Wincing, Michael got to his feet. "I realize that fairness isn't part of your nature, but you really should allow Catherine to change her clothing, it's going to be a damp, cold hunt."
Haldoran shrugged. "She can wear breeches if she likes. In fact, I'd rather enjoy seeing her in them. But I'll only allow her ten minutes in her room to change. If she isn't ready, she'll have to run in her shift."
Catherine's mind raced as her cousin escorted her to her room. In fact, she had brought to Skoal the breeches she had worn on the Peninsula when conditions were particularly harsh. They would make it easier for her to run for her life. With luck, she would also be able to conceal a few small items about her person.
What a pity that her room did not contain a gun.
Chapter 33
It was a beautiful dawn for sailing, with indigo clouds edged in crimson and salmon pink. But the swirling currents and lethal rocks lived up to the channel's perilous reputation. Catherine would have found the trip alarming if greater danger weren't imminent.
Haldoran's island background had made him a good sailor. As the sun inched above the horizon, he steered his boat capably between the reefs and barked orders at Doyle and another of his men, a ferret-faced fellow called Spiner. The convict with the broken jaw was nursing his injury at Ragnarok.
Catherine felt very alone and afraid. Haldoran had made a point of tethering her and Michael in positions where they could not see each other. She was within her cousin's view, though. She schooled her face to impassivity whenever his avid gaze went over her breeches-clad legs. If he caught her alive, he would surely rape her before she died.
But her masculine attire would be useful later. Besides riding boots and tan breeches, she had followed Michael's lead and donned a knitted jersey that had been the gift of an elderly island woman. The garment was made from un-dyed wool in colors ranging from cream to dark brown, which should help her blend into the landscape.
All too soon they reached Bone. The boat glided into a small bay surrounded by steep hills. It was a desolate place, the only sound the splash of waves on the shingle beach and the harsh cries of gulls. Haldoran docked the boat neatly at a crude jetty. Then Doyle cut the prisoners' bonds and roughly shoved them from the boat. Spiner stayed inside, under orders to guard the vessel while his master hunted.
Catherine's position in the boat had been cramped, and her strained muscles caused her to stumble as she climbed onto the jetty. Michael caught her before she could fall, then wrapped an arm around her waist and led her to the shingle beach. "Get your body flexible so you can run when the time comes," he ordered.
Blood had dried in his hair and his face was dark with soot and bruises, but he looked magnificent and dangerous, like an ancient warrior king. His shrewd gaze was scanning the hills, assessing conditions. The sight of him gave Catherine a glimmer of hope. She began bending and stretching her limbs.
After Haldoran collected his expensive sporting rifle and ammunition pouch, he followed them to the shingle beach. "You said you could escape me with a five-minute start, but I'll be generous and give you ten minutes. It will take at least that long for you to get out of sight."
Michael regarded him coolly. "Since you know the island and we don't, there's a chance you might win. But you'll find no satisfaction in it. For the rest of your life, you'll have to live with the knowledge that I was the better man. The only way you could defeat me was by stacking the deck in your favor."
"It sounds like you've resigned yourself to losing and are preparing your excuses," Haldoran said scornfully. "Try to give me a good run, Kenyon. It's been damned boring on the island lately." He pulled a watch from his pocket. "You have ten minutes starting now."
So soon? Catherine stared at him. Despite her cousin's stated intentions, she had not truly grasped the brutal fact that in the space of a heartbeat she could be transformed from an ordinary, civilized woman to prey.
More experienced with savagery, Michael had no such problem. "Time to be off, my dear." He caught her hand and tugged her forward. "We'll take that path to the left."
Her paralysis broken, she set off beside Michael at a fast jog, the best pace possible on the rounded stones of the beach. Once they reached the surrounding grassland, her speed increased. Michael loped beside her, matching her pace effortlessly.
It took about two minutes to reach the foot of the animal track that zigzagged up the steep, clifflike hill. She quailed at the sight of the narrow path. She would never be able to reach the top in the time allotted.
"You first," Michael said. "Don't set a pace so fast that you'll exhaust yourself halfway up."
She balked. "You go ahead. I'll slow you down."
"We stand or fall together, Catherine." He gave her a slap on the backside, as if she were a nervous pony. "Move."
She began to climb. Years of campaign life had hardened her physically, and in peacetime she had stayed active with walking and riding. Yet though she was strong for a woman, she could never keep up with a man like Michael. Haldoran had been right-if Michael stayed with her, it might well cost him his life. Yet for honor's sake, he would never abandon her. Knowing his survival depended on her performance increased her determination.
The grass was damp and several times she slipped. She kept her eyes on the path. A twisted ankle would be a death sentence.
By the time they reached the midway point, her breath was coming in hoarse pants and her legs were shaking with strain. The spot between her shoulder blades began to feel itchy. How many minutes had passed? Six? Seven? As long as they were on the hill, they were in deadly peril.
Haldoran's voice boomed out, echoing menacingly across the bay. "Eight minutes gone, and you're still easy targets."
"Don't waste time worrying," Michael snapped. "When he shoots, he'll aim at me first, and at this distance he'll probably miss."
In spite of the admonition not to worry, a clock began ticking in her mind, counting off the seconds. Eleven, twelve… She gasped and doubled over when she was struck by an agonizing stitch in her side. Straightening, she forced herself to ignore the pain and keep going. Thirty-five, thirty-six…
How much farther? Fifty, fifty-one… She glanced up and saw despairingly that there wasn't enough time. Sixty-two, sixty-three… She was staggering and on the verge of collapse.
Michael said sharply, "Think of Amy."
Energy from some unknown reserve renewed her. The brink of the hill was tantalizingly near. A hundred one, two, three… The pitch steepened. She caught at the tough clumps of grass and used them to drag herself upward. Her lungs were burning with a desperate need for air. Fifteen, sixteen…
The clock in her mind reached two minutes. Only a few more yards and they would be out of danger, but Haldoran could start shooting at any moment.
The pitch flattened and the path became wider. Michael drew even and hooked his arm around her waist, virtually carrying her the last stretch. As soon as they crested the hill, he dragged her to the ground. The harrowing blast of the rifle rang out even before they hit the grassy turf. Almost simultaneously, a spurt of earth marked the spot where the ball struck a few feet behind them.
"That's a good rifle and he's a good shot," Michael panted. "But we've won the first round. We should go a few feet farther. Then we can rest for a minute."
She nodded mutely and crawled across the grass on her hands and knees until they were well beyond the edge. Then she rolled onto her back, her lungs pumping frantically. Michael was treating her exactly as if she had been a particularly feeble soldier under his command. No doubt he was wise to avoid the personal issues between them. Nonetheless, she would have been humiliatingly grateful for any word or touch that showed that they had been lovers.