by Lily Baldwin
She nodded, grasping his hand with her free one. “I do know that. I believe with all my heart.” She released his hand and squatted down beside the river. “Still,” she said. “A wish is like a prayer, and prayer will only ever help.”
Holding her breath, she released the boat. Swept away by the current, the candle was out of reach in seconds. For a moment, her heart panged with loss as if once more she was witnessing her son being swept from her arms. But then her spirits lifted as she watched the boat tilt and rock but never overturn. And as it rounded the bend out of sight, the flame intensified, stretching higher. She jumped to her feet, her heart brimming with hope, and she threw her arms around Quinn’s neck. “It made it,” she exclaimed.
He cupped her cheeks. “Just as we will.” Dipping his head, he pressed his full lips to hers.
“I know ye will, too,” Thomas said.
Quinn looked over Catarina’s head and locked eyes with Thomas. The boy appeared earnest enough. His affection for Catarina seemed entirely genuine. Still, Quinn simply could not trust him and refused to take even one eye off of the lad, not for a moment, no matter how well Catarina liked him.
He did have to admit that he enjoyed listening to Catarina’s laughter. She and Thomas jested together as though brother and sister, and it pleased him to see her so lighthearted.
“My lady, the next question is yers t—” The rest of Thomas’s words remained lodged in his throat as Quinn seized his tunic and hoisted him into the air.
“What did ye say?” Quinn snarled, shaking Thomas.
Catarina yanked on his arm. “What has come over you, Quinn. Put him down. You’re hurting him.”
Quinn glared at Thomas but spoke to Catarina. “The two of ye have not been out of ear shot. I’ve been listening to yer every word. Not once have ye slipped about who ye really are, and yet this rodent calls ye ‘my lady’.”
He put Thomas back on his feet but continued to grip the front of his tunic while he waited for Catarina to understand the truth. Her eyes grew wide before she narrowed them on Thomas, but her friend would now not meet her gaze.
“Look at me,” Catarina hissed.
Slowly, Thomas lifted his head.
“You know who I am?” she said, fear and anger forming a knot in her throat.
Thomas’s brows came together the instant before he shifted his gaze back to the ground. She knew his answer when he could not look her in the eye.
She clenched her fists. “How could you?”
“What were ye going to do?” Quinn gritted, jerking Thomas even closer. Still, Thomas kept his eyes trained on the ground. “Wait for an opportunity to snatch her away and deliver her up to the very devils who destroyed her life, those who would see her hang or worse?” He shook Thomas again.
“Answer me,” Quinn shouted.
“It started out that way,” Thomas said quickly.
“What were ye planning on doing with me then,” Quinn said, his voice deadly soft. “Were ye waiting for the opportunity to slit my throat?”
“I wouldn’t have killed ye,” Thomas muttered. “I was just waiting until ye left her alone.” He looked up then and locked eyes with Quinn. “But ye never leave her alone.”
A sob rose in Catarina’s throat, drawing Quinn’s gaze. She pressed her fist to her lips to choke back her tears.
Thomas reached out his hands. “My lady, I swear I wasn’t going to hurt ye. It was not long after we met that I knew ye couldn’t have done what that man accused ye of. I knew ye were innocent. I swear I wasn’t going—”
A rumbling bloodhound bark echoed through the forest, twisting the pit of Catarina’s stomach.
“They’ve fastened on her scent again,” Thomas said, his voice rising in pitch. “Run!”
Catarina dropped to her knees and started to shove their skillet in her satchel.
“Leave it, Catarina. ‘Tis too late,” Quinn urged, grabbing her forearm and pulling to her feet. “To the river,” he said.
Catarina gripped the plaid beneath her chin and raced behind Quinn, her heart thundering in her ears. Fear choked the air from her lungs. Dogs with sharp teeth and powerful jaws knew her smell and wanted to find her. A whimper fled her lips. She feared the beasts were upon her.
*
Sun slanted through the canopy of tall Scots pines while Stephen trailed behind his party. He had awoken that morning feeling more anxious than he had since first setting out. Rupert was becoming increasingly unpredictable and violent. He talked to himself, sometimes shouting obscenities but at no one—just an empty space in a room or an open road. He abused his men over the slightest provocation. The night before, he again refused to feed Jasper or the dogs. Stephen had to slip Jasper coin when Rupert wasn’t looking. Edgar, Jarrett, and Aldwin had grown quiet around Rupert, avoiding eye contact, and more recently around Stephen as well, clearly fearful that Stephen might repeat something overheard to his brother.
Stephen’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his reins. He knew not the best course of action, but what he did know and for certain was that Rupert was going mad. His eyes settled on his older brother who rode in front of the knights just behind Jasper who was jogging with the dogs, their leashes slack in his hand to give them lead. Stephen’s chest tightened. He was struck by how narrow Rupert’s shoulders appeared. And it was no wonder—he hardly ate. He barely slept. In fact, just the night before Stephen and the soldiers slept in the common room on threadbare pallets while Rupert took the one room available upstairs. For hours, Stephen had lied awake, listening to Rupert’s pacing above their heads, broken up by intermittent banging or cursing so loud that it could be heard through the floor boards. His brother’s health was failing. This Stephen did not doubt. Even at that moment, Rupert looked as if he was slipping from his saddle. Stephen pressed his lips together and nudged his horse faster. He would catch up to Rupert and suggest they rest for a spell.
“Good girl, Molly,” Jasper called out. The dogs howled and quickened their pace.
“Damn it,” Stephen cursed under his breath. Molly had once more fastened on Catarina’s scent.
Rupert glanced back at him, an eager glint in his eye. “Hurry, Stephen.”
A knot formed in the pit of Stephen’s stomach as he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode up alongside his brother.
“Scan the trees,” Rupert said. “This time I am certain we’ve got her.”
Stephen could not share Rupert’s enthusiasm. He wanted justice for his brother’s death, and more than anything, he wanted to know the whereabouts of James. Nothing mattered more than finding Ravensworth’s heir. And although he longed for the blasted hunt to end so that he could go home, he had no wish to see Catarina hurt. The idea alone broke his heart. Praying silently that she was nowhere in that thick forest, he did as he was bade and scanned the trees. And then his heart sank. Ahead of them was a figure fully cloaked in plaid. The billowing fabric obscured the person’s shape, but judging from the height alone, he knew it could, indeed, be Catarina.
“It is she,” Rupert shouted as his horse jumped out in front of Stephen’s, passing Jasper and the dogs.
Stephen charged after him, never taking his eyes off Catarina.
In moments, Rupert was upon her.
“No, Rupert,” Stephen shouted as Rupert leaned in his saddle, reaching out to grab her, his fingers splayed wide, seizing a hungry fist-full of plaid. The tartan soared through the air, leaving its owner bereft of cover.
Stephen’s breath rushed from his lips the instant before Rupert released a pained bellow to the sky.
A young man lay in a heap on the ground, covering his sandy blond head with his arms.
Stephen pulled on his reins and slid from his horse, determined to reach the boy before Rupert who still seethed in his saddle, staring up at the sky with his hands closed in tight fists.
Stephen knelt beside him. “Speak quickly, boy, if you value your life. Who are you?”
The boy lifted his head, reveal
ing a face with a smattering of bright freckles. “My name is Thomas Munroe of the clan Munroe. This is my father’s land. I am on my way home.”
Stephen grabbed the back of Thomas’s head and leaned close. “Listen to me. Get on your feet and run. Run faster than you’ve ever run before.”
Thomas’s green eyes widened. He nodded furiously, then jumped to his feet and bolted through the trees.
“Stop him, you fool,” Rupert snarled.
“Let him go, Rupert. He’s a boy. He is nothing to us.”
Rupert shifted in his saddle. “Crossbows,” he bellowed to his men. “Bring him down!”
No one reached for their weapons.
Rupert released a vicious snarl before he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and charged at Sir Edgar.
“No,” Stephen choked out, his heart lodged in his throat as Rupert drew his sword and swung. Edgar’s head dropped to the ground. An instant later, his body slid from his horse. Stephen squeezed his eyes shut but winced when he heard the thud. The forest began to spin. He gripped his head with his hands against the horror, his mind reeling. The thud of hooves forced Stephen’s eyes open just as Rupert pulled his horse near. “Do not blame me, Stephen. If you hadn’t let the boy go, Edgar would still be alive,” he hissed. “His death is on your head, not mine.”
Shock forced Stephen’s mouth agape, but any reply he had was trapped beneath horror and disbelief.
Rupert shook his head as he sneered at Stephen’s cowardice. “You bring shame to the Ravensworth name.” Then he whirled around and stormed toward Jasper. “What are your dogs playing at? Are you trying to make a fool of me?” Grabbing fistfuls of Jasper’s tunic, he jerked him close. Jasper’s pale blue eyes betrayed nothing, his face as impassive as stone. Rupert snarled at the commoner’s indifference. “Fail me again, and I will skin your dogs alive, starting with Molly.”
A low, thick growl sounded. Rupert looked down. Molly’s jowls rippled as she bared her teeth at him.
“At least someone here has courage,” he shouted for all to hear. Rupert glared at his men. Stephen was staring at him as though he were some kind of monster. Jarret and Aldwin and his other knights had begun to dig a grave for Edgar, using their shields to scoop away the earth. Rupert’s eyes narrowed. He knew they all despised him. Every single one of them wanted to see him fail. He could trust no one. He locked eyes with Stephen. “Least of all you,” he snarled.
“I know not of which you speak,” Stephen said, his voice cracking before he turned away.
Again Molly growled. Rupert kicked her in the belly. She cried out and circled behind Jasper, her tail between her legs.
“I am your master’s master,” Rupert shouted at the dogs. Then he spun on his heel and stormed toward his mount. “Leave Edgar. He does not deserve the honor of a proper burial.”
Stephen whirled around. “No, Rupert. You cannot mean that.”
Rupert ignored Stephen’s protest. He swung up into his saddle. “Jasper,” he snapped. “Cast your mutts. Find her scent again.”
Chapter Twenty Three
Catarina’s breath heaved as she followed behind Quinn. They raced along the river, but then he stopped and eyed the swift current. “The water is moving too quickly for yer scent to linger on the surface. The dogs will not be able to pick it up.” He stepped down into the river. The water rose past his knees. Then he turned and clasped her waist, lifting her. She sunk to her thighs.
“I hope Thomas is alright,” she said, shivering with cold. Regret broke her heart.
Quinn cupped her cheek. “Every man deserves a chance at redemption.”
Catarina swallowed the knot in her throat. She knew Quinn was right but that did not lessen her worry. As he pulled her upriver against the swift current, her thoughts remained fixed on Thomas. After they had started their race away from the dogs, Thomas had suddenly bade them halt. He confessed to searching his father’s land for the black haired noblewoman in the hopes of collecting the reward. He even admitted to secretly rejoicing his luck when their paths crossed. That first day, he had started to lead them to where he’d heard the English lord had made camp. But he claimed that not half a day past when he acknowledged the undeniable goodness of Catarina’s heart. He knew she was incapable of the vileness of which she’d been accused. That was when he had redirected their journey. He told them that he had even planned to bring them to his father’s clan and offer them sanctuary.
“But it is too late for that,” he had said. “But not too late for ye.” At first, when Thomas had demanded her plaid to lead the dogs away, Catarina had refused, arguing that it was too dangerous. At her refusal he seized the blanket from her shoulders, thrusting his hand out to stop Quinn’s interference.
“Given what I wanted to do in the beginning, I owe ye this,” Thomas blurted, backing away. “If ever I am going to think well of myself again, I need to do this. Let me save ye so that I know ye’ll always save a place for me in yer heart.” He reached for Catarina then and crushed her into his arms, placing an awkward kiss on her lips. “I’ll never forget ye,” he said.
Then he had turned and bolted away, dragging her plaid through the leaves and pine needles.
Catarina pressed her lips together to choke back her tears as she remembered Thomas’s sacrifice. And again she prayed for his safety. But all too soon, fatigue drained her mind of all thought other than fighting to keep her feet moving, one in front of the other. Her lungs strained. She grew increasingly clumsy. Once more, she stumbled. Her muscles tightened while she strained to remain upright. Still, she waivered and planted her foot down hard to keep her balance but cried out as pain shot through her foot.
Quinn stopped and looked back at her. “Are ye hurt?”
She dared not slow their course. “No,” she lied, pushing through the pain.
On they raced, through river and forest. More than once, they were forced into the open, tearing across the heather. Her mind grew hazy, her legs seemingly moving of their own accord. And then suddenly she was flying. Quinn’s arms surrounded her, cradling her to his chest. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and surrendered to exhaustion.
When another dense patch of woods appeared in the distance, Quinn finished his race to reach the cover of leaves before he sat Catarina down with her back against a tree. He rested his hands on his knees while he struggled for breath. At length, he slumped down beside her.
“Are ye alright, my love?” His eyes passed over her. His heart ached at the sight of her weariness, wishing he could save her from it all. And then he saw her feet peek out from beneath the tattered, soiled length of her tunic. One foot boasted a mud-encrusted slipper, but her other foot was bare.
Frowning, he said, “Where’s yer slipper?”
She tucked her toes beneath her tunic. “I lost it.”
“Ye lost it? But when?”
Eyes downcast, she said, “Back in the river.”
“That was ages ago,” he exclaimed. He lifted her hemline. “Is that blood?” His heart sank. He grabbed her foot and tilted it to see the bottom. Blood smeared with mud and bits of grass but none of it could conceal the wide gash. He grabbed for her, scooping her into his arms and carrying her deeper into the woods. His eyes darted in all directions until, at last, he found a small stream and near it, a copse of birch trees. He hastened to the stream and placed her foot into the water. She winced and tried to jerk her foot free from his grasp, but he held firm.
“Brother Matthew taught that a clean wound stays healthier,” he said as he flushed the mud and grime from the gash. He frowned at the wound’s ragged edges, doubtless from their flight through forest and over field. He clenched his fists, turning away to hide his concern from her. But inside he raged at himself. Why had he not carried her the whole time? He never should have allowed her to put one toe on the ground. Fighting for calm, he swept away leaves and debris from the forest floor with his hand. Then he turned back to her, a smile curving his lips. When he spoke his voice he
ld a calm that belied his true panic. “Come and rest. I will not be far. I must forage for herbs. I plan to make a poultice for yer foot before I bandage it.”
“Is it very bad?” she asked, her brows drawn.
“Nay, lass,” he said, shaking his head. “But I’ve some knowledge of healing, and I think it best to tend to it properly.”
He passed over the thicket, searching for a less densely wooded area. Arrowroot needed at least partial sunlight to grow. He had passed bushels of it earlier when they were racing through tall grasslands, but little good that did him now. He scanned the ground in search for tell-tale white flowers, but it was not the buds he was after. The leaves of arrowroot could stop the bleeding. At last, he found several large clusters. He tore the plants up by the roots, then headed back to camp where already Catarina slept.
He plucked the arrowroot leaves and crumbled them up with a handful of mint. Using a little water, he squeezed the mixture together in his hand to get it to bind. Then he packed her wound with the thick, fragrant paste. Using strips torn from his tunic, he then wrapped her foot to keep the poultice in and dirt out.
“Is there anything you do not know how to do, Quinn MacVie?”
He glanced up at her sleepy eyes as he tied the final knot of her bandage. She looked pale. His chest tightened, but he hid his worry with a slow half smile. “I want ye to rest,” he said, stretching out beside her.
She reached out and touched his face. “But you have hardly slept for days. I know you did not sleep at all when Thomas was near. You need rest.”
She was right, of course. He hadn’t slept the night before. In fact, he had only been catching patches of sleep since they had left Sinclair land. He remained ever watchful. After all, she was his to protect. This had become far more than another job, far greater than even his promise to Bella and Jack. This was his life—for she was his life now. And he would be damned if anything happened to her.
“Lay down and rest. Please,” he said. “Do not fash yerself about me. I’ll be fine. We used to go days without sleep on the merchant ship if there was a storm. And on the fishing boat if the catch was good, we wouldn’t stop to sleep. I’ll be fine. I promise. Just rest, my love.”