The Firebrand (8 page)

She and a company of trusted friends and warriors had just left the ancient tower on St. Mary’s Loch, west of Jedburgh. The attack had come out of nowhere, and as the skies rained warriors, Nichola had been snatched from her horse and carried off. Blindfolded and bound, she had heard the sounds of battle being fought in her wake. But they had her now. Whoever they were.

She didn’t know how long they’d traveled. Passed from hand to hand, she guessed it was days, but she couldn’t be certain. Faint from exhaustion and hunger, the time just blurred into a gray-black haze. She had no idea where they had taken her. North, south, east...she couldn’t tell.

Even once she had been deposited in the dark hole of some castle, she had not been told anything. In the entire month she had spent as their prisoner, she’d been moved three times. Always the same way. Each time with great secrecy. Each time blindfolded by nameless and faceless men and whisked away in the middle of the night to another windowless hole in some ancient keep.

No one would talk to her, and not knowing why these men were treating her this way was about to drive her mad.

Death held no terror for Nichola Percy. After her husband’s murder in the Tower of London, Nichola had been more than prepared for her own fate. Her daughters were safely scattered across the Highlands. Catherine already wed, and Laura and Adrianne hopefully wed soon.

Marriage. She wondered what her daughters’ marriages would be like. As good as her own had been? Indeed, there were nights when the ache inside of her for her loving Edmund struck her so sharply that she would have welcomed death.

If the English king wanted her, she would stay where he could find her. She would not venture too far north into her native land. All she had to do was remain alive and free until the good news from Laura and Adrianne reached her, as well. Until she knew that her plans of their future had borne fruit. Then she would follow willingly after her dearest love.

But there was nothing about these people that told her she had fallen into the hands of Henry Tudor. There had been no attempt on her life. After the initial journey, there had been no real hardship imposed upon her...with the exception of the silence. Her imprisonment seemed so different from Edmund’s swift and brutal end.

But then, if these men were not in the English king’s service, then who were they?

No interrogation, no questions of any kind. In the back of her brain, the thought kept nagging at her that perhaps her capture and imprisonment had nothing to do either with Henry’s hatred of the Percys or with the whereabouts of the maps.

But if she was being held against her will for some other reason, then none of this made any sense.

A heavy door squeaked on old hinges somewhere beneath where she lay. Last night, Nichola had come through that door herself before climbing the twenty-seven steps to a landing and her chamber. After the iron-banded door had shut behind her, she’d simply been left alone to remove the blindfold herself.

Quietly, she sat up and placed her feet on the oak floor. She could feel air pushing up through the old timbers. Nichola stared at the door, desperately hoping for someone to come through it. Anyone, she thought.

After a few endless moments, a bar lifted on the far side, and Nichola stood as it opened just enough for an old woman to enter. The heavy oak door swung shut behind her.

A dark cloth served as a covering to the woman’s head. What might be visible of her face, Nichola could not see because of the pronounced bend on the woman’s back. She disregarded the tray that was placed on the single table by the wall. Instead, she focused on the frail old creature as she made her way around the room, checking the chamber pot, stacking some peat in the small brazier that burned smokily in the corner, though it did little to take the edge off the winter chill. The ancient woman never looked up at her once.

“Good morning to you, mistress,” Nichola offered.

There was no response. But then again, there had been no response to anything she’d said or demanded in the last two places that she’d been kept.

She crossed over to the table and poured some of the water from a pitcher into a bowl. She glanced again at the woman’s back. The difference this time over the last two keepers was that
a woman
had been sent in to see to these basic needs. Nichola considered that a positive sign.

“Is it still raining outside?” The ride had been wet the previous day. Her own horse had slipped a number of times as her captors had led her to this keep.

Again, the old woman gave no sign of answering. No movement of the head. No straightening of the back. Not even a glance of curiosity.

Nichola dipped her hands into the icy water and raised them to her face. The cold against her skin felt good, and she glanced again at the woman as she turned to the door.

“Can you stay? Just for a few moments to keep me company while I eat?”

No acknowledgment. Only a heavy shuffling toward the door.

Nichola watched as the spotted, blue-veined hand rose and rapped on the heavy oak. A frown pulled at the prisoner’s mouth as the iron banded door opened again only enough for the visitor to slide through and disappear. In a few moments, Nichola heard the heavy door at the bottom of the stairwell open and close.

“Who are you people?” She found her temper rising and made no attempt to check it. “What do you want from me?”

Wyntoun stared at the gray line of Ardnamurchan’s coast rising above the mists. On a clear day, the worn crags of Bienn na Seilg would be visible from here, but the day had been anything but clear and darkness was closing in fast. He turned his attention up at the sailors scurrying through the rigging. In a couple of hours’ time they’d be running into the smoother waters of the Sound of Mull. And assuming Argyll’s men at Mingary Castle didn’t take a fancy to sending a few cannon balls their way as the carrack passed, he’d be dropping anchor in Duart Bay before dawn, if the breezes held.

In front of him, Alan shouted orders upward at the men in the rigging before walking aft to where Wyn stood at the stern rail. The shipmaster took note of the wind to the south, eyed the coastline, and nodded—his unsmiling face giving no indication of satisfaction. Wyntoun knew from experience, though, that Alan would take his ship home without mishap.

As the two men stood in comfortable silence, Coll, one of Wyntoun’s oldest and ablest sailors, came up from below and mounted the short ladder to the aft deck.

“Any change?”

Coll shook his head, his blue eyes as clear as the day he’d gone to sea as a lad. “The drink ye gave must have been a strong one, master. The lassie ne’er stirred a finger the whole watch.”

“And the lad?”

“Nary a blink from that one.” The sailor pulled off his tam and scratched the bald spot on top of his head. “He’s still huddled at the foot of the bed, guarding the lassie. He’s got spunk, the lad does.”

“But he doesn’t seem to have brought us much bad luck in the crossing, would you say?”

Coll’s face turned a shade of red as he shook his head at his master. “Nay...but ye know I do not put much faith in such rubbish, master. I did hear the men saying that we had no trouble because ye locked the lad up in yer cabin...there was no way he could spread his bad luck from down there.”

“I say we spread the word that the ducking Gillie got in that cold water yesterday must have washed off all of the lad’s bad luck.” Wyntoun’s comment brought a chuckle from Coll and a nod from Alan. “The lad will be staying at Duart Castle for a while—at least until we have another ship going back to Barra. And the last thing I want is for our men to be bringing any rubbish ashore about the lad.”

“Aye, master, I can spread the word. I’ve found, though, from place to place folks think much the same about lads like him...without much encouraging.”

“Then we’ll just have to look after him.”

Wyntoun turned his back on the sailor and frowned at the solid gray mass of sea and sky to the west. What Coll said was true. From the time that Wyntoun had found the infant years back, such ignorance must have been dogging the lad. He’d only seen him a handful of times while stopping at Barra, but never—during any of those visits—had he realized the depth of the hostility those islanders held against Gillie. These sailors were rough men, hardened by a life of battling both the sea and other men. It had been little more than a diversion dropping the lad overboard into the icy waters, but Wyntoun still seethed, thinking that the boy could have drowned because of such foolishness.

“Should we try to wake the mistress, master...before arriving at Duart Castle?”

“Let her be for now.” The ship shuddered as a strong gust swept in from the west. In a moment a blast of stinging rain struck the men. “The closer we get to the castle, the less problem we’ll have dealing with her.”

A wry glint showed in Alan’s eye. “Wyn, I never knew you to cower before a challenge, no matter how unpleasant the possible outcome.”

“The woman is
not
a challenge,” the Highlander growled. “Just a nuisance.”

As he moved away from the two, it occurred to him that he’d do well to remind himself of that point time and again. Adrianne Percy was nothing more than a nuisance.

He’d forced himself to keep his distance since yesterday, when she’d finally fallen asleep in his arms in the cabin. He’d had to. Seeing her so wretchedly seasick and then holding her as she so willingly melted against him as the drink had taken effect had been torture. He’d felt it then. He felt it now. Something had happened as he’d sat there with her beautiful face pressed against his pounding heart, with those magical blue eyes looking up at him so trustingly before slowly closing.

The vision was still too alive in his memory. Far too alive.

His manhood hardened as he thought of her body, so perfect as he had stripped off her wet clothes and worked her limp arms into a wool shirt of his own. Wyntoun was almost glad that Gillie the Protector had been sitting in the corner of the cabin, eyes riveted to the floor, as he’d tucked her into his bed. Almost glad.

Wyntoun filled his lungs with the cold salty air and let the rain beat at his face. He stared at the surging gray-green waves and tried not to think of the smooth ivory skin of her shoulders; the firm, orb-shaped breasts; the rosy nipples, puckered into hard, tight points in the cold air of the cabin. He exhaled sharply, puffing his cheeks. He needed to try harder not to think of such things, he told himself.

Adrianne Percy was far more of a handful than he’d thought she would be. Somehow, in spite of what he’d heard, he’d thought she would be more like her sister Laura. In reality, though, they couldn’t be more different. As he’d mapped out his scheme, Wyntoun realized now, he’d clearly miscalculated when it came to the youngest Percy.

He frowned into the biting wind. But it wasn’t Adrianne’s willfulness that was going to cause him trouble. It was his own irrational attraction to her.

“Distance, by the devil,” he swore under his breath. “Bloody distance.”

***

The ship seemed to have stopped its insane rolling and pitching...and so had her stomach. Adrianne slowly pried open her eyes.

There was no spinning of the chamber, no undulating walls, only the sound of sea birds and the lapping of water somewhere. Gillie’s worried face came into view above her, and Adrianne smiled.

“Mistress,” the lad gasped with relief, touching her hand. “You’re finally awake. The master did say that you’d be sleeping for a wee while longer, but I’ve never seen anyone who could sleep so long.”

“How long, Gillie?”

“A night, a day, and a whole night again, mistress.” The boy’s face brightened. “And you look very well this morning. Not green the way you were when I was fetched out of the water and brought in here by the master.”

“You look very well, too, Gillie. All dried out?”

The boy suddenly flushed. Scurrying away, the lad popped back a moment later with his wool tam, as usual, covering much of the scarred half of his face.

“You don’t have to wear that around me, Gillie.”

“I do, mistress. I always have to.”

Adrianne shook her head in disagreement. “I think you are the most handsome of lads--just as you are.”

Gillie’s visible cheek turned a darker shade of red as he scrambled to his feet. Crossing the ship’s cabin, he poured her a cup of water from a pitcher.

Her mouth was dry as dust...and tasted about as badly. She smiled at him appreciatively as she raised herself on her elbows. It was then that she noticed the change in her apparel.

Gone was her wet dress of two days ago. Her torn blouse. She was now wearing only a man’s shirt. A rather large man’s shirt. She peered quickly under the blankets and stared with dismay at her bare legs.

“You would have caught your death, for sure, if he’d not got you out of those wet clothes.”

Adrianne did her best to keep the note of panic out of her voice.

“He?” she managed to croak.

“Aye. The master...Sir Wyntoun.” The boy crouched beside the bed, his spindly legs hidden beneath his ragged kilt of red, black, and green plaid. “I was right here, though, mistress. The master did nothing...well, you know...he was right quick about it.”

She pushed a shock of hair out of her face and spotted her clothes spread on the single chair by the worktable. A strange heat prickled in her belly, working its way outward, and she gnawed at her lip. Well, she couldn’t change what was past.

“You must be thirsty, mistress.” Gillie held the cup out to her.

Adrianne forced herself to focus on the boy, and reached for the cup. “This will not make me sleep more, will it?”

“Nay!” he replied, watching her drink. “Auld Coll said you’ve had enough sleeping to last you a fortnight.”

“And who is Auld Coll?”

“He is one of the sailors, mistress. The one who found me hiding in a barrel.”

“And one of the men who threw you overboard?” She sat up in the small bunk and gathered the blankets tightly around her bare legs.

“Nay, not him.” Gillie shook his head. “He says he has been sailing the seas too long to be believing in fairy nonsense. He says luck is one thing, and curses is another. He had nothing to do with them when they tied me to a line and threw me to the fish. In fact, Auld Coll was a help to the master when he pulled me out.”