The Highlander On The Run (Iron 0f The Highlands Series Book 1) Page 2

  “I wouldn’t know,” Addie murmured. She looked down at the tops of her shoes, feeling unsophisticated and silly.

  “Well, what would I know?” the seamstress, Mrs. Pritchard, chuckled. “I’m just a sewing woman.”

  “You’re a very skilled one,” Addie commented truly.

  Mrs. Pritchard grinned. “By! You’re a rare one,” she said.

  She shook Addie’s shoulder fondly. Mrs. Pritchard was one of the only friends Addie had made since coming here. Perhaps ten years her senior, she nevertheless had a youthful outlook that made her seem, at times, even younger than Addie herself was. She was not only the castle seamstress, but also assisted with the sick and ailing, due to her skill with herbs. Addie and she had struck up a friendship from her first week there and they still got along extremely well.

  Addie looked to her left, checking to see that nobody would see them standing idle. They were standing at the wall of the knight’s residence, watching the scene in the courtyard from a distance. Lord Baliol was alighting into a big sturdy coach.

  Go well, milord, Addie thought.

  He was the newly appointed King of Scotland. Sometime, soon, he’d have his coronation.

  As she watched the coach trundle out of the archway, she felt her hair prick up on end. Somebody was watching her.

  She turned and saw a shadow in the archway near the knight’s residence. A tall, angular shadow, she had the sense of somebody concealing themselves – the posture was lithe, tense. She tingled with fear. Looking around, she sought her friend, the seamstress. The woman had already gone into the keep.

  Who is that? And why would they watch us, of all people?

  She drew back into the shadow of the wall herself, keeping an eye on the male silhouette.

  As she watched, he stepped forward, into the light. She stared.

  Tall, with broad shoulders, the man had strong legs and arms, and the bearing of a noble, or a knight. The things she noticed first about him, though – besides the stature – were the long red hair and his eyes. Brown and piercing, they missed nothing.

  And they are looking directly at me.

  Gulping, Addie leaned back into the shadow of the wall. Her thoughts were in turmoil. Why would anybody be watching her? She was nobody! A servant in the household of a king.

  She leaned against the wall, the cool, rough-edged stone pressing into her back, and counted to twenty. When she’d reached that number, she peered round the edge of the wall again.

  The man was still there.

  He had turned away from her. She could see he was focused on the happenings in the gateway. The English King was there, waiting while his servants fetched a white destrier for him to ride. She was briefly distracted by the tall man, stepping lithely up into the saddle of the tall horse, but then her attention whisked back to the red-haired stranger, who had vanished.

  Addie blinked. He had been there; she could have sworn! There, below the archway, just down from the courtyard’s fountain. She stared into the deep shadow, but she could detect nothing. Not even the barest vestige of movement, or the outline of a darker silhouette.

  “That was strange.”

  She spoke it aloud into the silence of the courtyard, hoping it would make things seem more concrete, less confused.

  The wind whispered round the turrets, making an eerie keening. Shivering, Addie drew her shawl tight around herself and went back the way she’d come, towards the colonnade.

  Inside the castle, she went straight up to the attic, where the servant’s rooms were.

  “Mrs. Pritchard?” she called, tapping lightly on the woman’s door. With the tension of the ceremony over, surely she would want to have a cup of Mrs. Miller’s herbal brew and chat about it?

  I can imagine it must have been nice for her to see all these new gowns.

  Addie sighed. She had always harbored a desire to study as a seamstress. Her father had insisted that hairdressing would provide more prestigious, stable work – everybody could have clothes, he’d said, but not everybody could afford to have well-dressed hair.

  As it happened, her father had ensured she had trained with a French hairdresser, and she’d been granted this position – literally having the ear of a king! – but it wasn’t what she’d wished. She felt a little envy of Mrs. Pritchard, whenever her friend discussed making new gowns.

  “I still want her company, though.”

  Sighing, she headed down the stairs again, toward the kitchen.

  As she crossed the vast entrance of the castle, she tensed. Somebody was in the courtyard, fighting. She could hear raised angry voices. She pressed herself to the wall by the door and looked out, over to the sparring ground.

  Two men were there – one red-haired, but not the man she’d seen – the other taller and dark-haired. They were arguing, clearly – she could see gestures and postures that showed their anger and frustration. She couldn’t hear the words, though. Worried, she tiptoed out into the colonnade. She had felt the swelling of resentment and hate earlier that afternoon, when Baliol was declared King of Scotland. She had no wish to see any harm come to him.

  Tiptoeing closer, hugging the wall of the colonnade, she headed out into the darkening courtyard.

  A hand clapped across her mouth. She screamed.

  Her voice was muffled. She felt something cold, press to her throat. She fell profoundly silent.

  “If you move,” a Scots voice hissed into her ear, “I’ll have to kill you.”

  Addie nodded.

  “If I let you go,” the man’s voice continued, soft and insistent, in her ear, “then ye have tae promise ye’ll tell nobody about me. Understand?”

  Addie nodded wordlessly. She was sweating, her hands soaked, the cold of it trickling between her shoulder blades. She didn’t want to risk moving, in case her adversary slit her throat. She swallowed, thinking of the smell of blood, imagining what it would feel like to bleed to death the way Mrs. Miller killed poultry.

  “Ye give me your word?” the voice whispered, almost tenderly, in her ear. “Ye’ll no tell ye saw me?”

  Addie nodded again.

  “Promise?”

  She felt anger, surprisingly, replace her fear. She felt the arms that held her tense a fraction, gripping tighter over her breasts. She felt her anger mix with horror and revulsion.

  Let me go!

  Almost as if he had heard her, the grip loosened. The knife lifted from her throat. She whirled round.

  “You…” She stared.

  His red hair swinging as he stepped lightly back, a twisted grin on his thin lips, she looked at the tall stranger. The shadow from the courtyard.

  “We meet, finally,” he said. He made a mock of a bow. “Milady.”

  “You…” she stammered. “You…”

  “Are not here,” he finished, his grin smoothing. “You recall you made a promise? Your life is still forfeit, should you break it. Do not think I will not know.”

  She nodded, though she felt a frown cross her brow. “Why…?”

  “Many reasons,” he said quickly. He still seemed quite unruffled, his voice well-oiled and low, a musical sound. “But mainly as a result of my appearance. Should ye say to anyone ye saw a tall, dark stranger in the courtyard, they would immediately ken me.”

  “But you’re red-haired,” Addie pointed out.

  He favored her with a bland smile. “Very good,” he said. “There’s no tricking ye, is there? You work for him, aye?” His voice hardened. “A traitorous job.”

  “No!” Addie said, surprised by her anger at his misjudgment. “I mean…I do…sort of.”

  “Sort of.” He smiled. It was not friendly.

  “My master gave me into his service, a year ago,” Addie said in a quiet tone. She felt ashamed.

  “Your master?” the man lifted a brow. He was quite handsome, Addie thought, with a firm jaw, well-shaped eyes the red-brown of dark ale, and sculpted cheek bones.

  “Aye,” Addie whispered. Her mind was racing
, trying to understand what was going on. Who was he? She thought this man must be a landowner of sorts – he sounded confused by the very idea of servitude.

  He shook her, none too gently. “Who was your master?” His eyes held hers, as if daring her to lie.

  “John, Baron of Baliol.”

  He stared at her.

  “You mean, you…” he began. He twisted round, as if looking for somebody – then laughed. “Of course!”

  “Of course?” Addie backed away. Either she had said something that had gotten her into deep trouble now or the man was utterly insane. Either way, she wasn’t interested in finding out. Whichever was right, she could easily end up dead. Stepping back again, she inched closer to the shadow of a column.

  “Easy, lass.” A hand grabbed hers. “You’re not getting away from me that easily.”

  “Let me go!” Addie wrenched sideways, but the grip was like iron. She tried to struggle against his grasp, but his arm barely twisted as she shifted her whole weight against him. She felt alarmed. She couldn’t escape. There was no way to get away from him.

  Her heart thudding in her chest, she looked up at his face. He was smiling.

  “What’s your name, lassie?” he asked. His eyes had brightened and he seemed less frightening now.

  She frowned. Should she tell him?

  Her eyes met his, and held his gaze.

  He doesn’t look insane. Or wicked.

  “Addie,” she said softly. “McMurrie, sir.”

  “Well, Addie McMurrie,” he said. His grin this time seemed real. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Should I need to call on you again, I trust I will find you here?”

  He let go of her wrist. She felt the blood start to pulse in it, firm and true. Her heart thumped and her breathing quickened with relief. She hadn’t realized how afraid she was.

  “I’ll be gone when the king departs,” Addie whispered.

  “Oh?” He frowned. “You will?”

  “Aye,” Addie said quietly. “Farewell.”

  She looked round quickly, drew a deep breath, and then disappeared swiftly into the colonnade. Running, she twisted in between the darkened archways, heart loud with terror. She didn’t dare to glance back, to see if she was being pursued. She reached the door. It was barred.

  She hit on the door with her palms, praying that Rendell or whoever was in charge of the door this evening heard and chose to listen.

  “Let me in!” she hissed. “Now!”

  “Who goes there?” a guard demanded, opening the door a fraction. He frowned, face shiny with perspiration in the lamplight.

  With relief, she recognized the face of McMorne, one of the guardsmen, whom she vaguely knew.

  “It’s Addie McMurrie.” She said. “Let me in!”

  “Addie?” McMorne’s blue, prominent eyes stretched. “What are ye doing’ out here at this time? Get yourself in!”

  He opened the door fractionally and she slid inside, then leaned against it, heart heaving and hammering in her chest. She had heard no sounds of pursuit from the courtyard, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Addie?” McMorne said again, sounding concerned. “What is it? What did ye see out there? A beast? An interloper?”

  Addie swallowed hard, shaking her head. Could she tell him what she’d seen? After she’d promised?

  Promise, the man’s warm, dangerous voice said. Promise you’ll not tell.

  “I saw nothing, McMorne,” she said softly. “Nothing.”

  She opened her eyes to find those egg-shell blue ones staring into hers. “Addie?” her friend asked. “Are ye well?”

  Addie nodded. “I’m fine, McMorne,” she said softly. “Just weary. I need sleep.”

  He stared at her, clearly thinking she was touched in the wits. Before he could question her any more, she tiptoed up the hallway, heading to the stairs. She climbed up the two long flights of spiral stairs in the northern turret, where the servants stayed.

  In her room, she sat down on the bed heavily and leaned against the wall, eyes closed.

  “I don’t know what to do, or who that was,” she whispered.

  All she knew was that she would not tell.

  Not yet.

  There was something about the frightening, handsome intruder that she’d come to trust.

  She was not going to break her promise.

  A DARK NIGHT

  Alexander drew the thick wool cloak about his shoulders and leaned against the wall. It was autumn, and even this far to the south, the weather was horrible. He bit his lip and tried not to shiver. He could almost wish he’d waited in the castle courtyard, where he’d been watching.

  “Where are these scalawags…?”

  He tried not to feel impatient as he waited. The scalawags were his own men, and – much as they were used to his temper by now – it would do better not to lose it just yet. He needed their support. There were, after all, only three of them on this mission.

  “And when I pick some men, who do I have to pick? McNeil and Brogan. Grand.”

  He felt his thin lips lift in a wry smile. Of all his men, those two were the best. Whether or not that was a reflection on them, his men or his judgment, he still couldn’t fathom. In any case, he was stuck with them now – and he was getting cold, waiting for them to show up.

  At length, the darkness of the woods was broken by a thin note of birdsong.

  “Blackbirds in the middle of the night, eh? I’ll have to have a word with Brogan.”

  Stalwart and trustworthy perhaps, Brogan had the sense of a gnat sometimes. If any soldiers heard a blackbird whistling away in total darkness, they’d be likely to come and investigate. Blackbirds only called like that at dawn. Only a human spy would whistle like that now.

  “Milord?” Brogan’s voice whispered. He was blundering about, down the slope. It seemed as if he hadn’t yet seen Alexander.

  Alexander stood still by the wall, wondering if he could blend in with the shadows a bit longer; just for long enough to ambush Brogan. He grinned, remembering the afternoon and the serving woman he’d ambushed.

  He had seen something in her eyes that had surprised him. Most women in her position would have been terrified. Some of them would have turned that terror into fawning, others would have been simply afraid. In those level green eyes, he’d seen neither.

  She looked at me like she felt herself my equal.

  He felt a brow raise, not sure how to take that. Maybe he should have been insulted – he was Baron Raeburne – but oddly, he wasn’t. He felt happy.

  It had been too long since he looked an equal in the face.

  He also had to admit, it hadn’t just been her eyes he’d noticed – the rest of her was the sweetest morsel he’d seen in a while.

  “Sir!” Brogan appeared, eyes wide with shock. “There you are!”

  “If I was a soldier, you’d be dead,” Alexander said grimly. His sweet recollections dashed, he turned away, then tensed.

  “If you were a soldier, so would you,” McNeil said from behind him.

  Alexander raised a brow, grinning. “You almost had me there, McNeil,” he said.

  “Almost…?”

  In answer, Alexander sheathed the dirk he’d held, its point level with McNeil’s stomach. He was glad of the instinct that had made him turn around. He had the satisfaction of seeing his lieutenant pale.

  “Sir! You…” McNeil gasped, opening and shutting his mouth. He looked quite shocked.

  “What did you find?” Alexander asked, turning to Brogan.

  His trusted sergeant swallowed hard. “Sir…we saw horses. In the woods. Baliol’s guard. They’re traveling half an hour behind.”

  “Ah,” Alexander nodded, his hand gripping the handle of his dagger thoughtfully. He was pleased with that news – it meant his men had been most diligent.

  “No good attacking from behind,” he said, jerking his chin up. “Bastards would surround us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The three
of them stood in silence. The wind whistled through the surrounding trees, an eerie sound. The wall behind them was icily cold, and Alexander felt his fingers twitch at his cloak.

  I wish Mrs. Knott had patched the thing better.

  Mrs. Knott was the housekeeper at Raeburne House, his manse. He kept only three staff members there – Mrs. Knott, the steward and the cook. He needed nobody else, after all – it was just him, the rest of the manse abandoned and empty.

  I’ll not take a wife.

  He sighed. It was too hard on a lass to wait at home while he crept about the countryside, spying and watching. He would not take a wife, he reckoned – not before the matter was settled, at any rate. The matter seemed far from settled.

  “They must have paid the king to name that name.”

  Alexander bit his lip. Privately, he thought the same. He had no love for Baliol, thinking him unsuited to kingship. He burned to see Bruce on the throne.

  Which was what he and his men were doing here, huddled under oak trees under a dark autumnal night which threatened rain, plotting.

  “When do you think we can strike, sir?” Brogan asked.

  Alexander favored him with a look. In daylight, it would have spoken volumes. In the dark, it lost some of its potency. He coughed.

  “When we’re tracking a coach with four horses, surrounded by the king’s own soldiers, with a rear-guard a half hour behind and Heaven alone knows what reinforcements, when do you think we should attack?”

  Brogan rolled his eyes. “I suppose we ought not to, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  Brogan looked offended, and Alexander regretted his sarcastic response.

  “Look, lads,” he said, glancing about the rain scented clearing. “Since we’re not going to attack – not until the coach reaches Scone, at any rate – we might as well stay here awhile.”

  “Here?” Brogan said.

  “Awhile?” McNeil asked.

  Alexander grinned tautly. “You certainly know how to ask questions.”

  Brogan went red, McNeil giggled unsteadily.

  “I think we should stay in the castle,” he said. “If anybody knows anything about Baliol’s habits and weaknesses, it’ll be these folks,” he added. “Most of them, I heard, are from his household.”