by Fiona Faris
“Why did ye have to startle me like that?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I wasn’t trying to startle you.”
“Well ye did.” Her bosom was heaving as she spoke and he was hard put not to stare. “What d’ye want?”
He inhaled deeply lifting his eyes to stare into hers. “I’m leaving-”
“What!? Ye canna be serious. Ye’re going to leave us to clean up yer mess? Can ye at least wait until yon laddie is caught?” Her face was red as her eyes bugged out with glaring.
He rolled his eyes. “I do mean to catch him, that’s why I’m leaving.”
“Oh.” Her voice was very small.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rebecca watched Chris, wide-eyed, awaiting further explanation. So she was surprised when he turned away from her without another word.
“Where are ye gang tae?” she called when she saw that he meant to be on his way without another word. He turned, surveying her from head to toe as if memorizing her shape.
“I worked many years as an assassin, Rebecca, my love. In that time, I accumulated a lot of enemies and not a few men who owed me something. I go in search of the latter. If this battle with Toby is not to end in blood shed and tears, we require more than a few men and a number of brave-hearted women. We must do what is best for everyone. That means, trying to stop the fight before it starts.”
Rebecca nodded, regarding him with approval. “Aye. I should be glad if’n we can finish this with no more injury or death.”
Chris shook his head. “It’s unlikely to be that way for Toby has always been bloodthirsty. Tis a virtue among brigands,” he grinned ruefully, as his eyes twinkled at Rebecca, “Perhaps not so much among landowners.”
“Oh I dinna ken. The nobility is quite a bloodthirsty lot.”
Chris’ eyes brightened with agreement, “That they are my dear. But you fought for them…or your brother did. I would not have thought you would regard them in such a manner.”
Rebecca gave a small laugh. “I have eyes in my head.” She said simply.
“Indeed you do. And a brain to go with them.” he saluted her, “I look forward to hearing more of your views, when I get back.”
Rebecca raised her hand in wordless goodbye. Chris turned, and took two steps away from her before turning back with a sheepish grin. “I don’t suppose I could get a kiss goodbye?”
Rebecca pointed down at her muddy clothes. “I shall make a mess of ye.”
Chris took a step closer, his eyes locked on hers. “I won’t care if you don’t.”
She shrugged. “It isna me who is going out into the world to meet dangerous lads I used to ken.”
He took another step closer. “No, it isn’t you. But I feel very strongly that you’re my lucky charm and all it would take was one kiss, to ensure success in my mission.”
Rebecca laughed shyly, lashes sweeping downwards to hide her eyes. “If ye say so.”
Chris took another step closer. “I do,” he said leaning in to breath on her neck, “Will you not look up so I can kiss you?"
Rebecca raised her head slowly, lips parting slightly. Her tongue slid out, and wetted her lips and he made a hungry sound, eyes darkening with lust. “Rebecca” he murmured before he swooped down and captured her lips in ardent embrace. He licked and sucked, pulling in her bottom lip and biting down gently before he thrust his tongue into her mouth and tasted her. Her arms slipped to his shirt, bunching the material in her fists as she held on to him. He ran his hands down her back as he explored to his heart’s content, never wanting this to end.
“You feel so good, so soft and yielding against me. I could cuddle with you forever,” he murmured into her mouth. She giggled, pulling away slightly from him.
“I’m far from soft,” her voice sounded a bit regretful, “my life has been too hard for that.”
He ran his hands slowly up and down her arms. “You’re soft where it counts, madame. And now I must bid you adieu.”
She took a step back away from him. “Guid luck to ye.”
“Thank you.” He turned, and this time, he didn’t look back as he walked away.
Chris had friends from the old days; friends he’d been avoiding in an effort to stay out of reach of the Avery gang. But there were some that owed him favors, that he might look to. He had no wish to end Toby’s life for he was still a member of the family Chris; one who he had raised. But if Toby wished for territory to terrorize, there were those who would be happy to utilize his particular skill set while keeping an eye on him for Chris.
He had to try.
He set his horse for London, hoping against hope that he would find what he was seeking before Toby destroyed them all.
Benjie’s mother owned a tavern at the edge of town, a great place to attract travelers just passing through as well as her regular fare of local imbibers. It turned out Benjie was incredibly easy to get drunk. He hated saying no to offers - especially if food was part of the package - and fell to goading fairly easily. His mother was busy serving patrons and he was left to his own devices with a tankard of ale and a roomful of bad choices waiting. It was his friend Peter who ended up challenging him to a friendly drinking game in an attempt to find out just what was happening at the big house these days.
For many years, Benjie had been the scrawny one nobody paid any mind to, except for his mother. Now he was the one with information about the lords’ affairs...of course, Peter wasn’t playing fairly. The devious lad had snagged some of Benjie’s mother’s special brew and using his famous sleight of hand, spiked Benjie’s tankard.
Peter and his friends watched on with undue amusement as Benjie wobbled for a moment before smacking headfirst into the table. It was a mean spirited little trick, but Peter supposedly had “noble” intentions.
“The poor man has to go back to that den of brigands and high and mighty lords. Getting ape drunk is one way to forget his troubles for a few hours. Or at least forget the last few hours.” They all laughed uproariously.
Benjie’s mother sighed, shaking her head fondly at the noise, “His strong constitution will have him up in an hour or so, take it from me, but he’ll, uhm,” she grimaced, “be in desperate need of the privy.”
Peter laughed manically, very pleased with his own antics. Benjie blearily appreciated the consideration since he could not go back to Dun Alba slung over someone’s shoulder like a sack, and so he was staying put until he had all his faculties under control.
Of course, it seemed as if Peter planned to put the time to productive usage. He turned to one of the tavern wenches. “While our dear friend here is slumbering, shall we go do something pleasurable?”
“Ha! And what d’ye offer me in exchange?”
Peter’s lowered his voice, “You know I’m close to Benjie and he bleeds very freely. Those lords seem to value him a lot.”
“But…they won’t be there long once t’other one gets back. Isn’t he going to kill them all?”
There was a pause, and Benjie could not make out Peter’s reply for a time. He tried to lift his head but could not. “…they have no quarrel with the servants anyway. He’ll still need them to run the place. I can’t imagine a brigand and soldier knows much about running manor houses.”
“I wouldn’t wager my life on it. He seems to be a violent sort.”
“Indeed. But for now, he isn’t here. Benjie is. You want a good tip, or don’t you?”
There was some rustling of cloth and giggling.
Grinning at his willing victim, Peter tilted his head in the direction of one of the rooms. Benjie’s mother nodded, before turning her attention to the other customers.
“Make sure no one robs poor Benjie here, got it, boy? He has some nice weapons I’m sure he’d rather not lose.” Benjie’s mother said.
Peter nodded his ascent, looking significantly around the room, and with the preparations all complete, Peter pulled her up by the hand and all but dragged her towards the room in the back.
“Is
n’t one of the brigands staying here?” she asked as she undressed.
“That’s not any news anyone needs to know, my dear girl. Not if’n you want to live peaceful and well.”
Anxiety bubbled inside her, overtaking her common sense instinct to keep her worries to herself, “I don’t want any trouble. But the lord and his men have been asking about this Toby in the village. Do you not think they’ll catch him and execute him before he can get them?”
Peter’s grin only grew, “This isn’t London. And do not worry, I am a master of stealth,” he paused, “and also a master of jumping out of windows and running quickly. If something were to happen, I would protect you.”
She wasn’t granted time to respond before she was pulled into the room and the door shut behind her.
“Now,” Peter’s voice lowered to the pitch he knew would have her pliant in his hands, “Shall the good times begin?”
“Huh? What?” Benjie shot up, head spinning and he was pretty sure the world around him was doing the same. His mother and Peter sat across from him, and everything looked as it did…whenever he passed out.
“Wh-wha’ happened?” he asked, pressing his fingers to his temple.
Peter replied with a smirk, “You bit off more than you could chew with the alcohol my friend.”
“Oh, I did? Right. Right. I... remember, now.” He didn’t but he figured a straight answer was what he wouldn’t get from the lad. After a few chugs of water and some suspiciously private laughs shared between his mother and Peter, Benjie figured he could make it back to the Dun Alba.
He really hoped he got his full memory back soon because he overheard his companions bickering in whispers over if “the lords did get one over that brigand Toby, would they still get what they were promised?”
Frances came to an abrupt stop when she caught sight of Benjie, staggering in from his trip to town. “What happened to you?”
Benjie shrugged petulantly. “Encountered some old friends.”
“And what did they do? Drown you in a vat?” Frances laughed out loud and the sound hurt Benjie’s ears. He winced, turning away from her.
“Where’s the master?” he asked in a surly tone.
“Which one?” Frances’ voice was entirely too jaunty and amused for Benjie at the moment. He wanted to get away from her so badly…
“The real one!” he snapped favoring her with a glare. She raised her hands in surrender and took a step back.
“Okay. No need to speak so sharp. The MacTavish is in the den with his daughter.”
Benjie nodded curtly and went off, hoping that he was not just bringing alarmist rumors to his master. But he knew that both the former brigands and his master were expending a lot of energy searching for this Toby and that meant that he was dangerous. He remembered vague snatches of the conversation he’d overheard while in his cups.
The brigand meant to kill them all? How could he do that? Clearly, he had tried to get some of the townspeople on his side and Benjie was not surprised that Peter was one of those who took him up on it. His so-called friend had always been a bully, always wanted his way, was grasping and greedy and frankly, not very bright.
He got one over you today. The stubborn part of his brain insisted on reminding him.
“Shut up,” he murmured under his breath as he knocked tentatively on the door of the den and then opened it to stick his head in.
“May I have a word sir?” he asked.
The MacTavish nodded, curiosity apparent in his eyes. “Sure. Come in.”
Benjie squeezed into the room and then gave Alexander a tentative smile before taking a deep breath and launching into a monologue of everything that had happened at the tavern. Alexander listened quietly, not interrupting Benjie until he was done.
“So yer friend, Peter, he has spoken to Toby himself?”
Benjie shook his head. “I don’t know. He never said.”
“But he heavily implied that he was offered a reward to…what? Help Toby kill us?”
Benjie closed his eyes and sighed before opening them to look Alexander square in the face. “Look, I don’t know what he’s planning or when or with who. All I do know is that he’s coming to kill you all!” He almost jumped up and down in frustration. Alexander laughed quietly in amusement which angered Benjie even more, “You don’t believe me?”
Alexander gave him a look. “O’ course I believe ye. Why would ye make up such a lie?”
“Well then?”
Alexander nodded slowly. “My…sister’s husband and I have already got a plan in place to deal with Toby McGuire. But I will take it as a personal favor if you would watch Frances and Rebecca closely. Keep nearby in case ye should need to defend them.”
Benjie nodded eagerly. “Of course sir. I should be glad to be of help.”
“Good man.” Alexander gave him a smile and Benjie returned it tentatively before hesitating. Was he supposed to leave now?
“I’ll just go then, shall I?” he said.
Alexander’s lips quirked as if he was amused and trying to hide it. “Aye. Thank ye, Benjie.”
“Y-you’re welcome.” Benjie jumped for the door, feeling an unaccustomed ball of happiness unfurl in his belly. The MacTavish had not questioned his story or done anything to indicate he found Benjie untrustworthy in spite of the fact that Benjie had no precise details. It heartened him to have his master’s trust in such a way and he resolved to dig for more information as soon as he had a chance.
The road from Dun Alba was barely a cart track this far into the woods. Chris followed along in the gloom, only occasional speckles of sunlight breaking through the thick canopy overhead. The air was heavy and dank, and there was moss growing thick on the rocks and roots fencing the road. His horse had gone lame as he rode and now he was on foot.
He leaned forward, evading a long-hanging branch. His body cried for him to stop, rest a while, but it was still a long way to his destination and it was already after midday. A warm place to sleep and something cooked for his supper would be ideal; he did not fancy spending yet another night shivering on the road with only the dark and creatures of the night for company.
The rattle of an approaching cart broke the stillness, sending birds scattering with loud cries of complaint. Chris stepped to the side, watching for the approaching vehicle and hoping to hitch a ride for some of the way.
The cart appeared through the trees, a single horse drawing its load at a slow and steady pace, the best the winding, pitted track allowed. The cart drew level with Chris and he walked beside the driver, a rotund fellow with a pleasant moon-face and spectacles. A merchant, by the looks of his clothing, with his full, fur-lined robe, embroidery on his shirt, and pleating on his fashionably short doublet. Multi-colored hose reached to his waist and a codpiece completed the outfit.
Chris brushed down his plainer, serviceable garb: dark-colored, loosely fitted over-gown, belted at the waist; underneath, a plain linen shirt; and hose that reached only to his hip and fastened to his breeches. He had made sure to look respectable but poor because after all, he did not want to be pegged as anything but peaceful before he got his mission done.
"Good morrow," said Chris.
"It is at that. Where are you headed?" the driver asked in a friendly tone.
Chris nodded. "To Gloucestershire, if you're going so far."
"Climb on up with the Brother there, then," said the driver, indicating the back of the cart with a tilt of his head. It was then Chris noticed the grey-robed friar seated on the back, behind the trunks and crates, his hood pulled low, hands steepled together, apparently deep in holy thought. Chris stopped, letting the cart draw past, then tossed his staff and pack onto the back, took hold of the rail, and hauled himself up into the moving cart with a grunt. He made sure the pistol he carried was concealed by his coat as he awkwardly took his place next to the man of God.
Catching his breath, Chris sat up and shifted to rest his back against the wooden side of the cart. He looked up and f
ound the Franciscan watching him with an imperious expression, penetrating blue eyes, oddly angular above sharp features and a wide mouth. Chris drew himself up and stared back, not about to be cowed by any man, robe or not.
"Good morn, Brother," he said, courtesy costing nothing. Traveling with a man of God would be the best cover to get him as close as he needed to be without suspicion. He considered it quite a stroke of luck.
"Are you headed for the quarry or the fields?" responded the friar in a deep baritone.