But if she went and he survived – due to her aid or not – and if he still wished to court her, she would be glad to wed him. Isabella would go, and she would do what she could to ensure that Murdoch survived.
“I must get my cloak,” she said and saw the flash of his triumphant smile before she turned to fetch it.
“Will they return for you? Look for you?”
Isabella thought about this for a moment. “We had the evening meal already. The brazier is lit for the night. I shall extinguish the lantern and they may think me asleep.” She did as much while Murdoch rolled the blankets on the pallet into a cylinder. It did not really look like a person, but perhaps in darkness, it would give them a few moments’ undiscovered.
He leapt to the window sill once more, remaining utterly still while he surveyed the bailey below. With startling speed, he seized the rope, spun and flung himself out the window. He turned on the rope to land with his feet braced against the wall. He hung there and gave Isabella a challenging smile. “By yourself or with me?”
“I have never done this. I might fall and reveal us both.” Isabella wished the truth were otherwise. “Will I be too heavy for you?”
Murdoch shook his head, looking more reckless than ever. His expression made Isabella’s heart skip. “Leave my right arm unencumbered,” he instructed as she stepped on to the sill. She donned her own gloves and seized the rope, mimicking his gesture. She nearly shouted, it was such a shock to swing out the window, but she bit back her cry.
And she landed against Murdoch’s chest with a thump, her back to him.
“Well done,” he murmured, his lips against her ear. He instructed her how to move her hands so that she held some of her weight herself, then warned her that he was about to move. “We descend in spurts,” he said. “The height of a man or slightly more each time. When I tell you, loosen your grip slightly on the rope. You will not fall.”
“Not unless you fall as well.”
He chuckled. “There is that. If nothing else, I will break your fall.”
His confidence was infectious and Isabella nodded understanding.
Murdoch kissed the back of her neck and she closed his eyes at his touch.
“And away,” he said softly.
They dropped a good ten feet, the rope slipping through his gloved hands as Isabella watched in dismay. She feared that they would fall, that she would land atop him in the bailey and that he would break a bone.
To her relief, Murdoch managed to grip the rope tightly before she panicked. When he had steadied them once more, she heard him take a deep breath.
“I have always done this alone before,” he murmured by way of apology. “But it is not so different.” He did not linger. “Away again.”
They descended the rest of the way in smaller increments, just as he had said. He tugged at the rope and grappling hook once they were on the ground, obviously disappointed that he would have to leave it.
“Nothing for it,” he murmured, then winked and seized her hand. They ran for the far side of the stables.
Isabella heard voices as they drew close to the last corner of the low building and she halted Murdoch with a hand on his arm. They leaned back against the stable, hidden by the shadows and Murdoch peered around the corner. Men were talking, making a jest, and she could hear the jingle of a horse’s trap.
Murdoch’s lips tightened when he leaned back against the wall. Isabella knew he was furious and wondered what he had seen. He touched a finger to his lips, demanding silence, then pointed to the corner.
Isabella leaned past him to look and nearly gasped in dismay. The ostler, Owen, was there, with two of his boys. They led Murdoch’s horse by the reins toward Kinfairlie’s stalls.
“The renegade must be within Kinfairlie’s bounds,” Owen said. “And left his horse tethered there for a quick escape. He shall not evade our laird on this night.” He reached up and stroked the white stallion’s nose. “And all the better for this one, for he shall be safe and well fed. Perhaps better fed than he has been of late.” He clicked his tongue to the horse, sent one of the boys to the hall to deliver the news to Alexander upon his return, and took the steed into Kinfairlie’s stables.
Isabella leaned back beside Murdoch, and could fairly hear him thinking.
“How many?” he mouthed, gesturing to the stables behind them.
Isabella grimaced. She held up ten fingers, then another ten, then shrugged.
Murdoch scowled, clearly unhappy to be without his horse.
Isabella shook her head. She pointed toward Ravensmuir, across the untended fields and gorse that lay between the two keeps on this side. She mocked riding a horse and shook her head. She let her fingers walk and nodded.
“Ravensmuir?” he mouthed in obvious surprise at their destination.
Isabella nodded firmly.
Murdoch pointed at the shadowed hulk of the ruined keep in the distance as if he could not believe what she said. Ravensmuir was silhouetted against the brightness of the sea.
Isabella nodded.
Murdoch stared into the shadowed fields, clearly thinking. She did not doubt that he saw the gullies that crossed the space and the rocks that nestled in the ground, for the moon was full and illuminated the ground as brightly as the midday sun. There were far more rocks than the big ones that were readily visible, thousands of small rocks that could break a horse’s leg. They would arrive more quickly if they ran.
He mimicked riding, then gestured to the land they could see. He drew a line with his fingertip and shrugged.
Isabella understood. Where was the road?
She pointed back to Kinfairlie’s gates behind them, then past the forest, drawing a wide arc in the air that ultimately led to Ravensmuir from the far side of the forest.
Murdoch took a deep breath, cast one last glance back as Zephyr nickered in the stable, then tightened his grip on Isabella’s hand. She knew in that instant that he had agreed with her advice.
He did not walk toward Ravensmuir, though.
Murdoch ran.
* * *
Murdoch and Isabella fled on foot, racing north from Kinfairlie’s keep. In the distance and to their right was the glimmer of the ocean, turned silver by the moon’s light. Far ahead was the shadow of Ravensmuir’s ruins, abandoned and still. There was gorse underfoot and rocks, for this land had not been tilled in decades. Kinfairlie’s forest and its village fell far behind them.
Murdoch could not dismiss his sense that trouble was brewing. All had gone well enough, but he feared he had missed some key detail.
He had been angry, of course, to lose his horse, and had initially wished they had Zephyr, for the stallion would have made light of both the distance and the additional weight of Isabella. When Murdoch saw the truth of the rough terrain, he was glad the horse would not risk injury and he would not be tempted to encourage speed on such ground. He felt certain that the destrier would be well tended at Kinfairlie. He was not certain he would be able to retrieve the horse as his own, but that was another issue for another day. Zephyr’s welfare was assured and he would satisfy himself with that.
Stewart and the boys would be safely on the far side of Kinfairlie forest by this time, he was certain, perhaps even at Queensferry. By the time the laird’s party reached the woods, they would be far away – and safe. The welfare of those from his brother’s household who had been dispatched with him was guaranteed as well.
It was slow walking through the stony fields in darkness, the ancient furrows always in the wrong direction and deeply pitted with gullies. Kinfairlie’s tower had seemed ominous and all too close. Murdoch had feared the laird would ride after his sister, that he would cut across the fields readily, and that their quest would come to an end too soon.
The relics would be lost. His brother would not see his property returned. Murdoch would be lost, and for no gain. In the silence they felt compelled to keep, it was all too easy to fabricate dire endings to his tale.
Had Is
abella been wrong about the destination of the thief? Murdoch could discern no sign that any other soul had passed this way.
In decades.
Who was the thief? What manner of fool would choose this direction? Who would select crumbled Ravensmuir as his destination? The thief would not be pursued, but he also might not survive long within those collapsing walls. Murdoch trusted Isabella, but he wondered whether she had been deceived.
For there was no denying that he had a potent sense of foreboding. The hair prickled on the back of his neck and he stifled the urge to spend the night safely hidden out of sight. Murdoch felt as if a tide were rising behind him, gathering deadly force.
When orange light flared in the distance far to their left, he knew the source of that threat.
* * *
Two selfless deeds.
Finvarra was well-pleased with Murdoch Seton. Rare was a man whose own nature would driven him to take a risk for another. That Murdoch did as much fully cognizant of the stakes only increased Finvarra’s estimation. The man had seen to the welfare of a horse, at no small risk to himself, and had also ensured that his squire was defended on that quest into Kinfairlie village.
Finvarra was also impressed that Murdoch could appreciate a fine horse, even if it was not his own. He considered the chess board deep in Kinfairlie’s forest, well aware that the Elphine Queen’s mood turned petulant, and sipped golden wine from a chalice.
He was glad he had accepted her invitation. He had not anticipated the beauty of Elizabeth, past, present and future, and a glimpse only fed his appetite for the future. He glanced toward his unhappy wife, sipped his wine, and considered the merit of lingering at Kinfairlie a while.
He was pondering how best to aid Murdoch Seton in achieving his third selfless deed - even questioning whether his assistance was necessary - when the knights rode into Kinfairlie forest with blazing torches.
When they lit Murdoch’s abandoned camp ablaze, the Elphine Queen leapt to her feet in outrage. “How dare they damage my forest?” she cried, though the mortal knights could not hear her. “Does he imagine he can destroy me so readily as this?” She raged into the sky like a venomous cloud and Finvarra knew he had to act quickly to protect Murdoch from her wrath.
A glamour first, and then a refuge. He turned away from Una and conjured with all his might.
Which was considerable.
* * *
Isabella gasped and stopped to stare at the flames in the forest. Her hand rose to her mouth, her expression horrified. “He truly does it,” she whispered. She looked at Murdoch in consternation. “Alexander burns Kinfairlie forest. He threatened as much. He said he would rout you, but I did not think he would do it.”
Murdoch stared at this evidence of the laird’s anger.
The orange flames seemed ferociously bright against the darkness of the night. Murdoch could fairly hear the crackle of the fire and he could see the smoke rising into the starry sky. The fire did not spread, though, and he guessed that Alexander had targeted his own abandoned camp site. The laird would make a point, not destroy the value of his holding.
Murdoch was not welcome.
“It will not burn,” he told Isabella. “There is too much snow on the ground, particularly in the forest. All would be damp and smolder.”
“I hope so. I could not bear to see it destroyed.”
“Look,” he said to reassure her, pointing. “Already it begins to smolder.” Isabella heaved a sigh of relief and leaned against him, but there was to be little reprieve.
For in that moment, he heard the scream. It was an unholy cry of fury, one that grew in volume until he thought his ears might bleed. At the same time, a deep shadow rose from the forest like a great plume of dark cloud. It roiled against the sky, then tumbled toward the ground. The black cloud spread with lightning speed, like a wall of soot racing across the land. As that cloud drew close to them, a woman’s face became clear at its fore.
A woman with flowing black hair and eyes as dark as night, her teeth bared as she roared with fury.
“She hunts you!” Isabella whispered in horror. “She blames you!”
Murdoch did not know why and he did not have time to consider the question. He seized Isabella’s hand and pivoted, intent upon fleeing to Ravensmuir. Isabella needed no urging to join him. Their boots pounded across the fields, their breath ragged, their hands clutched together.
But when the cold dark cloud passed over them, its force nearly took them to their knees. Murdoch flung Isabella beneath him and sheltered her with his body as the tide passed. He winced as a layer of ice formed over his back, that unholy cry echoing in his ears.
The Elphine Queen did not see them, at least not yet, for they survived the onslaught. Murdoch felt both blessed beyond belief. Though he could not explain their good fortune, he would accept it. When he lifted his head, the fields were touched with ice and the air was so cold that he feared to take a breath. He winced, certain the blue marks on his body were growing with untold vigor, and doubted he could fully feel his toes.
“She will not claim you,” Isabella insisted, kissing him with ferocity. Her heat flooded into his body, invigorating him once more, and Murdoch regretted the moment she lifted his lips from his.
“We must find shelter,” he said, urging her to her feet. He stumbled but Isabella urged him onward, her faith giving him the power to run again.
Ravensmuir still appeared to be a thousand miles away and there was no scrap of shelter between them and the ruined keep. Though it seemed their fate was hopeless, Murdoch could not surrender so readily as that.
Onward, for so long as they could manage it.
* * *
Isabella was both exhausted and terrified. She had never run as far as Ravensmuir and she was not certain she could make it, not at the pace Murdoch set. And yet, she feared to move any more slowly. She kept glancing back, haunted that the Elphine Queen hunted Murdoch on this night.
What would happen if she caught them? Little good, Isabella was certain.
And what if they did make distant Ravensmuir? Did they dare enter the crumbled keep without a light? Did they dare to strike a flint?
Where were Darg and the spriggans who had said they would take the relics to Ravensmuir? Isabella had been certain she would have caught a glimpse of them by now, but there was no sign of the spriggans or the relics. Had they deceived her? Was she leading Murdoch to his doom?
Neither of them had the breath to talk. They simply ran.
Murdoch offered his hand to help Isabella over a low wall of field stones that marked the boundary between Kinfairlie’s fields and those of Ravensmuir. Isabella held fast to his cold fingers as they continued, alternatively blowing on them and rubbing them. She could give him heat, she realized, but it never lasted. It was like kindling a fire with damp fuel. It could be coaxed to sputter and burn but not for the duration – only for so long as she fixed all of her attention upon the task.
Isabella could hear the sea more clearly as they drew closer to Ravensmuir. The stars and the moon were obscured now, which both aided them and hampered them. They were less likely to be seen but also could not see their way as readily. The ground, at least, had fewer stones and no furrows. This part of Ravensmuir’s land had never been tilled. Isabella thought they made better progress.
Even in ruin, Ravensmuir was imposing.
She glanced back to find another black cloud mustering behind them. It obliterated the stars behind and above Kinfairlie. Murdoch’s steps faltered beside her and Isabella assumed he thought that the Elphine Queen was coming again. She intended to encourage him, but the words died on her lips.
Murdoch’s face had turned as pale as snow. His eyes had gone dark. No longer the brilliant blue they once had been, they seemed to be filled with inky shadows.
And he was cold, colder than the grave.
The rain came slanting down as she stared at him, driving through her cloak with icy cold fingers.
“Do you
see them?” Murdoch whispered, as unlike his usual confident self as a man might be. “Do you see the dead come to gather me?”
“No!” Isabella said with force. “Murdoch, you cannot die!” Even as she spoke, she looked around them for a solution. It was too far to Ravensmuir and whatever shelter it might offer. It could take them two more hours to reach that ruin, and Murdoch needed warmth and shelter immediately.
That was when she saw the cottage. Isabella could not imagine how she had overlooked it before. It might not have been there at all, then suddenly was conjured from the air because of her desire.
A thin tendril of smoke rose from its roof, swept away by that wind as soon as it cleared the thatch. The door was open, spilling a welcome golden light into the night. Perhaps the door had been closed. Perhaps that had been why she had overlooked it. It was built low and snug to the ground, the entire cottage nestled into a hollow.
Isabella decided its owner wished for his abode to be overlooked.
She might have hesitated to trouble one so intent upon ensuring his solitude, but the figure of a man appeared in the doorway. He beckoned to her, and as Murdoch began to shudder, Isabella knew she had no choice but to accept the invitation.
She pulled Murdoch to the low door and was startled to find the sound of music emanating from the tiny cottage. The man on the threshold wore a brown hooded cape of roughly spun cloth. His beard was long and dark, and his eyes were fathomless pools. Isabella stifled a shiver and looked past his shoulder, wanting to avoid his intense gaze. Murdoch murmured something that made no sense to her and struggled against her as if he would remain in the storm.
The man touched Murdoch’s brow with his fingertips. Murdoch shuddered and stilled, his head hanging.
“You are a healer?” Isabella asked, awed by the power of his touch.
The man smiled. “Of a kind. Please, take your shelter here.”
The Renegade's Heart Page 22