Barely had the question formed when Bella’s pulse jolted to a race. Joan was moving away from the merchant and returning to her horse.
She was going to ride away. Bella was going to lose her chance to contact her. To let her know she had never stopped thinking about her. Never stopped missing her. Never wavered an instant in her determination to get back to her.
It had been hard enough getting Lachlan to agree to come here; he would never agree to go after her.
Joan neared her horse. Bella froze like a deer in the hunter’s sight. In a moment, her daughter would be gone.
Every instinct clamored to call out her daughter’s name. To run to her, fold her in her arms, and carry her away from this nightmare.
But she couldn’t. Dear God, she couldn’t. There were too many soldiers. They would never be able to get away.
She looked around frantically. She had to do something. She couldn’t just let her go.
A sign. She needed to give Joan a sign that she was with her. That she hadn’t forgotten her.
She found it a few feet away, lying on a merchant’s table. Would she understand?
Sir Alex had a firm hold of one of her wrists, not taking any more chances on her getting loose. But the table was close enough for her to lean over and …
She snagged the pale-pink silk rose that had caught her eye and deftly slipped it off the table. The merchant, so caught up in the procession, didn’t notice.
Sir Alex, however, did. “Damn it,” he swore, reaching for it. “Don’t do anything foolish.”
But it was too late. Her brain had stopped working the moment she’d seen her daughter; she was thinking with her heart.
In one surreptitious motion, she tossed it between the crowd toward Joan. The pale-pink silk rose landed a few feet to her left.
“Ah hell,” Sir Alex swore, seeing what she had done. He started to drag her away.
Bella kept her eyes pinned on her daughter. For a moment she thought Joan wouldn’t see it. But then she jolted to a sudden stop as if she’d been struck by a bolt of lightning. Even in profile, Bella could see her face pale and her eyes widen. She understood.
Unfortunately, Joan wasn’t the only one to notice. Though Bella had intended to catch only her daughter’s attention, the distinguished lord walking ahead of her turned at the movement.
Suddenly, Bella had a bad feeling. Was the rose more of a sign than she realized?
Joan’s gaze shot in the direction of the crowd. Whether their eyes would have met, whether her daughter would have recognized her in the lad’s garb, Bella would never know. For at that moment, a man grabbed Bella from behind, tearing her from Sir Alex’s grasp and hauling her up against him.
She’d been caught.
Lady Joan Comyn was enjoying herself. She’d never heard such ridiculous flattery in her life and couldn’t help but smile at the man trying to sell her ribbons for three times the price she could purchase them for in London.
She’d had precious little to smile about in the few months since her father had died. Actually, it had been far longer than that, but she tried not to think of her mother—it was too painful.
Her life was in England now.
Of her new guardian, Sir Hugh Despenser, Joan didn’t know what to think. Their interactions had been few, and when—such as now—he came to hurry them along, he seemed more impatient and annoyed than truly angry. Of age with her father, he was shrewd—his position as the king’s favorite told her that—and she would not underestimate him.
As she and Margaret followed Sir Hugh back to their horses, Joan tried not to look at the crowd that was taking in their every move. But she couldn’t help feeling self-conscious. Though she understood the fascination, she was naturally shy and reserved, and uncomfortable with people looking at her. With what had happened to her mother, it was perhaps understandable.
Suddenly, she sensed a movement out of the corner of her eye. When she looked down, it took her a moment to realize what it was.
Her heart slammed to a stop. Her breath caught in her chest with the force of a hammer.
Without realizing what she was doing, she knelt down to pick the item up, holding it almost reverently in her hand. Her eyes glazed with tears.
Who …? What did this mean?
Instinctively, she turned in the direction where she’d sensed the movement. Her eyes scanned the crowed, looking for an answer. But there were so many people it was impossible to guess from where it had come.
Yet one golden-haired man stood out. He held a slim boy by the wrist and looked furious. It wasn’t the anger that made him stand out, however. Tall, broad-shouldered, and lean, he was just about the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Although noticing men was something entirely new for her, once discovered it seemed she could do nothing else. She and her cousins had spent hours discussing the men at the wedding.
But none of them were like him. He was everything to make a young lady’s heart race, and she was not immune.
She guessed him a few years past twenty, despite the stubbly beard on his boyishly handsome face that seemed intended to make him appear older.
She knew he was a warrior by the sword at his back and the simple leather war coat he wore as armor. But he wore no helm, and his sun-drenched hair shone like a cap of gold in the bright sunlight. Short and becomingly tousled, it made him look as if he’d emerged from a loch, shaken out the water, and ran his fingers through the thick golden mane as an afterthought.
Momentarily distracted by the handsome young warrior, it took her a moment to realize her reaction—and what had caused it—had been noticed.
“ ’Tis a pink rose!” She heard the hushed whispers filter through the crowd like the ripple of a stone tossed across a pond.
The villagers would not know her connection to the infamous Lady Isabella MacDuff, but they all recognized the traitor’s symbol.
Unfortunately, so did her guardian. “What is that?”
Joan didn’t answer. She saw Sir Hugh’s eyes narrow and knew he recognized what it was. She let it fall from her hand.
He spun around, scanning the crowd as she had done. “What is the meaning of this? Who threw this?” He turned to the merchant who’d tried to sell her the ribbons. “Was it you?”
The merchant shook his head vehemently. “Nay, m-my l-lord,” he answered, his voice shaking.
The morning had taken on an ominous cast. People shuffled uncomfortably, shooting furtive looks around.
Joan just wanted to leave. Anything that reminded her guardian of her mother was sure to cause her problems.
She ventured one more glance at the young warrior. What she saw then caused her blood to run cold. Another man had come up beside him to take hold of the boy. He, too, stood out for his height and muscular build. But it was his face that struck fear in her heart.
She’d been terrified the first time she’d seen him. It had been over two years ago, when the dark, menacing-looking warrior with the scarred face and eerie eyes had woken her as she slept in her chamber in Balvenie to explain why her mother had left her behind.
Except for her recent visit with William Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews, it was the only direct information she’d had about her mother since she left. Her father’s hatred for the “traitorous whore” who’d betrayed him had made the subject a closed one.
What was he doing here? Was it some kind of message?
Her heart started to pound frantically.
Joan knew what she had to do. Without another glance into the crowd, she lifted her chin and tossed back her head with all the disdain of the heir of Buchan.
Lifting her slippered foot, she place it atop the flower where it had fallen from her hand and dug the silken pedals into the dirt with her tiny heel. “It’s nothing,” she said to her guardian. “Nothing that means anything anymore.”
Her mother was dead to her. She’d chosen her path, just as Joan had chosen hers.
But when she heard a soft cry in the crowd, her eyes wen
t not to the handsome warrior, or to the terrifying one, but to the lad in between.
A chill tingled across her skin. There was something odd about him …
For a moment her heart died in a flash of absolute dread. But she forced herself to calm. Forced her lungs to fill and empty with air.
It couldn’t be.
Feeling as if she’d just seen a ghost, Joan repressed a shiver and turned back to her guardian.
Lachlan was so furious he couldn’t see straight. Seeing Bella in the crowd had been bad enough, but when she reached for that flower and he realized what she was going to do …
His heart stopped beating. Bloody hell, he wasn’t going to kill her, she was going to kill him!
And she just might succeed if he couldn’t think of a way to get them out of this. Fast.
He caught up to her a few seconds after Seton. If there was anyone he was more furious with than Bella, it was Dragon.
No one in the Highland Guard had taken longer to earn Lachlan’s respect than the young Englishman. It wasn’t because he suspected Seton had been chosen because of his illustrious brother; it was his attitude. Seton’s rigid adherence to rules and the knightly code put him at odds with the pirate style of warfare employed by the Highland Guard. Half the time he walked around like he had a pike up his arse, something Lachlan didn’t stop pointing out.
But Dragon’s skill with the blade and stealth complemented Lachlan’s skills, and they often ended up on missions together. Lachlan had thought he could rely on him, but he should have known better.
Snagging Bella’s wrist, he hauled her up against him. Feeling her against his body, knowing she was safe if only for a moment, took just enough edge off his anger to stop him from doing all the things he wanted to do to her.
But when this was over …
He looked at Seton over the top of her cap. To his credit, the young knight met his gaze unflinchingly. His grim expression, however, told Lachlan that he knew there would be hell to pay for this.
After nearly three years of working together in situations where one errant sound could be the difference between life and death, they knew how to communicate in silence. A nod of his head and dart of his eyes told Seton what he wanted him to do.
Seeing that the younger man understood, Lachlan let her go. But it wasn’t easy. Every primitive instinct clamored to hold on to her and … just hold on.
He had to stop himself from not catching her back to him when Despenser noticed what had drawn Lady Joan’s attention.
Damn it, this wasn’t good. Not good at all.
So much for remaining unnoticed. It seemed as though every pair of eyes in the retinue was turned in their direction. And in at least one pair he saw recognition.
He held his breath as the color slid from Lady Joan’s pale face. Their eyes met for one long heartbeat.
Would she call him out? Identify him as a rebel and send him to his death?
She turned away. He breathed a ragged sigh of relief, thinking that the reports of her allegiance to the English must be wrong. But when she crushed the rose under her heel, he reconsidered. Damn. Her disavowal of her mother couldn’t be any plainer.
Ah, hell. His gaze shot to Bella. Seton was slowly easing her through the crowd, but it wasn’t fast enough. They’d managed to move only a few feet away. Any hope that she hadn’t seen the crushed rose or heard her daughter’s words fled the instant he saw her stricken expression.
He caught only a glimpse of her face in profile before Dragon pulled her away, but it was enough.
His chest tightened. Seeing her in pain … damn it, it pained him. He would have done anything to spare her from another moment of it. Lady Joan had crushed her mother’s heart as surely as she had crushed that flower.
But if he thought the worst was over, he was wrong. A man who’d been riding ahead had come back to investigate and had noticed Seton and Bella. “You there. Where are you going?”
Lachlan swore. He wasn’t a praying man, but if he were ever going to start, now would be the time. The man who’d noticed Bella was her former brother-in-law, William Comyn. Unfortunately, he wasn’t a stranger to Lachlan. Indeed, in the long line of people eager to see his head adorning the gates of a castle, William Comyn would be standing in the front. Years ago Lachlan had humiliated him on the battlefield, and the proud nobleman had never forgotten it.
Lachlan tugged the cap he wore lower over his brow, though it was scant protection if Comyn turned his way.
But right now the danger was Bella.
Seton pulled her behind him and turned to face Comyn. Lachlan had never been so grateful to hear Seton’s bloody English accent. “To the castle, my lord,” he said. “The lad is supposed to be at work, not gaping at the pretty ladies.”
Seton bowed, bestowing a dazzling grin on Joan and the other ladies, who blushed prettily.
Lachlan owed the knight an apology. It seemed all that gallantry and chivalry wasn’t completely useless.
Comyn, however, was not impressed. His eyes narrowed. “You, boy, why are you hiding back there?”
Knowing there was no other choice, Seton eased Bella out from behind his back.
Lachlan stilled, his senses primed, ready to do whatever it took to defend her. Bàs roimh Gèill. Death before Surrender. It was the motto of the Highland Guard and one of the few things they all agreed upon.
She kept her eyes downcast, the cap shielding most of her face. That, coupled with the loss of weight wrought by her imprisonment …
He hoped to hell it was enough.
He glanced toward Despenser’s group and noticed a furrow appear between Lady Joan’s brows as she studied Bella.
Bella mumbled something in a low voice.
“What’s that?” Comyn said. “Speak up, boy.”
Seton backhanded Bella’s shoulder—a little harder than Lachlan thought necessary. “You heard the lord,” he said, then turned to Comyn apologetically. “He’s shy, my lord.”
Lachlan knew this couldn’t go on much longer. That disguise wasn’t going to hold up under scrutiny.
Joan put a hand on Comyn’s arm. “Please, uncle, let the lad get back to work. He looks to be in enough trouble already.” She gave a small laugh. “Lord Despenser is eager to begin our journey.” She looked at the crushed rose. “I’m sure nothing was meant by it.”
Comyn patted her hand indulgently, but he didn’t turn from Seton and Bella, who stood unmoving in the crowd. A crowd that was only too grateful to have the attention turned on someone other than themselves. Lachlan had to do something to turn it on someone else—someone who was preferably not him.
He wished he had that pig. He looked around for something—anything—that could provide a distraction.
He didn’t have a pig, but he had chickens. A few feet away were half a dozen hens in a temporary coop and tied beside it, one big, fat cockerel.
It was the cockerel that he focused on. He inched toward the rope.
Comyn opened his mouth to say something, his gaze still fixed on Bella and Seton, and Lachlan knew he’d run out of time. He pretended to trip forward, slicing through the rope with a dirk hidden in his hand as he crashed into the table to which it had been tied.
A table laden with baskets of eggs.
“Me eggs!” the farmer cried out.
Hell, “me eggs” were dripping down his damned face. Lachlan went to wipe it, but then stopped himself. Instead, he buried his face in some of the hay that had been cradling the eggs in the baskets. As disguises went, this one was bloody uncomfortable.
The absurdity of the situation was not lost on him; this day had taken on farcically disastrous proportions.
The crowd, startled by the sudden disturbance, started to chuckle. With him sprawled out in the dirt, covered in egg and hay, he didn’t need to wonder why.
He pretended to wobble as he tried to get to his feet. “Sorry about that.” He slurred his words slightly, hoping to give the impression that he was still drunk fro
m a night of merrymaking.
But the farmer was no longer looking at him. Lachlan heard a few furious squawks, and a few seconds later: “Me cock!” the even more agitated farmer cried, pushing through the crowd after his fleeing bird. “Where’s me cock?”
“It’s the small, wiggly thing above your bollocks,” a woman in the crowd yelled.
It was perfect. The crowd started laughing harder, exchanging a string of ribald jests at the poor farmer’s expense.
But Lachlan wasn’t taking any chances. He struggled to his feet again, this time going down hard on the wood frame of the temporary pen. The hens scattered. The people standing nearby rushed to try to capture them, and the crowd broke apart in disarray. The villagers who had carefully lined the street now flooded it.
Lachlan pretended to be dazed as he finally got to his feet. A woman nearby took his arm to steady him. He glanced in the direction he’d last seen Bella and Seton, but they were gone, having slipped away in the chaos.
Fortunately, Comyn didn’t seem to have noticed. He and the rest of Despenser’s party had moved out of the way to avoid the onslaught of clacking poultry. Lachlan didn’t wait to see what would happen when order was finally restored.
Mumbling thanks to the woman who’d helped him stand, he thrust a few coins in her hand. “For the eggs,” he said.
Then he did what he did best: He slipped away.
Or so he thought.
Fourteen
They rode north, pushing hard to evade pursuit in the event anyone decided to come after them. But each time one of the men returned from scouting, they found no sign that they were being followed. It appeared they’d gotten away.
They were lucky, and Bella knew it. She’d never imagined, never intended anyone but her daughter to see the rose. It was only a decoration for a gown—nothing that should have drawn so much attention.
Her shoulders slumped. It was useless. There was no excuse she could conjure up that would make what she’d done anything less than foolhardy, risking not only her life but Lachlan’s and Alex’s as well.
They were furious with her. As they had every right to be.
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