by Amy Jarecki
“What about joining an order?” he asked. “You’d be sleeping in a cell or an open dormitory—possibly with no walls—especially as a novice.”
Meg tried to burrow into a comfortable spot for her head in the old pillow. “It wouldn’t be all that bad, as long as I slept in the same place.”
“Well, I wish you luck with it.”
Meg rolled to her side to better study his outline. She sighed loudly then slapped her hand over her mouth. Had he heard her? What would he think if he knew she admired him? Here she was, only one step away from giving herself to the church, and her eyes couldn’t drink in enough of the Highlander. She flopped to her back. She would stop ogling him this instant.
She closed her lids and willed sleep to come. Duncan’s chiseled, bare behind flashed though her mind. It was as if he’d been hewn from pure white marble—just like Roman statuary. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She must fixate upon something else—something pure and holy.
Recalling the shiny brass cross at Melrose Abbey, she folded her hands to her chest and prayed. There were a great many things needing care—Duncan’s men, Arthur, and her sisters. Meg prayed she and Duncan would safely make it to Glasgow and board a transport without being discovered. She even asked forgiveness for Lord Percy, that he might find compassion in his heart and cast aside his ill will for her family. Praying for the injured and oppressed, somehow her final words were: Please heal your servant, Duncan. With that, the image of his naked bottom filled her mind once again. Heaven help her, would she be plagued by inappropriate imaginings for the rest of her days?
9
Meg harrumphed. Last eve Duncan had conveniently failed to mention he’d arranged for them to ride in a Gypsy wagon. She sat on the hay-lined floor in the wagon and clutched Duncan’s arm. She had never heard a good word about Gypsies. Honestly, she’d never been within a stone’s throw of one, but the man sitting opposite her hadn’t shifted his gaze from her face since she’d climbed into the back of the wagon. His intense, dark eyes made her uncomfortable, and she kept the claw hidden beneath her moth-eaten cloak. If only Duncan would have sat closer to the back end of the canvas-covered wagon in case they needed to make a quick escape. Over and over her mind recited how she would shield herself behind Duncan if the Gypsy tried to grab her. The man’s eyes made him look like a wolf ready to pounce. She squeezed Duncan’s arm tighter.
What gave the Gypsy cause to stare? Had her hair come loose from her veil? Most likely, yes—the unruly mop of curls. Meg tried to focus on the three children sitting beside him, all wearing linen scarves tied over their black locks. They smiled and appeared friendly enough, though their brilliantly colored clothing was like nothing she’d ever seen before. The two boys wore breeches striped with purples and golds. The lass too, aside from the bright orange skirt she wore atop. Interesting attire, though Meg could understand its practicality in keeping the lass warm.
Meg took pity on the youths. What chance did they have of growing up and gaining a trade? If the rumors she’d heard were true, even Gypsy children could steal a coin purse and vanish before the owner was the wiser.
Duncan sat rigid beside Meg. She couldn’t tell if his severe posture was caused by the injury in his backside or if the Gypsy gave him pause. Before they left the inn, she’d inquired as to his pain, and he’d grunted a dismissive mumble akin to what she’d come to expect from the rugged Highlander.
She looked up at him. His gaze slanted toward her, and then shot back to the Gypsy man. Sir Duncan didn’t appear to trust the fellow either.
The old wagon creaked and groaned as it ambled. Completely enclosed by canvas pulled taut over pole branches bent in arcing supports, Meg didn’t like that she had no view of the landscape passing by. But at least they were hidden from the English. With colorful pillows and blankets folded at the front, Meg assumed the family slept there. The relentless clanging of cast-iron pots above nearly drove her mad and caused a painful ringing in her ears.
A Gypsy couple had met them that morning. Presently, the pair was out front, driving the team of oxen—the gelding Duncan had traded was tethered and trotted along behind.
The steady clang of pots eased, and the three children jumped to their feet, grinning as if they knew something was about to happen. Meg arched her brow at Duncan. “Are we stopping?”
“Most likely. My stomach’s telling me ’tis time for our nooning.”
Meg stretched out her legs and rubbed them awake while the children jumped out the back.
The beady-eyed man across the wagon still hadn’t moved.
If Meg had a choice, she would prefer to continue on to Glasgow sharing the horse with Duncan. The wagon jostled and stopped. Squeezing Duncan’s arm, she turned her lips up to his ear. “May I have a word in private?”
Duncan grunted and stood. “Do you need to relieve yourself?” He offered his hand and helped Meg up.
The man stretched and hopped out the back.
“I do.” She looked through the gap in the canvas to ensure the Gypsies were out of earshot. “But not with that vile man about.”
“Who?” Duncan hopped down, and before she could blink, he’d lifted her to the ground.
She led him away from the wagon, toward the trees. “The man who’s been staring at me from across the wagon the entire journey. We’re in Scotland, yet he gaped at me as if he’d never seen a Scottish woman before.”
“Most likely he’s never seen a ginger-haired lassie in the back of his cart.” Duncan ran his palm over his sword’s pommel. “But you ken you’re safe with me. Any man must go through me before laying a finger on you.”
Meg frowned. “He looks disagreeable, that one.”
“Aye, but I can take the likes of him with one hand tied behind my back.”
Meg looked to the heavens. She didn’t want Duncan to fight the Gypsy. “Must everything be about violence with you?”
“I thought the miserable sop made you feel uncomfortable?”
“Aye, but I’d rather take the horse and ride with you the rest of the route to Glasgow. Sitting in the back of their house-wagon seems as if we’re intruding.”
Duncan scratched his head. “We shall be in Glasgow before dark, then you’ll never see them again. Riding in the back of the wagon keeps us out of sight. You ken?”
“Aye, but I do not like it.”
“There, there.” Duncan patted her shoulder as if she were a wee lass. “I’ll stand guard while you take care of your necessities, we’ll eat a meal and you’ll feel better.”
Meg groaned. “Do not placate me. I’ll not stand for you treating me like a child.”
One corner of his mouth ticked up and he bowed. “Very well, m’lady.” Blast him, he was insufferable.
He turned his back while Meg slipped behind a hearty clump of broom and made quick work of her business. Brushing her hands, she stepped beside him. “Now you.”
He blinked and opened his eyes wide. “Are you planning to stand guard for me now, lassie?”
“Nay, but I’m not going back to the wagon without you.”
He stepped behind the same clump of broom. “There’s a good lass. Remember that. You stay close to me until I can spirit you back to Tantallon, and no harm will come to you.”
“You do have a rather inflated opinion of yourself, do you not?”
His water splattered the ground, and Meg held her hand over her eyes to keep herself from inadvertently looking.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said as if he weren’t taking care of his needs. “I know my limitations as well as the next man.”
“It’s just you can usually fight your way out of most predicaments.”
“Aye.”
She inadvertently lowered her hand and glanced in his direction. “Have you ever met a man who could best you?”
He grinned, though she could only see him from the shoulders up. “One.”
“Perhaps I should go find him and see if he can return me home a mite fa
ster than you.”
Clothing rustled behind the thicket. “You can ask. You’ll see him when we arrive at Kilchurn.”
“Will I now? I cannot wait to see this behemoth. I’ll wager he’s taller than a pine and broader than a stallion’s hindquarters. Pray, what is his name?”
Duncan stepped from behind the broom. Meg could scarcely imagine a man larger than he. He smiled at her, as if he’d enjoyed her ribbing. “Colin Campbell, Lord of Glenorchy, my da.”
“You mean there are two of you?”
He chuckled. “Da isn’t quite as tall as me, but I’d wager you were right about his shoulders.”
She fanned herself. “Lord have mercy.”
Duncan placed his hand in the small of her back and gestured forward. “Let us see what the heathens have prepared for us to eat.”
Meg started forward. Ahead, movement made a warning prick the back of her neck. She abruptly stopped. Grunting, Duncan tripped over her and grasped her shoulders before she could fall.
“What the blazes?” he grumbled.
“Wheesht.” She held up her palm while her heart hammered.
His fingers wrapped around his sword. Slowly, he pulled it from the scabbard with a soft hiss. “How many?”
She shrugged.
He placed a hand on Meg’s shoulder and moved her behind him.
Voices carried from the wagon. She recognized an English accent and stood on her toes. No use; she couldn’t see.
Duncan crept forward and gazed out through the trees. “Only one,” he whispered, beckoning her. “Do you recognize him?”
Meg peered through the crook in Duncan’s arm, but the mounted man cantered his horse away before she could glimpse a good look. “Did you see his face?” she asked.
“Nay, he had his back to me.”
“That’s a good thing, is it not? You didn’t want us to be seen.”
Duncan sheathed his sword. “I suppose it is. No one would ever suspect us of riding with a mob of unsavory Gypsies.”
Meg looked toward the beady-eyed man who’d been staring at her all day. “I can understand why.”
It appeared Isaac had lost the trail in Peebles. Though it was a guess, he’d been fairly certain they had stopped to spend the night in the village. If they had continued on, they would have needed a fresh horse. And only God knew how they would have stayed awake all night.
They. Though he’d seen only one set of tracks, Isaac felt confident the single horse was the one with Lady Meg and her knight. Did the maid already know the man with whom she was riding? Was there some other skullduggery at work here? Was the bastard aiming to profit from kidnapping Lady Meg himself? Isaac pinched the bridge of his nose. None of his misgivings mattered. Lord Percy had tasked him with uncovering the identity of the interloper, and that was all.
Isaac could barely feel his toes, and he continually blew on his fingers to keep them from turning to ice. What he wouldn’t give for a steaming bowl of pottage or a tankard of hot cider. He’d camped in a copse of trees outside Peebles, not far from the main road. He’d nearly frozen his cods during the night, but he couldn’t risk letting a room in town. If Lady Meg recognized his face, he’d have little chance of trailing the maid and her bloody accomplice.
This Scotsman had been heading west. Riding his horse in a zigzag tracking pattern, Isaac puzzled at the lack of new tracks. Had the blighter doubled back? That was a possibility, especially if he had Lady Meg in tow. Doubtless she’d need to return to her brother in North Berwick. Taking the road to Glasgow made no sense at all, but Isaac’s instincts told him to keep heading west.
Now the trail had gone cold. The bloody Gypsies he’d just encountered spoke broken English at best. Hell, he had no idea if they’d seen a man and a woman on horseback or not. Isaac pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. If he’d misjudged and chosen the wrong trail, perhaps one of his other men had been successful.
But there was no turning back now. He may as well see out his plan. At least he’d let a room and treat himself to a warm meal in Glasgow. Isaac sighed. After that, he’d need to come up with a plan. Perhaps he’d take a detour through Carlisle on his way home to see if he could find employment there. Lord Percy would surely torture him if he returned with nothing.
10
The wagon shifted from a rocking motion to a steady rattle when the wheels hit the cobblestones of Glasgow. Duncan had never been so relieved to be rattled. The sooner he stepped out of the carriage, the better. However, considering the throbbing pain in his arse, there might not be any place he’d be able to find comfort.
For the past hour or so, he’d been shivering from the cold. Christ, he never shivered. This whole mission was bungled from the outset.
Fortunately, when the wagon rolled to a stop, daylight still shone through the canvas. Duncan stretched and stood, crouching under the low roof. He pushed open the rear flap and shaded his eyes. The sun shone low in the western sky. ’Tis nearly sunset. The smell of fish and stagnant water wafted into the wagon. They’d stopped alongside Clyde Street, which meant he and Lady Meg wouldn’t have far to go to find a transport.
He hopped down and grunted. Ballocks, the pain in his backside was worse than a cut with a blade. He didn’t care to be tended, but he’d send for the healer once they reached Kilchurn if it hadn’t improved.
Straightening, he reached up to Meg. “M’lady.”
She allowed him to lift her down without so much as a purse to her lips. Perhaps she was growing accustomed to him.
When he again grunted, Meg gave him a concerned look. “Are you well?”
Duncan tried not to grimace. “Never better.”
“I do not believe you.”
He offered her his elbow. “Complaining never did anyone a lick of good.” He nodded his thanks to the Gypsy family and led Meg toward the bustling pier, the odor of fish strong on the air. There were only a few small boats moored. Large ships couldn’t sail up the River Clyde, but they only needed to find a birlinn headed north, preferably to Inverary. There he could borrow his uncle’s horses and ride to Glen Orchy.
“Come.” He inclined his head toward a galley being loaded with barrels. “Let us see who’s sailing north this eve.”
The bell from Glasgow Cathedral knolled the hour as Duncan led Meg through the crowd of busy laborers, all smelling of sweat and seaweed. They stopped to allow a sailor to pass as he rolled a barrel up the gangway. Duncan pulled Meg behind him. “Ahoy there, mate.”
The man rolling the barrel mumbled and continued on. A Highlander draped in red plaid stood upright from the deck and gave Duncan a deprecating once-over. “What is your business?”
Duncan had forgotten about his shabby cloak. He looked far more like a peasant than the heir to a baronial estate—not that his appearance bothered him. “My wife and I are looking for a transport to Inverary. Would you be headed north?”
Meg cleared her throat behind him. She’d made it clear she didn’t care to be passed off as his missus, but presently it was the best way to ensure her safety.
The sailor squinted. “Aye, but we’re heading to Mull. Inverary would take us too far off course.”
Duncan scanned up and down the pier and saw no other seaworthy boats moored, blast it all. “Are there any transports heading up Loch Fyne?”
“Not certain. Even if there were, you’d not find any sailing until the morrow.”
“I’d be willing to pay handsomely if you’d take us to Inverary.”
“Cannot do it. This shipment is heading straight to Durart Castle. I could take you to Dunollie or Dunstaffnage.”
Duncan scratched his chin. He could gain a pair of horses at Dunstaffnage Castle as well—another keep governed by his family. That option wouldn’t add more than an hour to their ride. “Can you leave now?”
The man shook his head and pointed to the sunset, glowing bright orange. “Sail out of the Clyde in the dark? Only a fool-born captain would make such a blunder.”
Duncan
frowned at Meg. “It looks like we’ll need to spend the night here.”
“Unfortunate.” She cringed. Did she find the prospect of posing as his wife entirely distasteful?
He’d prefer to set sail as well, but there was no other choice. “Very well. How much would you charge for two passengers to the Dunstaffnage pier?”
“A crown ought to cover it. I’m supposing you’ll want to be fed.”
Bloody hell, the man was akin to a thief. “By the looks of your plaid, I thought you were a Highlander.”
“Aye, but a sea captain’s got to make a living.” He reached his hand over the hull. “And I’d like payment now.”
Duncan itched to grab the bastard by the neck and yank him over the side. Overcharging, and now asking for payment in full before the galley cast off? “How will I know you won’t sail without me?”
The man squinted with a seedy grin. “I will if you’re no’ here by dawn.”
“I’ll give you a shilling now and the balance when we sail.”
The captain hesitated and glanced toward another barrel being rolled up the gangway. “Och, you drive a hard bargain.”
Duncan fished in the leather purse tied to his belt, pulled out a single shilling and placed it in the man’s outstretched palm. “Do you know of an inn where we can find a meal and a bed?”
He pointed. “The George Inn across the way, but it’ll cost you a half-crown for certain.” The captain slipped the coin into his sporran. “Where do you hail from? And what’s at Inverary?”
Duncan winked. “My uncle.” He didn’t trust the captain. Besides, it was best to omit as many details as possible. “I’ll see you on the morrow.”
Meg stood when Duncan pushed through the chamber door carrying a trencher of food and a ewer of ale. “Boiled meat and turnips,” he said, limping toward the table.
She wrung her hands. “The hitch in your step is getting worse.”