“There was talk of the dungeons at Rumster Castle.”
“They’ve been locking her up for months, master.”
“The lass had her hood pulled low over her face to hide the tears.”
“Aye, and her shame, the poor woman.”
“There’s only a half dozen Sinclair men with her. We can take them, master!” the first man growled. “‘Twould be a good deed to help the wee lass and set the bastards back a--”
“Wait here.” William turned his back, leaving the two looking helplessly after him as he strode unhurriedly around the stone cross toward the wool merchant’s stall.
As William approached, the Sinclair men visibly stiffened. They knew who he was. He ignored them.
The two nuns, gathered right outside the wool merchant’s stall, were whispering in French, and William heard snatches of their conversation. They, too, seemed to know him, though he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why. He’d never had any dealings with the little group of French nuns living at the convent on Loch Fleet.
Brushing past the Sinclair men, William sauntered into the stall, casually picking up a piece of fleece and setting it down. The Englishwoman, reaching over, immediately picked up the fleece and set it in another pile. Though she was speaking quietly and continuously to the merchant, she appeared resolute about bringing some organization to the jumbled piles of wool the man had carted to market.
Suddenly, William found himself listening intently. There was something captivating about the soft lilt in her voice. Although her timid attempt at mimicking the Highland tongue was charming, her English accent--as Ren, the old farmer, had said--gave her away immediately. Peering covertly at her, he could just see a lock of black hair that had fallen free of her worn hood. Looking back down at her small hands, chafed by hard work and cold weather, he realized that she was sorting the fleece by color and quality.
An amused smile tugged at his mouth.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the leader of the Sinclairs was watching him carefully. William picked up another fleece, one that still retained marks of black tar in the thick wool. He intentionally dropped the fleece on the ground and moved over a step.
The Englishwoman immediately picked it up, but as she did, raised voices could be heard from the square. Glancing around, the Highlander realized that a shouting match between a haughty townswoman and a crofter driving a dozen red shaggy-haired steers through the market square had drawn the Sinclairs’ attention momentarily.
William looked at the Englishwoman. She was standing with the fleece in her hand, ignoring the commotion in the square. She was clearly undecided about which pile the fleece belonged in. Without a word, he took it out of her hands and placed it on the pile of fleece that she’d deemed of the poorest quality.
She turned in shock at his forwardness, a scowl darkening her face. But then, for William Ross of Blackfearn, something stopped, and the world stopped with it. Perhaps it was her eyes that halted him in his tracks. Their deep, violet-blue color was not like any he’d ever seen. Except perhaps for Molly, the wench he visited occasionally at the Three Cups on the Inverness road. Nay, these eyes were even deeper, more violet than Molly’s.
An eon may have passed--William couldn’t be sure--and still he found himself staring. It occurred to him that perhaps it was the surprise in her pale face that made his heart pause for that lingering moment. It was a face of an enchantress, English or no.
William thought she was about to speak, but the woman hesitated as one of her captors eyed her menacingly. She said nothing and looked away.
When he glanced back at the Sinclair men, he saw the nuns had separated themselves from the party, each moving toward a different part of the marketplace. Turning away, William ambled as casually as he could out of the stall, stopping a young lad who was walking about and hawking apples. The uproar had died down, and the cattle were disappearing down the dirt street.
“Hurry on, lass!”
Shooting a quick look back at them, William could see that the Englishwoman was still standing in the stall. The Sinclair men had no patience with her and the leader tugged at her elbow.
“If you’re not back by vespers,” the leader growled, “it’ll mean a dozen lashes...if you understand my meaning.”
With a hasty nod she left the fleece behind, and immediately the group moved through the crowd toward a group of tented stalls belonging to traveling merchants in from Inverness.
At the next stall the woman paused again, but this time only for a moment as she straightened out a display of women’s shoes. The disgusted curses of one of the Sinclair warriors rose above the sounds of the market throng.
Flipping his uneaten apple to a street urchin running by, William crossed the way and slipped into the alley between the merchants’ tents and a low wall behind them. Beyond the wall was a ditch, and a stand of trees was visible beyond that.
Working his way past serving lads sitting idly on half-empty carts of merchandise, he moved silently into the alleyway between the third and fourth tents. A merchant selling brightly colored Flemish cloth was calling out to the guarded woman. The cloaked and hooded Englishwoman drew near the tented stall, and William stepped back into the shadows.
As he did, a gypsy band came to life across the way, their tambourines and bells and flashing-eyed women immediately drawing the gazes of the Sinclair warriors.
The Highlander seized his chance. With a silencing look at the merchant, William reached out, grabbed the startled woman by the wrist, and dragged her in one quick motion into the alleyway.
“I am a friend!” he whispered against her ear.
Covering her mouth with his hand nonetheless, William took her around the waist with his other and speedily backed along the alley. As they reached the low wall at the end, the Ross turned and released the squirming woman, setting her back on her feet and turning her to face him. Her hood was pulled forward, and a lock of thick black hair had tumbled out across her eyes.
“We’ve only a moment before they discover you’re missing. But I’ve horses waiting beyond that stand of trees. You’re safe now.” The Englishwoman was clearly stunned. The corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “You’ve nothing to fear. You’ve been rescued.”
The woman’s eyes swept questioningly over him, focusing on the coin that he suddenly pulled from his leather belt. The Tudor rose flashed in the sunlight.
“I’ve no time now to explain. If we’re to get you out of Fearnoch, we’ll have to--”
William Ross’s words died on his tongue as the woman’s full-throated scream--loud enough to be heard in Edinburgh--cut like a sword through the crisp winter air.
Read more: Enchantress
Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) Page 30