by Emma Prince
“He slipped out of the great hall,” Elaine said. “I should have tried to stop him, to delay him long enough to—”
“Nay, lass.” The Bruce spared her a glance, his eyes flashing with surprising softness before turning hard again. “De Brechin left with my permission. He wasnae among those being honored this eve with land grants, so I gave him leave to depart whenever he wished.”
The Bruce clucked his tongue and his gaze dropped to the floor for a moment. “Mayhap the fact that I passed him over for more lands has something to do with whatever he’s scheming.”
“We can determine his motives later,” Finn replied. “Right now we need to catch him first.”
“But what of his confidant—the man he was speaking to?” the Bruce asked. “He could still be somewhere in the palace.” His mouth drew into a hard line behind his gray and russet beard. “He could be anyone, anywhere.”
An ominous silence fell over the little chamber, which Elaine broke at last. “And what of William de Soules?” What she truly longed to ask was what of Jerome. Fear for his safety clawed at her like a barely caged animal.
Finn’s gaze landed on her, and he must have been able to read the storm of emotions on her face. “I hate to say it, but I believe we have to trust that Munro and the others can take care of themselves for the time being.”
Elaine sucked in a breath, but Finn went on. “If I had another man I could trust here—a member of the Bodyguard Corps—I would send him after the envoy’s ship, but as it is, de Brechin must be our priority. He is near enough still that I might be able to hunt him down in a matter of a few days, and he will be able to tell us exactly what de Soules and whoever else they are working with has planned.”
The Bruce nodded slowly. “We dinnae ken how deep or far this scheme goes,” he added, fixing them each with a look. “Therefore it must stay between the three of us. If word gets out that someone is working against my peace efforts, who kens what other rodents will come out of the woodwork when an opportunity to thwart me presents itself.”
“Aye, and if they find out that ye were the one to discover their plot, ye will be in danger, Lainey.” Finn tried to soften his voice, but the words still hit her like a blow.
Elaine bobbed her head in assent, swallowing hard.
“I’ll ride after de Brechin—quietly,” Finn went on. “And when I catch him, I vow I’ll have answers out of him. The moment I have aught of use, I’ll return to Scone. I dinnae like leaving ye, Lainey, nor ye, Robert, especially no’ with the possibility of snakes in the rushes, but de Brechin is our best chance of foiling this scheme, whatever it may be.”
“I had better return to the feast,” the Bruce said grimly. “I cannae raise suspicions with my absence.”
Finn turned to her. “Go to yer chamber for the rest of the night, Lainey. In fact, stay in there until I return. Claim ye have some illness or other. We cannae risk ye coming to harm.”
She nodded again, her throat too tight to speak.
With a swift bow, Finn slipped out of the chamber. The Bruce followed, plastering a serene, regal look onto his face as he went. Elaine watched them head back toward the great hall for a moment before turning down the corridor and following its winding path to her chamber.
Inside, she took a few gulping breaths, willing her terrified tears down.
Jerome was in danger.
More than that, the King’s entire mission for Scottish freedom might be at risk.
And she was supposed to sit on her hands behind her barred chamber door until—what? Finn returned? Or one of de Brechin’s confidants realized she’d heard too much and came to silence her?
The events of the evening spun wildly through her mind. De Brechin calling Jerome “the Munro lapdog.” An image of William de Soules “handling” Jerome and stealing the declaration from his pouch.
Then Finn’s words drifted through the storm. If I had another man I could trust here—a member of the Bodyguard Corps—I would send him after the envoy’s ship.
None of the other members of the Bruce’s Corps were in Scone. Aye, Finn was right, de Brechin was an easier target. But that didn’t mean someone shouldn’t warn Jerome and the others that they—and their mission—were in danger.
A mad idea began to take shape in the corner of Elaine’s mind. It would either be the most foolish thing she’d ever done, or the bravest. She wasn’t sure which, yet she could not dwell on it now.
She hastily threw a cloak over her gown and fastened the tie at her neck. She kicked off her delicate slippers and jammed her feet into her riding boots, but there was no time to do aught else. Every minute she wasted, Jerome’s ship drew farther away—with de Soules plotting something onboard.
She held her breath as she opened her chamber door, but the corridor outside was empty. She glided along the passageways, angling not toward the great hall but to the attached abbey. Vespers had already been recited, so when she slipped into the abbey, she found it quiet and dim. Head ducked, she hurried through the nave until she reached the door leading outside.
Cool, damp night air hit her, and she sucked in a breath to calm her thoughts. She’d need a horse, though not Gertie, for she prized the mare too much to abandon her. And she’d need a way to slip by the guards along the palisades.
One thing at a time, she reminded herself as she crossed to the stables. She found a sleepy lad barely managing to stay propped upright against the stable doors. With a few quick words about needing to look in on an ailing relative in a nearby village, Elaine was handed the reins of a sturdy-looking mare. When she reached the guards at the palisade gates, she repeated the lie, adding that she’d been trained as a midwife and her dearest cousin needed her skills.
In moments, she was through the palisades and riding into the night. Though the terrain was dark, all she had to do was follow the river eastward until she saw the masts once more.
She pushed the mare far harder than they’d ridden that morning, and soon she could make out the dark slashes of the masts against the blue-black sky. As she approached, the glow of torchlight further illuminated the near bank.
Several men milled about, loading crates of unspun wool into a rowboat, apparently to be transported to one of the ships anchored nearby.
As she reined in the mare, the men stilled and straightened, peering at her curiously.
For the first time since she’d hatched this mad plan, her courage faltered. But she couldn’t fail now, not when so much depended upon her.
She pulled herself up in the saddle, willing her voice to be loud and steady. “Are any of these ships bound for France?”
Several of the men blinked at her, but at last one of them stepped forward.
“Aye, lassie,” the man said, cocking his snow-white head at her. He watched her with one pale blue eye. The other was covered by a black patch of cloth. “That’n there is.” He poked his chin, which was covered in a white beard to match his hair, at one of the ships. “She’s mine,” he went on in his thick brogue. “Call ’er the Bonny Berta, I do.”
“When will you depart?”
“Just as soon as all this ’ere wool be loaded,” he replied, nodding to the last few crates that remained on the bank.
“Then I’d like to buy passage.”
A few of the men scoffed, but the apparent captain only lifted his bushy white brows. “Is that so? And how do ye plan to pay for that, lassie?”
Elaine looked down at the mare. “I’ll sell you my horse.” She silently prayed for forgiveness, for she’d in effect stolen one of the Bruce’s horses, but she vowed to repay him in full when—not if—she returned.
The captain cocked his head again, assessing the mare. “Aye, well, a fine animal.” He hesitated a long moment, idly tugging on his beard. At last, he spoke. “Verra well, lassie.”
As she dismounted, he called to one of the younger lads on the banks.
“Davy, take the horse just over yon rise to Errol,” he said, waving to the north. “If ye
fetch a fair price, I’ll let ye keep a coin for yer trouble until I’m back for the next load of cargo.”
Davy nodded and turned to Elaine, ducking his head as he held out his hand for the reins.
When she passed him the reins and turned to the captain, she knew there was no going back now.
“I-I assume you can assure my safe passage, Captain…” she said, locking her knees to keep them from trembling.
“MacDougal,” he replied, surprising her by giving her a little bow. “Captain Padraig MacDougal, lassie, and aye, ye’ll be more’n safe on Bonny Berta, I promise ye.” He narrowed his good eye on her, lifting one brow. “But I cannae make promises once we reach Calais. Are ye sure ye wish to make the journey? Davy can return yer horse, no harm done.”
“Nay,” she breathed, “I am sure.”
“And what could compel a bonny wee thing like ye to ride out in the dark of night to buy yer way to France on a cargo ship?”
Elaine lifted her chin. “I have my reasons.” Lying didn’t come naturally to her. Since she would be spending several days aboard Captain MacDougal’s ship, any falsehood she told might easily come unraveled with time.
The captain chuckled. “Verra well, lassie, keep yer secrets.” The last of the crates had been positioned in the rowboat and the men hopped in. MacDougal waved to her. “Come on then. Dinnae dally.”
Steeling her spine, Elaine stepped to the bank. As she eyed the rocking boat dubiously, the captain’s gnarled hands closed around her waist and hoisted her into the air. She landed with a squeak atop one of the open crates, the wool inside cushioning her ungraceful embarkation.
A few of the men chuckled, but then the captain stepped aboard and gave them a sharp eye. “Hold yer whist,” he snapped. “Else ye’ll answer to me.”
The men instantly fell silent, and a surge of gratitude rose in Elaine’s throat. At least for the next few days, she’d be safe.
“How long will it take to reach Calais?” she asked as they rowed across the inky river to MacDougal’s ship.
He scratched his beard. “Five days, mayhap four if we catch a favorable wind.”
When the rowboat nudged the ship’s hull, the men leapt into action, some climbing the lowered ladder up to the deck, others securing ropes around the crates to be hauled aboard. At the captain’s urging, Elaine gingery picked her way up the ladder and onto the ship’s deck. MacDougal followed, bellowing orders to raise the anchor and unfurl the sails as soon as his boots hit the planks.
She dragged in a bracing lungful of air as the ship began gliding down the river. She could already smell the tang of salt from the North Sea. The first step in this mad plan was complete.
Now she could only pray that she reached France—and Jerome—in time.
Chapter Fourteen
Jerome nearly spit, but he’d already done that a dozen times today.
That morning, the sun had broken through the fog hanging over the sea and revealed the verdant shores of France. They’d approached Calais with the wind at their backs as they entered the harbor. But instead of docking directly before the fortified, walled city, they’d followed the curving harbor as it skirted around the city’s western edge.
That had taken an extra hour, but the captain assured them that it would save them the hassle of entering the city. But of course when they’d disembarked, they’d needed horses, so Kieran had been sent through the fortified gates to procure mounts.
When Kieran returned with four strong steeds, Jerome had thought them away at last, but then William de Soules had informed them that they had to wait for the arrival of the King of France himself.
Apparently the King wished to provide them a personal escort from Calais to his court in Paris. According to de Soules, King Philip was feuding with England’s King Edward II. Edward refused to pay homage and acknowledge Philip, so the French King had decided to make a show of supporting Scotland’s pursuit of independence from England.
King Philip insisted on publicly making it known—to his people, to the Scots, but most importantly to the English—that Robert the Bruce’s envoy was being permitted to travel across his lands all the way to the Papal court in Avignon with his blessing.
Which meant Jerome was stuck waiting on a King.
Of course, the day was fair, the sun shining, and the May air far more balmy than it had been in Scotland. Jerome had nowhere else to be, his only task to deliver the Bruce’s declaration safely—which Philip’s presence would ensure.
Then why was he in such a bloody foul mood?
Damn it all, of course he knew.
Elaine.
Thoughts of her had plagued him as they’d crossed the North Sea. She’d been like a breath of fresh air. She was so full of life, wearing her heart on her sleeve.
Before he’d met her, he’d treated life like a never-ending string of tasks. Complete each mission handed to him. Prove his loyalty. Outrun his family legacy.
That had been all. Though he believed in the justness of the Bruce’s cause for freedom and had gladly lent whatever abilities or strengths he had when the Bruce had requested his service, he hadn’t realized until he’d met Elaine that he’d turned his life into one long slog devoid of joy or pleasure.
But all that had changed from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Jerome was not a fanciful man. He didn’t read poetry or wax over emotions like a bard. He’d even scoffed at tales of infatuation and love. There was no room in his life for such softness. He’d spent every day of the last fourteen years attempting to prove that he wasn’t like his father—wasn’t a traitor.
Until now. Somehow in the last fortnight, Elaine had ferreted her way into his mind, distracting him from what he’d thought was most important. Even when she wasn’t near, his longing for her lingered like a sweet perfume that hung in the air and filled his every breath.
If he were honest, that scared him. Terrified him, in fact. He was not some lovesick lad. He was a warrior, a Munro. Wanting Elaine, and letting that desire distract him, threatened to undo everything he’d worked for these past fourteen years.
He could have let himself believe that he would see her again once this mission was complete. The Bruce might send him to the Borderlands again, or mayhap she would find herself in Scotland once more.
But such hopes were foolish, and only made this damned persistent desire worse. She was to be wed when she returned to Trellham Keep. He clenched his fists at the thought. It had taken five days to reach Calais. She and Finn had likely already begun the journey back to Trellham. That meant she was five days closer to belonging to someone else—and five days farther away from him.
Letting a frustrated breath go, he spun on his heels, casting his gaze from where they stood on a small grassy rise down to the harbor below. The waters sparkled dazzlingly, catching the bright sun. Their ship still sat in the harbor, one amongst dozens of others. The harbor bustled with activity—cargo being loaded and unloaded, vessels being resupplied, and the constant coming and going of ships.
A smaller, squat cargo ship caught his eye as it sailed into the harbor’s sheltered waters. It flew the Scottish flag—not unusual, for the wool trade between the two countries was strong, but something else drew his attention.
A splash of copper glinted like a coin from the top deck. He squinted. The figure was clad in a brown wool cloak, but beneath it, he saw a flash of blue. A gown. The figure was a woman.
Nay… It couldn’t be…
Without thinking, he snatched the reins of one of the waiting horses Kieran had procured and swung into the saddle.
“Munro! What are ye about?” Kieran called behind him, but Jerome had already spurred the horse and was barreling down the slope toward the harbor.
Distantly, he heard the other men shouting after him as well, followed by the pounding of their horses’ hooves, but he paid them no mind. His gaze remained locked on the woman.
As he drew near the docks, a gangplank was lowered from the ship. The woman actually hugg
ed a white-haired, stocky man standing next to her, then picked her way carefully down the gangplank to the docks.
Just as he dragged his horse to a stop and flung himself from its back, she stepped onto the dock and lifted her head. Their gazes locked.
“Elaine—what in…?”
Her blue eyes rounded. “Jerome! I wasn’t sure how I’d find you—and yet here you are. You’ve saved me a great deal of trouble.”
“Here ye are.” He closed the distance between them, his hands closing around her arms. Aye, she was real, and she was here.
And her presence threatened the entire mission.
Like a fanned flame, his shock blazed into anger. “What the bloody hell are ye doing here?” he snapped. “This is no place for a gentle-bred lass.”
Desperation filled her eyes. “I-I need to speak with you—it is a matter of grave import.”
“What could possibly be so urgent that ye sailed to France to find me? Dinnae tell me ye came alone, Elaine.”
She nodded distractedly. “Aye, but that isn’t—”
Jerome cursed. “Finn is going to have my head—that is, if the Bruce doesnae take it for endangering this mission.”
“That is just it,” she interjected. “I came because—”
“Munro! What the bloody hell is going on?”
Jerome turned to find Kieran, de Soules, and the bishop all reining in their horses next to his.
Elaine stiffened in his hold, her mouth still open with the words she hadn’t yet spoken.
“I—”
She faltered, her gaze fixing on the others for a long moment before she returned it to him. For the briefest moment, pain flashed in her sky-blue eyes. Then she took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders.
“I had to come—because I am in love with you.”
* * * *
Elaine’s pride withered and died as she blurted the words.
She’d had five long days aboard Captain MacDougal’s ship to plan what she would do when she arrived in Calais—buy a horse, ask after such an unusual group of men, and pray that she managed to catch up to them before they reached Avignon—but not once had she considered the fact that she might not have a moment alone with Jerome to explain why she was there.