“It’s keyless. Just put your foot on the brake and—” Donny didn’t bother to finish. The engine was already started. Scotty had driven keyless vehicles before and knew that as long as the key was in the car they were good. However, it didn’t escape his notice that Donny was holding on to that key. He didn’t care.
“Where to?” he barked, steering the SUV quickly up the driveway toward the gates. When the lad didn’t answer at once, Scotty cast a glare his way. “Well?”
“I—” he began helplessly, and then grabbed his phone from his pocket with relief when it rang. “Yes? Oh, Mortimer, thank God, I—” Donny stopped to listen briefly and then said, “Yes, yes. Just a minute.”
Scotty brought the car to a stop to wait for the men to open the gates, and then looked to see what the boy was doing. His eyebrows rose when he saw him quickly typing in an address on the GPS. Fortunately, the lad finished just as the gates got wide enough for the SUV to pass through, because Scotty wasn’t waiting. He’d rather make Mortimer stay on the phone giving them directions all the way to where Beth was than waste a single minute waiting on typing.
“Which way?” he asked as the SUV surged through the first gate.
“It’s calculating a route,” Donny muttered, watching the screen.
“Which way?” Scotty insisted as they passed through the second set of gates.
“It’s still—Right! Turn right,” he said with relief as the route popped up on the screen.
Scotty turned the wheel right and squealed out onto the road.
“The right-hand lane, the right-hand lane!” Donny squawked with alarm as Scotty sped up the road in the left lane.
Mouth tightening, Scotty steered the vehicle onto the other side of the road and silently reminded himself he was in North America now and not his beloved Scotland, or even the land of those bloody English . . . who at least knew which side of the road a car should be driven on.
“The speed limit here is eighty kilometers an hour,” Donny said tensely as they continued to gain speed.
“Yer arse and parsley.” Scotty muttered the old phrase, basically telling the lad to bugger off, out of habit.
“What?” Donny asked with bewilderment.
Scotty ground his teeth together and shot a glance his way. “Ye’re no’ a hunter, are ye, lad?”
“Yes. I mean—well, I’m still in training,” he said stiffly.
“O’ course ye are,” Scotty breathed out with disgust and then shook his head. He should have known. He had been made aware of the situation in North America before he flew over from Scotland, and the situation was that they were in a pinch. Nearly three quarters of their Rogue Hunters were down in Venezuela trying to hunt down some mad bastard who had been kidnapping immortals and hiding them away somewhere in that country. That news had spread like wildfire along the immortal grapevine, and with the remaining hunters spread so thin, it seemed like every rogue, or even those bordering on becoming rogue, hadn’t been able to resist taking advantage and going haywire. Of course, Mortimer would be utilizing every available hunter and hunter-in-training to try to maintain control of the situation.
“Well now,” Scotty said finally in a solemn tone. “Here’s a lesson fer ye then, lad. Speed limits do no’ mean shite when ye’re racing to the aid o’ a hunter who’s alone an’ in peril. If a bobby spots ye speeding, and tries to pull ye over, then control him and send him on his way.”
“Uh-huh,” Donny grunted, his hands clenching on the seat and the door arm. “And what if you crash because you’re going like a hundred kilometers over the speed limit?”
“Ye do no’ crash,” he assured him, glancing at the GPS as it started squawking. A turn was coming up, he saw, and began to slow to make it as he added, “But if ye do, ye tuck yer head between yer legs and protect yer neck. Ye can come back from a lot, but no’ a beheading.”
“Right,” Donny muttered, slinking down in his seat.
Scotty noted the action and smiled grimly. “Set a stout heart to a stey brae, lad.”
“Huh?” Donny asked, turning a befuddled expression his way, and Scotty shook his head.
“It’s from an old Scottish proverb,” he explained on a sigh. “I’m tellin’ ye to find yer courage fer what lies ahead.”
“Oh.” They were silent as the car raced through the early dawn, and then Donny frowned and cleared his throat. “You know this hunter Beth we’re going to help?”
It started out as a statement, but ended on a question. Scotty supposed the boy had caught some of Mortimer and Scotty’s conversation before the phone call. Donny had just entered the room when the phone rang. He could have heard what Scotty had been saying as he’d approached up the hall.
“Aye,” he answered shortly.
“You came specifically because of her?”
Scotty nodded. “I came to help her.”
“But how did you know she’d need your help?” Donny asked with a frown.
“Because a gowk at Yule’ll no’ be bright at Beltane,” he muttered.
“Huh?” Donny said with confusion.
Scotty clucked his tongue. “It means—Never mind. I kenned she’d be needin’ me because I kenned the state o’ things here and I ken her temperament. Beth’s impetuous, and smart and brave, but she’s prone to running into trouble to save others even at risk to hersel’.” He cast a swift glance at the other man and arched an eyebrow. “Is that English enough fer ye?”
“Actually, no,” the younger immortal said apologetically and then quickly explained, “You have a really thick accent. I don’t catch half of what you say.”
“Well, at least ye admit it,” Scotty said dryly. “That makes ye a cannie lad.”
Donny looked uncertain. “Is cannie good?”
“Aye,” he said with grim amusement. “Now shut yer geggy. This road is gravel and winding. I need to concentrate at this speed.”
Donny hesitated and then asked, “Is geggy—”
“Yer mouth. Shut yer mouth, lad,” Scotty growled.
“Aye, sir. I mean yes, sir. I’ll shut it,” Donny said quickly, and managed to do so for all of two minutes before asking, “But how do you know this Beth? I mean, you’re from Scotland and she came from Spain. How—”
“Shut it,” Scotty snapped, and then asked, “How much farther?”
When the young man didn’t answer right away, Scotty cast a questioning glance his way and noted the battle on Donny’s face as he tried to decide which order to obey.
“Well? Do no’ be a bampot. Answer me!” he roared.
“We’re almost there!” Donny blurted. “Turn right at the end of this road, and then it’s half a block up on the left.”
Scotty nodded with a grunt, but didn’t relax. He had a bad feeling Beth needed him, and he wouldn’t relax until she was safe and sound.
Beth leapt back, avoiding being beheaded by mere inches. She actually felt the swish of the wicked-sharp ax the rogue was swinging at her. It stirred her hair in passing, or so she thought, but when she saw the handful of dark red tresses that then dropped to the ground, cut clean off, she snapped, “You bastard! I just got my hair done!”
Furious, Beth leapt forward, her sword singing through the air. Before his head hit the ground, she was turning to ensure there were no other attackers. Her eyes widened incredulously and a low roaring started in her ears as she took in the dozen men and women who had come running from the house and formed a half circle around her.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, her mouth suddenly gone dry. Mortimer hadn’t been sure how many minions this rogue might have made, but had guessed that it couldn’t be more than three or four. After all, according to the intel he had, Walter Simpson had been rogue for only a week or so. Yet she’d already taken out four men and two women and now was faced with a dozen more? Either Mortimer’s intel was wrong, or Walter was a fast worker, she thought grimly, drawing herself into a battle stance and preparing to skewer the first one to charge on her.