Varden's Lady

by Maren Smith

  "We should have escaped through the garden,” Mallory said.

  Kenton shook his head. “Had we crawled over the garden wall, we'd have landed right in the middle of their camp."

  "Why isn't anyone stationed in front of the stables where the horses are?"

  "This is the last place they will look,” Kenton said. “The only escape from here is through the front gates. They will see us leaving, which means that our only hope is to outride them and flee somewhere they can't track. Quite frankly, we haven't got a prayer. With all this rain and mud, they could still track us a week from now.” Kenton looked from her to Tim, then back again. “I am a valet, not a bloody general! I press cravats, fetch drinks and, once in a while, have the privilege of delivering a sarcastic remark! If you don't like my rescues, then come up with one on your bloody own! I'm doing the best I bloody well can!” He hunkered over his mare. “Now get ready, damn it. Focus on the door and wait for my mark."

  The soldiers had already begun a methodical search of the bailey, garden, and pig yard. A few even lifted the heads of the slain and those not already dead were quickly dispatched. The two men stationed at the front gates moved into the courtyard to help.

  "Now!” Kenton shouted.

  Both horses shot from the stable to the open portcullis and through the gatehouse. For Mallory it was a matter of simply letting the horse run while she clung to the saddle and tried not to fall off. Even as Godfrey bellowed after them, the horses were across the drawbridge and beyond the broken curtain walls. Bullets and crossbow bolts whistled past their heads, and Mallory hunkered even lower over the saddle, covering Devin with her body and following Kenton's lead until they had broken through the shield of the outlying forest.

  The rain was blinding and they were both soaked in minutes. The cloudy skies provided no light and riding at this speed, unable to see the ground, was akin to suicide. And it seemed forever before Kenton grabbed the reins from her near frozen hands and gradually slowed both panting animals to a walk.

  "Godfrey won't bother hunting us tonight,” Kenton panted. “He'll wait until morning when it will be easier to track us in the mud."

  "What now?” Mallory asked. Rain and muck dripped from her hair. She tried to wipe the worst of it away before it washed into her eyes. Shivering and cold, the rain having finally soaked through to him, Devin had begun to cry.

  Kenton alternately watched the road behind them and looked at her. He adjusted his own ruined uniform self-consciously. “I confess I have no plan. Getting you out of Cadhla was as far as I thought."

  "My hero,” Mallory said sarcastically. “You drop me down a grease chute into hog crap, throw me onto a horse and ride me around the countryside in the rain with no shoes or coat. Some rescue this is."

  "I suppose we could head for someplace dry,” he suggested blandly. “That maple tree over there looks good. It may not be fully out of the weather, but it's likely drier than standing out in the open like a pair of hapless ninnies. In the morning, we'll head for Dryburgh Abbey. If we can get there ahead of Godfrey, we can beg for asylum and hope the Scottish clergy are blind to English refugees."

  Mallory looked at the maple and then back at him. “I think I have a better idea."

  * * * *

  Malcolm Kincaid was reading in front of a warm fire, enjoying the remnants of a full belly, fresh pipe and a cup of warm brandy when word reached him that an English woman and servant were standing at his front gate.

  "Scuttle her off,” Kincaid said around the stem of his pipe. He stretched his boots to the fire.

  The man did not go away. “She kins t’ be Alasdair's captive."

  "I dinnae care if she kins t’ be a bloody fish. If she will nae go away, shoot the wench and be done wi’ it!” He turned the page and shifted in his chair. He did his best to ignore the man at his elbow, but he still didn't go away.

  "She kins t’ be the Duchess o’ Cadhla. She wants t’ turn herself o'er t’ us as a prisoner o’ war."

  The Kincaid looked up from his book. “We're nae at war wi’ Cadhla."

  "Aye, and weel I know it,” the other man said, sounding confused. “That's why I thought ye'd want t’ know."

  This was how indigestion got started. What had begun as a pleasant evening was now all shot to hell with heartburn. He reluctantly set his brandy aside and climbed to his feet. “For Christ's sake. Bring her t’ the Hall."

  Curiosity killed the cat. Twenty minutes into his interrogation of the “prisoner” and her surly servant, Kincaid decided it was not far from doing him in either. “I already told ye,” he said, almost shouting just to be heard over the crying baby. “I dinnae have yer husband; I dinnae take him captive."

  "But they were Scots, I swear it.” Mallory clutched her dripping cloak closer and shivered violently in the open draft of the Kincaid hall.

  "That dinnae make them mine."

  "B-but if it wasn't you, then who?” Mallory stuttered. Rain dripped from her bangs onto her nose. “How am I sup-p-posed to find him now?"

  "That isna me problem.” The Kincaid shrugged. “Ye ha’ a busy night ahead o’ ye. God speed."

  "I saved your son's life."

  "Aye,” the Kincaid snapped. “And yer mon be the one t’ try t’ snuff it. Dinnae be asking me for favors. If ye want t’ leave yer bairn, I'll keep him warm, dry, and fed. I'll d’ that much out o’ gratitude, but ye'll get nothing from me for the father!"

  When the Kincaid turned to leave, she grabbed his arm and he jumped with surprise. Her hands were icicle cold.

  "Please,” she begged. “I am b-begging you, please just listen to me. G-Godfrey was responsible, not Varden. I need your help before it's too late."

  He stared at her, blue lips, chattering teeth, shivering and cold. As pitiful as she was to look upon, he could not help but feel a spark of admiration. He looked down at the fussy baby, tied to her waist with two muddy, smelly shawls. “If I send out patrols, what d’ I get for me troubles?"

  "M-my eternal gratitude?” Mallory said, hopefully. She sniffled as he looked at her incredulously, and then began to laugh. The booming sound echoed through the near empty Hall.

  Again the Kincaid turned to walk away, but for her tiny grip on his arm, which stayed him. She was shaking so badly it was a wonder that she did not fall down. “I could show you to the man responsible for the raids."

  "Oh, Aye? And where is this mon now? In yer back pocket? Gratitude or nae, I'm more o’ mind t’ throw ye in me gaol and forget all aboot ye."

  "You don't know what we've g-gone through to get here,” Mallory protested, and despite himself, the Kincaid almost smiled. She had the prettiest green eyes. And spunk. He liked spunk.

  "I know you c-could lock me in your d-dungeon, or hurt m-me, or cut me up and feed me to the dogs."

  Now he did smile.

  "I'm cold and hungry and tired.” Mallory sneezed, and the baby squalled even louder. “The only thing I can do is beg your help. If you won't, then fine! Who needs you? I'll do it myself, and I'm sorry I wasted your oh-so important time!"

  This time it was Mallory who turned to go and the Kincaid who stopped her. He sighed. “I willnae lock ye in me dungeon. Nor cut ye up and feed ye t’ the hounds; they're too picky aboot what they eat. As for attacking ye, I prefer me lassies nae t’ reek o’ pig shit. Go, sit yerself by the fire a-fore ye catch yer death. I maun be as daft as ye, but I'll try t’ find yer mon."

  In minutes, Mallory was wrapped in a clean blanket in the Kincaid's comfortable chair while bath water was being heated for her in the kitchen. She had been given a warm, dry blanket for Devin, who had fallen asleep just as soon as he was warm and fed.

  Unable to sit still, she got up and went to the window. She almost popped her thumbnail into her mouth before she smelled pig, remembered where she had been, and put her hand back down again. She sighed. Between the dark and the rain and the cloudy, poured glass of the window, she could barely see Kenton outside saddling a fresh mount for himself. He was
going with the Kincaid and his men. He hadn't even bothered to change into dry clothes before he left. As she watched, he shook his head once and then again. He was probably wondering where his wits had gone off to.

  * * * *

  Saddling a horse next to him, the Kincaid's younger brother, Lachlan, was obviously wondering the same thing. “Never in a thousand years did I kin t’ be helping the Sassenach."

  Malcolm Kincaid snorted. “The last thing we need is a lost Englishmon wimpling aboot. If we dinnae find him, the next ye know we'll be crawling in ‘em and we'll never get ‘em all out o’ Scotland."

  They both turned to cast equally black stares at Kenton, who swung up into his saddle and pretended not to be listening.

  "God help us,” Lachlan muttered under his breath.

  The Kincaid nodded. “Amen."

  * * * *

  Varden de Michadle, Duke of Cadhla, the fourth Baron of Lanbrough, and holder of several other minor titles, struggled to remain in his saddle. The sun had set; the night sky had opened up in a downpour of icy rain that surprised no one. It had done little but rain off and on since his capture four days ago.

  "That's it then,” the old Scot said cheerfully. He brushed his hands off on his kilt and grinned at his companions through the rain.

  "I dinnae kin the man'll show,” the leader finally admitted.

  The old Scot laughed. “One less Sassenach in Scotland be payment enough for me, lad."

  "Aye.” The leader urged his mount to the rump of Varden's restless pony.

  From the corner of Varden's eye, he glimpsed the leader raise his arm high. The pony tensed beneath Varden's thighs, as if it sensed that it would finally be allowed to run. Varden braced himself. He lifted his face to the rain, letting it sting his face, and he closed his eyes.

  Claire—

  With a watery smack, the leader slapped the hell beast's rump and the pony lurched for freedom. The rope around Varden's neck became a deadly constriction that jerked him backwards out of the saddle. He swung into empty air just as the choking grip on his throat suddenly went slack. He fell flat on his back in the mud. Pain shot up through his bound arms into his aching shoulders. Pain was good. It meant he was still alive. And he could breathe again. Varden sucked unabashedly at air and rain while his surroundings erupted into blood-curdling yells and kilt-clad Scotsmen. His would-be executioners scattered in the confusion, but the attacking Scots came from all directions, and they were quickly and expertly surrounded before they could escape.

  Flat on the ground, still trying to catch his breath, Varden stared straight up at the severed rope that had nearly caused his demise. A horse and rider came into view and quickly cut off all else.

  Varden focused on the Kincaid, who was grinning down at him. “Well, ye d’ look a sight, lad."

  "Believe me,” Varden rasped, closing his eyes in relief. “I feel worse, but I thank you just the same. I'll even take back every nasty thing I ever thought or said about you."

  The Kincaid grinned. “Ye'll nae want t’ g’ that far."

  "Viva la victory!"

  Varden lifted his head when he heard Mallory's shout. With the muddy hem of her drab brown dress hiked up round her knees, she sat astride Varden's horse like a redheaded angel gone astray. Her long hair hung in thick, dripping wet tendrils down her back, damp curls sweetly framing a face flushed bright and shining with excitement. In one hand, she held a long dagger. A revolver was impudently tucked into a sword belt that she had tied about her waist. To add insult to injury, the Kincaid tartan was wrapped around her shoulders in a loosely flowing shawl.

  "Don't worry, honey,” Mallory called and waved at him. “We took back the castle. Everything's fine now."

  Varden stared. What lunatic had given her a gun? And that knife—it was a wonder that she had not loped the ears off his horse. It took a minute for her words to register, but when they did, the Kincaid abruptly had all of his attention. “Took back the castle?"

  "Weel,” the Kincaid hedged. “There wouldnae much t’ retake. There were nae defenses left, and most o’ the mercenaries had already gone. That one,” he gestured at Godfrey, “and a few o’ his mon were all that we found by the time we got there."

  Varden stared at Godfrey, his hands tied together, filthy and bruised atop one of the Scotsmen's ponies. Kenton appeared from out of nowhere to cut the ropes that bound Varden's hands and helped him to his feet.

  Dismounting, the Kincaid clapped Varden roughly on the back. “Welcome back t’ the living."

  "You're enjoying this.” Varden glared at him.

  The Kincaid's grin widened. “Tis a good thing yer wife makes a lousy prisoner. She cannae even make candles wi'out burning down the entire west wing! Ye owe me.” The Scot shook his finger under Varden's nose. “Ye owe me a new west wing!"

  Varden glared at Mallory, who, having suddenly become unusually interested in the uneven ends of her hair, didn't notice. Then he turned to Godfrey, now positioned with Varden's other would-be executioners.

  They had never been close. Not even as children. Their gazes locked, and Varden read only animosity for him in Godfrey's eyes.

  "We've got our reivers,” the Kincaid said. “I dinnae know aboot ye, but they've murdered nine o’ me people wi’ their bloody raids."

  Varden shook his head. “He was going to hang anyway. He tried to kill my wife."

  Godfrey actually began to laugh. “If you knew half what I do, brother, you'd kill her yourself. Why don't you ask her how Caleb really died?"

  Varden went cold. “What are you talking about?"

  Godfrey sneered. “Ask her about the special honey cakes she included, just for you, in that picnic lunch. Only you didn't eat them, did you? No, Caleb ignored the cakes meant for him in favor of Papa's. Children have no respect for the best laid plans."

  The implication hit Varden like a fist to the gut. For a moment he couldn't breathe. He turned to Mallory, who was staring at Godfrey with a look of absolute horror. His eyes pleaded with her. “Tell me he is lying."

  Mallory reached for him. “Varden, please believe that it wasn't me."

  Varden began to shake. He shook his head in disbelief. “You killed our son?"

  Godfrey smiled viciously. “Go ahead, hang me. My son is still your ‘heir.’ My blood will inherit all."

  Varden felt a hand at his shoulder.

  "G’ home, lad,” the Kincaid said gruffly. “Ye dinnae need t’ be here for this. I'll take care o’ it. Just g’ home."

  Varden turned numbly for his horse. For a long moment, he stared up at Mallory. Her gaze was unwavering, sympathetic, but without a shred of guilt or remorse. Perhaps he could have forgiven her if there had been remorse. With trembling hands, he pulled her from the saddle and set her roughly on the ground.

  "Your eye.” Mallory would have touched the swollen bruise, but Varden knocked her hand away.

  "Do you remember?” he asked, hoarsely. “Is any of what he said true? Please, I beg you, with God as your witness, tell me he is lying. Make me believe it."

  Mallory lowered her hand. “I didn't poison your son. I would never hurt a child."

  Varden nodded, and then he shook his head. The grief doubled him over. It was the first time that she had ever seen him cry, however briefly. And when he straightened back again, it was as if he were back in his armor. Cold, aloof, he glared at her with hatred, his tears still on his face. “Don't ever touch me again."

  As Varden swung up into the saddle and rode away, the hard, straight lines of his back were quickly blurred by her own tears.

  "We should go with him,” Kenton said softly behind her. “If you ever hope to make this work between you, Lady Mallory, you must bury Claire for good."

  "How?” she asked, swiping at her face with the back of her hand. “How can I possibly do that now? It would be easier to save a whale."

  Kenton wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He did not even try to figure that out. “Come. Let me take you home."

&
nbsp; As they were picking their way down the hill, they heard the Kincaid order fresh ropes to be tossed up over the branch Varden had nearly been hung from moments ago, then a whinny from the devil pony as Godfrey was mounted onto it. She covered her ears as the command was given and the pony went galloping free.

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  Chapter Nineteen

  Grief had been chiseled into the crypt wall along with these simple words: “In loving memory of Caleb Daniel Michadle, first born son. Given unto God, August 1586. He is missed."

  Mallory stood in the Michadle vault, a freshly picked bouquet of purple, blue and white flowers held tightly in her hands. Half were already wilted since the season for flowers had passed, but she couldn't find any that looked nicer. She didn't know why she felt it so important to bring flowers to the grave of a child she had never known, but as she bent to lay them on the ground, she reverently touched the last line of the inscription. Her fingers traced the word ‘missed’ and then the head of the lamb carved above it, before once more gaining her feet.

  Poor Varden. Had he shouldered the burden of his loss alone? Mallory reread the inscription, then turned to Grete, who held the flickering candle that cast the only light throughout the shadow-strewn mausoleum. “Do you think Claire ever regretted what she did?"

  "Your Grace?"

  "Did she grieve for Caleb?” Mallory asked again, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “Did she ever come here or talk of him? Did she ever, just one time, show that she was something other than monstrous?” Her voice cracked, but she managed to keep the tears from falling. “Because if she did, then maybe there is a way to make Varden look at me with something other than hatred! I'll even take a spanking, if only he'll just touch me again!"

  Grete touched her shoulder sympathetically. “Milady, if Claire ever felt remorse—for anything—I never saw it."

  Mallory covered her face with her hands, then wiped away the tears she couldn't hold back any longer. “Will you do it for me again?"

  "You are torturing yourself,” Grete said with a shake of her head.

  "It's the only way I can see him anymore. Please, just one more time."