by Diana Cosby
“There is nay need. Once Blar is free, I will leave.”
Cailin frowned. “Where will you go?”
“I am pondering that question, but before I depart, I will see my parents buried.”
He touched her shoulder, and she stiffened. “Whatever happens, I swear I will ensure they are given a proper burial.”
“I thank you,” she whispered and sagged, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
“As for your departing Dalkirk lands, now isna the time to be making such a decision. Know this: you will always have a place within my home.”
Her mouth parted. “’Tis a generous act after the mistruths I told you.”
“After your family’s fealty to mine, and now King Robert, ’tis an offer you deserve.” And one that brought Cailin a sense of peace. Once he returned to fight with the Bruce, Elspet would have protection.
A gust of wind howled outside, and she tugged her cape closer. “’Tis a cold night. I am thankful we have shelter and a fire.”
“As I. Once we reach Father Lamond, I will speak with him about finding a place you can remain until I have seized Tiran Castle.”
“I willna be left anywhere.” Her eyes narrowed. “My stepbrother is in Tiran Castle, and if he is still alive, I will be there to discover such.”
He forced himself to be calm, given her recent suffering. “Though I admire your courage, I refuse to allow a woman to willingly place herself in danger. After I have spoken with the priest, whatever I decide, you will heed my decision.”
Such arrogance. “Though Father Lamond will be of great help, remember, he lives beneath the name of Finnean Howe and canna risk exposing his identity.” She angled her jaw. “However much you dislike the thought of my intervention, with your unfamiliarity of the people, you still need my help.”
Irritated she spoke the truth, Cailin dropped the stick and wiped his hands. Given the criticalness of the situation, the last thing he needed was a lass who believed she could make demands, one with a stubborn streak that prompted decisions far from sound.
“I will decide what needs to be done after I speak with the priest,” he stated. “For now, you are exhausted and need to sleep.”
Loose strands of chestnut hair lay in frayed twists against her face, pale with exhaustion, but she didn’t look away or show any sign of backing down. “As do you.”
A grim smile tugged at his mouth. “You would argue with a saint.”
“I state naught but fact.”
Unsure if her defiance amused or annoyed him, Cailin decided ’twas prudent to shift the topic to safer ground. “How does your ankle feel?”
Far from appeased but giving in to exhaustion, she followed his lead to change the subject and unwrapped the bandage, then rubbed the swollen joint. “It throbs, but less so than yesterday.”
“You are fortunate you didna break anything.”
“I am.” Another wave of weariness swept her, and Elspet glanced about the cave before meeting his gaze. “Do you always care for women you rescue with such thoroughness?”
A tight smile touched his mouth. “Nay. Normally I learn little more than their names.”
“Names?” she said, irritated by his admission. Nor did his interest in women matter to her. She had her own life…or had. She quelled the rush of heartache. It had been a strife-filled day. She didn’t need to add to it with ridiculous notions. Still, she gave into curiosity. “Have there been many?”
He shrugged. “The duties of a knight are numerous.”
“Far from an answer.” Neither did she miss how he evaded most questions when it came to details of his life. Though a mystery, nor could she forget how he’d held her when she’d broken down.
Another blast of wind howled outside, a sad, lonely sound.
She inhaled, the tang of smoke entwined with the chill. Though her throat felt sore from crying earlier, she was far from ready to end the conversation. “Why are you only now returning to reclaim your birthright?”
His face grew taut, but she caught the shadow of grief in his eyes.
“’Tis a long story,” he said, his voice terse.
Sparks burst from the fire, tumbled to the ground, then grew black. She arched a brow. “’Twould seem we have time.”
He pushed to his feet. “You need to rest; dawn will soon be upon us. Travel will be difficult tomorrow, more so with Gaufrid’s men searching for me.”
Despite her invitation, she was almost glad he’d postponed the conversation. Postponed, she reaffirmed to herself, because she wanted answers. Her lids half-closed, she struggled to keep awake.
“Go to sleep.”
“What of you?”
“I will keep watch.”
Unease rippled through her as she glanced toward the cave entry. “You believe the earl’s men are near?”
“I canna be sure, but I willna take any chances.”
Warmth from the flames flickered over her, and guilt swept her that he’d sacrifice his comfort to protect her. “There is only one blanket.”
“With the fire and your cape, you should be warm enough.”
She gave a frustrated sigh. “I wasna concerned for myself but you. ’Twill be cold leaning against the stone.”
He shrugged. “I have endured far worse.”
“Mayhap, but for now there is nay need.”
“I will be fine.” Cailin strode to the wall near the entry, paces from the fire, positioning himself where he had a clear view outside.
She scoffed. And he thought she was stubborn? Lifting the blanket, Elspet forced aside exhaustion and pain and, with effort, stood.
As she limped over, Cailin scowled.
“Lean forward,” she said.
“Why?”
The sharpness of his tone far from intimidated her. However terse, she was coming to understand this formidable knight. She held out a portion of the blanket. “’Tis said that shared body warmth is essential when in the cold.”
His brows furrowed.
“You might as well accept it.” She had to smile, which surprised herself, given the tumultuous times. “I willna quit bothering you until you do.”
With a grumble, he leaned forward, secured part of the blanket around him. “Sit.”
Pleased to have won this battle, she settled beside him and rested her head against his muscled shoulder. Feeling safe for the first time since the attack on her home, she closed her eyes and savored the heat from his body.
Her mind hazed, and slowly her thoughts tumbled onto one another, blurred until blackness enveloped her. An image of herself at home, wandering in the gardens, grew clear, then of knights encircling her and marching her into the castle before the Earl of Dalkirk. Eyes dark with malice, the noble reached out for her. “Nay!”
“Elspet!”
Caught in the nightmare of the earl’s attack, she fought the guard’s grasp.
“Elspet, ’tis Cailin.”
Heart pounding, she stilled. The faint smell of smoke and man filled her every breath, and memories of Dalkirk’s attack faded. She opened her eyes.
Illuminated within the flames, sitting by her side, Cailin’s worried gaze held hers. “You were having a dream.”
“I…” Try as she might, she couldn’t push out the words.
He tucked the blanket around her. “More nightmares will come, but over time, they will fade.”
His quiet assurance was said with such confidence, such belief. After all he’d endured, he would know. “What did you do to overcome them?”
He gave a bitter laugh. “When I knew that I would live, I poured myself into learning how to use my weapons to become a warrior.”
“To reclaim your home?”
“In part, but more, to help those who needed my aid.”
How many men would give so uns
elfishly of themselves? “’Tis noble.”
“Nay, ’twas necessary to survive.”
“You are making little sense.”
“Try to rest.”
From the flatness of his voice, it was clear he wouldn’t entertain more questions. She yawned and closed her eyes, and in moments lost herself in sleep.
* * * *
Snow whipped against Cailin and Elspet, seated before him, as he guided his destrier through the growing drifts. “How much farther to Father Lamond’s home?” he called as another gust hurled past.
Elspet shoved aside the whip of chestnut hair slapping her cheek and tucked it into her braid. “We should arrive before dark.”
Blast it, the weather was growing steadily worse. If they hadn’t traveled most of the morning, he would head back to the cave. Nor did it help that several times they’d caught sight of his uncle’s knights and been forced to hide. Now, with the snow starting to deepen, ’twas slowing their travel further.
Cailin guided his warhorse into a dense stand of fir, then drew him to a halt. “We will rest here a bit.” He swung down, lifted her to the ground. “How does your ankle feel?”
She gingerly walked around. “’Tisna worse.”
He gestured to the flat expanse of a nearby rock. “Sit there until we depart.”
With a nod, she complied.
A horse whinnied nearby.
Cailin placed his finger over his lips, then crept to the dense boughs. He slightly pushed them aside and peered out. Stilled. Several of the earl’s knights were riding toward where they hid. Bloody hell!
Chapter 5
Wind hurled snow past as Cailin peered between dense branches of fir, thankful when the small contingent of Dalkirk’s knights swerved from where he and Elspet hid then halted about twenty paces away.
A large bearded man, his face hardened into a frown, scanned the area before turning to the others. “We have seen naught all morning.”
“I dinna think they have traveled this far west,” a fierce-looking warrior to his right said. “We should keep our search closer to Tiran Castle.” Snow flew from his mount’s hooves as he kicked the horse into a canter, and the others followed.
“They believe we are near the castle.” Elspet’s breath feathered his ear.
He released the thick branch and met her worried gaze. “For which I am thankful.”
She nodded. “We are nearing Father Lamond’s home and need to move deeper into the forest.”
Once they’d mounted, Cailin guided his steed deep into the weave of trees, thankful for the cover and the break from the wind. Though she hadn’t complained, no doubt the hard travel irritated her injury.
After they’d ridden down a steep incline, she pointed toward a break in the shrubs ahead. “Once you reach the opening near the large oak, bear to the right, then we continue for another league.”
At the break, he guided his horse through the gap. For as far as he could see stood ancient oaks, their limbs arching toward the sky like battle-seasoned warriors. Sunlight streamed through the branches, illuminating the endless tangle of limbs enshrouded in moss, and the greenish hue that filled the air as if cast by the fey.
Memories rolled through him, and his throat tightened with emotion as he took in his surroundings. “I had forgotten this area. ’Twas one of my favorite places to visit during my youth. I assure you, with the hues of murky green filling the air and illuminated in the sunshine, ’twas rich fodder for a lad’s imagination.”
Laugher sparkled in her eyes as she nodded. “I enjoyed riding here with my stepfather over the years. When I was young, he’d lower his voice, and with the skill of a bard, tell me tales about wayward lads who dared to challenge those from the Otherworld upon this sacred ground. And,” she whispered with mock warning as she’d heard her stepfather do many times over, “those who disappeared for their defiance.”
He shot her a wry smile as he guided his horse up the steep incline. “I heard several tales in my youth as well. The stories nay doubt meant to sway unruly children from misbehaving.”
“Whatever the reason—” she glanced around with appreciation, “this unusual corridor inspires many an enchanted thought.”
He inhaled a deep breath, appreciated the scent of aged wood, earth, and time unique to this locale. “Aye, ’tis a place of magic.”
She arched a brow. “I am surprised a man of war believes in magic.”
“There are many things I believe.” He held her gaze, the weight of their situation far from allowing him to linger on whimsy. “Fewer that I trust.”
The warmth in her eyes faded, and he damned the reminder that their perilous situation had stolen her moment of joy. Cailin scanned the dense woods, the enchanted aura of moments ago fading beneath the reality of dangerous shadows where those in pursuit could hide.
As they rode, clusters of stones came into view. “See the large boulders edged with a dense, impassable thicket?”
Cailin followed her arm as she pointed. “Aye.”
“Where it ends, we circle to the other side, then continue until we reach a narrow path.”
He guided his destrier along the thick tangle of branches, impressed when a short while later they came across a worn pathway on the ground barely visible. To anyone passing, the impressions could easily be mistaken for a game trail.
As they traveled, the mighty oaks gave way to a mix of alder, birch, and fir. Glimpses of blue sky came into view, then the dense swath fell way, exposing a snow-laden field.
Amazed, Cailin drew his steed to a halt. On the far side of the meadow, framed within a stand of birch, stood a stone hut, a crude window near the thick-hewn door, and smoke puffing from the aged, thatched roof.
“I traveled through this area several times during my youth, but never did I know this place existed. Then again, with the complex track we took to reach Father Lamond’s home, one would have to know where to look.”
“Exactly, which is why this cottage was selected.”
“I recall your explanation that the earl, as others within Dalkirk, believe Finnean Howe is an ailing man with a malady that is highly contagious, a story concocted to sway those with thoughts of going near.”
“Aye.”
“Incredible. ’Twas as if…”
She frowned. “What?”
Given the complexity of the story, of the hideaway, and the false name, ’twas as if designed by the Knights Templar. A foolish notion. Except for deep faith and the priest’s loyalty to King Robert, no ties existed between him and the Brotherhood. With the Bruce a member of the Knights Templar, if a link between Father Lamond and the Templars existed, King Robert would have informed Cailin, wouldn’t he?
He wanted to dismiss the possibility of any connection. Though he recalled how his friends and fellow Templar warriors, Stephan, Thomas, and Aiden, had learned after the fact that a mission their sovereign had assigned them held Templar ties.
Did the priest support more than King Robert but the Brotherhood as well? ’Twould explain not only why he lived in seclusion and his life was wrapped in mystery, but why he held the king’s ear, and why but a few knew of his true identity.
From this location, regardless of the secrecy of the mission, ’twould be easy to pass word unnoticed through the Highlands.
He studied the cottage. Many things could explain the priest’s reclusiveness, the foremost being fear for his life after having covertly acquired Cailin’s father’s sword from Tiran Castle and delivering it to King Robert. He reined his horse into the clearing, keeping within the shadows cast from the trees. Regardless of his uncertainties, he knew one thing: Father Lamond had been loyal to his father, and a man he could trust.
At the hut, Cailin drew his warhorse to a halt, dismounted, then lifted Elspet to the ground. She grimaced, but given his stubborn intention to care for her, she’d l
ong since quit insisting on dismounting herself.
“I will knock. If he doesna recognize your voice, he willna answer.” She hobbled to the entry and pounded on the thick door. “Father Lamond, ’tis Elspet.”
A gust hurled a cloud of snow past. The breeze gentled, and silvery glitters of white spiraled in a slow cascade to the ground.
Metal clunked and the door scraped open. A large hooded man, his face shrouded beneath a cowl stood at the entry. “Elspet?”
Though coarse with age, the deep, healthy boom of the priest’s voice caught Cailin off guard. Given the passage of years since his father’s death, he’d envisioned him as a frail, elderly man.
“I come with a friend,” she said.
The tall man glanced toward Cailin, paused, then shoved his hood back and opened the door wider.
Except for strands of gray sprinkled within his hair, the tall, lean man exuded strength. Fire blazed in the cleric’s eyes, a potent reminder of the young man, years ago, who had first arrived at Tiran Castle and sermonized so passionately.
“Father,” Elspet said, “we come on an urgent matter. Let us go inside and I will introduce you and explain.”
With a nod, the priest stepped back. Once they’d entered, he shut and barred the door.
The scent of peat, onions, venison, and a mixture of herbs filled the air as Cailin’s eyes adjusted to the flame and candlelit interior.
Dried herbs were suspended from the ceiling bound in thick swaths, a large metal pot hung from a hook over the hearth, several aged chests were shoved against the stone wall, a plain rug lay upon the wooden floor, and several folded blankets rested atop a small bed on the opposite side of the room. On a nearby shelf, a handful of jugs sat haphazardly, along with baskets and numerous smaller containers hung from hooks on the far wall.
“Father Lamond, may I introduce Sir Cailin MacHugh, the rightful Earl of Dalkirk?”
The tall man studied Cailin for a long moment, then gave a somber nod. “I bid you a humble welcome, Sir Cailin. I have been expecting you.”
He nodded. “Father.” With the priest’s close ties to the Bruce, no doubt King Robert had sent a writ that Cailin was en route to reclaim his legacy. A disclosure he should have anticipated.