Highland Spy

by Madeline Martin

  An open window glowed at the side wall of the castle. A bit of a climb, but the stonework had given way in its age and the surface was uneven enough to grip. Another thing he’d noticed earlier.

  His stomach tightened into a hard ball of ice.

  Break the neck and then make the body tumble down the stairs.

  Like usual.

  For Cora. For Urquhart.

  For his people.

  The tension in his chest was squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.

  He was at the base of the stone wall with the golden glow of the window above like a beacon.

  One hand over the other, he began to climb the wall in the concealing cloak of darkness and heavy fog.

  Tonight, he would kill.

  • • •

  Time stood breathlessly still.

  Ariana semi-rose into a poised crouch, her gaze darting between Connor’s dark form against the castle wall and the figures shadowed in the thick veil of fog.

  Connor moved with the incredible grace she’d come to expect from him. He had been almost invisible in his sprint up the grassy hill and though he’d only just begun the short climb toward the window three man-lengths high, his movements were nimble and silent.

  Something showed through the fog to the right of where Connor climbed.

  Ariana’s heart skipped, a quick thudding in her chest. She strained her eyes against the wispy gray fog.

  A man.

  Someone was approaching.

  She hastily stood on legs grateful to be straight once more and made her way toward the man.

  “Sir,” she called in Gaelic. “Sir, can ye help me?”

  The man stopped and turned toward her. “I’m sure I can do something to help ye,” he said.

  Their exchange had not impacted Connor’s steady pace.

  “What’s a bonny lass like yerself need on an awful night like this?” The guard stopped just under Connor’s feet and looked down the gentle sloping hill toward her.

  She did not make her way to him, hoping to lure him down. “I canna find the entrance to the manor,” she said.

  “Ach, ’tis easy. Ye go back that way.” He pointed to the left. “It’ll be right there.”

  Connor was near the window now.

  So close.

  The guard’s neck craned upward ever so slightly.

  “What if I stay here a moment longer?” Ariana asked hastily, perhaps too hastily.

  But the guard returned his attention to her with a quirked eyebrow. “Surely ye’d rather be inside with all the young men.”

  She walked up the sloping hill toward him then and slipped her fingers through the open pocket of her dress, where her dagger was strapped to her thigh beneath.

  Just in case.

  “Perhaps I’d rather be here,” she said in a low voice.

  Eight more steps would close the distance between them.

  The guard turned abruptly and looked up.

  Her heart froze mid-beat. He was looking directly at Connor.

  The guard’s chest swelled with the hearty inhale required to call out, and Ariana acted without thinking.

  She jerked her dagger free of her pocket and sent it sailing through the air toward the man before he could ever even suspect he was in danger.

  True to her aim, the blade sunk deep into the man’s neck. Blood spurted out, an eerie purple red in the dark of night.

  He spun back toward her with a gurgling choke she knew she would never forget, and he pitched forward, rolling toward her.

  She stepped backward on instinct, but the slope of the hill had not registered in her shock and she fell onto her back on the cold, wet ground.

  A solid weight landed atop her and punched the air from her lungs. Something hovered over her face and wetness covered her neck, her chest, and the hands she had instinctively pushed out in front of her.

  Don’t scream.

  She twisted to free herself, her panicked mind firing rapid, confusing thoughts with one screaming above all others.

  For the briefest of moments she was dazed, before she recognized the weight as the man, the shadow over her face as his, and the wetness as his blood.

  His wide, pale eyes stared at her without seeing, hauntingly devoid of life.

  The metallic odor of blood filled her nose and was salty hot where it had gotten into her mouth. Her stomach lurched and the panic, once only in her mind, pumped down to her body.

  She twisted to free herself, wild with helpless abandon. She had no thought of her training, no thought of proving herself. Only freedom.

  Freedom and blood.

  So much blood.

  Don’t scream.

  The voice in the back of her mind was small, but she held the breath she’d pulled in.

  She pushed hard, but her fingers only slipped beneath the weight of his body. Another gush of blood washed over her, hot and stinking.

  Don’t scream.

  Focus.

  Ariana squeezed her eyes shut to block out the man’s face and concentrated. If she were being attacked on the ground like this, what would she do?

  The coppery odor of the man’s blood lay thick in her throat, choking, but she put it from her mind and focused.

  She put herself mentally in the grassy courtyard at Kindrochit with Delilah where she’d trained. The air was cool and fresh and Delilah had wrestled with her on the ground.

  Ariana dug her heels into the soft, wet earth and thrust her hips up and toward the downward slope of the hill.

  The man rolled off her like a limp doll, his arms, legs, and neck all flopping unnaturally until he came to a stop several feet away from her.

  Her skin immediately chilled in the absence of the last of his body’s warmth. The blood on her gown was cold and wet against her flesh the way the rain had been.

  Ariana gulped a lungful of sweet, fresh air and the harrowing panic quickly ebbed.

  Something settled on her shoulder.

  She jerked toward the touch to find Connor leaning over her, his finger at his lips in a silent shushing motion.

  The baritone of male voices nearby carried toward them, their words indiscernible.

  Ariana bolted upright on shaky legs and almost collapsed. Her entire body trembled as if she’d just spent days training without sleep.

  Someone was coming.

  Energy fired through her veins and pumped into her exhausted limbs, but she could not move. Her brain staggered over itself in an attempt to formulate a plan, to come up with something except to run.

  And so she stood, staring up toward where the voices had emerged.

  They were getting closer.

  Her breathing came faster and though the air burned in her lungs, she did not feel the effects of a breath well taken. The world spun around her.

  Something jerked at her cloak.

  She looked forward and found Connor in front of her. He had tugged her dark cloak over her bloodstained clothing and his lips were moving.

  His hand came to her shoulder and he met her eyes, recalling her full attention. “Follow my lead,” he whispered.

  He made his way to the dead man. A final, weak trickle of blood trailed from the guard’s neck. The leather handle of her dagger still jutted from the mortal wound.

  Connor pulled off his own dark cloak and jerked the man upright by his shoulder. The man’s back sagged and his head lolled to the side in a grotesque display.

  Ariana rushed forward and assisted in holding the man well enough to secure the cloak over his shoulders.

  The voices were louder now. Too close.

  Anxiety prickled through her veins like needles of ice.

  Shapes were beginning to materialize in the fog.

  Faster.

  The word echoed in her head over and over as they worked. Surely it only took moments, but in her mind, it seemed lifetimes had passed.

  Connor indicated she should pull the man’s arm over her shoulder. The man’s limb was oddly heavy and noncompliant. Sh
e had to grip his skin hard to keep his arm drawn across her back.

  No sooner had they propped him between them than two soldiers appeared above.

  The figures stopped and one pointed toward them. “What are ye doing here?”

  “Coming to get my drunk friend.” Connor’s voice slurred as though he’d consumed far too much whisky himself. “He fell asleep here in this ditch. I figured ye wouldna want him staying…”

  “Aye,” said the second man. “Ye figured right. Get him out of here.”

  Connor started to turn them and Ariana leaned farther forward to ensure the dead man’s weight did not tip him backward.

  “Wait.” The first man spoke, his voice hard and authoritative.

  Both Connor and Ariana stopped.

  “What happened to yer face, lass?” the first man asked.

  Her face?

  Ariana resisted touching her hands to her cheek, realizing it was no doubt covered in a smear of blood.

  Connor snorted. “This bastard punched her in the face. He’s lucky as hell she’s even helping him now and no’ leaving his arse for the beasts.”

  Ariana lowered her head to hide her face lest any expression give them away. She only hoped they took her action for shame.

  One of the guards chortled. “Ach, well, make sure ye punch him well and good when he rises to teach him a lesson.”

  Connor gave a grunt of agreement and then they were turning, away from the manor and the soldiers and the threat of danger.

  Ariana’s relief was short-lived. The farther they walked, the more reality sank into her awareness. A swell of panic washed over her in suffocating waves until she was drowning.

  Her heart pounded too quickly.

  Her lips were too numb.

  Her breath too shallow.

  Don’t scream.

  The voice was getting harder to heed. Pinpricks of moisture gathered on her forehead.

  “Ariana.” Connor’s voice sounded on the other side of the man.

  The man.

  His hand was no longer warm against her grip.

  Oh God, the man.

  She’d killed him.

  Something whooshed in her ears.

  Her own breathing.

  She’d killed a man and he’d landed on her, bleeding on her.

  She was covered in his blood.

  A low whimper bubbled up from her throat and she pitched forward.

  Chapter 20

  Ariana was not well.

  Connor observed her with concern. She stood by the fire, her eyes staring wide and blank at nothing in particular, her hands folded serenely in front of her despite the dark stains of blood.

  He dipped his fingers into the pot of water over the fire. Still cold.

  He flicked the excess water from his hand and regarded Ariana once more.

  Her expression was entirely empty.

  “Ariana,” he called.

  She did not respond.

  A hearty crack of thunder sounded overhead, so powerful it nearly split Connor’s already aching head.

  Ariana did not flinch, nor did she blink. She issued no response whatsoever.

  His heart hammered harder in his chest.

  This was worse than when Percy’s mission had resulted in her killing an innocent man, and almost herself as well. She’d been upset and had refused to ever do another mission.

  While losing her as a spy was difficult, he understood too well the burden of guilt and had acquiesced to her request.

  He had known what to do to help heal Percy’s body. Her own knowledge of herbs then had been basic, but she knew enough to help him see her well.

  But then, wounds were more easily healed than what Ariana faced. Percy slept through most of her pain in those first few weeks while she recovered.

  A hard knot of angry frustration burned in his gut.

  He didn’t know how to make this right.

  “Ariana.” His voice sounded strained, even to his own ears. He approached her and took her hands in his.

  Her skin was warm under his touch, but she stared without seeing despite him being directly in front of her.

  Like the dead.

  A cold chill prickled over his flesh.

  What if she never recovered? What if she never moved again, spoke again, gave that beautiful laugh of hers again?

  It tore at something vulnerable inside him to see her lacking the determined glint in her gaze and the triumphant smile following all her victories.

  What if he never saw those again either?

  Panic licked at his usual calm resolve and seized him in a hard grip.

  Action. He needed action.

  He practically leapt across the room toward the cold water on the fire and plunged a small bowl into it. Heedless of the drips raining from his hands and onto the floor, he set it next to Ariana and dipped a cloth into the water. His movements were sloppy and hurried, but he ran the cloth over her cheek.

  The dried blood did not come away easily and left an orange-red streak on her skin.

  She did not acknowledge his action.

  “Ariana,” he said in a thick voice. “I’m going to clean ye up and then ye should feel better.”

  He wiped again and more of the blood smeared away.

  “I dinna tell ye this earlier,” he said. “But I havena been back here since my da died. This was the first time.” He stared into eyes that did not stare back and his throat went tight. “And I couldna have done it without ye.”

  His heart ached at the thought of facing the pain of Urquhart without her, of having only ghosts to keep him company in the empty, cold rooms.

  And he thought of how he’d treated her with an unjustified indifference on the ride here. She’d given him so much—her joy, her companionship, her strength—and he’d repaid her with solitude and no explanation.

  His list of sins was already so great, and this only added to it. The crush of it left him almost unable to draw breath.

  He kept his gaze fixed on her while he dipped the cloth in the bowl. “I was upset with ye because I was upset with myself after we sparred. I’m no’ a good man, Ariana.”

  It was true. He wasn’t.

  Never had he said those words out loud, and the admission sliced through him.

  “I’m no’ a good man,” he repeated hoarsely. “I kill men. I destroy the lives of women by training them into something they werena meant to be, and I do all of it for the selfishness of seeing myself a laird.”

  The words choked him and fell on deaf ears.

  “The hurt of many for the accomplishment of one.” His movements were repetitive and unthinking, dip and wipe, dip and wipe, anything to keep from focusing on what he’d confessed to her. His words came in the same manner as his actions, no longer a confession, but simply telling her of Urquhart, of the joy he and his family had found there.

  But he did not speak of Kenneth Gordon. Even that was still too painful.

  One childhood story after another. Her face, neck, and chest were clean of any blood and the water had finally warmed.

  Still Ariana stared out at nothing. It struck Connor how similar she looked to the glass doll Cora had gotten from their father once when he’d gone to France. Lovely and unnervingly still.

  The action of cleaning the blood was not helping Connor the way he’d thought. It’d been a fix for a while, a meaningless distraction, but it wouldn’t change a thing.

  Not a damn thing.

  He gritted his teeth against the swell of angry frustration.

  He’d lost too much in his life.

  There was no damn way he was going to lose Ariana too.

  He cupped her face in his hands and looked into her clear, unseeing eyes. The pupils were still mere pinpricks of black in a sea of deep blue-green.

  “Ariana.” He searched her gaze like a drowning man seeking land. “Ariana, please. Please look at me. Look at me.”

  His thumb brushed over her smooth cheek. “Ariana, it’s Connor. Connor Gra
nt. I want ye, nay—I need ye to look at me.”

  The narrowness of her pupils swelled slightly.

  “Ariana.” He spoke her name as if her were issuing a command.

  She flinched.

  Good.

  “Ariana, ye need to look at me,” he ordered. “Now.”

  Her eyelids flickered shut and then, finally, those beautiful sea-colored eyes focused on him.

  “Connor.” She’d spoken so softly he would not have heard were it not so quiet in the small room.

  But he had, and it was the most beautiful sound ever to caress his ears. Relief flooded him in a frenzied, exciting rush and he understood then why lasses cried when they were happy.

  Not that he was going to cry, of course.

  He pulled in a loud, shaking breath. “Ariana, my God, lass, ye gave me a fright.”

  She looked around the room and a little wrinkle appeared on her smooth brow. “How did we get back?”

  Her body began to tremble slightly, and he remembered he’d cleaned her mainly with icy water. Of course she’d be cold.

  He grabbed a dry plaid and threw it around her shoulders. She hugged it against her and the slight trembles turned into shakes.

  He gripped her hard at the shoulders with his hands, as if he could stop her tremors himself.

  “How…did we…get back?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  Connor opened his mouth to speak and stopped. After she’d fallen outside the village, he’d helped her up and they’d gone about the task of removing the guard’s gear for their return trip and burying the body. Ariana had assisted him through everything, though she’d been entirely silent, her face expressionless.

  Granted, Connor had expected her to cry or fret, but she’d done nothing more than what he asked and then watched him when she was not needed.

  Perhaps it was best not to remind her of what had been done.

  “We walked,” he said finally, and rubbed his palms up and down her arms to help create some heat.

  Her trembling seemed to quell, but a slight frown tugged at her full lips. “I don’t remember walking.” She shook her head. “I remember being behind a bush and watching you climb the wall.”

  “We dinna have to talk about this,” Connor interjected quickly.

  “No.” She shook her head again. “I can’t remember. This isn’t like me.” Tears welled in her eyes and she dropped her head down.