Beloved Stranger

by Patricia Potter

  Fighting back fear, she ran back to the copse of trees bordering the cottage and peered out from behind a large oak just as three riders approached. Bear, still barking, ran with them.

  The rider took off his helmet, and relief flooded her as she recognized him as a Charlton. She walked out to meet them.

  “Kimbra, the Charlton sent me. The Armstrongs raided several farms earlier tonight. One man was badly hurt. The Charlton wants ye and your daughter to go to the tower for safety, and he has need of your herbs, for the injured.”

  Relief flooded her. “What about my cow?”

  “We will take her with us,” he said.

  “I have to get my daughter. I hid her in the woods. I feared you might be raiders.”

  “I will go with you.”

  Kimbra ran as swiftly as she could. She did not want Audra alone one more second than necessary. She found Audra leaning against Magnus for comfort. When she saw Kimbra, she ran to her.

  “’Twas just the Charlton, wanting us to return to the tower,” she said.

  “Are we going?”

  “Aye.”

  “I will see Mr. Howard?”

  “I do not know. He may be gone.”

  Kimbra lifted her daughter and carried her back to the cottage. She quickly bundled a second dress for both of them, along with an assortment of herbs the Charlton might need.

  She fed the chickens and left additional seed for them, then mounted Magnus with Audra seated in front of her. Bess, bellowing with displeasure, was led by a long rope.

  Kimbra’s heart pounded harder with every furlong, both with expectation and fear. She wanted to see the Scot again, but not this way, not at the expense of an injured Charlton.

  The first grays of dawn appeared as they neared the tower. There were more sentries than usual on the walls. Lads appeared out of nowhere to take their horses. She helped Audra down, then slid off the horse. A Charlton picked up Audra and carried her inside.

  Claire was waiting for them and quickly led the three of them up to a bedchamber with a large feather bed. The Charlton soldier laid Audra on the bed, then left the room.

  Kimbra sat next to her daughter. Fear still lingered from that terrifying moment when she left Audra alone. She leaned down and kissed her. Then she stood and left Audra in the care of a servant.

  She looked at Claire. “I understand someone is wounded,” Kimbra said. “I have brought some herbs . . .”

  Claire nodded and led the way down two flights of stairs, then into a room off the hall where the family and visitors dined. Kimbra recognized the man as one of her neighbors.

  His face was swollen, a cut halfway down his cheek, and there was a wicked looking slice on his side. His face was twisted with pain.

  “Kimbra,” he said. “They should not have brought ye to me.”

  “Of course, they should,” she said. “Your family?”

  “There’s only my sons now. They were here at the tower for training, and now they’ve gone after my hobblers. Bloody Scots. Hope they rot in hell.” He groaned as he tried to move.

  “Stay still,” she ordered. “I will get you something to help you sleep and keep away infection.”

  She hurried to the kitchen with Claire, and she mixed rosemary with wine and gave it to Claire to take to the wounded man, while she made several poultices of aloe and comfrey for the wounds.

  When she returned, he had obviously drunk the potion. Some of the pain had left his face. She washed the wounds carefully before applying the hot cloth to them, her heart hurting as he tried to stifle a groan.

  “He should sleep,” she told Claire, “but someone should sit with him. If he has a fever, please send for me.”

  “I will,” Claire said. “Now you get yourself to bed, or the Charlton will have my head. He has a soft spot for you. Said you remind him of his wife.”

  She was too weary for the words to make sense. She only wanted to get to the feather bed and hold her daughter in her arms, knowing both of them were safe.

  For the moment.

  Would the Charlton continue to have a soft spot for her, if he knew she was responsible for a Scot hiding within his own tower?

  But she had one more question first. “Robert Howard? How is he?”

  Claire gave her a rare smile. “He walks without crutches now. The Charlton plans to take him on a raid in two days.”

  “And those who raided the farm?”

  “Armstrongs. Richie’s Will is going after them.”

  Richie’s Will was known to her as well. He was called that since there were so many Wills in the Charlton family. It was a border custom that had confused her at first, men being called by both their father’s and their own name to avoid confusion of so many like names.

  “Cedric?”

  “He is here to protect the tower.”

  Kimbra wished it was the other way around, but she knew Richie’s Will to be a good fighter. Her own Will had said as much.

  Kimbra climbed the steps to her chamber. It was on the other side of the Charlton’s chamber from the Scot’s. The thought of seeing him on the morrow warmed her, even though she knew Cedric would watch their every movement.

  Still, anticipation bubbled inside her even as she took off her gown and laid down on the bed next to Audra. Her eyes closed, and her last thought was of the Scot.

  ORY, Jamie, and the Armstrongs rode hard through the night. It was a rough and unwelcoming land to Rory, not at all like the green vales and blue lochs of the highlands. He already missed them bitterly and wondered how he had stayed away for the ten years he’d spent at sea. He’d hated Inverleith once, hated the legacy that had haunted all three of the Maclean brothers. He remembered how he had come home to face an undisciplined clan, a castle near ruin, and a demoralized people. Lachlan had been nominal leader, having lost a father after one brother disappeared on the continent, and the other—Rory—had chosen the sea. Rory had no notion, then, of his brother’s torments. He’d only seen a brother who preferred playing the lute to managing a raucous clan bedeviled by Campbells.

  Although Lachlan had proved himself when needed, he’d become the lonely wanderer as Rory had once been. What was it about the Maclean clan that made peace with themselves so difficult?

  Dawn came. Gray tinged the horizon, slowly lifting the dark curtain as they left the great tangled ridge of the Cheviots, a rough barrier of desolate treeless tops and moorland.

  In several more hours, they reached Branxton Church. There appeared little difference in the dress and speech of the people on either side of the border.

  After leaving their horses in the care of one of the Armstrongs, they went inside. A priest approached them. “Are you here for confession?”

  “Nay,” said the Armstrong. “We are trying to discover the fate of a man who rode with King James. We heard the king’s body was brought here. We wondered if any others were brought with him, or if ye have word of any wounded.”

  The priest bowed his head. “A sad time for both England and Scotland, God save their souls. The king was brought here, along with several other bodies. What is the name of the man you seek?”

  “Lachlan Maclean.”

  The priest shook his head. “He wasn’t among them. All the others were identified.”

  “Are there any lists of the dead?” Rory asked, unable to hold back any longer. It did not matter if anyone knew who or what he was. The English army was gone, and he was under the protection of the Armstrongs. There was also the promise of sanctuary inside the church.

  The priest looked at him with surprise. “You are not from here.”

  “Nay,” he said simply, not bothering to say more.

  “Come with me,” the priest said. He led them to a small room where a piece of parchment lay. He handed it to Rory. “’Tis all we have. Many of the dead, though, were carried back across the border to the church at Southdean. Some were taken to Graden Palace, near Grinton. Still others were buried where they fell.”

 
Rory’s eyes sped over the lists. The king’s illegitimate son, Alexander Stuart, who would also have ridden at the king’s side. The chancellor of Scotland. The bishop of the Isles. The dean of Glasgow Cathedral. Fourteen lords of Parliament. Then there were nine earls and a number of lairds. He saw so many names of people he’d known.

  But Lachlan’s was not among them.

  Jamie took the list and read it in silence, a muscle tightening in his jaw. “Is there any other information?”

  “There may be at Southdean or Grinton.”

  “Lachlan Maclean wore a brooch,” Rory persisted. “The crest of the Macleans. Will you ask around whether anyone has seen it or tried to sell it?”

  The priest hesitated.

  “There will be a donation for the church. A substantial one.”

  The priest still hesitated. Rory took some coins from a purse strapped to his belt and offered them to the priest.

  The priest took them.

  “I will draw the design for you,” Rory said.

  The priest led them to another room and a desk. He gave Rory a quill and bottle of ink, as well as a precious piece of parchment.

  Rory sketched out a double circle with the clan’s motto, then a tower.

  The priest took it, then surprise flickered across his face. “I have seen this. It was encrusted with jewels. Rubies and diamonds.”

  “When?”

  “Five days ago.”

  “Who had it?”

  “A lad.”

  “Did he say where he got it?”

  The priest shook his head. “No, but he wore the clothes of a reiver. The reivers went through the battlefield, taking from the dead. I thought he must have stolen it.”

  “What did he want from you? Absolution?”

  “He wanted to know what the words on the crest meant. He couldn’t read them. He wanted to know if I recognized them. I did not.” The priest paused. “He told a most unlikely tale. He said he had killed a man on the battlefield and that in the man’s dying breath he had asked the lad to return the crest to his family, but that the Scottish soldier died before he could tell him which family.”

  Rory’s heart pounded. Could it be true? But it didn’t make sense. No reiver would return such a precious object. He sensed the priest agreed.

  “What did he look like?”

  “He kept his helmet on. I thought that disrespectful. I could not see the color of his hair. His cheeks were freshly shaved, though muddied from riding.”

  “Riding?”

  “I watched him leave. He rode a black hobbler. A handsome beast. Probably stolen.”

  “And he did not give you a name?”

  The priest furrowed his brows together. “Nay.”

  “He was English?”

  “Sometimes it is difficult to tell about borderers,” the priest said, “but I believe he was English.”

  “He had to come here because he could not read,” Rory said. He tried to decipher the puzzle. There was a border lad who could not read and rode a black horse. But he claimed to kill a trained soldier, which Lachlan most certainly was. Reluctant, yes. Incompetent, no.

  “The tale is unlikely,” he thought aloud. “Lachlan was a skilled warrior. A lad could not unseat him.” He mused on. “And why would this lad surrender an object taken in fair combat?”

  “I wondered the same thing,” the priest said.

  Hope flared in Rory. Someone was looking for Lachlan’s family. For a ransom? To explain the circumstances of his death? He did not think someone would go to any trouble to do the latter.

  He looked at Jamie.

  Jamie nodded. They needed no words between them.

  Rory glanced back at the priest. “I will make it well worth your trouble if you see the lad again and learn where he lives. You can send word to any Armstrong and ask for Rory.”

  The priest looked at the coins in his hands. “I will try to find him. God’s blessing on you. English or Scot, this has been a sad time for the border.”

  Chapter 16

  ROBERT Howard pulled on the jack that Will Charlton once wore, then fitted a steel helmet over his head.

  Tonight they were to ride to the Armstrongs. He had listened earlier to the Charlton as he outlined the plan. They would meet another large group of Charltons near the border, then ride to the Armstrongs and take all the cattle they could gather.

  Richie’s Will had not caught up with the raiders of three nights earlier, but he had retrieved some of the cattle, which apparently had slowed the raiders.

  Robert had been given a sword, and a bow and arrows. He had a dagger at his belt.

  When he was ready, he started down the hallway, went to the steps, then stopped. He turned and went in the direction of Kimbra’s room.

  She had been here the past three days; days filled with temptation. He saw her in the corridors and in the hall where they all ate. They always seemed to have people with them, and their conversations had been short and polite. Each night he had to restrain himself from going to her room.

  But Audra would be there, as well, and there were so many ears and eyes in the tower that he was sure word would spread within minutes. And all that time the image of the fallen man remained in his mind. Along with the stabbing guilt that he had done something terribly wrong. How could he go to her without knowing what demons lurked in his past?

  Most of the men were gathered down near the stable, and by God’s grace he was going to say good-bye.

  He went to her room, knocked on the door. It opened immediately.

  She stood there in her blue dress, the one that gave her gray eyes a blue lumination.

  He stepped inside. “Where is Audra?”

  “Down with the cook.”

  He opened his arms and drew her to him. “The last three days have been hell,” he said.

  “Aye.”

  “I hear the man you cared for is doing well.”

  She did not reply, just moved even nearer to him.

  “God’s tooth, but I have missed you,” he muttered.

  She didn’t need words to answer. Her eyes told him that he hadn’t been the only one in agony.

  His lips smashed down on hers. No tenderness now, just raw, painful need. The emptiness in him was so vast, so agonizing, he tried to dull it with a passion that would fill all the cavities in his heart.

  She responded as hungrily as he had, her hand going to his neck and drawing him even closer. Their kiss was explosive, as if emotions had been imprisoned so long they simply burst. Her body trembled in his arms, and he held her tightly.

  He wanted to seize her and bury himself in her, but instead his fingers went to her cheek, running a thumb over the soft skin.

  She stepped back, and her gray eyes glistened as they searched his face. “Be careful,” she said in a broken voice, and he knew she was thinking about someone else who had left on a raid.

  “I will.”

  “Leave if you have a chance,” she said. “Go back to Scotland. Live and . . . be happy.”

  “I do not think I was ever happy,” he said slowly.

  “You remember something?”

  He was silent. How could he tell her what he did remember, or about the hopeless guilt he’d felt when he’d had the vision?

  “Nothing that told me who I was.”

  “What was it?” she persisted.

  He shook his head.

  She touched his cheek with such tenderness he almost told her what he had seen, what he had experienced. What would she think of him then?

  “I must go,” he said. “Stay here until you have some protection.”

  “Do you promise?” she said. “Do you promise to go back home?”

  “Right now this is home,” he said.

  “But it cannot be. Someone will learn the truth. And someone is waiting for you.”

  “I am not wed,” he said. “I would know.”

  “Why that and little else?” she asked practically. “You must find out for yourself. Someone
will know you. You were with the Scottish king. You are obviously a noble. Someone in Edinburgh will tell you what you need to know.”

  “I will not have the chance. Thomas Charlton likes me well enough, but he also has men watching me. And I will not do anything to make them doubt you.”

  “The sooner you leave, the safer I will be,” she said.

  He leaned down and kissed her again. Tenderly this time. Lingering there with his lips on hers and his fingers wrapped in her dark hair.

  Then abruptly he left before he made promises he could not keep.

  RORY and Jamie rode during the day and night to reach the Armstrong hold. The Armstrongs who’d gone with them remained behind to search for a lad with a black horse, first on the English side, then the Scottish.

  Rory knew he and Jamie would be of more hindrance than help. The Armstrongs explained that few could tell the difference between the Scot and English borderers, but Rory’s and Jamie’s Highland speech would instantly be suspect.

  When they arrived, the hold was full of riders, far more than when he’d left. His host approached him. “Our Armstrongs have been gathering. The Charltons plan to raid us. We will ambush them.”

  “How did you learn of it?”

  “A traitor with the Charltons.”

  “It could be a trap.”

  “Nay, the man has his own reasons. Do ye want a bit of sport?”

  Rory wanted only to discover the fate of his brother, but the Armstrongs had extended their hospitality and more, and he had a debt to pay. “Aye,” he agreed.

  Jamie nodded his assent as well.

  “We will be leaving in several hours. Ye can get some rest while we wait for the others.”

  He and Jamie returned to the room they shared. But despite two days with little or no sleep, Rory couldn’t rest. Why was someone trying to discover the meaning of the words on the crest Lachlan had been wearing?

  An ambush. He did not like ambushes. If he was going to fight, he wanted to do it man to man in the open. But the borderers, he had found, had their own ideas of honor. And he was their guest. That made their honor his.