She nodded, miserable. “He said that if I didn't, he'd inform on my family. My cousins. My father. He even said I couldn't trust Reid.”
“That's your brother, aye?” he queried. She had mentioned a brother with the Borderers.
“Yes,” she sighed. “He said...I was naïve and stupid to believe in honesty. He said everyone could be bought.”
“Well, maybe he's bought that easily,” Brogan said softly. “His sort, they care for nothing. Reckon they think it's normal, like – that everyone's like them.” He shook his head. “They're the ones as batty as a church steeple.”
She chuckled, hearing that. “Oh, Laird McRae,” she said softly.
Brogan, he mentally corrected. Please, milady. Use my name. He said nothing, however, and just nodded.
“Well, it's true,” he said. “And now, I reckon that my stomach will make me regret not trying that broth.”
Claudine chuckled again. “McRae, I'm very glad you're with me.”
His hand halfway to the loaf of fresh-baked bread, he stopped, astounded. Had he heard aright? I'm very glad you're with me. Her words lit him up.
“I'm glad too, lass,” he mumbled. He heard her lay aside her fork, but he didn't look up to see her reaction. He was too shy. Eyes on his plate, he focused on eating the delicious, fragrant soup.
The innkeeper's wife came in and broke the silence, armed with a bowl of stew. “Next course, my Laird,” she said warmly. “And will ye have ale with this?”
He glanced at Claudine, and then shook his head fractionally. “If ye have small ale, that will suffice.” Small ale was boiled to release the alcoholic vapors. It was refreshing and light, without making one drowsy.
She nodded. “As you wish, milord.”
When she had gone, Claudine looked up at him. “Thanks,” she said softly.
Brogan felt a warm glow fill him from within. He looked down, fearing that if he held her gaze the grin that split his face would give away all his secrets, leaving his heart bare. “It's nothing, milady,” he mumbled.
“But it is,” she said softly. He felt her hand move and, to his astonishment, her fingers closed briefly over his own.
The contact lasted a second, perhaps less, but he felt that grip as if her fingers were hot as a hearth-fire.
He had no idea when he had been so happy.
A MOMENT’S WORRY
Brogan woke to the sound of the innkeeper's wife in the kitchen, singing hymns. He grinned, listening to the wavering cadence of her voice, the sound interspersed with the clang of pots in the sink and the clop of hooves outside in the yard. He rolled over and stretched.
“Time to get up.”
He stood up, splashing his face in the ewer, and winced as water splashed his muscled torso. It was cold!
“Whew! Enough to wake a man up.”
He shook his head, toweled himself dry, and sat down on the bed, thinking.
On the other side of the hallway, on the other side of a door, slumbered Claudine. He tried not to think about it. They had spent the day in the village, gathering provisions and making plans. He thought it prudent to prepare for the journey ahead. They had spent the night at the McNott's inn.
And I am sleeping not eight paces from all that beauty.
He shook his head, aware that, in her illness, they had perhaps been even closer. She remembered little of it, he discerned, which was perhaps as well. If she had thought that he had seen her like that, he had no doubt she would have been embarrassed.
Though why, he could not fathom. Always beautiful, her beauty was a quality that shone from deep within her, flowing out like light from a lamp. He had no idea why so many folk set such store by the outer appearance. It was never that alone that made beauty – it was an abstract thing.
And she has beauty, in every pore of her.
He shook his head. He was falling for her. He knew it. He could deny it to himself until he froze. He couldn't actually fail to see the truth that was so plain before his own eyes.
“And so what if I am?” he asked himself.
He was here on the road with her. He was compromising the poor lass as it was, just being seen with her. Maybe it was possible that...
Her family would be pleased at the match. It would place any question of disreputable conduct aside.
He shook his head. If he used society's rules to coerce her into wedlock, he was no better than South!
“No. She'll wed me if she wishes, or not at all.”
Drying his face briskly, he drew on a shirt and combed his hair. He eyed himself sidelong in the cracked mirror on the wall.
“Och, ye could use a shave, you.”
He shook his head. Now he really was being silly. He had no time to shave – the sooner they got on the road toward the border, and her family, the better for both of them.
“She'll just have to bear with me looking like a hairy beast.”
He sighed. He didn't like to think of her thinking ill of him. Shaking his head at himself and his fancies, he buttoned his shirt and hurried from the room.
In the hallway, he all but bumped into her. She gave a little sigh. Her sweet face looked up at his.
“McRae! You're about early.”
“Aye,” he grinned. “I could say the same for you. Coming down?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “I'm very hungry.”
He chuckled. “There's the lass.”
She went red, and he smiled more, and gently took her elbow. “Come, then, milady. Let us go down.”
They breakfasted in the same room where they had eaten yesterday, and, after a satisfying meal of bannocks, cheese and ale – boiled, once again, to let off the vapors – they headed out.
She looked up at him, frowning, as the stable-boy, still yawning furtively, led out two horses.
“I thought it best to take a horse from the inn's stables,” he said. “We'll change horses at the next inn, and so on. We can cover more distance that way.”
“Oh,” she said. She sounded disappointed, a fact which lit his heart.
“Well, the faster we go, the sooner we get to the border,” he said brightly.
“Yes.”
He bit his lip. She sounded a little wistful, which was how he felt. He somehow didn't want this journey to end. Part of him – a romantic, imaginative part he’d thought long dead – wanted them to stay this way forever, riding together by day, staying at inns by night, breakfasting and dining together in private.
Foolish fellow! She's got to get to safety and her family, and you to your lands. That's what it's for.
Impatient with himself, he swung up into the saddle, pressed his legs to his horse's side and headed to the inn's gate, briskly.
He heard the clop of hooves on cobbles as she followed behind. He turned around, watching her ride up. “We should set a good pace,” he said conversationally. “I want to get to Ilfield today.”
“That's nigh on twenty miles!” she protested.
He nodded, chuckling in amazement. “Where did you learn to read a map, lass?”
“My father showed me,” she said instantly.
“Your father did that? Progressive sort, was he? Not many men would show a girl map-reading.”
“He didn't show me on purpose,” she retorted. “I watched him showing Reid, so I learned.”
“Oh.” Brogan shrugged, brow raised. He hid his grin, not wanting to offend her. “Unusual lass, you were.”
“It's not much more difficult than making embroidery,” she replied. “How do you think we read the patterns?”
“I thought you made them up,” he said sheepishly.
She chuckled. “Well, we don't always. Just sometimes. And then it helps to be able to write them down.”
“I can imagine,” he said, not being able to imagine. He touched his knees to his horse's side and quickened the pace, she doing likewise, so they rode together. He shook his head, smiling. He would never have guessed what she was like beneath the poised, groomed exterior. She was
a woman of surprises.
They talked as they rode along the path. It had left the forest, and crossed for a while across low hills. The sun came out, dappling the grass green and blue-black with shadow. The dew sparkled.
“I have no kin, save my uncle, and a cousin, Broderick,” he said.
“Oh,” she said softly. “You grew up together.”
“We didn't visit much,” he explained. “They lived two valleys away. My uncle and my father didnae get on.” He had no idea why he was sharing all this now, but it seemed somehow natural.
“I see,” she said slowly. “It was just me and Reid, too. In a house with Mama and Papa and the servants.”
“Your parents are in England still?” he asked, though he had almost guessed that must be so. Surely, if they were here, she would have gone to them, not to her brother Reid?
“Yes,” she said softly. “My mother's health is poor.”
“Och, lass. That's hard.”
“It is.”
They were silent after a while. Brogan wondered why it was that it was so easy to talk to her of matters close to his heart. The more he rode with her, the more he wanted to open up, to tell her of his past – the merciless way his father had pushed him in trials of strength, his uncle's cold certainty that he would become the next laird, his surprising sorrow at his father's death.
A movement in the tree-line caught his eye. He strained his gaze. He thought he saw a horseman there. He tensed, slowing.
Nothing, he told himself firmly. Just a shadow. Or some forest creature, eating.
He shook his head and rode on.
“How long until we rest?” she asked.
He grinned. “We've done about ten miles, aye?”
“Yes, I reckon so,” she nodded impishly. “I feel like I've sat this saddle a right long time.”
He chuckled. He tried not to glance down to where her long, shapely legs lay against the flank of her horse. As luck would have it, the inn had kept aside a single saddle for side-saddle riding. He'd hired that, heedless of the expense.
“Well, then,” he said. “I make that hillock halfway. When we get there, we'll rest,” he assured.
“Thank Heavens!” she exclaimed.
He chuckled, amused by her theatrical way of doing things. He hadn't ever imagined such light, easy company. “Well, I'm glad we brought provisions, too.”
“Yes,” she nodded. They had stocked up for the journey on the way, bringing bread, apples and even a spare change of clothes.
They rode on in comfortable silence.
As they neared the hill, Brogan glanced left again, and thought he saw a shadow in the woods. This time, he stopped, raising his hand to signal to Claudine to keep behind him.
She stopped and waited.
“I thought I saw a movement,” he whispered, when she cocked a lustrous brow.
“I see nothing,” Claudine commented, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. She wore a pale brown dress of brocade, which was, he thought, immensely becoming. He set his admiring glance aside, focusing on the movement in the woods.
There! A rider. He was sure it was. As he watched, he saw two others. Travelers?
Whist, Brogan! Why are you so nervous? It's not against the law for folks to travel wherever they will.
Nevertheless, he slit his eyes, watching the riders move. Something about the style of riding bothered him. A party of horsemen, riding somewhere for leisure, would ride more slowly. Maybe they would stop sometimes, and look at the sights. They would ride together, and it would be clear they were going slowly, talking among themselves. These riders rode with a singleness of purpose.
Soldiers. They must be.
He waited for them to reach a gap in the tree-line. He only stayed for an instant, but it was enough to show him a flash of colored cloth.
Scots regiments!
But not, he thought, narrowing his eyes still further, any men loyal to the Jacobite cause. No, these men would fight for the current king. He waited until they were perhaps thirty paces away, and then turned his horse. “Come, then.”
She frowned. “What is it?”
“Soldiers.”
He hadn't meant to speak so curtly, but a doubt was starting to grow in his mind. Three soldiers. Were they following him? And why?
It seemed a little odd that, as soon as he was out with her, soldiers unfriendly to the cause turned up to follow them.
No, he told himself. No, Brogan. It's not her.
He glanced at her. With long hair loose, glinting in the sunshine, she looked so happy, so free. She turned and smiled at him and his heart melted. He couldn't think ill of her.
Be sensible, an inner voice insisted. She barely knows you, and you her. How odd is it that she turned up that morning, just as you returned from an early ride? And now you find yourself trailed by hostile soldiers?
“Should we ride?” she said.
“Aye,” he said. “Let's go. When we reach the next hill, we will rest.”
She grinned and they set off together at a faster pace. On the top of the ridge, breathless, they paused. Brogan dismounted hastily. He led his horse to where there was fresh grass.
“We'll stop and take a bite of lunch, eh?” He squinted up at the sun. “Just past midday, by now.”
“Good idea,” she nodded. “I'm starving.”
Brogan turned away, opening his saddlebags. He drew out the bread and apples they had brought and paused, looking at the road.
He could see no sign of followers, and felt himself relax. She came over to join him. He passed her a loaf of bread. He tried to shake the uneasy feeling that she was conspiring with their enemy, leading him away from his allies and into a place where he – or they – were endangered.
“Should we sit there?” He jerked his head at a rise on the hill, where stone had dried in the sunshine. “Bit uncomfortable, mind.”
She shrugged. “It looks a good place to me,” she said lightly. “I used to spend hours in the woodlands with Reid.”
“They let you run wild?” He raised a brow, surprised. “I would have thought English gentry...”
She laughed. “We weren't wild, exactly.”
“But you used to play outdoors a lot?” he asked, settling on the rock beside her.
“We did,” she nodded. “It was better. Mama was ill, and it was better that we were out of doors, where our noise wouldn't affect anyone...”
To his surprise, she stifled a sob. He reached to her hand and held it, squeezing it tight. She sniffed and nodded, taking his hand in her own.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I just...I hadn't realized how unloved I felt. How we were always pushed out of the way, like nuisances to everybody.”
Brogan shook his head. “That's cruel.”
She sniffed, and smiled. “I don't know if I'd call it cruel,” she said gently. “But it was unkind. It isn't good to feel so unwanted. I never felt wanted.”
Her eyes held his and he read a message in them. I never felt so wanted, until now. He drew in a steadying breath. “I suppose awful things can befall good people,” he said slowly.
She smiled. “It wasn't all awful,” she said gently. “And I suppose I'm not all good.”
“That's not true,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “You've not got a bad bone in ye, lass.”
She looked down. “You're kind.”
“No,” he said softly.
They sat together in the silence. He reached for a piece of bread and ate it, eyes closed, soaking in the sunshine. It was a frosty day, and the sunshine offered the only true warmth. He was glad for his cloak, made of the McRae tartan – greens and blues and brown.
“You grew up running wild, too?” she asked.
He chuckled. “More or less.”
She grinned. He glanced at her. She leaned back on the stone, eyes closed, enjoying the day's offered warmth. “I imagine a terrifying fortress, on the top of a cliff, with just you and your father there.”
“More or less,” he
said again. “Though I don't reckon it was so terrifying, not exactly. A single big stone tower, pointing up like a finger.”
“Sounds grand.”
“Thanks,” he grinned wryly.
“You seem to have got used to your own company?” She turned toward him with a frown, a smile curving her soft lips.
“I suppose I have,” he said. Suddenly, the day seemed to lose its warmth. He felt like a shadow had been cast over it. He imagined her looking at him, seeing the strands of gray that threaded his hair, the wrinkles at his temples, starting to carve inward.
You have lived for too long on your own.
She hadn't said that, but it seemed to him as if she had. Suddenly, he wanted to be on the move again. He stood, abruptly, and walked toward their horses.
“Come on, lass,” he said roughly. “We ought to get started.”
She stood, but didn't follow him. “How much further until nightfall?” she called to him.
“Twenty miles.”
“You think we can make it?” she asked, walking to her horse and leading her to a stone, where she could mount up by stepping onto it.
“We should,” he shrugged. “Or we will ride blind.”
He didn't fancy the idea of riding overland in the dark. Not only was it dangerous, but this was territory he didn't know very well. He knew the lands north of here, but they were going south and west. He felt somewhat adrift.
“We'll ride fast, then,” she said, wheeling to join him. “The horses are rested.”
“Yes, they are,” he agreed. He was pleased his own horse seemed to be recovering from his strained hind leg. He set his knees and they sped off downhill.
It was getting dark when they caught sight of the riders again. The soldiers were close this time. He saw one of them catch sight of Claudine. He nodded to her, and Brogan tensed. He saw Claudine stiffen.
When the riders had gone, he rode closer by. “Alright, lass?” he asked.
“Fine,” she whispered. Her voice was hollow, sounding as if she directed it a long way, over sheeted ice. He shivered. Her face was blank.
Come on, Brogan. Get her to the inn.
They rode on. The lamps before the place shone out like pricks of carnelian on the dark. He slowed his horse, raising a hand to hail the innkeeper.
The Highlander’s Runaway (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 12