by Lynsay Sands
Murine didn't slow, but she did glance around to see the leader of the Scots shake his head in disgust as he reached the great hall doors.
"By tonight!" Montrose added, sounding desperate. "Ye can enjoy a nice meal and a rest and I'll ha'e the coin by tonight."
Murine noted that the Scot stopped at the door and turned to eye Montrose as if he were a bug scuttling out from under a rock. When his gaze then slid to where she and Beth had been seated, she hurried up the last few steps in case he glanced around in search of her. Murine didn't look again until she'd reached the safety of the shadowy upper landing, then she slowed and turned to have a good look at the men below. It was something she hadn't really been able to do until now. While seated by the fire in the great hall, she'd only dared cast quick, furtive glances at the visitors. Now, however, she examined each of the Scots in turn.
They were all tall and strong with dark hair, but Murine found her eye returning to the one who appeared to be their leader. She couldn't have said why. They were all good-looking men, but for some reason she found him the most compelling. He was obviously angry and disgusted by her brother's proposition, but then all of the men appeared to be. However, when he'd looked toward the fire for her just now, there had been something else in his eyes. Not pity, but simple concern and perhaps sympathy.
"I can get you the coin by tonight. Tomorrow morn at the latest," Montrose repeated, drawing Murine's reluctant gaze away from the leader of the Scots and back to her brother as he added, "My neighbor and friend, Muller, has always had an eye for my sister. He'll give me the coin for the chance to spend time with her."
Murine actually had to cover her mouth to stifle the cry that wanted to slip out. Offering her up to these men for horses was bad enough, but offering her to Muller for coin? Her stomach turned over violently at the suggestion. The Scot had been kind and chivalrous enough to refuse the offer. Muller would not. He would jump at the chance and would not care whether she was even willing. She would be no better than a--
"I'll no' be a party to yer turning yer lady sister into a whore."
Murine winced as he said the word she was thinking.
"Coin or no coin, the horses are no longer fer sale to ye," the Scot added coldly.
When he then turned on his heel and walked out of the keep with his men hard on his heels, Murine almost wished she could give chase and go with them. Instead, she whirled and caught Beth's arm to rush her down the hall to her room. She had to get out of there, and quickly. Montrose would waste no time setting his plan into action and she needed to be far away from here when Muller arrived to claim his prize.
Once in her room, Murine paused and glanced around wildly before turning to Beth and ordering, "Fetch me an empty sack from the kitchens, please. But do no' let anyone see ye take it."
Beth nodded and was gone almost before the last word was spoken. Murine immediately hurried to the chests against the bedchamber wall to begin sorting through her belongings, trying to decide what she should take and what she could not. Traveling light seemed the smartest option. A spare gown, a spare shift, coins . . .
Her mouth tightened at that thought. All she had were the few coins she'd intended to give to the Scots for taking her message. She would be delivering that message herself now, and would need those coins.
By the time Beth returned, Murine had chosen the few things she would take with her. She'd even rolled her gown and shift in preparation of packing them away.
The maid handed over the sack she'd gone to fetch. Her gaze then slid over the few belongings on the bed and she frowned. "Ye're fleeing?"
"Aye," Murine said grimly.
Beth hesitated and then asked worriedly, "Are ye sure this is the right thing to do, m'lady?"
Murine's lips tightened and she merely nodded as she stuffed the rolled-up gown into the sack the woman had pinched from the kitchens.
"But 'tis dangerous to travel at the best o' times, e'en with a large party. A woman alone . . ." Beth shook her head at the very thought. "Could we no' send a message to Lady Joan, or Lady Saidh instead? I'm sure one o' them would send an escort fer ye."
"Montrose is probably down there writing up his offer to Muller as we speak," Murine said bitterly. "If I do no' leave now, I shall no doubt be ruined by nightfall."
"But, m'lady," Beth said, tears in her eyes. "Ye can no' travel alone. Ye could be killed by bandits . . . or worse."
Murine stilled briefly at the words, thinking of her brothers Colin and Peter who had been killed on a trip two years earlier, but then shook her head and shoved a linen shift into the bag. "There are some things worse than death, Beth. And staying here where I will be sold off by me own brother . . ." She shook her head bitterly. "Thank ye, I think I'll take me chances on the road."
Beth was silent for a moment, her expression conflicted, and then raised her shoulders and said stolidly, "Then I'll come with ye."
Murine hesitated, briefly tempted by the offer, but shook her head on a sigh. "Nay, ye'll not. Ye'll stay here."
"But--"
"I need ye to stay here and help hide the fact I've left," Murine interrupted quickly.
Beth closed her mouth on her unfinished protest and asked uncertainly, "How am I to do that?"
"Stay here in me room. If Montrose comes looking for me, claim I am sleeping and send him away," Murine said as she finished packing and closed the bag. She didn't really think that ruse would work. Mostly she was using it as an excuse to keep from taking the maid with her. Murine had little hope of actually managing this escape attempt. She suspected she'd be hunted down and brought back ere the first night ended, but if she did manage to get away . . . well, as Beth had said, the road was dangerous. It was one thing to risk her own life to try to preserve her honor. It was another thing entirely to risk Beth's life as well.
"Where will ye go?" Beth asked worriedly, following her to the door.
"I'll slip down the back stairs to the kitchens and then sneak around to get Henry and--"
"Nay, I mean, where will ye go once ye leave Danvries?" Beth interrupted.
"Oh." Murine breathed and then shrugged helplessly. "To Saidh. Buchanan is closest, I think, and she did say if I ever needed assistance to not hesitate to call on her. I am in definite need of assistance now."
"Aye, ye are," Beth agreed solemnly, and then reached out quickly to hug her. "Be careful m'lady, and pray stay safe."
"I will," Murine whispered, then pulled back and forced a smile. "I'll send fer ye . . . if I can."
"Oh, do no' worry about me. I'll be fine. Ye just take good care o' yerself," she said bravely, dashing away a tear.
Murine squeezed her arm gently, then opened her bedchamber door and peered cautiously out. Finding the hall empty, she slid out and rushed for the stairs.
"I can't believe the bastard tried to sell his sister fer a couple horses."
Dougall grimaced and glanced at his brother Conran at those bewildered words. After the debacle at Danvries, they had ridden to the village inn for a meal ere starting the long trek home. The conversation there had been focused on who they might sell the mare and stallion to now, and to wonder how they would find things at home. Not wanting to shame the sister in her own village, no one had even got near the topic of Danvries and his offer . . . until now as they left Danvries's land.
"Aye," Dougall acknowledged.
"Ye do no' seem surprised."
"People rarely surprise me anymore," Dougall said, and then added in a lighter tone, "The only thing that surprises me is that ye were kind enough no' to discuss it in the village and waited so long to bring up the subject."
"'Twas no' kindness," Conran denied quickly. "I just did no' want to ruin me meal. Was like to give me indigestion."
"Oh, aye, o' course it was," Dougall agreed with amusement. He knew that wasn't true. Conran just didn't like to appear soft. Although, Dougall thought, talking about it now was making his own lunch roll in his stomach.
"Ye ken that now the
idea's occurred to him, he's going to sell her off to his friend fer coin," Conran said heavily.
"Aye. He'll use her to make what money he can to make up fer his gambling," Dougall said with distaste, recalling the glowing woman.
"If she allows it," Conran said with a shrug. "Mayhap she'll refuse."
"Hmm." Dougall muttered, but thought she might not be given the choice. Danvries was obviously her guardian, although she was of marriageable age. "Why is she still unwed?"
Conran shrugged. "As I said, talk is he gambled away her dower."
"Aye, but how? It should have been protected," Dougall said with a frown. "And she should ha'e been betrothed as a child and collected long ere this."
"Mayhap her betrothed died," Conran suggested, and then added, "And I'm sure the king would have stepped in and no' allowed Danvries gambling away her dower . . . had he no' been the one who won the wager."
"So she'll ne'er marry," Dougall said thoughtfully.
"And be at the mercy of her brother all her days," Conran commented, shaking his own head.
"Dear God," Dougall breathed and almost felt bad that he'd turned down the man's offer. At least he would have been kind to her, and mayhap had things worked out . . . Well, he had grown quite wealthy through his horse breeding. The only reason he hadn't already purchased himself an estate was that their older brother, Aulay, had needed his aid raising their younger brothers and sister when their parents had died. A dower wasn't an absolute necessity in a wife for him. On the other hand, he didn't know the woman. She was pretty enough, but her brother was a weak man with a few bad habits, drinking and gambling among them. He also apparently had little in the way of moral fiber to him. For all Dougall knew, the same was true of her. But that gasp from her when her brother had offered her . . .
Dougall pushed away the memory. He had nothing to feel guilty about. He didn't even know the lass.
"'Tis a shame," Conran said. "She's a lovely lass."
Dougall merely nodded. She was indeed lovely.
"She looked sweet and demure," Geordie commented from his other side when he remained silent.
"Aye, she did," Dougall said on a sigh. "Mayhap me refusal to sell him horses no matter whether he has the coin or no' will stop his plans."
"For now, maybe," Conran said dubiously. "Though I suspect he'll go ahead with it in hopes ye'll change yer mind when he presents the payment. On the other hand, he could buy horses elsewhere . . . were he to get the coin."
Not wanting to encourage this line of conversation, Dougall didn't comment. He had no desire to think the woman would still be sold off like a cheap lightskirt. Besides, he could see something on the path ahead and was distracted by trying to sort out what it was.
Noting his sudden stillness in the saddle, Conran glanced ahead and squinted. "It looks like someone on horseback, but . . ."
"But 'tis a very strange horse," Dougall murmured. It looked short and wide, a squat creature that moved with a somewhat awkward gait.
"Is that a cow he's riding?" Conran asked with amazement as they drew closer.
"A bull," Dougall corrected as the rider shifted and he spotted a horn poking up into view. "And if I'm no' mistaken, he is a she. That looks like a gown to me."
"Hmm," Alick murmured behind them. "A rose gown. Lady Danvries was wearing a rose gown."
"Aye, she was," Dougall agreed, and urged his horse to move more quickly.
"Damn," Murine breathed when she heard the approaching horse. She'd spotted the men on horseback behind her just moments ago and had recognized them as the Scots Montrose had been trying to buy horses from. It could have been worse. Montrose could have discovered that she'd fled and come after her, but this was bad enough. These were the men her brother had tried to sell her to and the embarrassment and shame of what he'd done was overwhelming. She'd really rather not have to face them again.
"M'lady."
Murine kept her gaze straight ahead, hoping that if she pretended not to hear him, the man might just leave her be and travel on.
"Lady Danvries," he said, a little more loudly and when she again didn't respond, commented, "Yer brother did no' bother to mention ye were deaf when he offered ye to me. I should ha'e guessed as much, though. He's obviously a cheat and a louse, so o' course he'd try to pass off a defective lass in exchange fer me high-quality beasts."
Gasping in outrage, Murine gave up her pretense and turned to glare at the man as she snapped, "I'm no' defective! And ye'd ha'e been lucky to ha'e me, I'm worth a hundred o' yer horses."
When his mouth quirked up on one side and one eyebrow rose high on his forehead, she realized what she'd said and quickly added, "Not that I'd ha'e agreed to such a shameful bargain." Turning forward again, she muttered, "Me brother has obviously lost his mind to sink so low."
"And so ye're running away before he offers ye to someone who is no' as honorable as meself and might accept?"
Murine's mouth flattened with displeasure. That was exactly what she was doing . . . or trying to do. But now she was fretting over the possibility that this man might somehow interfere and prevent her escape.
"Dougall."
Murine glanced around at that shout, her eyes widening when she saw that his men, who had been keeping back apace, were suddenly urging their mounts to catch them up.
"What is it, Conran?" Dougall asked with a frown.
"Riders," the man explained, glancing worriedly toward Murine. "And I'm thinking it's Danvries' men after the lady here, to take her back."
Cursing under her breath, Murine started to turn her bull toward the trees, intent on hiding, but found her way blocked by horses as the other men caught up and surrounded them.
"No time fer that, m'lady," Conran said sympathetically. "They're moving fast; ye would no' make cover."
"Then we shall have to be her cover," Dougall said grimly. "Surround her, and cover her hair and dress. I'll meet the riders."
Murine opened her mouth to protest, but then let out a startled gasp when a cap landed on her head.
"Tuck yer hair up, lass," someone said.
"And here, put this round ye to hide yer pretty gown," someone else said, dropping a plaid around her shoulders.
Murine didn't argue, but clumsily shoved her hair up in the cap, then clutched the plaid around herself and glanced about at the Scots and their horses. Her bull sat perhaps a hand lower than their mounts, which helped hide what the plaid didn't cover of her skirts, but there were only three of them now and the two riderless horses they'd hoped to sell to her brother.
"Mayhap we should . . ." Rather than finish the suggestion, someone suddenly tossed another plaid over her, this one covering her head as well. She then felt pressure on the back of her neck as someone silently urged her to press herself flat to the bull's back. Hoping it was enough, Murine ignored the fact that she found it difficult to breathe in this position with the heavy cloth over her, closed her eyes and began to pray.
Dougall managed to get about twenty feet back up the path before the oncoming English riders reached him. He hoped it was far enough away from the woman his men were trying to provide cover for, but there was little he could do if it wasn't. The choice then would be whether or not to fight for the lass. Dougall hadn't yet made up his mind on the matter. It wasn't the fact that there were twenty of them. He and his brothers were skilled fighters. They could easily beat twenty lazy, poorly trained English soldiers. But he wasn't sure if Lady Danvries was worth fighting, and killing, over. If she was anything like her brother, she definitely wasn't . . . and really, this was none of his business. He supposed he'd have to play it by ear.
"Did Danvries find coin fer the horses, after all?" he asked lightly by way of greeting once the riders had stopped.
"Nay." The man in the lead glanced past him to his brothers and then back. "We are looking for Lord Danvries' sister. She went out for a ride and has not yet returned. Her brother grows concerned."
"A ride ye say?" Dougall asked, feigning s
urprise. "Are ye sure? I understood she was without a mount. 'Sides, she was sitting in the hall when we arrived and 'tis sure I am that she went above stairs ere we left."
"Aye." The man frowned and glanced back the way he'd come. "I gather she left after you and your men, and we did not pass her ere encountering you. She must have gone another way."
"That would make sense," Dougall agreed and he supposed it did make sense if you didn't know that he and his brothers had stopped for a meal ere leaving Danvries land.
The man nodded, and spun his horse back the way he'd come with a brusque "Good journey to ye."
"And to ye," Dougall said cheerfully and grinned as he watched the English soldier lead his men away. He hadn't even had to lie. Gad, the English were stupid. Of course, now he had to deal with the woman, he acknowledged, his smile fading.
Ah well. Dougall shook his head and turned to ride back to his own men.
"Lookin' fer the lass, were they?" Conran asked as the men eased aside to allow Dougall to move his horse up beside the woman's bull.
"Aye." Dougall glanced toward Lady Danvries, expecting her to thank him for his aid. But she proved she was English by refusing to even acknowledge his presence. The woman was still huddled low on her cow, the plaid covering her like she was a sack of wheat.
Scowling, he tugged the plaid off her, and then leaned quickly to the side to catch the woman when she started to tumble from the back of her beast.
"Well," Conran breathed with disgust when Dougall pulled her unconscious body across his horse to peer at her. "It looks like she's gone and died on us. That could cause trouble with the English."
"Nah, 'tis a faint," Dougall said, but then had to tear his gaze from her pale face to her chest just to make sure she was breathing. She was, but shallowly.
"It can no' be a faint," Alick protested at once, standing in the saddle and craning his head to try to get a look at the woman. "If the lass is brave enough to run away on her own, she's hardly the type to faint o'er a little scare like this."