The Highland Secret Agent Read online

  As she ran back down the hallway the way she'd come, she realized she had. He was the assassin. The man in Henry's bedchamber. He was rather short, with broad shoulders and a lithe walk, as if his muscles were freshly wound and tensed for action. It was him.

  She fled back down to the courtyard, shivering suddenly in the cool air. “Henry?” She prayed he would be there. He had to be. They couldn't go on the hunt! She had to find him. She was right.

  She looked wildly about for him. The practice-ground was empty, but for two or three men taking desultory strikes at each other with blunted swords. The forecourt was bare, only sparrows chasing each other about the stone paving. The yard was occupied by a kitchen maid, rinsing the saucepans. It was as if Henry had vanished.

  “Henry?”

  Come on, Amice. He could be anywhere. He could be in the great hall. In the solar. In the turret. He could be taking a walk on the ramparts, even. She stepped back, heading to the gate where she could have a better view. She passed the stables, heart thumping. There, she found him.

  He was leaning on the wall, head back, eyes closed. For a moment she thought he was dead, pinned there by some fell arrow – he stood so still, so unmoving that he barely breathed. Then he looked up. His blue eyes were damp, full of complex emotions. When he saw her, his face lit and then went grave.

  “Amice,” he said gently. “I was stupid. Can you forgive me?”

  Amice smiled at him. She felt her heart melt immediately. He was so handsome and so sincere. Of course, she could forgive him! “Of course,” she said.

  He let out a heartfelt breath. “Thank you,” he said. “I was so arrogant! So rude. You are not primitive or barbarous or...I don't even know what I said.” He reached out his hands to hers. “I was so stupid.” He shook his head and she smiled, letting him take her fingers in his warm palms. He looked wretched and she leaned forward to kiss him.

  “I know you didn't mean it,” she said gently. She kissed him on the chin and looked up into his eyes. Her own kindled. “You're an Englishman and I love you.”

  He laughed. “Thank you for forgiving me. And accepting me with all my faults.”

  She giggled. “I don't think being English counts as one of those.”

  He roared with mirth. “Well, you're probably the first Scot to say so.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Well, mayhap I am. However, I know this: I love you, my Henry. I would love you whether you came from England or from somewhere so unknown that it's not on any map.”

  Henry blinked rapidly, his eyes full of care. “And I you, my dearest. And I you.”

  He kissed her.

  Later, they planned. They would take a day's provisions from the kitchens, and pack the few things they had brought, and leave. They would put it about that they had decided to visit the cathedral in Edinburgh, and then head in the other direction. They would escape. Together.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HEADING OFF

  HEADING OFF

  Henry felt his heart soar as he watched Amice mount her horse in the yard. He sometimes wondered at the fact that he felt so strongly about her after such a short time. The sight of her stepping lithely up into the saddle stirred his blood and also moved his heart. She had such strength of spirit and such grace.

  He swung up onto the saddle and followed her into the yard.

  The guards shouted down something as he rode through the gate. “We'll enjoy the visit!” he shouted up in French. He felt ludicrous for doing so, but he felt fairly sure whoever wanted him dead was watching them leave. He had to put on a show.

  After that, they were riding down the cobbled street towards the town of Edinburgh. They headed for the shelter of the forest. There he stopped until Amice was beside him.

  “Where should we go?”

  “Well,” she frowned. “They'll expect us in Edinburgh. Probably also Queensferry.”

  “Yes.” He nodded crisply. “Well, then. They expect us going east. We'll go west.”

  She nodded. In the distance, the sound of a hunting horn drifted out through the trees.

  “Let's go.”

  They nodded. Turning left, keeping within the cover of the tree line, they went. The forest around them was broad-leafed, the trees bare and the ground thick underfoot with the brown of fallen leaves. They rustled through them as they followed the path, the only sound the clop and crinkle of the horse's hoof-beats on the path.

  He followed her into the woodlands.

  After half an hour of riding, they left the path and came to a road. He frowned. “This goes west.”

  Amice blinked. “It looks like it.”

  He shrugged, feeling a little silly. “Well, then. We'll follow it.”

  They rode into the village. It was a cluster of thatch-roofed houses, the outsides painted with lime-wash, crisp white crossed with pitch-dark beams. Smoke drifted up lazily from chimneys. Somewhere, sheep called and a dog howled. It was a peaceful, agrarian place. Henry felt himself finally start to relax.

  “Oh, look!” Amice said in French. “A market place.”

  He nodded. They were riding down the one street in the village, heading towards the church. Opposite the church was the central green, where booths and stalls had been set up. He heard a piper and the laughter of children and smiled at Amice, who nodded back.

  “We seem to be in time for all the markets,” he said with a laugh.

  “Shall we go?”

  “Why not?” Henry agreed, feeling reckless with his relief. “Besides anything else, we might find out some information. Like where we are and how to find the road back to your home.”

  Amice stared at him. “You mean...” she paused.

  “Well, I can't expect you to get back alone now, can I?”

  She laughed. “Henry! I...” she shook her head, and he was surprised to see tears on her lashes.

  “What?” he said gently.

  “When you said we should go to Queensferry, I thought you meant to leave me there alone!” she sobbed. She was smiling through her tears, though, and Henry shook his head. He was shocked.

  “Amice!” he said crossly. “How could you think I would do that? No wonder you were cross!”

  He could understand it now, that argument they'd had. In the terror of the almost-assassination, he had pushed it to the back of his mind. Now it was too obvious. She had thought he'd wanted rid of her, and that was why she'd suddenly gone silent. He had mistaken her aloofness for disinterest.

  She was laughing, too. “I don't know how!” she said, looking at him with a sad smile. “I guess I thought I couldn't possibly be so lucky as to have you accompany me all the way.”

  Henry chuckled. “You dear, daft woman.”

  She roared with mirth. “Oh, Henry. Only you could call me daft and make me laugh about it.”

  He made a face. “Thank you. Now, shall we go to the market?”

  “Yes!”

  They dismounted and led their horses behind them across the green. It was a small market, just a cluster of trestles with sheepskins, harnesses, and well-forged metalwork. Somewhere someone roasted apples and the scent caught both of their noses. Henry raised a brow and Amice shrugged.

  “Why not?” she said in French. Henry nodded back.

  “Let's go and find something to eat.”

  As they walked and talked, he noticed people looking at them oddly. He guessed why. Not only were they conspicuous in their clothing, but they were speaking some strange foreign tongue. He saw not only suspicion on people's faces, but active fear.

  Where there is fear, soon there will be hostility.

  He followed Amice to the apple trader, hand on the hilt of his short stabbing sword.

  The trader looked at him and said something incomprehensible. He looked at Amice.

  She raised a brow and smiled at the stallholder. They had a brisk conversation Henry couldn't follow, and then she smiled at the man again, presumably thanked him, and turned to Henry with their apples, skewered on sticks.


  “Thank you,” he said in French. Amice shot him a warning glance and he kept silent, taking a bite of the rich, juicy baked fruit.

  “Mm.” His face covered in sticky juices, the sweetness of its pulp and the rich tasting spices flooding his mouth, he grinned at her. She walked with him into the trees.

  “He asked me what was the matter with you,” Amice explained, in between bites of the apple. “I said you were French. He didn't take that very well. Said they don't like foreigners around here. The only way he accepted you was because I said you were a friend of my brother's, a sailor. And that...” she stopped in her narrative, her face red.

  “And what?” he asked, dabbing at his mouth with a spare handkerchief.

  “And...I'm sorry, Henry. I said we're married.”

  He felt warmth suffuse his heart.

  “What?” she asked. She looked amused but also a little worried.

  “Why did you think I'd be cross?” he asked, smiling.

  “Well...” she paused, clearly considering her answer. Then she looked up at him. “Well I didn't want you to think that I was...well...suggesting it.”

  He laughed. “My dear, how could you worry about that?” When she smiled, he laughed again. “Well, all concerns aside, I think for the short term it will save our skins. We will use that pretense.”

  “Oh.” Amice blinked. “Very well.”

  Henry frowned. Wasn't she glad he'd thought it was a good idea? “It's a great idea,” he said.

  “Thanks, Henry.” She nodded.

  He frowned. He looked down into her face. Adorably, her mouth was ringed with charcoal from the blistered apple-skin. He reached into his pocket for the handkerchief and gently wiped it off.

  She looked into his eyes and as she reached up to his hand he cupped her face. He kissed her.

  Her lips were sweet from their repast, and she tasted spicy and exciting. He held her close, enjoying the delicious taste of her and the warm safe haven of her mouth. She held him against her and the whole world seemed to take a step back, the only reality being the sweet taste of her and the warmth of her presence.

  He heard footsteps and broke the kiss, eyes briefly unfocused.

  “Only a shepherd.” He sighed in relief as the man walked along the grass at the woodlands' margin, crook in hand, flock following across the green field.

  Amice sighed. “Good.”

  He looked at her and kissed her briefly again, unable to resist. They went to join the market.

  At the metalworker, Henry considered buying another knife. He had lost the one he usually wore strapped to his leg. He inspected them. Passed her a small one.

  “Would you consider taking one?” he asked in French. He saw the stallholder eye them and felt nervous. The only thing worse than being thought a dangerous newcomer was when the person thinking it was behind a desk full of knives.

  “No,” Amice said, soft but firm. “Henry, no. I wouldn't know how to use one! If someone attacks me, I'm dead. I'm not about to learn how to take life.”

  Henry raised a brow. “My dear, I would feel better if...”

  “No,” Amice said firmly. “I'm sorry, but I don't carry weapons and I shan't start.”

  Henry nodded and laid aside the knife. He bought the longer one for himself. Amice did the talking. He saw the man look at them and his face lit up, then he commented, and he laughed. Amice laughed too and said something back. Henry watched, bemused.

  “What did he say?” he asked when they walked off.

  “He said,” she said and grinned, “that we were such a dear married couple. We even argue.”

  Henry roared with laughter and drew her under his arm. He kissed her hair. “I like that. Well! One thing I can say is that, I like this disguise. It means I can kiss you and no one can tell me off.”

  “Henry!” Amice said, shocked. She looked up at him with a big grin and started to laugh.

  “What?” he said, shrugging.

  “You are the dearest, most incorrigible...Oh! Henry.”

  He laughed and hugged her close. Together they walked back across the field. By the time they returned to their horses they had acquired a knife, baked apples, a bag of chestnuts and a cheese. They were doing well and, to all intents and purposes, they were married.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  REST AND ACTION

  REST AND ACTION

  Amice felt a strange warmth in her chest as they rode back up through the village to the church. She realized with some surprise that the feeling was pride.

  I really feel as if he's my husband.

  She bit her cheeks, trying not to smile. Every time she glanced at him, she felt the same warm feeling inside of her. She almost felt like she was seeing him through the eyes of others. He was so handsome, so well-muscled, and so graceful in the way he moved. She was proud of him, she realized.

  There was a group of men clustered on the edge of the green. They stared at her. Clearly guessing she was a noblewoman, they waited until she'd passed before catcalling. Amice saw Henry stiffen. She smiled.

  “Henry, don't let them provoke you. Take it easy. They'll not hurt me.”

  He frowned darkly. “Even so.”

  She giggled and they rode together up to the church. There, Henry dismounted.

  “I won't be a minute – I just want to have a look round; see if I can find the priest. He should be able to talk French, at least.”

  Amice nodded. She slid off her horse as he dismounted, and they looped the reins around the nearby fence, and then went in.

  Inside, the church was almost pitch dark, its structure squat and sturdy. It was built much earlier than the cathedral had been, its sides thick and its roof low, the arches semicircles, not the soaring pointed arches of the later buildings. Candles burned on the altar and green daylight filtered down into the dark space.

  She heard Henry talking to someone and stepped cautiously up. He had found the priest. They were speaking French.

  “Oh. Well, my son,” she heard the priest saying, “I cannot say I've seen or heard of any Frenchmen in the village. But I will ask my flock as I see them. In the meanwhile, mayhap you would care to stay at the inn? And your lady wife, of course,” he added, inclining his head to Amice with a grin. Amice flushed.

  “Yes, Father,” she said demurely.

  Henry thanked him and they headed out into the light. The local inn was close to where they'd come in, just offset from the main road by its big stone-paved inn-yard. They stabled their horses and went to take a room.

  “Henry,” Amice whispered urgently as they approached the counter where the inn-keeper sat.

  “Yes, dear?” he murmured.

  “We'll have to take a single room.”

  “Yes,” he agreed mildly. “It would look odd if we didn't, wouldn't it?”

  Amice swallowed. “Henry! I...”

  “Yes, my dear?” the innkeeper asked her. She drew in a deep breath.

  “Good afternoon. I am Lady Amice, and this is Lord Henri, my husband. He's French,” she added, when the innkeeper raised his brows, an inquiring look. “We'll lodge here for...” she looked up at Henry, who shrugged.

  “Three days?”

  “For three days,” she confirmed.

  “Of course, my lady,” the inn-keeper said. He gave Henry a sidelong look. “I have a lovely room on the first floor. It should suit such gentlefolk as yourself. If you have any luggage?”

  “It's been sent ahead,” Amice said smoothly. He looked surprised, but nodded.

  “Well, then. Up you go. First door on the left. Can't miss it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Amice and Henry went up to their room. As she went, she could feel her pulse thudding. We are in one bedchamber. I am sharing a bedroom with Henry. Sharing a bed with Henry. Her face flushed. Her heart pounded. The thought was at once deeply shocking and wonderfully exciting.

  They went into the room together. Inside, the walls were oak-paneled, the bed a graceful one with
a thick blue coverlet and soft cushions. Amice sat down on it, grateful to be off her feet. It was just after midday already and she was tired, cold, and hungry. She heard the floor creak as Henry walked in and stood opposite the window, where white daylight seeped in. He looked tired too, though his back was rigid and his stance alert. Amice swallowed hard.

  I've spent a night with him before. But this is different.

  She was actually sharing a room with him. They had one bed. In addition, they were sharing it as if they were wed.

  She tried to tear her gaze from him but she found it hard to look away. She looked into the fire, watching the flames rise and fall in the grate. She heard a soft scuff of a boot on floorboards and when she looked up Henry was looking at her.

  There was a depth of hunger in those blue eyes that surprised her. She shuddered, but not with fear. His hunger called forth a hunger deep inside her. She stood but he was faster, and he stood in front of her, his hands on her waist.

  “Amice,” he murmured. “Oh, my dear.”

  He kissed her hungrily and her heart raced. Here, there was no one. No disturbance, no pressing need to be on the run. No concealment. They were alone.

  She sighed and wrapped her arms around his chest. His lips came down onto hers and pressed against them, his hard, probing tongue sliding in between and exploring her mouth. He pushed her back a little and they fell onto the bed.

  He lay on top of her, his one hand in her hair, looking down at her. His body was a sweet weight on her chest and her heart thumped there in the cask of her ribs, swift and urgent. She could feel the weight of him pressing on her below the waist, and somehow the feeling of heat in her body concentrated there, throbbing and warming and making her want to push against him.

  She did so and he groaned, kissing her neck. His hands moved to the fastening of her dress as his other hand moved toward her breast. She gasped as he cupped it in his hand. No one had ever touched her that way but it felt good. It felt right.