A Highlander’s Terror_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story Read online

  It was the seal of her enemies. However, lately it had been held by Rufus, as he frowned at the emblem, his face angry and confused. She recalled each inch of him and felt her heart melt with warmth.

  As long as she had the brooch, she was close to Rufus. She closed her fist round the warming silver and held it tight.

  Then she slid it back into her pocket, sat up and went to the dressing table.

  She sat down on the embroidery covered seat, opened a drawer and found what she had hoped would be there – the silver comb that she had left there for her use here, a place she visited at least once a year, mayhap more. As she drew the comb through her hair she studied her reflection.

  She looked tired. Her face was pale and her eyes even bigger than usual. Her cheeks seemed to have sunk a little on the journey, probably a result of the cold and lack of food. With her hair brushed out smoothly, though, the wildness in her face abated slightly. She looked less desperate, calmer. More in control.

  “There.”

  Then she had to dress. The clothing box held a pair of gowns. One was a brocade so old she doubted it would fit, the second a bright blue velvet she had left here a few years before. She took it out and went to the door.

  “Hello?”

  A brief foray up the hallway produced Merry, the older woman who had worked as her and her mother's maid whenever they visited. Merry was the name she had called her when she was a little girl. She had long since ceased to think of her as any other.

  “My lady!” the older woman said kindly. “A rare surprise! Come! Let me fasten that dress. And do your hair properly! With a fillet, keeping it off your face. You have such pretty hair. We can't let it all hang about loosely like that...”

  As the woman fussed and Amabel felt herself chafing under her careful ministration, she glanced sideways out of the window. There, she saw something that made her stare in interest.

  That's Prolegnac.

  The tall, darkly robed man was in the courtyard, talking with another man. The two men who stood with them were, like them both, wearing dark robes. She frowned. They were talking in earnest. She saw Prolegnac hand something to the foremost man, who concealed it in a leather satchel. Then the group was hurrying away, raising a hand and heading out to the traders' gate. She frowned.

  In itself, there was nothing strange to see in that. Perhaps Prolegnac was a friar, as his robe suggested. The other men could be members of whatever order it was that he belonged to. They might be receiving some manuscripts from him, something they could not obtain in their own country. Or messages from one bishop to another. It was a regular occurrence.

  I would think nothing of it, except that his manner is so odd.

  She thought back to how Prolegnac had looked around. He'd walked back checking left and right, somehow furtive.

  I don't trust him.

  She shivered.

  “There now,” the maid was saying fondly. “All done. My! You look lovely.”

  Amabel blinked. The mirror showed her a face with high cheekbones and wide lips, the features heightened by the fact that her hair was drawn back, bound off her brow with a thread of silver filigree. The bright blue of her eyes was enhanced by the powder blue velvet of the gown. She looked striking.

  I wish I was sitting down for dinner in other company than this.

  She wished she was still with Rufus in the forest. Wearing wool and a makeshift cape, her hair loose and ragged, she had been happier than dressed in velvet in a castle, sitting in the great hall.

  I hope Rufus is safe.

  She swallowed and stood, turning to the older woman who smiled up at her fondly.

  “Thank you, Merry,” she said.

  “Oh, mistress, 'tis so lovely to see you here again. I thought when I saw the master that he'd come alone. I'm glad that isn't so.”

  “No,” Amabel nodded. She frowned. She considered asking the woman if she'd heard anything – if she knew why her father had hurried off so suddenly, perhaps. However, she decided against it. She would not want her to have the faintest possibility of trouble with Prolegnac.

  And he is a dangerous man.

  She didn't know why she thought that, but she did.

  Shuddering, she headed to the solar.

  “Thank you,” she said to a footman, who appeared and, bowing, showed her to her seat. She walked over briskly, frowning that the place was empty still. Then she stared in surprise as Prolegnac stood up from the darkness by the corner, where he'd been sitting, reading a scroll.

  “My lady,” he said softly. “It's enchanting to see you.”

  Amabel frowned. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “Where is my grandfather?”

  “He's coming,” he said. “Though I think he may be in some haste.”

  “Haste,” Amabel echoed flatly. She fixed him with a look. “What haste?”

  He smiled. “Sorry, my lady,” he said smoothly. “But it seems your grandfather is called away on urgent business.”

  “Urgent business.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I am sorry. It is such a pity that your reunion with him be so protracted. But it is urgent, and you would not wish to hold him from it, I'm sure.”

  “Is it the same business that called my father away?” she asked boldly.

  He smiled. It was a different smile, however. One that did not reach his eyes.

  “Ah,” he said. “It seems you are a lady that jumps to conclusions. Perhaps you are too hasty. No, it is different business. It is for him to say, though.” he demurred.

  “Yes,” Amabel said coldly. “It is. Now, shall we sit?” she asked, drawing back her own chair and sitting down testily. “Grandfather doesn't stand on ceremony. I have known him long enough to know.”

  He smiled thinly. “You have his temper,” he said with some warmth. “I hope it will not prove to be dangerous, as he suggested.”

  Amabel looked into those cool blue eyes. She stared. Her heart thumped. Was that a threat?

  “I do not believe my temper has caused me danger in the past,” she said, heart pounding as she spread a linen square on her knee and reached for a pitcher of heated ale. “I think it is the interference of others that endangers me, not it of itself.”

  He laughed again, a low chuckle. “Oh, dangers are everywhere, milady.”

  Amabel looked into his eyes. The look her gaze met was one of unmasked hostility. She stared back. Set down the goblet. He looked down and she heard footsteps in the stone-floored hall behind.

  “Ah! Granddaughter,” she heard her grandfather's familiar voice call out. “You made it down before me. Welcome.” He clapped his hands. “Well, men! Let's get dinner up. My granddaughter shall starve before we feed her, at this rate. Now, then. Let's begin.”

  He took his seat at the head of the table, on her left, and smiled warmly at them both, clasping his hands under his chin. He seemed to sense the tension, for she saw him look left and right, from one to the other of them and then back to her.

  “Does anyone have any objections to a toast?” he asked.

  “Please, make one,” Amabel said tonelessly.

  “To your father, the future duke, and to our enterprise.”

  “My father and enterprise.” Amabel echoed. She frowned. Presumably whatever “enterprise,” it was the reason for the envoy's presence. What was happening?

  “I am informed you will be leaving us soon,” she asked bluntly.

  “What, ah, oh yes.” He grandfather nodded. “I must head to the coast. I am sorry, granddaughter,” he said and he looked genuinely apologetic, making Amabel reach a hand across to him.

  “It is no matter, grandfather,” she said fondly. “I'll be back soon.”

  “I know, I know,” he sighed. “But I'm not as young as all that and I count the years and wonder if I shall be graced with enough to see you grow into a young lady here at Buccleigh.”

  “You'll be around for ages yet,” she said fondly. “In fact, you'll be around for so long that Father will start chaf
ing that he'll never see any inheritance.”

  Her grandfather laughed loudly, but when she mentioned the “inheritance,” she was surprised to see a flicker of tension cross the envoy's face.

  I wonder what you are really doing here?

  She frowned. “You mentioned an enterprise, Grandfather?”

  “I think it would be mannerly to let your grandfather eat his dinner undisturbed,” the envoy said smoothly.

  Amabel's head whipped up. She glared at him. On her left her grandfather's chuckle broke the tension.

  “I know it's unconventional, sir,” he said to the envoy, “but I keep no secrets from my grand-daughter. After all, she is an heiress too. She should know aught of the place. Amabel,” he said gently. “I have been in negotiation with this fellow here,” he waved a hand at Sir Jacques, who bridled at the gesture, making Amabel smile humorlessly. “And he tells me that there is great wealth to be had in exports. Particularly in the import of claret, for the export of brandy. Now, as you know, I've long encouraged distillation here. I was thinking of setting up a trade with a man in France. Our good friend across the table there is setting it up for me,” he said, grinning at Amabel. He was clearly aware of the tension and on her side. She smiled thankfully and patted his hand.

  “Thank you for telling me, Grandfather,” she said fondly. “That sounds fascinating. Now,” she added, turning to the gentleman, “I am safe to assume that grandfather's absence is connected to his trading enterprise. Therefore, I shall not worry. Not so, Grandfather.”

  “Oh, you fuss overmuch about an old scarecrow, granddaughter,” he said fondly. “I'm weather-hardened and battle-marred and it'll take a pack of wild beasts to knock the life out of me.”

  “I know,” she said fondly. “But I still worry.” She added, with a level gaze across the table.

  “Charming,” the Frenchman said flatly. “Such daughterly affection is a joy to behold.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said sweetly.

  Her grandfather, completely oblivious to the underlying exchange, clapped his hands. “Ah! Here comes the first course. I trust everyone here is partial to fish?”

  “Indeed, grandfather,” Amabel smiled, breathing in the savory scent into a hungry frame.

  “Ah. Perfect. I do love a good dinner.”

  They ate in silence. Amabel felt her heart pounding. She was afraid. Whatever the envoy thought of her, he clearly meant her harm.

  Why had her father left so suddenly? She still had no answer to that question. Why was the man so reluctant for her to know where her grandfather was going? What was going on?

  Dinner was a lengthy time and, for the entire duration of it, Amabel found herself twitching. She had to get out of here.

  By the time the apples, stewed in spiced syrup and strewn with crocquante, were circulating around the dinner table, she was almost half crazed with tension.

  She finished the dessert in silence, licking the spoon – it was one of her favorites, despite the tension – and stood.

  “Thank you for the excellent dinner,” she said politely to her grandfather. “But if you will excuse me, Grandfather? I am most weary.”

  “Oh, of course, of course,” he said, waving a friendly hand in her direction. “Please! Take a rest. I'll to the courtyard myself, as you mention it. I must pack for my journey tomorrow. We leave at first light. First light.”

  Amabel smiled at him and nodded. “Excuse me, Grandfather.”

  She was walking quickly up the hallway to the stairs when she heard steps behind her. She turned around.

  “Hello?”

  Sir Jacques appeared at her side. He took her wrists in his hands and, to her horror, drew her toward him. His face was tight and pale with distaste and rage.

  “Sir!” she shouted in alarm. “You will let me go.”

  She wrenched to the side but his grip was unchanging.

  “You will be silent,” he hissed. “Your grandfather allows you too many liberties. No wonder your father despairs of making you a suitable heiress. No. You will not ask questions. You will do as you are bidden,” he hissed as Amabel tried to wrench away. “You will stay here when your grandfather departs tomorrow. And you will smile and wed Lord Callum. Making him the heir of Buccleigh.”

  “No!” Amabel shouted.

  She stiffened as he released her wrist and raised his fist. He wouldn't strike her, would he? She flinched, remembering the white-hot, agonizing blow the vagabond had dealt her those days previously.

  “You will do as you are bidden,” the man said, and wrenched her sideways.

  “Where are you taking me?” Amabel yelled aloud.

  “If you cannot be trusted, and I see that you cannot – you see too much – you will be locked in your chamber. Who on earth even let you get here? I have no idea.”

  “No!” Amabel shouted. She tried to wrench her wrist from his grasp, but it was too firm.

  Shouting, kicking and protesting, she was dragged up the hallway at some speed, toward her chamber. She found herself locked in from the outside, the key turned. She felt her heart sink into despair as she heard his feet head up the hallway, the steps slowly fading away.

  How was she going to stop this from happening? Something was very wrong and she knew that now. How could she stop it, though?

  She didn't know.

  With fear and tension exhausting her, she rolled up on her bed and cried.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TO THE RESCUE

  TO THE RESCUE

  Rufus looked out of the window of the small inn at Buccleigh village onto the lengthening evening. He shifted in his chair, feeling restless and uncomfortable. He guessed it to be close to six o' clock. Where was she? What was happening?

  Rufus, stop it. She's just met up with her grandfather. Of course she'll stay the night. It's only natural.

  He knew how stupid he was being. There was no reason on earth why Amabel would contact him before tomorrow. If then. All the same, he could not help worrying. Why had she not sent word?

  She's not obliged to tell you her plans, Rufus. Let the lass do as she must.

  “Evening, sir,” a voice said at his elbow. Brogan.

  “Oh. Hello, Brogan.” Rufus sighed, distracted.

  Brogan pulled out a seat and sat down opposite him. “Suppertime, sir?”

  “Oh. Yes. I suppose so.” Brogan grinned, desultorily. He was sitting here with a bowl of broth and a loaf of bread and he'd completely forgotten what he was doing here. His mind was with Amabel, fretting.

  “Mind if I join you?” Brogan asked, reaching eagerly for a slice of the bread. Rufus chuckled.

  “Of course not, Brogan. By all means.”

  Brogan tore off a chunk of bread and chewed it appreciatively. He looked up at Rufus with a small frown.

  “What is it, sir?”

  Rufus shrugged. “I wish I knew, Brogan. Something's not right.”

  “You mean, this business with the outlaws, sir?”

  “That,” Rufus nodded, helping himself to another piece of the loaf, “and this business with the duke.”

  “Duke?” Brogan's brows shot up with interest. Rufus had forgotten he likely knew nothing about it. He sighed.

  “Not important, Brogan. Not really. I just wish I knew where she was.”

  “Lady Amabel, sir?”

  “Mm.” Brogan put his elbow on the table and leaned his chin on it thoughtfully. He wished he could stop worrying about Amabel, but he couldn't. He told himself it was selfish – of course he was thinking about her, and probably not innocently, either. However, he knew it was more than that.

  Something doesn't feel right.

  “Sir, we could go and have a look round by ourselves,” Brogan suggested, eyes shining.

  “You mean, go to Bronleigh and make investigations?”

  “Exactly.” Brogan swallowed hard, nodding with emphasis. “We should have a look round. Find out what's going on. Something is, that's for certain. We should find out what.”


  Rufus raised a brow, thoughtfully. The idea was very appealing, he couldn't deny it. He needed to find out what was happening and this was the ideal way to do it. It was chafing at him, sitting still and waiting. He needed action.

  “That's a good idea, Brogan,” he replied. “We should go and have a look around.”

  “Let's go just before nightfall, sir,” Brogan proposed. He looked out of the window, indicating the slowly falling dusk.

  “Yes.” Rufus nodded slowly. “I wouldn't give much for our chances of finding things out after nightfall. I don't think the sentries at Bronleigh castle take kindly to people wandering in and out with questions for them.”

  Brogan chuckled. “Quite so, sir.”

  They finished dinner in silence and headed out into the night.

  On the street, his heavy cloak slung about him, Rufus felt immediately that something was afoot. The townsfolk themselves were perfectly ordinary. However, the soldiers from the castle seemed alert. Why were so many of them out? He jumped aside for a cavalcade coming through the gate, one man in the center, four men-at-arms flanking him.

  “Make way for the duke of Buccleigh.”

  Rufus blinked. He and Brogan had just managed to move out of the way in time as the tight knit group of men raced off down the hill toward the town gate.

  “What's their hurry?” Brogan asked with some affront.

  “No idea,” Rufus said slowly.

  The group was all but invisible now, lost among the people and houses that pressed in on the street. That was odd. Rufus frowned. If the duke was leaving his home, why had Amabel not returned to them..? What was going on?

  “What, sir?”

  “I don't really know,” Rufus commented slowly. “But it seems strange to me. Why is the duke leaving now?

  Brogan shrugged. Then his face brightened as he inclined his head forward, indicating a stone building at the end of the road. “We can go in and ask the guards...look!”

  He pointed ahead to a building that looked like a barn. Rufus could just see men moving about inside through the half-open door.