The Laird

by Virginia Brown

  As expected, a single guard stood watch outside the locked door of Lady Lindsay’s prison, the weaving room where as a lad he’d watched his mother work the loom, her hands deft and sure with the woof and warp of the cloth, the distaff disgorging skeins of twisted wool, and her laughter with the other ladies as they worked. The room held pleasant memories for him, and he thought of Ailis MacGregor often. A shame her image was so vague, when he could recall well the sweet scent of lavender she’d worn, the gentle touch of her hand on his cheek, her lilting laugh . . . gone now, as were so many he’d loved.

  Ailis MacGregor had been a hostage bride, remarkably had come to love her husband despite the rough wooing. There had been another side to Angus Campbell once, vanquished now beneath the weight of loss and sorrow. But the memory of the other man his father had been kept Rob from overt violence.

  He waited in the shadows at the head of the stairwell. A single torch spread yellow light over the door and the guard nodding sleepily. The jug of wine at the man’s feet testified to the power of wine and sleeping draught—and an aching head on the morrow. Easy enough to slip the herb into the jug, yet much harder to wait while it took effect. Time was his enemy. The watch on the walls would be performing their duty as usual, even with the Beltane fires smoldering still on the hill. If good fortune was with him, they would have drunk some new ale and be less efficient.

  Finally, the guard slumped against the wall; his pike swayed, fell, clattered against the stones, and he did not wake. Rob moved forward swiftly now, his hands searching for and finding the key on the guard’s belt. He fit it into the lock and turned it in a rusty grating of metal on metal, swung open the door, and stepped inside.

  Light from the torch in the corridor slithered into the room, the only illumination. He stepped into it, moved to the cot where Lady Lindsay slept. She lay on her side, one hand flung up to rest beside her head, her hair unbound and streaming over the wool coverlet beneath her. The window was shuttered against night air, the chamber dark beyond the hazy light. He heard a slight scuffling sound, cursed softly under his breath as he realized someone else slept in the chamber.

  Wily old laird . . . his visit earlier had no doubt been duly reported and precautions taken. Unforeseen complication perhaps, but not a deterrent. He moved quickly to the guard lying on a straw pallet, bent to clap a hand over his mouth, and discovered Auld Maggie. He hesitated just long enough for her to rouse, then overcame reticence to clip her on the jaw before she could scream a warning. The blow rendered her immobile, a grunt of pain her only sound. It took only a moment to bind her wrists with her discarded belt and stuff her own stocking into Maggie’s mouth for good measure.

  It would buy them more time if her escape was not found till morning. Swiftly, he moved back to the cot, put a hand over the lady’s mouth to stifle any cry she might make, and in the gloom saw her eyes fly open.

  “Make no sound,” he said against her ear, and when she nodded, he removed his hand. “We must hurry, lady, so do not dally. Are you fully clothed?”

  “Nay,” she whispered, sitting up and snatching at the length of plaide that lay upon the foot of the cot. The tunic billowed around her, unbound at the waist, and he stood up to move to the door again, peered out into the empty hall while she dressed.

  She was at his side quickly, the plaide slung over her shoulder and unfastened, shoes clutched in one hand. A woman of decisive action, he noted with a faint smile, and he took her by the hand.

  At the rear of the keep a postern door opened onto the loch side, fringed by a small green slope, accessible only by boat. He had already unlocked the door, and he pushed it open now.

  She shivered beside him, greeted with the lap of water against the curve of land. Her fingers dug into his arm.

  “Mairi,” she whispered. “We must—”

  “Nay. She will be safe here.” He grabbed her fiercely by the hand when she protested. “You will do her no good if you are dead, milady. The charge of witchcraft is a serious one. Even your father’s ransom could not save you.”

  She wavered; he saw it in the faint gleam of her eyes barely visible in the murky light. Soon the moon would be out of the clouds. The sense of urgency grew sharp. He gave her arm a rough shake.

  “Trust me, my lady, there is little time to spare if you wish to live beyond the day’s end. It pains me to say it, but my father is intent upon seeing your destruction. He is unbalanced since my brothers’ deaths, and I know of no other way save this one to keep you safe from harm.”

  “But the child . . . Mairi. What will become of her if I am not here?”

  “Dead or gone, the child will not know the difference, but you will.”

  There was no time for more debate. He swung her into his arms, ignored her gasp and stiff resistance, swore he would drown her himself if she continued her struggle. It seemed to overcome her, and she sagged against him, her arms moving around his neck to hold tightly as he stepped into the water.

  “I cannot swim,” she moaned, clutching at him as water lapped around his boot tops, then his waist, drenching the dragging hem of her tunic.

  He laughed softly. “Then you are no witch, it seems. You would have passed the council’s test well enough and be exonerated in your grave.”

  Her reply was a soft mewling sound of fright. Her warm weight was a sharp contrast to the cold loch; she smelled faintly of heather.

  Beyond the loch on the mainland side, a rim of tall grass marked the banks. He made for there, the water rising higher and higher, covering him to his chest, so that he had to sling the lady to one side, letting her float like a hide punt beside him, soothing her with a constant murmur, aware of her fear. She looked like a water sprite, pale hair a mat of delicate seaweed such as mermaids wore, her tunic a dome of bloated linen atop the water.

  “Easy, lass, easy,” he murmured, “’tis not so very far now, just ahead of us lie the banks, and off we’ll be, safe enough once we’re clear of Lochawe. . . . Easy, bonny kelpie, be easy now while I swim a bit. . . . Hold my arm. . . . That’s it, let me bring you safe alongside me now . . .”

  Solid ground bumped beneath his boots at last, and he pulled her with him, held her in front of him until her feet found purchase on the grainy bottom of the loch. Marsh grasses waved gently, and a clump of brush defined the edge.

  Once aground, he looked back. The black towers outlined against a paler sky blinked with bobs of erratic light. The watch prowled the mainland side. He pushed the lady down to the soggy ground beside the clump of bush, stretched beside her, and waited, motionless, his fingers on her arm a warning for her to remain still. Bog grass danced, swished around them in a whisper of sound. A heron coughed, a shrill shrrakke! of annoyance at being disturbed.

  At last the watch lights disappeared, and he urged her to her feet, holding her arm when she stumbled. It was still dangerous, the chance of discovery high, for there were those who might be about yet, the celebrations of the day lingering. But most had gone to bed for the night, the flocks moved to the shielings, the slopes of Ben Cruachan dotted with shieling huts and sheep.

  Saturated earth of the marsh oozed beneath their feet, and the wind was sharp on wet clothes and skin. He felt her shiver beside him, but she made no complaint. She’d tucked the hem of her léine into the belt at her waist, leaving her lower legs unhindered by sodden linen. A glance rewarded him with a glimpse of gracefully curved leg, slender calves, and fine-boned bare feet, her shoes clasped in one hand. Just that brief glimpse sent heat flashing into his belly.

  It was a miserable trek across the marshlands, urgency biting at his heels, clouds overhead parting to let a thin curve of moon shed light enough to see but not be seen, and he hoped the horses he’d left in a wooded copse would still be there.

  The willows gave way to pines and oaks, thicker now, offering shelter from the elements and unfriendly eyes. His feet ma
de squelching sounds inside his boots as he broke into a faster pace, letting her trail behind. Just ahead lay the natural copse beneath dense pines, several yards from a lay-by for weary travelers on the Tyndrum road. A risk, but dared for the sake of time.

  Relief warmed him when he found the horses there, with none disturbed. He beckoned her to hasten, wanting to be well away from Lochawe before she was discovered gone. When she faltered, he moved swiftly to her and lifted her in his arms, swinging her atop the smaller of the steeds. Her hands flew out to grasp him on his forearms, clutching tightly.

  “Put this around you,” he said, and wrapped the wool brèid around her body. She still shivered, uncontrollable tremors that racked her, and he snatched a plaide off his horse to wind about her head and shoulders. “No, take it,” he said when she protested that he was just as wet and cold. “I brought several with me. ’Twill do until we are far away enough to find a warm fireside.”

  Through clattering teeth she said, “G-Glenlyon is near thirty leagues f-from here.”

  “Do you think I cannot find a welcoming fire between here and Glenlyon? Lady, you misjudge me. I have kin the length and breadth of Scotland that will receive us at their hearth and make no mention of why we are in such sad state.”

  That was true enough. Their safety depended, however, upon which branch of MacGregors or MacNeishes he chanced to meet first.

  They rode below the south ridge of Glen Lochy, coming abreast of Ben Lui by daybreak, the humped peak and folded ridges a sluice of shadow and light. Tyndrum lay just north, a crossroads they must avoid. By now her absence was surely discovered, and while he knew the Red Devil would guess his destination, he did not intend to be overtaken.

  Cutting south again, he pushed the horses and the lady relentlessly as the day wore on. Not even a league past Tyndrum lay Kirkton, where they would seek shelter for the night. He glanced over his shoulder; she hadn’t flagged, had accepted the quick meal of oatcake and swig of water he’d given her without a murmur, but it was obvious the lady was exhausted.

  Faint bluish shadows ringed her eyes, and the hands holding tight to her saddle were white-knuckled. They had paused only once, a discreet halt for necessity, and she had mounted the rouncy again herself, not waiting for him to lend aid. There was strength in her, a tenacity that he had not suspected.

  “’Tis true about English stubbornness,” he teased her, and was rewarded with a faint smile though she did not lift her eyes.

  “Don’t grieve for the bairnie, lass,” he said, moved by her sorrow. “Auld Maggie has a soft spot for bairns and will tend her well.”

  She looked up at that. Her eyes searched his face for signs of a lie, and then she nodded. “Aye, perhaps she will. There is no cruelty in her toward her grandson. Tam seems a contented lad.”

  “He is a scoundrel, always up to mischief, is our Tam. I fear your Mairi will be enticed to evil ways.”

  That wrung a true smile from her, a swift sideways curve of her lips that unexpectedly hit him in the gut. In his desire to see her safely away from Lochawe, he’d not considered how difficult it would be to have her so close.

  It made him feel awkward.

  Late afternoon shadows dipped between the snow-mantled crags of Ben Lui and Ben Oss, crept over the willows and grasslands in a swoop toward dusk. A cold wind blew down the mountain trough. It stirred her loose hair, set it in a pale drift across her face; the hand she put up to drag it away was fine-boned, graceful, a reminder of more than he wanted to recall.

  He looked toward the blue-hazed slopes that fringed the road. Kirkton would lend them shelter this night in the ruins of an ancient priory. Saint Fillan’s Priory was a shrine now, holding the bones of the seventh-century saint, gentle ghost with which to rest. None would search for them here.

  It was quiet at the abandoned priory, ivy and sedge and scrub willows growing up where once had stood monastery walls. A tumble of fallen stones formed a moss-covered cavern in what had once been the chapel nave, providing a barrier against the wind. It was nearly dark now, cold with the absence of the sun to warm them.

  While he tended the horses, Lady Judith took flint and dry tinder and started a fire in what had once been a font for holy water.

  “It seems a sacrilege,” she said when he joined her, and she looked up at him with a frown. “It would have been best to light a fire elsewhere.”

  “And have it be a beacon in the night? Nay, lady, this is the only place, lest we be discovered.”

  She was silent for a moment, using dry grass to make the fire blaze. “Do you think Lochawe will pursue us?”

  He didn’t tell her that it was not Lochawe he worried about most, but Argyll. The earl would hear of it, and he would not hesitate in pursuit. Lochawe was just an unwitting instrument, though he’d never believe it if Rob told him. He thought the earl above such dishonorable deeds. What would Angus say if he knew the truth? If he knew the full extent of Argyll’s treachery?

  “You do not answer,” she said, her voice strained, and he looked from the struggling flames to her face.

  “Lochawe is bound by duty to bring you back, if not for his own purpose, but because he swore to keep you hostage for the earl.”

  “Argyll.”

  “Yes.” He tossed a small stick into the fire. “Argyll.”

  She fell silent again. He rose, moved to the small sack he’d brought, and then returned.

  “Our evening meal will not be as savory as those you are used to,” he said, “but it will fill empty bellies.”

  Growing dismay was obvious in her face as she saw the pouch of oats and the small iron plate, loathing in her flat tone when she said, “Oatcakes.”

  “Yea, the staple of the soldier. Hot and filling.” He mixed oats and water, patted them onto the round of iron plate, then held it over the fire. “There were times I would have been glad enough for such tasty fare, so that it would seem like a banquet.”

  “I cannot imagine being that hungry.”

  “Believe me when I tell you that such times are far more frequent than I would like to remember. Ah, for you, my bonny lass, the first one is always the best.”

  He held it out, and she gingerly removed the hot oatcake from the plate, hissing between her teeth when she burned her fingers, then juggling the cake from one palm to the other until it cooled. Watching her, he smiled at her expression of concentration. She seemed more resigned now to her circumstances.

  “So you take me to Glenlyon,” she said when she’d eaten two oatcakes and washed them down with water from a leather pouch. Holding her hands out to the warmth of the small blaze, she looked at him over the flames, the rosy light painting color in her cheeks.

  “Yes.”

  “And you think they will not look for us there?”

  “It will hardly matter. Glenlyon is mine.”

  Her brows drew together. “You have a mighty fortress, then.”

  “Nay, lady, I have a hall not much larger than a crofter’s hut, and when I saw it last, the walls around all were still incomplete.” He wiped off the cooled iron plate and returned it to his sack. “Sheep graze on my roof. If I know Simon, there are cows in the hall.”

  “Simon?”

  “My cousin.” He paused. “And trusted steward. He holds my lands in my absence. A cursed useless absence, as he warned me it would be.”

  She pulled the wool plaide more snugly around her, draping it over her head and shoulders. “You went to Lochawe to stop the Campbell from riding to Caddel Castle after Mairi.”

  “Aye, so I did. Foolish of me. The ride near killed me, and my brothers still died.”

  Sparks rose from the fire; a twig snapped, burned through the middle. Bitterness swamped him. Heat washed over his face, but the wind at his back was cold and dark.

  “If you had not gone,” she said, drawing
his eyes to her face, “I may not be alive.”

  It was true enough. Lochawe would have blamed her still and found a way to punish her for his own misdeeds. He blew out a harsh breath, shook his head.

  “Pray, lady, that you will be alive long enough to reach Glenlyon.”

  “I will.” She smiled. “I ride with the Devil’s Cub.”

  On her lips, the epithet sounded very much like praise, and he nodded. “Aye, so you do.”

  Chapter 13

  PURSUING HORSEMEN thundered down the road and woke her sharply, the ground shaking from the force of hooves. She sat up, fright spearing through her as the rumble grew loud, and she heard Glenlyon say, “’Tis only a storm that threatens.”

  Relief flooded her. A dream. It had been a dream. In the distance beyond the priory, the dark shape of Ben Lui loomed like the hump of a dragon against the horizon. A fitful moon still scattered light over the priory, picked out a curl of ivy tumbling over a broken wall, lit grazing horses on cushioned grass that had once been a chapel floor. She lay back down.

  Ben Lui—Calf Mountain. It looked to her more like an ancient beast poised for assault. She closed her eyes, tucked her chin more deeply into the warmth of plaide wound around her, thought of Robert Campbell an arm’s length away.

  She had wondered what he might suggest when night fell, but he’d only tossed her an extra plaide and told her she could sleep first. He would watch and wake her when it was her turn.

  But he had not woken her. Her eyes opened. She saw from the low position of the moon’s cloudy curve that it would be light soon. Had he remained awake all the night?

  Stalwart warrior—he was intent upon her safety. It was a miracle of sorts that he risked so much to keep her safe from horrors she didn’t want to contemplate. Witchcraft summoned its own brand of torments, designed not to absolve but to destroy those accused. She knew well enough what might have happened, reserved gratitude for this Highland laird who dared defiance of his father for her sake.