Lord Keeper

by Tarah Scott

  Half an hour later, the sun broke over the horizon and shafts of sunlight streamed through the trees. A lone rider shot out of the trees onto the path in front of them. Victoria gave a cry and David jerked back on the reins, narrowly averting a collision with the stranger. She blinked at the bearded rider who wore a wide-brimmed turban and sat atop a steed as black as night.

  A rumble forced her attention from the man and onto an ornately painted wagon emerging from the forest behind him. David pulled back on the reins, backing the horse up several steps. His muscles tensed when at least two dozen men rode into sight behind the wagon. Another wagon followed, then another, and yet another.

  “Egyptians.” The word from David Robertson held the slur the name entailed.

  A tingle ran through Victoria. Gypsies. The memory of her singular encounter with the Gypsies on that first trip to Fauldun Castle surfaced even as the small door behind the seat of the lead wagon opened, revealing an exquisite woman. Dark hair cascaded down strong shoulders, and Victoria looked into eyes she knew had seen far too much of the world. A corner of the woman’s mouth curved upward almost as if she’d read Victoria’s mind.

  Victoria bolted upright from David’s chest. “Help me! This man has kidnapped me from my husband—”

  David’s hand clamped over her mouth, wrenching her head back against him. “Silence wench,” he hissed.

  Her heart pounded harder when David turned his horse’s head and it looked as if no one would help her. But before he turned, the man who had cut them off made a clicking sound with his tongue and his steed lurched forward, barring their path.

  “What does the woman speak of?” he demanded.

  “Do not stick your nose into something that does not concern you,” David warned.

  The man’s attention shifted to Victoria, who pleaded with her eyes while struggling to pry David’s hand from her mouth.

  The man returned his gaze to David. “What crime has she committed?”

  “The worst crime a woman can.”

  Victoria ceased struggling. The voice had come from the woman in the wagon. She stepped to the ground.

  “Or nearly the worst.” The woman laughed as she approached.

  “Aurari.” The man glanced over his shoulder.

  “Do not bother telling me to mind my own business, Evan.” She stopped beside him, her eyes on Victoria. “The woman speaks the truth. This man has stolen her from her husband.” Aurari canted her head. “And he has no intention of returning her.”

  The words, spoken matter-of-factly, sent fresh alarm through Victoria.

  “Be about your business,” David growled. “The world will not miss a few more Egyptians.”

  Aurari’s attention never left Victoria as she said, “It is time.”

  David shifted abruptly and Victoria realized he was reaching across her for his sword. His grip on her loosened and she bit down on the edge of his palm. David stiffened, but still slid his claymore from its scabbard.

  Evan urged his mount close and jammed the point of his sword against the back of David’s neck. “Release her.”

  David eased his weapon back into place. He gripped Victoria’s shoulders. Too late, she comprehended his intention. His fingers bit into her flesh, and she was hurled to the ground. She landed on her side. A sudden high neigh rang out, and David’s horse reared. Victoria watched the powerful hooves of the stallion hang motionless in mid-air before beginning their descent toward her.

  “Move!”

  Aurari’s shout broke the spell. Victoria rolled away an instant before hooves met solid ground. She lay unmoving as Evan’s sword pierced David Robertson’s neck. In one great spasm, David keeled forward, then dropped to the ground beside her with a sickening thud, blood pooling under his neck.

  In the chaos that followed, Victoria was lifted from the ground and carried to Aurari’s wagon. The Gypsy women chattered as they patted her shoulder, offered her tea, and pointed to the high bed in the back of the wagon. Victoria didn’t miss the fact that Aurari slipped out the door. Victoria stood and, despite the loud objections, stumbled through the door and down the steps. Men had already begun digging a grave alongside where David Robertson’s body lay where it had fallen.

  “What sort of fool are you?” a loud male voice riveted Victoria’s attention onto the man talking to Evan.

  “Manouche,” Evan said in a calm voice.

  Aurari glanced over her shoulder at Victoria. “That one is a fool.” She pointed at Manouche. “He believes helping you was a mistake.” Without waiting for comment, Aurari strode to the two men and said, “Leave this old woman to his babbling. He should join the other women, hiding in the wagons.”

  Manouche looked at Aurari. “This is a grave error.”

  “Manouche,” Evan began again, “Aurari has never led us astray.”

  Manouche’s lips pursed. “She is wrong this time. We should not return the Englishwoman to her husband. You know as well as I do the Gajikane will slaughter us in payment for our kindness.”

  “Coward,” Aurari said with a low snort.

  “Aurari,” Evan admonished. “You should not speak to him in that manner. His father will not like it.”

  Her mouth twisted with derision. “I care not if he is chief tomorrow. I will never bow to him.”

  “You will do more than bow to me.” Manouche looked at Aurari as a man would a possession. Victoria expected him to deal Aurari a blow just as David had her, but instead Manouche turned back to Evan.

  “You allow beauty to influence you in matters where it has no place.” With that, Manouche strode away.

  Evan sighed. “You will someday regret your actions, Aurari.”

  “Perhaps.” She tossed her hair in a manner that said she had little faith in Evan’s prediction.

  * * *

  Victoria spread the MacPherson tartan across her shoulders and looked at the sun, sunk low in the sky. She closed her eyes, her body rocking with the slow rhythm of the wagon. Not one night had yet passed since her rescue. Many days of travel still lay ahead. How was she to deal with not knowing if her husband lived or died? A chill ran through her. What if it was Edwin who discovered him first? Would Iain have allowed Edwin to walk away alive? Had Edwin kept his word and freed Iain? The wagon swayed. Victoria opened her eyes to see Aurari swinging up onto the wagon next to her.

  “I woke you?” Aurari asked.

  “Nay,” Victoria replied. “I feel as though I will never again be able to sleep.”

  They lapsed into silence, and Victoria fell to studying the men who rode before them.

  “You find my people interesting?” Aurari broke the silence.

  “Aye.”

  “But still somewhat odd.”

  There was no question in her words, and Victoria didn’t pretend ignorance. “You are foreign to me. But I am not such a fool to think it bad.”

  “And not such a fool to accept it as good.”

  “I have seen nothing terrible.”

  Aurari’s mouth twitched. “You have seen us kill a man.”

  “Indeed,” Victoria answered, “and for that, I offer my gratitude.”

  There was a flicker of something in Aurari’s eyes. Curiosity, Victoria thought, but the Gypsy woman turned her attention forward again.

  “The men will be hungry soon.”

  Victoria glanced up at the first stars in the evening sky. “We are far north. The journey is nearly a week.”

  Aurari’s face showed surprise. “You read the stars?”

  “I have found it…useful.”

  A laugh, throaty and full, came from the Aurari. “Ah, a woman who has lived by her wits?”

  Heat crept across Victoria’s cheeks. “Perhaps, but such secrets are better left alone.”

  Another lusty laugh followed by Aurari giving her own knee a hearty slap. “I never knew the English possessed such wit. You need not worry, I am no mind reader.”

  Victoria studied her companion for no more than an instant b
efore concluding the Gypsy woman was not above stretching the truth.

  As if reading her mind, Aurari’s eye twinkled. “Mayhap there has been a time or two I have seen inside another soul, but it is the darkness that reaches out to me.” She opened the lower half of the door behind their seat. “Come, we will begin the night’s meal.”

  Aurari dropped through the door onto the floor of the wagon with Victoria close behind. Bent low, Victoria took two steps until she cleared the overhead bed. Aurari opened a cupboard located next to the rear door and retrieved a bowl, then placed it on the top of the wood-burning stove sitting a few feet away against the right wall. The stove’s ventilation pipe went straight up and out the top of the wagon.

  As Aurari pulled flour, salt, and sugar from the cupboard, Victoria made a closer inspection of the surroundings her mind had barely registered earlier. Her gaze fixed on the long wooden seat built into the side of the wagon. Wine colored velvet cushions covered the seat, leaving the finely crafted back and sides waxed and buffed to a shine.

  Two more seats with a high counter between them sat to the left of the seat. She studied the S shaped ornamentation carved into the wood and realized it was the same as that on the front door, which stood to the right of the seats. Victoria turned to the large bed in the rear. Beneath the bed, and on each side, were tall, narrow chests of drawers. She ran a hand over the coverings of the bed.

  “Fantastic. I had no idea.”

  “What?” Aurari said. “That because we travel, we still live like civilized people?”

  “It had never occurred to me. But had it, I would not have conceived of such beauty.” She traced the S pattern carved into the drawers. “It is just—” she stopped to find Aurari looking at her.

  “Just what, mistress?”

  Victoria started to deny what she knew her fleeting glance at Aurari’s shabby clothes had given away, but stopped herself.

  “Our men are skilled traders,” Aurari said. “It is their task to acquire our homes. Our women, however,” she glanced down at her worn clothes, “are not so accomplished.”

  “Surely you have other skills?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Victoria studied her. “You are not afraid?”

  “Of what?” Aurari asked as she pried a cover off a tin container. “Retribution?”

  Victoria nodded. “Once David Robertson’s clan discovers he has been murdered, there will be bloodlust in the air.”

  “It would not be the first time.” Candle in hand, Aurari bent and lit the kindling that lay in the belly of the stove. The wood sparked and caught fire. She straightened, facing Victoria. “And you have assured us safe passage.”

  “Aye,” Victoria said. “And you shall have it, but Evan did not know that when he killed David Robertson.”

  “I knew you must be returned to your husband.”

  “How?”

  Aurari shrugged and began doling out a measure of flour from the tin.

  “I am of a mind you do not make a habit of killing men,” Victoria persisted.

  “Murder?”

  “You call it that?”

  Aurari laughed. “What matters is what your husband will call it.”

  Victoria frowned. “I think he would not care.” He protects his possessions all too well. Was that how he saw her? “Do you regret having married me?” he had asked in the meadow. She recalled Lily’s journal and the boy who had grown up knowing he wasn’t wanted. Did he realize he had also learned that if a man wanted a woman he took her? Warmth flushed through her. Did the fact he had taken her by force mean he had never wanted a woman the way he did her? Should she be distressed or comforted by that possibility?

  A sudden jolt to the wagon yanked Victoria back to the present. She grabbed the side of the bed. “Something is amiss?”

  The Gypsy woman was staring, and Victoria could have sworn she had read her mind. Aurari smiled. “One of the disadvantages of a home that travels.” She pulled butter and eggs from the pantry over the stove.

  Victoria picked up the bowl and began stirring the ingredients. “How did you know I spoke the truth when you saw me with David Robertson? You took my word as a woman?”

  “As a woman?” Aurari grunted. “Women are far more cunning than men. Nay. I knew our paths were destined to cross again.”

  Victoria ceased stirring, her mouth parting in astonished realization. “So it was you I saw the day we traveled to Fauldun Castle.”

  “You are surprised?”

  She studied Aurari. “Are you a witch?”

  “Nay.” Aurari located a flat pan from a low cupboard next to the stove. “I do not practice the black arts.”

  “But you knew everything, even then.”

  Aurari added water to the biscuit dough. “Everything? What is everything?”

  Victoria stiffened at the indulgent note in the Gypsy’s voice. “It is clear I need not say.”

  Aurari took the bowl from her. “There was something that day I saw you.” She began stirring the mixture. “You are an open book, mistress. It does not take second sight to understand you hide much.”

  “Yet you know exactly what I speak of?”

  “Nay,” she said. “I have offended you. How?”

  “How did you know I was to marry Iain MacPherson?”

  “I never said I knew that.” She glanced at Victoria. “This is what bothers you—you think I knew?” Aurari smiled as she deftly shaped a portion of the dough into a small ball. “True, I could have, or at least if the knowledge so chose, it could have come to me. But in this case, I used the same methods you might.” She smiled. “I asked your husband who you were.”

  Victoria blinked. “You…asked?”

  “He told me. Though it was clear he considered it none of my business. He answered the question for the benefit of my male companions.”

  “What was that answer?”

  “That you were an English noblewoman sent by King Henry to marry him.” Victoria gasped, and Aurari’s head swiveled in her direction. She raised a brow. “A lie?”

  “Surely you knew?”

  “I did not.” Aurari returned her attention to the dough. “But you did marry him.”

  “But I had no intention of doing so,” Victoria replied.

  “Why were you sent to him, then?”

  Victoria reached into the bowl and began shaping dough in a haphazard manner.

  Aurari’s brows lifted as she surveyed the biscuit Victoria nearly flung onto the pan. “My people are sure to wonder how the English eat supper.”

  Victoria looked down at the misshapen dough. “And I would not blame them one wit.”

  * * *

  Red and yellow blended throughout the leaves of the trees, deceiving the eye as to where one color began and the other ended. Yet the early autumn colors only served to remind Victoria they were in the sixth day of their journey.

  “Something is wrong?” Aurari asked.

  The wagon bumped over a rut in the road.

  “We are on MacPherson land,” Victoria motioned with her head at the countryside. “We should reach Fauldun Castle today.”

  “You do not seem pleased.”

  Victoria looked at her. In the short time they had been together she had learned to read the Gypsy woman’s intense gaze. “There is much to consider. I have been away almost a week.”

  Aurari’s expression turned uncharacteristically sober. “Perhaps you should have ridden on ahead as I first suggested.”

  “Nay,” Victoria replied, remembering Evan’s consternation at Aurari having recommended they break up the small band. “Evan is right. It was unsafe for me to be with the two men he felt could be spared.”

  Aurari’s gaze pinned Victoria. “I expect, mistress, it was more your belief that you could protect us, than it was the idea we could not protect you.”

  Before further comment could be given, the wagons were surrounded by MacPherson men.

  “It seems that theory is about to be tested,” Aurari
whispered as the lead man urged his mount forward and stopped in front of Evan.

  “Oh ho! What have we here?” he said.

  “Egyptians,” one of the men behind him said.

  The lead man caught sight of Victoria and Aurari. “From the looks of things, some fine lasses among them.”

  He made to urge his horse past Evan, but the Gypsy men drew their swords. A chorus of steel answered as the MacPherson men drew their weapons in response.

  Victoria shot to her feet. “I command you to sheathe your weapons!”

  The man who had spoken first blinked, and Victoria knew that, for once, her English accent had proven useful. She saw his gaze flick from her to Evan, then back to her again, his eyes narrowing.

  “Are you deaf?” she demanded. “Sheathe your swords.”

  This time, the man laughed. “By whose authority? Not these?” He jabbed his claymore in the direction of the Gypsies.

  “By mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “Or my husband’s.” Scooping up the tartan that lay beside her, Victoria climbed from the wagon. The Gypsy men on horseback parted as she strode to the man and halted before him. His eyes narrowed as they fell on the tartan Victoria swirled in a flourish around her shoulders.

  “You recognize the plaide?” she demanded.

  “’Tis the laird’s plaide,” one man breathed.

  “Quiet, you fool,” the leader commanded. “It is not necessarily the tartan she is supposed to have worn.” Then to her, “For all we know, you took that from a dead woman.”

  “Are you willing to wager?” Without waiting for a reply, Victoria faced Evan. “We will press on, sir. I wish to reach Fauldun Castle before this day ends.”

  “You will not be going anywhere,” the Highlander cut in.

  Victoria whirled. “Do you wish to inform my husband you were the fool who refused me assistance? Or shall I tell him you had the good sense to see me safely home?”