Highland Promise

by Hannah Howell

  Eric kept his expression calm, but inside he was heartily cursing. He bore little similarity to the men Bethia was fleeing, but instinct told him that she would not like his reasons for traveling to the MacMillans. He decided to wait to tell her the truth. She barely trusted him now and he wanted to prove himself to her a little more before he told her something that might well smother that newborn trust.

  “Ye have found yourself a mon with some knowledge of such flights. My brother and his wife fled across France, running from men who wished to hang her for a murder she had not commited. Mayhap I can finally put to use some of the tales he told me.”

  “Why is your brother nay traveling with you to meet your mother’s kinsmen?”

  “Because his mother isnae mine.” He almost laughed at the confused frown that darkened her pretty face, swiftly followed by a look of intense curiousity. “Another long tale. Best we save such things for later. ’Tis a long journey ahead of us.”

  “I ken it. And I suppose we had best get started.”

  Bethia hesitated when Eric held out his arms for the boy; then, her heart pounding with unease, she placed James in his arms. It was the first time James had been out of her grasp since his mother had died and she fought the urge to immediately snatch him back. If she was going to trust the man with their lives, she certainly ought to be able to trust him to hold the child for a few moments.

  Eric watched as she collected up her things, pausing to smooth her hands over the little silver cup before putting it into her bag. “I think the mon asked a good question, lass,” he said quietly. “Were those things really worth risking your life or the bairn’s?”

  “Nay,” she answered easily as she stood up. “At least, that is what my mind screamed, but, I fear, at that moment, my heart spoke even louder. The cup was my sister’s wedding cup. She was my womb sister and she has been dead barely a week. I couldnae let that mon take it or any of the other things I managed to cling to and slip out of Dunncraig. It was foolish. I ken it.”

  “Aye, but eminently understandable.” He took her by the arm and led her over to his horse. “Your grief is too new.”

  “I am nay sure it will e’er grow old,” Bethia whispered.

  “No two people can be closer than those who have shared a mother’s womb. But life has a way of dulling the sharp edge of such loss. Ye ne’er forget, but ye learn to accept.” He handed her James and attached her small bag to his saddle as she settled the little boy in the blanket sling she wore. “And she left ye the best of memories of herself.”

  “True enough,” she said as she briefly combed her fingers through James’s curls. She frowned at the horse. “Are we all to ride him then?”

  “Aye,” Eric replied as he lifted her up into the saddle.

  “The weight of a big mon and two others may be more than he can bear.” Bethia frowned at Eric when he laughed and mounted behind her. “What amuses you?”

  “Ye calling me a big mon.”

  “Weel, ye are.”

  “Mayhap to a wee lass like ye, but—trust me in this, lass—I am nay so big.”

  “And I am nay that wee,” she grumbled, then inwardly cursed when she heard him chuckle.

  “Ye were the second born, werenae ye?” he asked as he nudged the horse into a slow amble.

  “Aye, and aye, I was verra small and sickly, but I grew bigger and stronger.”

  “Oh, aye, ye are a veritable mountain of a woman.”

  “Ye make jest of me.”

  “Mayhap, but meaning no unkindness. Believe me, little Bethia, when ye see me next to another mon, ye will ken that I understand exactly how ye feel. ’Tisnae easy to be the runt.”

  “I am nay a runt,” she snapped, then pressed her lips together when Eric just chuckled.

  Bethia knew that was exactly what she was, but she did not like to hear it said. Neither did she believe Sir Eric ever felt small. He certainly did not feel small to her as he wrapped his long arms around her and took up his reins. She felt completely enfolded within his embrace. In fact, she felt smaller and more uncertain than she had in a very long time.

  Slowly, she became aware of the fact that he was nuzzling her hair. She tensed and tried to pull away from his long body, but his arms allowed her little room to move. Although she did not fear for her life or James’s, she no longer felt completely safe.

  “Sir, what are ye doing?” she demanded, and inwardly grimaced over the soft unsteadiness of her voice.

  “Smelling your hair,” he replied.

  Her eyes widened, for she had not expected such honesty. “Weel, ye may cease such play this verra moment.”

  “Kind of ye to give me leave to cease, but I am nay sure I am of a mind to.”

  Eric knew he was acting outrageously, but he felt an urge to see how far he could push her. He wanted her, faster and more fiercely than he had ever wanted a woman, and he was curious to see if there was any response in her, no matter how small. Bethia fascinated him and made him hungry, and he wanted her to suffer likewise.

  “Weel, ye can just try to put your mind to it now.”

  “If I must.”

  “Aye, ye must.”

  “I but flatter ye, lass.”

  “Weel, I have more important things to think about now than some mon’s flatteries. I think I shall have to make ye give me another promise.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “That ye will treat me with the respect due a lady of my birth.”

  “Oh, aye, that I can do.”

  Bethia tried to turn her head to look at him, but could not get a clear view of his expression. She had a feeling that she should have worded her request more carefully, that the man had not promised what she had wanted him to. She stared ahead of them and tried not to feel anything as he held her close in his arms.

  It was going to be a struggle to ignore his allure, she realized. Something deep inside of her responded hotly and immediately to his touch, his smile, even his voice, and she suspected it was a very heedless part of her. Sir Eric Murray might have arrived just in time to save her and might well keep his promise to get her and James safely to Dunnbea, but Bethia began to think that was all he had and would promise. She could not change her mind now, she thought as she looked down at a dozing James, but she began to think she had just traded a deadly danger for a far more subtle one.

  Chapter Three

  “Sit, lass,” Eric ordered in a soft voice as he urged her toward the fire he had just built. “Tend to the wee lad and I will do all the rest.”

  “I should help,” Bethia murmured even as she sat down.

  “Ye are. I can tend the horse, make camp, and prepare us a poor but hearty meal. I cannae tend to a bairn.”

  She nodded as he set her bag down next to her. Exhaustion weighted her movements as she spread out the changing rags she had washed earlier in the day, hoping they would finish drying by the fire. Bethia did not understand the deep weariness that had infected her. She had not been walking all that long before Sir Eric had found her, barely two nights and most of two days. Then she had enjoyed the ease of riding for the rest of the day yet she felt as if she had not slept for weeks. As she changed James’s rags and spread out his bedding, she tried to shrug off her weariness, at least enough so that she could stay awake through the meal and ask Sir Eric Murray a few hard questions.

  What troubled her the most was how she seemed to have relaxed the moment she had accepted Sir Eric’s kind offer of aid. It was shortly after she had climbed up on his horse that her deep weariness had begun to creep over her, swamping the rigid wariness she had maintained since her arrival at Dunncraig. Sir Eric had wrapped those slim, strong arms around her and she had ceased to fight. Since she did not really know the man, Bethia felt that was dangerous. His beauty and his deep, rich voice might make her innards flutter, but she could not allow that mindless warmth to burn away all of her good sense and caution. If it was only her own life at risk, Bethia knew she would allow herself to be lull
ed by his beauty and apparent kindness, but she could never forget that there was James to consider in all she did.

  As Eric sat down by the fire and began to prepare some porridge, he caught Bethia covertly eyeing him and inwardly sighed. She had been quiet, weariness stilling her suspicions, but she had obviously shaken some of that exhaustion aside. There would be questions now, ones he would have to answer cautiously. He knew he had every right to go after his inheritance just as he knew she would treat such a quest with suspicion. It was not fair, but it was completely understandable. Eric found it easy enough to set aside any sense of insult over her wariness. He hoped he could set aside any dangerous questions she might ask with as much ease.

  He needed to win her trust before he told her the whole truth. Saving her from those thieves was not really enough. Somehow he had to make her believe he was not an enemy and never would be. Even then he knew the truth could seriously damage his cause, but if she discovered the truth now, he would probably have to make her a prisoner to keep her with him.

  In the hope of diverting the questions he could sense were trembling on her tongue, he asked, “Are ye certain the mon William is a murderer?” He dished her out some of the thick oatmeal into a rough wooden bowl.

  Bethia frowned as she accepted the food. “I am verra sure, Sir Eric.” She blew gently on a small spoonful of the porridge and then fed it to James. “Do ye think me some faint-of-heart lass who sees evil lurking around every corner?”

  “Nay, but murder is a hard crime to hang about a mon’s neck. Aye, it can e’en set a noose there.”

  “I ken it. Sir William and his loathsome spawn deserve to be hanged from the highest tree.”

  “If they have done as ye have claimed, they do.”

  “’Tis nay so strange for a mon to kill to gain riches.”

  “True. Greed is a common motive for crimes as is vengence or passion. But ye dinnae speak of throats cut in the dark of night or a dagger slipped between a mon’s ribs. Such acts are easily seen as murder and can be loudly decried.” He sighed and shook his head slightly. “Ye speak on poison—a black, subtle method of murder. Verra hard to prove. There are a few poisons which leave a mark, quickly seen, and weel kenned. Others work in a way that could easily be claimed as naught but a malady of some sort.”

  Bethia reluctantly nodded. “’Tis why I now run to my family, race to seek their protection and aid. Weel, that and the fact that the people of Dunncraig are so cowed that none there would help me. Nay, not e’en if William slaughtered us all afore their verra eyes.”

  “Ye implied that your sister and her husband had but recently died, yet the keep is already beneath William’s boot?”

  “Oh, aye.” Bethia took a long drink from the wineskin and then handed it to him. “I fear my sister Sorcha and her husband Robert were, weel, nay too wise. Mayhap they were too newly wed, then caught up in the joy of the bairn.” She shrugged. “Whate’er it was, something kept them blissfully unaware of how their lands were being bled dry, their keep left to crumble, and the loyalty of their people stolen away. Fear grips the people of Dunncraig and all could see that Robert and Sorcha were too weak to free them from William’s ever tightening grip. I didnae ken Robert that weel. Mayhap he was cowed by William as completely as all of the others were.”

  “Harsh words.”

  “Verra,” she agreed in a near whisper, sadness weighting her words. “At times I hate them both for the trust and weakness that allowed them to be murdered, for leaving me no tale of martyred bravery and honor to console myself with.”

  Eric moved to sit by her side and put his arm around her slim shoulders. It pleased him when her stiffness at his touch rapidly faded. Some of her initial wariness had already begun to fade. She needed help and was wise enough to know it. That could only work in his favor.

  “That would indeed be finer,” he agreed. “Howbeit, for each death met in glory, there are many that are not. Ye must forgive them their blindness and their weaknesses. In the end they acted, did they not? They sent for ye to come to the aid of their son.”

  “Aye, I believe they did. I didnae understand at first. ’Twas nay until I saw them buried that I realized Sorcha’s message to me had held a warning. She bade me come to watch o’er her son. An odd choice of words I thought until I saw how matters stood at Dunncraig. I but wish she had lived long enough to tell me what she may have seen or heard, to tell me what finally warned her. It may have led to some proof of William’s guilt.”

  “No one else spoke out against him and his sons?”

  “Nay. I told you, they are all cowed, fearful for their verra lives.”

  “Who can blame them if they too ken that William has killed their laird and his wife? After all, if he can strike those so high with apparent impunity, he would find no qualms about striking the common ones down in an instant.”

  “Aye, there is a sad truth in that.” She sighed. “And the only one they see who could take the laird’s place is a barely weaned bairn. And I suppose they could nay be sure that I could gather any strength of arms to stand against the mon.”

  “Can ye?”

  “Aye. My kinsmen will heed what I say and act swiftly to protect this wee lad. Sorcha was much loved. Many will be outraged by her murder. Our allies will most certainly join with us.”

  “Allies like the MacMillans?”

  “Aye.” She struggled to smother a huge yawn. “Many will be eager to save Sorcha’s son’s birthright.” She finished her food, then gave James a small drink of her rapidly waning supply of goat’s milk. “When Sorcha was taken to court, it was immediately clear that she could have made a marriage that would have allied our clan with some of the most powerful ones in all of Scotland, but she wanted Robert, a distant cousin of ours. Nevertheless, she made many friends and her beauty and sweet charm aided my parents in making many new friends and allies. There is no judging how many may be eager to help us avenge her death. She won so verra many hearts.” James curled up on his blanket, sleepily sucking on his fingers, and she began to rub his back.

  “Ye must have won some hearts as weel,” Eric murmured, unable to resist the temptation to tangle his fingers in the heavy blanket of her hair. She had left it unbraided and it still hung to her slim hips in rippled waves, begging to be stroked.

  “Oh, I didnae go to court.”

  “Nay? Ye were ill?”

  Bethia tucked a small blanket around a now sleeping James. “Nay. ’Twas decided all monies should go to making sure Sorcha shined at court, e’en though all said she would shine e’en if she was dressed in rags. Sorcha was also able to win hearts with but a smile.” She sent Eric a brief, shy smile. “I fear I have a sharp tongue, dinnae hold a firm rein on my temper, and dinnae trust as easily as Sorcha did. Sorcha saw only good in everyone.”

  Eric did not like the portrait painted by Bethia’s words. Sorcha had clearly been the favored child, seen as the better of the pair. Even Bethia spoke of the woman as if she had been but one smile away from sainthood. Bethia had obviously been set in her sister’s shadow and left there. Eric suspected Bethia had not only had to fight to survive being the smallest at birth, but probably struggled continuously just to be noticed once in a while.

  “’Tis wondrous when someone can remain so pure of heart, their eyes unclouded by suspicion, but walking in that blessed state didnae keep her alive, did it?” he said.

  There was a hint of anger in his voice, a shade of sarcasm, and Bethia frowned at him. “Nay, it didnae. Robert was much akin to Sorcha. Bonny, trusting, and charming. ’Tis a pity such sweetness and beauty seems unable to survive long in this harsh world.”

  “There is truth in that, but a wee pinch of wariness is what keeps a person alive. If one is going to skip through life bonny, charming, and trusting, one best have a solid, wary, dour mon always at one’s back.”

  She smiled faintly. “Aye. One of us should have considered that,” she said, her sadness quickly returning. “We sent two sweet bairns into a
wolf’s lair without a shield.” She lightly touched the sleeping James’s bright curls. “This bairn will be watched. He will also be taught how to watch his own back. The lad has the same sweet nature his parents had, and whilst I dinnae wish to destroy that, I do mean to temper it.”

  “Ye will do that? I should think that your parents would take on the care of the lad.”

  “Oh, my parents will love him, for he is a part of Sorcha, but”—she grimaced, feeling a little guilty for what she was about to say—“they loved and raised Sorcha too, didnae they? They fall too easily beneath the allure of that sweetness and beauty and feel all others do as weel. Caution, wariness, the ability to look closely beneath a smile were ne’er taught. Thus they raised Sorcha and thus they will try to raise James. Nay, ’twill be my sad lot to tell this bairn that, sometimes, that smile hides a lie, or, worse, a dagger aimed at your heart. Mayhap Bowen will help.”

  Bethia felt Eric’s fingers clench briefly in her hair, and she eyed him curiously. It was, perhaps, a good time to tell him to stop caressing her hair, but the words would not come. The way he combed his long fingers through her hair, caressed it, toyed with it, occasionally even lifted it to his face to smell or kiss it was, oddly, both comforting and exhilarating. Bethia ruefully admitted to herself that she did not want him to stop. It was a little wanton of her to let a man she had only just met touch her in an almost seductive way, but, she sighed, he was such a beautiful man. If she let it go no farther, what harm could there be?

  “Who is Bowen?” Eric asked, hoping he sounded only mildly interested, that none of the startling surge of jealousy he had felt was revealed in his voice. He did not really understand why it troubled him so to hear her speak another man’s name with something that sounded suspiciously like affection.

  “One of the men-at-arms at Dunnbea. He and Peter were mercenaries hired by my father near to ten years ago when we were suffering mightily from raids by the English and an old enemy. They stayed when the worst of the fighting had passed, for they had proven their worth many times over. Both men were verra patient with me, for I often trailed along behind them like a faithful puppy. Me and my cousin Wallace, who is my uncle’s bastard and but two years older than me. Bowen and Peter taught Wallace and me a great deal. The four of us were verra close, but when my father realized that there would be no more children, he claimed Wallace as his heir and I didnae get to play with the lad much after that. He was too busy being trained to be a knight and a laird.”