by Aileen Adams
“Yes, we are. And we had better be on our way, as the Marquis is waiting for us.”
“Yes,” Geoffrey agreed, finally deciding to speak. “He is not a man who enjoys waiting.”
Well, then.
Ysmaine held her tongue and allowed Leon to help her into the back of the carriage, where there was no choice but to make a seat on the wooden boards, among lengths of rope, bags of oats for the horses and crockery which she supposed was meant to store water.
“Our apologies,” Leon murmured, looking pained. “We were unable to secure a more comfortable carriage upon our arrival in Inverness.”
She put on a cheerful expression. “Not at all. I am certain this will do very well.” She sat with her back to her trunk, facing the rear of the carriage so that she might at least have a view of what she was leaving behind even if the canvas made it impossible to look around her.
“Take care to watch for anyone who might follow us,” Geoffrey grunted from behind her.
“Why is that?” she asked, craning her neck to look up at the two men through an opening in the canvas.
“These roads are not safe,” Leon scowled as he called over his shoulder. “We heard reports at the inn in which we spent the night of three carriages overtaken by thieves in as many days.”
The thought was enough to stop Ysmaine’s heart in mid-beat. She fingered the brooch at her neck, rethinking the wisdom of having worn it. Judging from the distant attitudes of both men, she could as easily have worn her oldest kirtle and foregone entirely the use of shoes.
It would have made no difference in how little they considered her.
Geoffrey snapped the reins, and the carriage jolted, then began swaying back and forth as the wheels turned and they began their long journey.
Tears flowed freely down Ysmaine’s cheeks as she watched her little house grow smaller with each turn of the wheels. It looked sad, somehow. Abandoned. As though it knew she was leaving.
This was all nonsense, naturally. Stone and mortar made a house, nothing more.
This did not comfort her. She still felt the pain of watching her childhood home dwindle in size as keenly as she’d felt the pain of losing her parents. Perhaps that was what truly hurt, leaving the last of them behind.
And moving on toward… what? She could not say. Not yet. She could only hope it was something better, something that might make the loss worthwhile in comparison.
6
“Why did we stop?” Ysmaine roused herself from the near-slumber into which she’d fallen, lulled by the swaying of the carriage and encouraged by the lack of sleep the night before.
Who could sleep with such a life-changing journey ahead of them?
She eased her way to the back of the carriage, looking up at the sky. The sun had crossed the midpoint of the sky and was beginning its descent. Not more than three hours had passed. Judging from the slow pace which they’d taken over the rocky road, it was likely they hadn’t covered much ground at all.
Leon turned on the wooden plank which served as a seat for both him and Geoffrey. “The horses need watering, and it would do you well to stretch your legs.”
That was all she needed to hear. She’d already lost count of the splinters in her kirtle and only a few hours of sitting on the unforgiving wood had created soreness from shoulder to knee.
Leon helped her down. It was good to feel the sun on her face; the canvas having blocked it out through the ride.
When she smiled up at Leon to thank him for his assistance, he responded with a frown. “You are taking quite a chance, wearing something so fine.” He gestured to his throat, indicating the brooch at hers.
“Oh, yes.” She blushed as she looked down. “Perhaps I ought to remove it and hide it among my things when we continue.”
“That would be wise. Anyone sees that when we stop for food or shelter and you can count on it being taken from you.”
She shivered, though managed to keep her composure. She even lifted her chin, slightly defiant. “Are you telling me this merely to frighten me? Because I do not frighten easily.”
He let out a gruff laugh, exchanging a look with Geoffrey before joining him to unhitch the horses from the carriage. “On the contrary,” he assured her before going about his work.
The idea of being robbed of her treasures, few though they were, did not frighten her. It infuriated her. No one had the right to take what was hers.
Connor Fraser had always taught that men ought to earn what they called their own. Anyone who took for the sake of profit at another’s expense was beyond reproach. Thieves were the lowest form of life, worse even than rodents and other pests.
She watched from the side of the road as the men led the horses through a clearing to the banks of the river. The Beauly flowed quickly past, swollen thanks to the melting of the last of the winter’s snow. Leon returned to her with a freshly filled clay jug fitted with a wooden stopper; she drank deeply of the fresh, cold water he’d just taken from the river.
“I will refill it,” she offered, carrying it through the clearing between towering pine trees to the water’s edge. An excuse to refresh herself, if nothing else. She splashed water on her tear-stained cheeks, washed her hands as best she could. It was a fine, clear day, the air heavy with the promise of spring and then summer.
By summer, she would be in Cherbourg. She would no longer know the deep joy of looking across the river to the endless stretch of green, spanning the horizon as far as the eye could see. Watching as storm clouds rolled in, building as they moved until they seemed poised to swallow everything in their path.
Perhaps Cherbourg was as beautiful.
“Come!” Leon called out. When Ysmaine turned, still lost in reverie, it was a surprise to find the horses hitched and Gregory behind them. She’d been woolgathering for far too long.
“I’m on my way,” she announced, carrying the jug back with every intention of apologizing for having taken so long.
She never had the chance.
Leon was poised at the rear of the carriage, ready to help her inside, when something in the deep woods on the other side of the road caught his eye.
He froze. So did she. The horses pranced and pawed at the ground, their ears turned in the direction of the noise from the woods.
“Inside.” Leon’s hands were at her waist before she could utter a cry of surprise, holding fast as he lifted her into the carriage and dropped her with a thud. She scrambled to the corner, wedging herself behind sacks of oats.
Her heart hammered wildly, her thoughts racing in a dozen directions. Perhaps it was a wild animal. If only it were a wild animal and not something worse.
If she weren’t so terrified, she might have laughed at the notion of hoping for a wild animal to threaten them.
“Who goes there?” Leon shouted. “Show yourself.”
Why didn’t they simply ride away? Surely, a pair of healthy, strong horses could outrun a thief, even if they pulled a rather shabby carriage. It seemed the height of foolishness to stand their ground and challenge an unseen enemy.
Twigs snapped to her right, across the road, and she hugged her knees to her chest. Would it be better to see what emerged from the woods, rather than having to imagine thanks to the canvas covering the carriage?
“Good day to ye, friend.” A Scotsman. He was sneering. She could hear it in his voice.
“Good day,” Leon grunted. “What business have you here?”
“We was about to ask ye the same.” More rustling. Much more. How many were there? She desperately wanted to know, but fear froze her in place.
The sound of a sword being removed from a scabbard. “We want no trouble with you,” Geoffrey said in a cool voice, just over Ysmaine’s shoulder. “We merely wish to be on our way.”
“And we merely wish to know what ye have in that carriage.”
There came the sounds of a scuffle, with metal crashing against metal, grunts of exertion and groans of pain. The carriage rocked in place a
s bodies collided with it.
Ysmaine covered her mouth with both hands to stifle her whimpering, nearly out of her mind with panic. What would they do to her? Her escorts were very likely outnumbered.
Why had the Marquis sent no more than two men to protect her if roadside thieves were so common?
A strange, rough man with blood running down the side of his head threw himself halfway into the back of the carriage. Ysmaine screamed, her hands flailing about in search of a weapon. She landed on one of the clay jugs used to store water and threw it at the man, where it shattered against his face in spite of the arms he threw up to protect himself.
Leon pulled him to the ground by his legs and ran him through with his sword. Ysmaine closed her eyes as the man cried out in agony, then went silent.
Another cry quickly followed. She peered out from behind hands now covering her eyes and screamed once again when she realized another one of the thieves had attacked Leon from behind and stabbed him repeatedly through the back.
“No!” she wailed, both horrified for him and terrified for herself.
The carriage began moving forward, with Geoffrey shouting at the team to move. Ysmaine bounced up and down as the wheels lifted from the ground and fell again, and she knew before the body appeared on the road behind them that they’d run one of the thieves over.
The thief who’d murdered Leon gave chase but gave up when it became clear that he’d never beat the speed of two healthy frightened geldings, especially on a flat stretch of open road.
Leon’s body lay in the road as well, his eyes still open and staring blindly at the hints of blue sky which revealed themselves through the leaves of the trees all around.
“Are you injured?” Geoffrey called back, shouting to be heard over the pounding of hooves.
“No!” she shouted, holding onto the side of the carriage for dear life as it rocked violently.
“That makes one of us!”
To her surprise, he laughed. Perhaps out of relief for being alive, perhaps because there was nothing else to do but laugh at the way the day had turned out.
And this was only the first of many days she’d spend traveling to France.
Would that she had never left home at all.
7
Quinn motioned to the rather homely lass employed by the innkeeper to deliver platters of food and mugs of ale to the patrons, when she was not involved with cleaning the rooms and refreshing the linens, candles and the like.
He held his empty mug aloft, in desire of another drink. This brief bit of rest was due him, he believed, after spending the better part of a month living mostly out of doors. He had only spared a few pence on a room for the night twice in all that time, when the thought of another bite of day-old rabbit set his teeth on edge and caused him to regret ever having left the comfort of the Anderson clan.
When such sullen thoughts overwhelmed him, it was the time to spend the night at the nearest inn, so long as it seemed fairly clean and reasonably priced.
Now that he was so close to Inverness, the thriving port on the northern coast and perhaps the capital of the Highlands—if there was such a place—he’d had his choice of several inns down the length of the road leading into the heart of the town.
He’d chosen well, the taste of crisp, glistening fat still fresh on his tongue as he drank from his second mug of ale. Not the best, not by far, but fairly priced for the low quality.
It mattered little just then, at any rate. He was too relieved to be at rest for the first time in a fortnight to mourn his choice of refreshment.
Several of the other roundtables were occupied, all of the patrons were men, either on their way in or out of Inverness. He was near the territory of Clan Fraser, he knew, and he’d seen several clansmen riding in groups past the well-concealed place he’d chosen for his lookout. It seemed there was a clan meeting in the works.
None of this mattered to him. His only concern was for the coins in the purse at his waist, beneath his tunic. How many times a day did he test the strength of the cord which held the purse in place? Its contents meant everything.
They meant his brother’s life.
He’d reminded himself of this very fact more times than he could remember. When the rain fell so hard it made him forget what it felt like to be dry, when the hooves of his faithful chestnut gelding sank into the mud as they made their slow way through the woods, when he was hungry for lack of decent hunting so early in the season, he’d reminded himself of Lennox’s haunted eyes.
Of the coughing and groans of misery coming from within that large room.
Of its filth and disease.
Disease which Lennox might contract and perhaps die of.
It was all that kept away the guilt at times.
At one of the tables sat a man wearing a bright red tunic, his sword at his waist. He’d seen fighting, judging from the way his eyes moved from side to side at all times. He was on his guard.
One look at the man’s companion explained why.
When she removed the dark cloak which had disguised her to him at first, Quinn took note of her the way he’d always taken note of women.
Her long, lustrous braid. Brown with a faint hint of red when she moved her head one way or the other and the caught the light from the candles throughout the room.
She was a bit broad-shouldered for a woman, a bit long of limb, but full at the breast and hip. Womanly. She stirred something in him which had gone silent in recent days.
It appeared that even he was capable of losing his appetite for the pleasures of the flesh, but this lass reminded him of what he’d been missing.
Her profile was strong, her neck long and lean and leading up to a proud jaw and chin, a straight nose, full brows over eyes as blue as the sky just before twilight.
Yes. She stirred him.
But she was not alone.
And judging by the good quality of her kirtle and the jeweled hilt of her escort’s sword, there might be more to her than just a lovely face and pleasing form.
The two of them rose from the table once they’d finished dining. Quinn lowered his head, making himself invisible as always, but still watched from the corner of his eye as the man with the sword—he was a soldier, or had been one judging by his bearing and the quality of his weapon—dropped a handful of coins onto the table.
They were leaving. They had only come in to dine or were leaving after having spent the previous night. Quinn couldn’t remember seeing them before, they’d like as not kept to themselves, as they seemed to be making haste to take their leave.
There was a choice to be made.
Leave them alone or follow and take what he could. He might threaten the lass, make it more difficult for the soldier to refuse him while there was a dirk held to the throat of the woman it was his responsibility to protect.
His mind was made up before he stood, handing a few pence to the homely young serving lass before following his new prey. The poor thing looked homelier than ever in comparison to the vision of beauty who he intended to steal from.
In another time, a better time, he would have followed her with something else in mind. Something far more pleasurable for them both.
Everything he needed, he carried either at his waist or in a canvas pack over one shoulder, so he had nothing to do once he stepped outside but mount his horse.
“My apologies,” he murmured, patting the beast’s withers. “I know I told ye we’d rest, but I cannot ignore opportunity.”
The soldier drove a carriage, a simple thing with a canvas top. The lass must have rested inside while her escort manned the two-horse team. It was late, full dark, but the light color of the canvas stood out even when clouds obscured the moon.
They were heading closer to Inverness, with only a small patch of forest standing between them and the town. Quinn thought quickly out of necessity, as there would be little chance to overtake the carriage.
He left the road, riding just within the tree line, keeping
the carriage in his sights until he’d passed it. In spite of a pair of powerful animals pulling it, it moved slowly. It had been used quite heavily and perhaps pushed past its ability, for the axles creaked terribly, and the wooden box pitched from side to side, reminding Quinn of nothing so much as a man who’d had too much to drink.
The poor lass must have been sick to her stomach from the motion.
He reminded himself there was no room for that sort of thinking. He could not imagine what she was thinking, could not feel pity for her. No matter who she was, no matter how comely she may be.
The more he thought along those lines, the more difficult it would be for him to do what needed to be done.
Once he was certain he’d put enough distance between them, he turned toward the road and dismounted before tying the reins off to a branch. The poor beast was near exhaustion from so much riding. “This will not take long,” he promised, patting its withers again before crouching behind a birch nearer the road and watching for the approach of the carriage.
It came up slowly, as expected, still swaying with each turn of the wheels, it was enough to bring questions to mind. Questions of whether the carriage’s passenger possessed anything worth stealing floated through his mind, based upon the condition of the carriage in which she rode.
There had to be something. The jeweled sword, at the very least.
Quinn held his breath, one hand on the dirk still tucked into his belt.
When the time was right, and the horses were close enough to startle, he leaped out from behind the birch and threw himself into the path of the oncoming carriage.
The horses reared back, hooves pawing at thin air, their screams mingling with the shouts from the driver and those coming from the lass. He couldn’t see her, but he could hear her.
She shouted with good reason. The horses veered to the left when their front hooves touched the ground, away from Quinn, pulling the carriage violently to the side. So violently, the axles broke, which tore the wheels from the body.