The Highlander’s Widow (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 8) Read online

  Amalie smiled, weak with relief. Bronan was safe. “So you can,” she said reassuringly “What a clever Alexandra, eh?”

  “Ooo,” Alexandra crooned, and spooned happily into her porridge.

  Amalie smiled at Marguerite, who was watching her baby daughter calmly, her face a picture of maternal love. She thought back, a little sadly, over the twelve years since Alec was her age. She had not flouted custom, as Marguerite had, and the child had eaten by himself, with servants, in the nursery until he was eight or nine.

  I wish I had thought to do this myself.

  She had, she thought, missed out on a great deal.

  Regretfully, she watched Alexandra and her mother. Her thoughts strayed to Bronan. She wished she could ask for more details. She thought of a way. “You mentioned chaos?”

  “A panic,” Marguerite ameliorated. “Yes, there was a small one. A horse was found in the orchard – cropping the grass, quite free as you please!” She chuckled. “And then a carter disappeared. The horse was assumed to be his. We have the stable-hands out in the woods, looking for him, to give it back.”

  “Oh.”

  Amalie knew that Marguerite was aware she understood. The carter was Bronan, the horse belonged to him, and Marguerite had sent the stable-hands out in an attempt to allay the watchful guards. “Thank you,” she said.

  Marguerite nodded once, in acknowledgment. She turned to Alexandra, who was starting to reach the last of the porridge in the bowl. The dark oak wood of the table was decorated with porridge, as was the child's smock. Marguerite grinned. “Well, then! Will you be a sweetling and show Amalie how clever you are?” she said. “Tell her how many fingers I have.”

  “Five!” the child pronounced, looking at Marguerite's hand, spanning the table-mat.

  “Well done!”

  Amalie nodded, impressed. “Excellent!”

  Alexandra beamed. A small, sticky, porridge-daubed hand rested on hers. “Amalie,” she said.

  Amalie's heart melted. She bent down and kissed the child's head, breathing in the faint milk-scent of the satin-soft curls. The child laughed.

  “If you think you have a moment, you might want to visit the gallery,” Marguerite said slowly. “There's a fine view of the hillside there, and the forest roads. If you want to plan a ride.”

  “Might I plan a ride?” Amalie asked. Their eyes spoke volumes, while their words were mild.

  I think you should meet Bronan.

  Is it safe for us, to escape? Today?

  “I think yes, you might find a ride a great curative,” Marguerite said succinctly. “It's just the thing you need, to change your prospects.”

  “Well, then,” Amalie said slowly. “I think I'll visit the gallery directly.

  “Good. I'll send Brenna up to the attic in a moment. She has instructions to leave a note for a sick cottager, who Merrick sent to lodge there, to recuperate.”

  “Thank you, Marguerite, for being so kind.” Amalie felt her heart twist with thankfulness.

  “Not at all, Amalie,” Marguerite said, beaming. “Not at all. Off you go now. I'll see you sometime soon.”

  “Thank you, Marguerite. You, too.”

  Throat too tight to say more, Amalie hurried from the room.

  * * *

  Bronan looked out of the window onto the garden below. The faint sunlight leaked onto the treetops, the clouds already threatening the calm. He sighed and recalled the last time he was in a cell-like room like this.

  I'm not sorry I left the laird's service, for that reason. That room was miserable, now I think of it.

  He sighed. It had been like this one – the simplest of servant's rooms, serviced with a small overstuffed pallet and a tiny window, looking out onto the grounds. This one, like his, at least had faced south. In the north-facing side, the rooms were much colder.

  He turned. He could swear he could hear footsteps on the stairs.

  Probably just a maidservant, coming upstairs for a rest. Or to fetch something. You're too jumpy, Bronan.

  Even so, he tensed. He had been sleeping in the chamber Marguerite had set aside for him the last time he'd stayed when a knock on the door had revealed a tall, black-haired woman, with a regal bearing.

  “Hello?” He had a feeling he recognized her from somewhere, but he had no idea from where. His heart beat, terrified.

  “I'm Mrs. Merrick,” she'd said succinctly, not giving further information. “And you're going to have to leave now.”

  Bronan had been terrified at first, but she'd explained that Lady Marguerite had requested her to find him, and had said he was to be concealed in the attic.

  “When can I leave?” he'd asked his enigmatic visitor.

  “When you're told.”

  With that uneasy information, he'd been shut into the room, on strict instruction not to leave, and not to answer the door to anyone except herself, or Barra. Then she'd left, heading swiftly downstairs.

  Bronan turned away from the window, frowning. Yes, it was footsteps. He was certain. And they were heading here. “Hello?”

  A woman's voice, soft and subdued, reached through the keyhole. Bronan stiffened. Should he say something? Merrick had been strict in the instruction about not opening the door to anyone.

  “Hello?” the voice called again, when he didn't speak. “It's Barra. Milady told me to tell you that you must go downstairs.”

  “You're sure?” he asked, feeling stupid. What was she supposed to be sure of, for perdition's sake?

  “Aye, course I am,” the voice replied, sounding as if the woman laughed. “It's safe, lad. Out you come.”

  Bronan appeared. The woman, Barra, smiled.

  “I say, you are a looker.”

  Bronan stared. The woman giggled as though his discomfort amused her as much as did her boldness. Then, before he could say anything, she turned away quickly. “Her ladyship's in the gallery.”

  “Wait?” Bronan called out. “Please?”

  She didn't stop though, and, without any further explanation, hurried downstairs.

  Bronan bit his lip, wearily. What was he supposed to do? Who was waiting for him? How could he trust the message?

  “You can go and damn well look,” he said to himself crossly. All the subterfuge was, evidently, getting to him. An utterly down-to-earth sort, the secrecy discomforted him hugely.

  Shrugging, Bronan went down the stairs and then turned right, to take the hallway off toward the gallery. In the doorway, he stopped, peering round. He stared for a moment.

  The sunlight shone down through the long windows at the end of the room, lighting the person who stood there from the front, throwing their fine, curved figure into relief. Bronan sighed. Heart thumping, he ran to her, and embraced her. “Amalie! Thank Heaven you're safe. What's happening?”

  She looked up at him. Her eyes were troubled. “Bronan, they know you're here. We have to leave. Lady Marguerite has had our horses readied. We have to ride.”

  “Where's Alec?” he asked quickly.

  “Already downstairs,” Amalie said succinctly. “In the dining room. Waiting for us.”

  “Good,” Bronan said. He was already hurrying down the length of the gallery, past ancient ancestors of Duncliffe, who regarded him serenely with painted gazes. Together, they ran downstairs, heading for Alec, the garden, and freedom.

  A RIDE FROM PERIL

  “Alec? You have the maps?”

  Alec nodded. “In my saddlebags. Lady Marguerite gave them to me earlier.”

  “Good,” Bronan nodded. He looked around swiftly. They were on horseback, in the grounds of Duncliffe Manor, heading for the river-gate. So named because it had, in the days when Duncliffe was a castle, been the way water was brought, by bucket-load, from the local burn, the gate leading to a small path down the hillsides that, eventually, joined the road.

  The other ways were too patrolled.

  “They were still there?” he asked Amalie, who nodded. Her hair plaited back from her face, she looked more s
tern and remote than he had ever seen her.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I saw them on the steps. They know we're going to try something. Two of them always watch the gate. I don't know where the other two are now.”

  “Well, we can hope they're not in the woods,” Bronan said lightly.

  “They were round the back,” Alec supplied, looking over his shoulder at Bronan, where he rode with Amalie. “They're surrounding the place.”

  “Heck,” Bronan sighed. “They seem to think I'm a hard fellow to stop.”

  “Aren't you?” Alec asked.

  They all laughed.

  “He's as stubborn as you are, Alec,” Amalie teased fondly.

  “Impossible!” Alec grinned. “I defy that anyone is more stubborn than me.”

  “I do too,” Bronan said, grinning. “I defy it even more.”

  Amalie roared with laughter, which she quickly stifled with her hand. She shot him an amused look. “Bronan, Alec, please?” she whispered. “If I laugh like that, someone will hear me.”

  They all giggled. The tension, Bronan thought, was heightening the humor, making everything seem dangerously amusing. Or amusingly dangerous. His mind wasn't in the right state to fathom which.

  Very well, he nodded.

  Together they headed to the gate. Bronan slipped to the ground in a quick dismount, and opened it. It was well-tended, and slid back soundlessly on its hinges, which relieved him.

  It isn't like they're not going to hear three sets of hoof-beats and three people talking, yet hear hinges, Bronan, he chided. Be sensible, man.

  All the same, he was glad when it swung back smoothly. Alec rode through, then Amalie. She gave him a caring glance. “I'm coming, dearest,” he assured.

  He led his horse through, and then slammed the door shut with a clang, bolting it. Hastily, heart thumping, he swung up into the saddle.

  The three of them headed down the path.

  The route down to the burn was steep, and Amalie dismounted, waiting while Alec and Bronan did also. Bronan felt uneasy, but knew that she had the right of it – it was the only way.

  They finally reached the valley floor.

  Letting the horses drink, staring up at the wall uneasily, where it glinted every so often through the rustling leaves, they discussed plans.

  “We're to ride north and west, to Invermull,” Amalie explained. “There, we'll wait and Marguerite will send word.”

  “You think they won't think to look there?” Bronan frowned.

  “Marguerite has spread the news that I wished to go to the abbey at Dungowan,” she said. “Which is what my uncle also thought.”

  “I see,” Bronan nodded.

  “Mama fooled him properly,” Alec said proudly. “You're a fine actor, Mama.”

  Amalie made a face. “You too, Alec,” she said.

  He grinned. “I just hope I can keep up a good face. I still want him to give me that horse.”

  Bronan looked from Amalie to her son, bemused, while they laughed. “What horse?”

  “I'll tell you later, Bronan,” Amalie grinned. “Now, we ride.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Still laughing, the joy not gone from the day, as if they were all three on a wild adventure, they mounted up. They rode.

  The day wore on. Afternoon lengthened, and the sun started to sink behind the trees. Bronan shifted in his saddle, uneasily. “Marguerite had some idea of where was safe to stay the night?” he asked carefully.

  “We'll ride to Stankirk,” Alec said calmly. “And take shelter with the abbess.”

  “Stankirk?”

  “It's a tiny village,” Amalie assured. “Nobody will hear of our passing through. I think it's five houses and the abbey, which the farmers there all support.”

  “I see,” Bronan said, still uneasy.

  “It's only the night,” Amalie assured him again. “And we'll be gone by dawn, heading northwards. Then another day's length riding and we'll be in Invermull.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  They rode on.

  “How far is it still?” Bronan asked, uncomfortably. Alec frowned.

  “The map said two miles,” he said. “We'll be there in the hour.”

  “Good,” Bronan admitted. It was dark now, the woods blue-lit. He could just see Alec, and beside him, more closely, he could see Amalie. Her skin was pale in the dusk, and he reached across to pat her hand.

  Suddenly, a twig cracked. Bronan tensed. Alec was two paces ahead, but it was not coming from his direction. Nor from Amalie, who rode beside him. It was from further back. Behind them. “Wait,” he whispered. Amalie stopped. She whistled to Alec, softly.

  He stopped, and turned. He looked back at Bronan. Bronan indicated the direction of the noise.

  Nothing. He waited, counting the heartbeats. Still nothing.

  Crack. Crunch, crack.

  Footsteps. Coming through the trees.

  Bronan turned to them, wildly. He was nearest to the back, and he stepped out ahead, into the path. The least he could do, he reckoned, was block the path between Amalie and her son and whatever walked there.

  The footsteps came closer, and were not footsteps, after all. They were hoof-steps. And they were coming closer.

  Bronan felt his hand go to his side. Long ago, he had learned the rudiments of using a dagger. Shorter than a sword, more useful in tight places, such as in hand-to-hand combat, or on horseback, in a melee, the dagger was something he thought he'd learned for pleasure only. He felt his hand go to the hilt now.

  The sound of riders came closer, merged and then emerged into two riders. Three. Four.

  They appeared on the path all at once, blocking the way back. There was only the way forward, now, and darkness. And danger.

  “Ride!” He screamed it, willing Amalie to listen, willing Alec, imploring them not to try any more heroics. He rode toward the enemy, screaming a wordless threat.

  The front horseman rode toward him.

  As he jerked his horse aside so that he was carried past the man's horse, to the rider, Bronan felt stupidly relieved that nobody, it seemed, had brought a gun. If they had, he'd be dead by now. And Amalie and Alec with him. If Amalie and Alec were meant to die.

  “It's the duke's men!” he screamed over his shoulder, hoping against hope that they had heard. “Ride! Ride.”

  The horseman into whom he'd cannoned snarled and struck out at Bronan. He raised his arm, and his blade shivered along another blade, stopping the impact. Behind him, he heard a sound that filled him with relief – two horses, heading swiftly north.

  Good.

  Howling, he fell on the enemy. He could at least hold them at bay long enough for Amalie and Alec to escape.

  The path was narrow, which meant that, unless they were going to step off it into the treacherous darkness of the trees, the men were obliged to come against him individually. That was something, at least, Bronan thought giddily. He stabbed forward, felt his blade bite, and drew it back, howling incoherent nonsense. He was shocked at how naturally he did this – for a carter's son, he was not doing badly.

  One part of his mind seemed to have become aloof from the rest, so that, as his body responded, going through parries and thrusts that he had, fortunately, learned when learning was easy, he thought.

  One more thrust, and then he'll swerve aside. He's going to strike down. Block the blow, Bronan. There. Now sharp right. The fellow behind's trying to get in on the fight, as well.

  He tensed as the second man pushed his way forward and as he had predicted, the first veered off. His hand was slippery where the dagger had drawn blood, and though he was glad he'd wounded the first man enough to at least stop him coming back at him, he was also worried. If the dagger slipped out of his grip, he was dead.

  Howling, he rode at his second assailant.

  The fellow swung back with his fist, striking him a blow that sent him reeling back. As he lifted his dagger arm to come in with a final strik
e, some part of Bronan's mind anticipated it, and rode forward. He felt his blade bite piercingly, under the man's arm.

  Soundlessly, the fellow fell back.

  That left one more.

  Bronan was tiring. His whole body was bruised, his shoulder just one more pain underneath the rest, brain slowing and confused, both the weariness and the force of the blow disorienting him.

  “You blackguard,” the fellow snarled. He said other things, too, curses which were too elaborate and foul for Bronan's mind to bother with in the heat of battle. His dagger-arm was all that mattered now. It was tiring.

  He would have died, felled by a swift blow, if it hadn't been for the branch.

  Reaching up, stabbing back, his hand hit against it, which gave him an idea. Gripping it, he heaved up and then out, dropping from horseback to the ground. The motion carried him beneath the blow, which whistled through empty air and spent itself on nothing.

  “Hey!” he whistled to his horse.

  The horse heard him and ran to him and, losing no time, Bronan vaulted up into the saddle and rode away, heading likewise north. To find Amalie.

  ***

  Amalie felt herself start to wheeze, her breath coming in gasps around the agonizing pain in her side. They had ridden too far, too fast. She couldn't breathe and couldn't go much further.

  Stop, all her instincts said. Rest.

  Her mind fed her panic, told her that they couldn't stop, not now. She would rather die riding than risk the guards.

  She shook her head. Drawing a last breath, she shouted. “Stop!”

  Alec stopped. She looked across at him.

  “Go...on,” she whispered. “Go to...toward Stankirk. But turn left, to Northend. There's an abandoned...house. A mile away, only. Close, now.” She leaned forward, panting hard. Why hadn't she remembered that before? She had often wondered who would take the place. She knew about it, having ridden here once or twice to take provisions to the abbey in winter.

  “Mama, no,” Alec said firmly. “I can't leave you.”

  “Go!” she said. “Please, Alec? I need you to be safe. I'll go there too. Just not yet. Too...tired.”