Beloved Stranger

by Patricia Potter

  Three weeks after returning, Rory had found him looking out over the sea.

  “Would you like to go to sea?” he asked. “Take my place as owner?”

  “I know nothing about the sea.”

  “You will learn quickly enough. I have a good shipmaster. You would be doing the buying and selling. You have a head for books and numbers.”

  “You would trust me?”

  “I already have trusted you with my life.”

  Nothing could have pleased Lachlan more. Neither the last declaration nor the opportunity to leave a place full of bad memories.

  He nodded. “I will try it.”

  Rory then took something from his pocket. It was wrapped in rich velvet. “I commissioned this in Edinburgh. It just arrived.”

  He had taken the piece of velvet, opened it slowly, and saw the crest. A large lump lodged in his throat. He had never felt accepted as a Maclean. He’d always been the odd outsider, the strange one who preferred books and music to weapons and training.

  This brooch said that, at last, he was a true Maclean.

  It had been his most prized possession.

  When he had seen it in Audra’s hand, the memories had flooded back. All the emotions connected with it. Pride. Belonging.

  Now it burned his fingers.

  RORY Maclean, Jamie Campbell, and an Armstrong had glasses of ale in a tavern on the English side of the border. The Armstrong ordered for them, and they took a table distanced from other patrons so their words would not be heard.

  Rory knew he smelled of sweat and horses. The rough material of his clothes chafed skin more accustomed to the fine wool of his plaid. His beard had grown, and he disliked that as well. But it made him far less conspicuous.

  They waited. Mary Armstrong was also traveling with them. She had been given money to go to the village merchant for oats. And information.

  This, according to the Armstrong, was Charlton land.

  Three days had passed since they had left. The Armstrong had left word of the route they planned to take, just in case there was word of Lachlan. Everywhere they went, they asked about a lad and a black hobbler, as horses were called here. They also asked if anyone had heard about a ruby and diamond brooch.

  So far all of their efforts to find Lachlan had met with failure. He had been generous with his gold, and now it was rapidly declining. If Lachlan or Hector still lived and ransom was demanded, he would be hard put to meet it.

  Rory stretched out his long legs and mournfully contemplated the cup of ale. If it had not been for the lad and the church at Branxton, he might have given up. He’d had high hopes for this village, and his gaze had gone to every man and lad they passed. None brought back that fierce start of recognition he’d felt during the fight days ago.

  That scene continued to haunt him.

  It had seemed like a sign to him. God’s promise.

  He’d wanted to come directly here, but there had been other small villages on the way, and it did no harm stopping in them first. But now he wondered whether the journey was a fool’s errand. The Charlton raider the other night could not have been Lachlan.

  They were just finishing the tankards of very bad ale when the door opened and two reivers entered. They went to the proprietor, obviously full of important news. “That soldier staying with Mistress Charlton. They say he is a Scottish noble. A Maclean, ’tis said.”

  In moments the tavern was buzzing with questions. Rory had to force himself not to join in. He allowed the Armstrong, whose accent was similar to the ones he was hearing, to make queries.

  “He is alive?”

  “Aye. Kimbra Charlton, Will’s widow, apparently found him, thought he was English, and nursed him back to health. The physician said it was a miracle he lived. Either that or black arts. Given the fact he is a highborn Scot, it was most likely the latter.”

  Snickers broke out.

  “Maclean, ye say?” someone asked.

  “Aye, but pretending to be English. He even took part in that raid against the Armstrongs. He was the one who saved the Charlton’s life.”

  “Probably set the ambush up hisself,” one listener muttered.

  Rory tried to hide his elation. So it had been Lachlan. God help him, what if he had killed Lachlan? Why had his brother not said anything? Why hadn’t he turned and left with them? Why was he fighting the Armstrongs at all?

  Loyalty. A Charlton lass had apparently saved Lachlan’s life. Mayhap that had something to do with it. But surely Lachlan had recognized him, even though his own face had been partly covered by the steel helmet. Why had he not followed?

  None of it made sense.

  He and Jamie exchanged glances, rose, and left the tavern. It was filling fast, apparently to hear and discuss the news. They were strangers, and now that a Scot had been discovered in their midst, the villagers might ask questions of other strangers.

  They saw Mary Armstrong walking rapidly toward them. Apparently she’d heard the news as well. They mounted their horses and rode from the village.

  When well away, they stopped and exchanged information with Mary.

  “He is at the Charlton tower,” she said. “I know it. It is much like the Armstrong tower. Ye cannot get into it.”

  “What do they plan to do with him?” Jamie asked.

  She shrugged. “Some say hand him over to the English. Others want ransom.”

  “Who decides?”

  “The Charlton. Thomas Charlton. He leads the family.”

  “The one they say Lachlan saved?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you know where this woman lives, this Kimbra?”

  Mary smiled. “Aye. I asked. It seems that she has a black hobbler as well.”

  He gave her one of his precious gold pieces. “My thanks. You can give me directions to her dwelling, and I’ll decide then what to do. You can return home.”

  “I would rather stay, milord. I might be able to help.”

  “It could be dangerous. I doubt the Charltons care for Armstrongs at the moment.”

  She acknowledged the danger with a bob of her head. “I will go with ye,” she said.

  Chapter 24

  HER heart crumbling, Kimbra returned to her own chamber.

  As promised, Audra sat next to Bear, petting him. Bear’s huge tail beat a tattoo on the rug that covered the stone floor. At seeing her, Bear rose to his feet and stood there, tongue lolling in front, tail wagging in back.

  She kneeled and very carefully gave him a big hug.

  He licked her face.

  It was all right, though. She needed that affection.

  “How is Mr. Howard?” Audra asked.

  “It is Maclean,” she said.

  “I think of him as Mr. Howard.”

  He would always be the Scot to Kimbra.

  “He is a lord, Audra, and I imagine an important man. He is not ‘our’ Robert Howard.”

  “But he will not leave us,” Audra said stubbornly.

  “Aye, he has his own home and family.”

  “Can we go with him?”

  “Nay.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he is a noble, and we are not. He is Scottish, and we are English. He has his life, and we have ours.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “If the Charlton permits it. We should leave soon.” She truly needed to be gone this day. There was Bess and the chickens. Her garden. Her herbs. She had promised Jane some bay leaves.

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. Though difficult, the cottage and her herbs had been her life and with Audra a satisfactory one. She had been caught up in a fantasy she knew would end.

  “He was going to give me lessons on the lute,” Audra persisted.

  “Mayhap he still will. I will have to fetch it from the cottage.” She grabbed at the chance to leave here, to return to the cottage, and do things she did every day. She would stop in at Jane’s. Now she could tell her friend more. Not everything. But more.

&n
bsp; It would keep her thoughts from the Scot and how she felt yesterday when he’d made love to her. And then today . . .

  Was it only yesterday?

  “I will ask the Charlton if you can see—” She did not know which name to use. She was so accustomed to thinking of him as simply the Scot.

  She left the room and went to the Charlton’s room and knocked, thought she’d heard something inside, and opened the door tentatively.

  He was alone, and he motioned her in.

  “May I have leave to tend the animals and fetch my daughter’s lute? She will stay here. I will return before nightfall.”

  “I can send someone over to bring the animals in.”

  “There are items I need.”

  “Then I will send someone to accompany ye.”

  “I would like to go alone,” she persisted. She could not explain why.

  “It is not safe.”

  “It is daylight, and I will be back before dark,” she persisted. She really wanted, needed, to be alone. “I have made the trip alone hundreds of times, and you know the raiders never strike during the day.”

  “If ye are not back, I will send men for ye,” he finally relented.

  She wasted no more time. She fetched her cloak, then went down to the stables. Magnus was already saddled. The Charlton must have sent word.

  She was soon away from the walls, racing Magnus down the road. She wanted to flee from her thoughts. Had she made a terrible mistake? Her soul bled every time she recalled the Scot’s eyes, the plea in them. The plea that she believe in him.

  She finally slowed Magnus down. She would fetch the lute, and the ruby ring. She did not know when the Charlton would allow her to return. She would feed the chickens and milk Bess, then take Bess to Jane’s. She would ask Jane to check the chickens the next day as well.

  When she turned toward her cottage, she looked back and she saw a man on horseback. She recognized him.

  So the Charlton had sent someone, after all. It unexpectedly warmed her. She realized it was because he cared about her. That had come as a surprise. She’d known he liked Will, but he had always seemed indifferent toward her.

  She could live with her distant protector.

  She knew now, however, how much she longed for a tall, blue-eyed Scot, instead.

  UDRA did not have permission, but she went A boldly to where the Scot was kept and told the guard she did.

  He looked at her suspiciously. “Ye are not carrying a pike, are ye?”

  “Nay.”

  “Did ye bring anything?”

  She felt her face turn red. There was a sweet secreted in the sleeve of her gown. She pulled it out sheepishly.

  He gave her a severe look. “There is no weapon in there?”

  Not entirely sure whether he was serious or teasing, she shook her head.

  “Well, then ye can go in,” he yielded with a grin.

  He opened the door, then he stood aside and allowed her to go in, and shut the door behind her.

  The man she’d known as Robert Howard had been looking out the window. She knew because he’d halfway turned to face her.

  “Miss Audra,” he said in the soft voice he always used with her.

  “Do you want to see me?” she asked forthrightly.

  “Aye, always.”

  “But not my mother?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She is very sad. I think she cried. She never cries,” Audra said solemnly.

  He knelt on one knee. “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “Were you mean to her?”

  “I did not intend to be.”

  “She said you are going away.”

  “Aye, I must.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Scots are not welcome here.”

  “You are welcome at our cottage.”

  “Unfortunately you are the exception in thinking so.”

  “ ’ Xception? What does that mean?”

  “Exception means that you think one way when everyone else thinks another.”

  She thought about that. “Like Mother.”

  He smiled. “Aye, like your mother.”

  “She went to fetch my lute. Will you teach me another song?”

  “Aye, but you do not need me now. You know your notes. You can learn on your own.”

  “I want to read, too.”

  “Do you remember what I taught you? The letters as well?”

  “I say them every night, so I will not forget.”

  “Can you tell me now?”

  She did. She missed a p, but other than that was perfect.

  He would send them books. Lots of them.

  He didn’t want to send them. He wanted to be there when they opened them. He wanted to see the same delight on their faces that he felt at opening a book.

  He wanted to hear Audra read out loud. He wanted to see Kimbra bent over a book, her face intent.

  Blazes, he did not want to lose either one of them.

  She is very sad. I think she cried. She never cries.

  He had stood at the window and watched her ride away. He had known she rode away from him.

  His heart was riding away as well.

  “You say your mother went for your lute?”

  She nodded.

  He’d watched her ride off alone. What was she thinking? He saw the sudden concern in Audra’s eyes and knew his own apprehension must be obvious.

  “She will be fine,” he assured her, even though his own heart was pounding. Cedric was out there. Armstrongs were raiding. God only knew what else. Damn the Charlton for letting her go.

  He tried not to let his own worry show. “Would you like a story?” he asked. “One of a lad who went to sea?”

  “I would like that very much,” she said primly.

  “Then I will tell you of Dan, a boy not much older than you who was a cabin lad . . .”

  And all the time he told the story, he kept thinking of Kimbra riding alone.

  She was so sad.

  How could he possibly let her go?

  He couldn’t. He’d been a damned fool to let pride blind him to what should have been obvious. He’d obviously hurt her by his reaction to seeing the crest. And still she was trying to protect him. She feared who she was might turn his family against him. She didn’t realize that not having her would hurt far more.

  Even as he told his tale to Audra, he prayed the Charlton would let him see her again, that he would not be too late.

  THE cottage did not look as welcoming as it usually did. She had just ensured the Scot would want naught to do with her again. She saw little now to commend the future. She didn’t even have the crest. Not that she wanted it now. She wished she had never seen the infernal thing.

  She took Magnus to the stable, unsaddled him, and gave him some oats. Bess mooed plaintively, and she milked the cow. Finished, Kimbra left them then and went to the cottage. Just as she was about to open the door, a tall man stepped in front of her. She whirled around, and another had appeared behind her.

  Unease crawled up her spine. Armstrongs?

  They could be. They looked like any borderer, but they were not Charltons. She would have recognized them.

  “Mistress Charlton? Kimbra Charlton?”

  The voice from the man in front of her was soft, courteous. It sounded much like the Scot’s when she first found him. It did not go with his rough clothing. It went with the fine plaid that the Scot had worn before she had cut it from his body.

  “Aye,” she said cautiously.

  “Is there a lad here?”

  Surprised, she looked up. “Nay.” She thought about saying her husband and his very large older brother, who were out hunting, would be back momentarily. But if he knew her name, then he probably also knew she was a widow. She studied him. He had dark hair and gray eyes.

  She turned around. The man behind her was almost as tall with red hair. He was uncommonly handsome.

  “Mistress,” he acknowledged. “We are
not here to harm you.” He spoke with a heavy brogue, one far greater than that of either her Scot or the dark-haired stranger.

  She turned back to the dark-haired man.

  He looked around. “You are alone?”

  She did not answer.

  “I understand the border is dangerous,” he added, obviously taking her silence as an answer.

  Was he one of the dangers?

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Do you know a man named Lachlan?”

  “Why should it matter to you?”

  “He is my brother.”

  She was stunned. This man looked nothing like Lachlan. But he must be the Maclean, chief of the Macleans. She’d heard at the tower that he had been searching for his brother.

  He was risking much by coming to this side of the border.

  She had no reason to lie. The Charlton now knew her Scot was a Maclean. She did not want this one to try to do something that might put Lachlan in danger.

  “Aye, I know him,” she replied cautiously.

  “I am Rory Maclean. This is Jamie Campbell.”

  “Jamie Campbell?”

  The redheaded stranger moved around to stand next to Rory Maclean. “I was with Lachlan at Flodden Field,” he said. “I was taken for ransom. Is that what happened here?”

  “Nay.” ’Twasn’t the whole truth.

  “Is he safe at the tower?” Rory Maclean broke in. “Is he well?”

  “Aye. He is now, but he was badly wounded. He might have a limp.” She had lost her fear of them. What she wanted was more information.

  “Thank God,” the Maclean muttered, and she realized that Lachlan meant much to these two men. The redheaded one had even risked recapture and death to find him.

  “The Charlton has sent a messenger to the Armstrongs asking for ransom. He heard someone was looking for Lachlan.”

  The Maclean stared hard at her. “I heard that King Henry was warning borderers about keeping Scots for ransom.”

  “He is, but the Charlton had taken a liking to . . . to the Scot.”

  She thought again about the man following them. How far behind had he been when she approached the cottage? Had the Charlton asked him to come all the way, or wait on the road?

  “It is dangerous for you. A Charlton was following me.”