“Get away from her!” The smaller woman sprang upon him, surprising him enough to knock him off balance and send him sprawling back on his arse. She crouched over the lifeless beauty, pressed an ear to her chest, then rolled her onto her side. “Cough it up, sweetie. Your heart still beats strong. You must breathe deeper. Time to get those lungs cleared.” She thumped the lass hard between the shoulder blades again and again. “Do it, Jovianna! Don’t you dare disobey me. I can hear the water in there—now force it out! Now!”
Jovianna. Odd name for a woman. Tobias rose and offered a rare prayer for the still lass—even though the older one trying to get her to breathe sounded like an English. She also behaved as if she might be the dying one’s mother. Only a mother would weep and rage while trying to save her child. Or a sister, perhaps. But the owner of a maid wouldn’t care.
“Jovianna Lillian Jacobs—breathe! Do it now!” The old one sobbed, hitting and shaking the lass harder. “Listen to your mother! Do as I say!”
Tobias could stand it no longer. He took hold of the elder by the shoulders and lifted her away. “’Tis God’s will, woman. Let her go in peace.”
Baring her teeth like a cornered animal, she slapped him away, dropped to her knees, and started pummeling her daughter’s back again.
“Who are they?” asked Fitch Macaslan, Tobias’s trusted second-in-command. He frowned down at the women. “And what the devil are they wearing?”
Before Tobias could answer, Cade Maccolman, the oldest of their small brigade, eased around and knelt beside the mother. “I saw a man save a drowned lad once by holding him so his head hung down around his knees. The water gushed right out. Would ye like me to try that, mistress?”
“I am willing to try anything,” the woman said, tears streaming down her face. “She is my only child, and I fear if I do CPR, I might stop her heart.”
Tobias strode forward. “Tell me what to do, Cade. Ye dinna need to split open yer chest wound again.”
The old Highlander scowled as if Tobias had just accused him of being half a man.
“Do ye want to tell Mrs. Gibb that ye ruined her fine stitching and started it bleeding yet again?” Tobias pushed around him and took hold of the nearly dead lass around the waist. He lifted her like linen folded across his forearms.
“Not like that,” Cade said with an impatient growl. “Hitch her arse up higher so yer fists shove her belly up under her ribs. Wait!” He halted Tobias with a hand on his shoulder and turned to the mother. “She’s not got a bairn coming, does she?”
“No. Now just do it.” The woman stood there wringing her hands, her gaze locked on her daughter.
Tobias adjusted his hold until the lass’s fine, round arse hit him mid-chest and her long legs draped down his front. The rest of her hung over his arm, limp as could be. For good measure, he jostled her up and down, hoping to shove the water back out the way it had come in.
A violent gurgling rewarded his efforts. Then she vomited. Hard. All over his boots. The poor muscles of her middle clenched against his arms as though holding on for dear life.
“Jovianna!” The mother alternately sobbed and laughed, patting her poor, heaving daughter’s back all the while.
“Put me down,” the beauty said in a rasping croak while batting at his knees. “Please.”
He swept an arm behind her legs and righted her in his arms. “There now, lass. All will be better now.”
She squinted her eyes shut in a tortured grimace as she clutched her head. “Bloody, bloody hell.” She cringed as if the sound of her own voice pained her.
“Bring her over here,” her mother said. She patted a moss-covered stone that, over the years, the waters of the glen had shaped into a perfect bench.
He reached it in two long strides and placed the lass upon it as gently as he could. “Donnor!” He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed in the direction he knew the rest of his men waited. “Blankets, and be quick about it.”
“How many?” Donnor called back.
“At least two.” Tobias eyed the lass where she lay curled on her side, hugging her head. “Or more. Whatever ye can find.” They might have to make a litter to carry her up out of the gorge.
“What?” The mother bent closer to her daughter’s face, nodded, then turned to him. “Jovianna asks that you not shout. I’m sure she has a concussion.”
“How else can I help her? If I dinna shout, my men willna ken what we need to ease her troubles.” Damnable English. Even their women had little sense.
A sudden leeriness fell across the older one as she gave him a long, slow up-and-down look as if seeing him for the first time. “Of course you must shout. Forgive me. I am an overwrought mother concerned about her daughter.” She offered him a polite dip of her head and a smile. “I am Amaranth Jacobs and will forever be indebted to all of you for saving her life.”
“And I am Jovianna,” the lass whispered without opening her eyes or letting go of her head. “I appreciate your help too.”
“And you are?” Mistress Amaranth moved closer and held out her hand as if she thought him a merchant and wished to honor a pledge by shaking hands.
“Diabhal Dubh-Chridhe,” he said out of habit, knowing they wouldn’t understand Gaelic and think it merely his name. And it was the name he used whenever he and his men robbed wealthy travelers. These two were English and could not be trusted. At least not yet. He did not take Mistress Amaranth’s hand.
“Black-Hearted Devil?” Mistress Jovianna repeated in another rasping croak while barely cracking open an eye. “Your mother actually named you that?”
Fitch snorted, and Cade barked out a laugh.
Tobias shot them a hard glare before turning back to the women. “Ye are English yet ye understand Gaelic?” It remained to be seen if they would report him for using the forbidden language, even though they both had just sworn their gratitude. But, of course, they were English and probably had no sense of honor or keeping their word.
“Only know bits and pieces of it,” Mistress Jovianna whispered, then flinched and closed her eyes tighter.
He offered Mistress Amaranth a curt nod and aimed another at her ailing daughter. “No, ladies,” he said with the sourness the English always brought out in him. “My mother did not christen me with that name.”
Donnor approached with an armload of blankets.
“Blankets until we decide what to do with ye,” Tobias said. The longer he studied them, the more his irritation grew. He did not need the burden of a pair of women that could be a danger to those he protected.
“Thank you.” Subdued and suddenly acting as though struggling with grief, Mistress Amaranth quietly took the blankets. She folded one under her daughter’s head, then spread another across her. Without another word, she wrapped the last one around herself, sat on the stone beside Mistress Jovianna, and stared at the ground.
“What’s wrong?” the injured one asked in a loud whisper. She barely opened her eyes and frowned at her mother. “Amaranth? Mother?”
“Look at them,” the old woman said. She locked eyes with him and didn’t attempt to speak quietly. “Their dress. Flintlock pistols. The weave and stitch of these blankets.”