clearing. The Irishman skidded to a halt with a succinct, “Damn!” He released her arm and whirled with his fist clenched as if searching for something to hit in frustration.
    Lyssa struggled to catch her breath. The pins had fallen from her hair and she clutched her plaid to her bosom. “What is the matter?” she managed to get out.
    “The horses. They’ve taken the horses—”
    A man’s shouts interrupted him, “They’re here! I’ve got the girl here!” From seemingly out of nowhere, a man attacked on foot, running straight for Lyssa, the moonlight gleaming off the wicked blade of a sword.
    Without missing a beat, the Irishman stepped in front of her and punched out with his fist, hitting the man squarely in the nose. There was the sound of cracking bone and the man dropped.
    Stunned, Lyssa asked, “Is he dead?”
    “I hope so,” came the unsympathetic reply. “Come along. We can’t stay.”
    The truth of his words was proven by the sound of someone crashing through the woods. “Mason, do you have her?” a man called.
    The Irishman took her wrist and started running. Lyssa followed blindly, anxious to put distance between herself and the scene of such quick violence.
    They ran for what seemed like hours but wasreally only moments. He lost his hat, but did not turn back for it. Behind them, Lyssa could hear the angry shouts of the downed man’s friends when they found his body. Suddenly, the Irishman veered right and plunged them down a steep hillside and into a narrow stream. Water seeped into her fashionable new walking shoes, the leather still stiff. Her feet stumbled as they climbed up the ravine beyond the stream. The Irishman moved behind so he could help her keep her balance.
    The plaid caught on a thorn bush. She stopped to untangle it, scratching her knuckles. “Leave it and keep going,” he ordered.
    But she couldn’t leave it.
    The plaid was now more than a symbol of her clan: It was all she owned.
    Numbly, she realized her precious books, including