The Highlander's Accidental Bride (22 page)

Mary sat on the bed, her back propped against the wall. She tried to remain focused on the piece of embroidery she held to keep from stabbing herself with the delicate needle.

“I’m so nervous, I’m afraid I’ll stitch this to my skirt on accident,” she admitted with a brittle laugh, her voice shaky and low.

Miriam looked up from her own embroidery hoop and frowned. “Don’t lay it across your knees, or you really will,” she chided.

“The dragon looks like an embarrassed chicken, anyway.” Mary flung the fabric to the bed beside her and sighed in frustration.

Gaining her feet, Miriam crossed to the bed and peered at Mary’s work. She laughed, “Poor thing! With such a short neck and stumpy wings, he does look rather like a chicken. Though I’ve never seen a silvery-blue one before.”

Mary glowered at her friend. “Are you sure we sent the right letter? I do not want Eaden here. I fear bloodshed should he come after me. Especially since your father thinks I possess something of great value.”

Miriam fisted her hands on her hips and sighed. “For the last time, Mary, we sent off the correct letter. You held the false one in your hand as you watched me walk out the door with the other. Don’t worry. Yours is doubtless in ashes in my father’s fireplace, and mine is safely on its way to Scott Castle.”

She touched Mary’s shoulder in sympathy. “I know how you must feel. I left Bennett at Melville Manor of my own accord. He’ll finish the hunt in a few more days and return to me. Even though I miss him terribly, I cannot imagine not knowing when I would see him or my home again.”

Mary patted Miriam’s hand. “Thank you. I fear things between us are so fragile they may completely fall apart if I do not get home soon.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve already given your letter to the stable lad who carried my last missive to Bennett. He is very trustworthy. It should arrive at Scott Castle within the next few days.” Miriam looked at Mary’s stricken face and tilted her head in sympathy. “Mayhap sooner.”

Laird Barde leaned over his desk and spread out the letter Gilbert had brought to him. He read the missive again, absently noting the elegant handwriting.

Eaden, my love, Laird Barde is holding me at Bellecourt. He says I have something belonging to King Robert, but I cannot imagine what it could be. He says he will not release me until he discovers what it is. I am at his mercy.

Please come quickly! He frightens me so!

Mary

Lifting his gaze, Laird Barde nodded to the folded parchment in Gilbert’s hand. “That is the other one?”

Gilbert held out the letter. “Yes. The stable lad seemed most anxious to bring it to my attention.”

Laird Barde took the missive from Gilbert’s hand. Unfolding it, he laid it next to the other. “After his last ‘mistake’ helping my daughter, I can hardly see otherwise. The lad learns fast.” He furrowed his brow and turned his attention to the second letter.

Eaden, I promised Ranald I would send word. I will return soon, but beg your indulgence a little longer. I am well and Miriam is here with me. Her husband is away on a hunt, so she and I are able to spend time together.

Do not worry about me. I will write again soon.

Mary

Laird Barde glanced up. “Ye read both of these?”

“Aye.”

Straightening from his position at the desk, Laird Barde slowly paced the room, fingering his jaw thoughtfully. “Laird Scott has been summoned to King Robert’s court where he was to present his wife. In that, he was stymied, as she is here. If the girl has something the king wants, she did not bring it to Bellecourt with her. She came here in rags and wore nothing beneath.” He waved a hand in the air, brushing aside the tantalizing memory. It could wait.

“Holding her ransom would be a slap in the face to Eaden Scott.” Laird Barde shrugged, not necessarily disliking the idea. “If I send the intended letter, he might linger at Scott Castle and I would have time to question Mary further. If I send the other, he will almost certainly ride on Bellecourt.”

Laird Barde pivoted on his heel, his cloak swirling about his boots, and raised his gaze to Gilbert who answered with a grin of comprehension.

“Send the first letter, m’laird.”

A lone rider appeared on the horizon, traveling fast, and Eaden reined Duff to a stop, signaling his men to halt. Unconcerned with a single rider headed their way, the men sat at their ease, sipping from water skins and nibbling on oatcakes left from their meager breakfast.

As the rider approached, Eaden recognized young Alan, a braw lad who trained under Ian. Rather than relieved, Eaden’s unease sharpened. Within minutes Alan reined his sweating horse to a stop next to Duff.

“Laird,” he said, bobbing his head. Eaden nodded curtly and opened his mouth to question the lad, but shut his jaw with a snap as Alan pulled a folded piece of parchment from his sporran and handed it over.

Eaden stared at the seals on the letter. One, stamped with an elaborate ‘
B
,’ had been broken and replaced with wax embossed with his own seal.

“Where did ye get this?”

Alan gulped for breath, as winded as his horse. “It arrived at the castle a day or so ago. It was handed to one of the servants and told it was to go to your hands and none other. No one could truly say whence it came. Yer brother read it. He gave it to me and told me to find ye with all haste.” Alan patted his horse’s neck ruefully. “‘Tis glad we both are ye were on yer way home from Troon. I dinnae want to travel so far.”

Eaden nodded absently, his attention already distracted by the letter in his hands. Sliding his thumb beneath the wax, he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment with a snap of his wrist.

As he read the fine, elegant handwriting gliding across the page, the muscles in his neck grew taut and his heart pounded in his chest. For a long moment he did not move, fighting the urge to destroy something. Little wonder messengers were considered immune from the actions of their job. As if sensing impending danger, Alan tucked his hand on the reins, causing his horse to back away.

Bringing himself somewhat under control, Eaden turned Duff to face his men. “Gavin, go with young Alan. Those of ye who can keep up, ride with me to Bellecourt. The rest of ye head to Craigievar and tell my brother to ready the castle.”

The men looked at each other uneasily, clearly confused by this turn of events. “Ready the castle, Laird?” one man ventured. “For what?”

Eaden shot the man a dark look. “For war.”

Eaden met Ranald on the road just before he crossed the border onto Barde land. The last of his guard had fallen away an hour earlier and even Duff’s great heart was failing him. Still he rode.

Ranald broke the cover of the trees well in advance of Eaden’s arrival, positioning himself clearly on the trail in the moonlight.

Duff stumbled, yanking the reins in Eaden’s hand as his head lunged forward in an effort to keep himself from falling. Eaden righted him with a jerk, feeling the jar of the horse beneath him in every weary muscle. His back ached, his fingers twisted into claw-like shapes, and he knew his legs would tremble with fatigue if he dismounted. The long hours in the saddle had not cured his anger one bit. Pulling Duff to a stop, he glared at Ranald.

His brother frowned. “I knew ye’d be this way. And ahead of the rest, too. As captain of the guard, Ian wanted to meet with ye, but I said I’d come.” He eyed Eaden’s foam-flecked mount as Duff champed the bit in nervous exhaustion. “Though whether to save yer horse or yer own disreputable hide, I dinnae know.”

“Get out of my way, Ranald,” Eaden growled warningly.

“I’m going with ye, Eaden. At least as far as Duff’ll carry ye.”

Duff shook his head tiredly and snorted. His body quivered beneath Eaden’s legs and foam dripped from his mouth. With a sigh, Eaden swung a leg stiffly over Duff’s neck and slid to the ground. Hiding the grunt of pain jolting through him as his feet hit the ground, Eaden grasped the reins beneath the shanks of the bit and led Duff beside Ranald.

“The puir lad willnae make it to Bellecourt,” Eaden agreed, giving his horse a quick pat. He placed a hand on Ranald’s stirrup, steadying his own weary limbs. So braced, he leveled his gaze on his brother. “‘Tis why we’re exchanging mounts.”

Not giving Ranald a chance to realize his intent, Eaden gripped his boot and shoved upward as hard as he could. With an outraged cry, Ranald flew sideways from his saddle, landing heavily on the ground. Eaden snatched the reins from his brother’s numbed grip and swung into the vacated saddle with a grunt of effort. Wrenching the horse’s head around, pointing him toward Bellecourt, he spurred him into a run, leaving Duff and Ranald staring after him—one with mild interest, the other in palpable frustration.

Streaks of pink and gold tinted the horizon. Still cast in shadows, the earliest risers of Bellecourt Castle crossed the bailey to the great hall, huddled anonymously against the morning mists in their blankets and cloaks. A single shepherd, a small flock of ewes and lambs surging ahead of him, exited through the man-door beside the massive main gate, still closed against the night. With bleats sounding loud in the silence, the sheep veered away to the grazing lands. The shepherd, intent on keeping his flock headed in the right direction, spared only a nod in greeting to the weary man who entered the narrow gate behind him.

Mary leaned her elbows on the windowsill, chin in her palms. Her thoughts roamed far beyond the hills to the north. She watched the play of the lambs as they bucked and kicked in high spirits, following tight against their dams’ sides. The smell of cooking fires drifted through the mist and her stomach grumbled approvingly.

She turned from the window, her gaze pulled to the inviting softness of the bed. She longed for sleep, for peace from the unanswered questions running through her head. Unable to sleep knowing there would be no rescue attempt once Eaden got her missive. Unable to close her eyes knowing Laird Barde could enter her room and none in the castle would be the wiser.

Exhaustion consumed her, worse than she could ever remember. A quiver of dread, just as strong as her need for oblivion, rippled through her body as she spied the nearly invisible outline of the secret door hiding the tunnel leading to the bedroom where Laird Barde . . .

She gripped her hair at the scalp and tugged hard to clear the thought. If Laird Barde had made use of the passageway while her mother lived, she would rather not know. Right now Mary carried all the guilt she could emotionally manage. With a sigh, she crept to the bed. Pulling the coverlet back, she burrowed beneath the sheets and fell asleep as the sun climbed behind the building clouds on the horizon.

Eaden limped across the bailey, only partly acting for the amused benefit of the guards on the parapet. His entire body ached from the hard ride and he remembered the way Mary’s body had stiffened the day he’d taught her to ride. And the way she had softened beneath his hands as he’d rubbed her muscles to relieve the soreness. Pride rose in him to recall how quickly she’d overcome her fear of horses to become a competent horsewoman. A horsewoman who’d used her new-found skills to run from Scott Castle.

Shite
. He scowled, cursing under his breath as his foot struck a partially-buried stone. Time to dwell on those things later. Wool-gathering like an ancient crone would only get himself killed. Hobbling to the side of the yard, he leaned against one of the stone buildings and massaged his ankle, letting his gaze roam over the castle’s façade.

Comparing the structure against the memory of the interior of the great hall, he recalled the night he’d kidnapped Mary, thinking she was Miriam. Before, anger had driven him to Bellecourt for the woman he didn’t want. Now, anger fueled his need for revenge against Barde for holding his wife against her will.

Morning was coming on, and he needed to either breech the castle or find a place to hide until nightfall. Pushing away from the wall, he slipped around the bailey, looking for an unwatched opening into the castle.

It was still fairly easy to move about and not attract attention. Clouds were building, leaving the morning partly cloaked in shadows. With the promise of a stormy day, Eaden perceived the weather could be a much-needed help. He crept along the edge of the bailey, halting in the shadows of various buildings clustered in the yard along the way.

“And a good skelpin’ ye’ll get if the stew is ruined when I get back!”

A rather buxom woman, carrying a woven basket, bustled from the bailey, a frustrated look on her face. Eaden straightened from his slouch and watched her curiously as she strolled to what appeared to be the kitchen garden.

Would she know where Mary is? Would she tell me? Does she even know Mary is being held against her will?

His jaw clenched. He’d run similar questions through his mind for the past day and a half, with no better answers now than when he’d headed for Bellecourt. Would he find Mary in the prison beneath the castle, or in her room? Or in another, more secure place?

As the woman snipped herbs and stacked them carefully in her basket, Eaden glanced around to reassure himself of the usual activity one found in a bailey. Yet, though he heard no cries of alarm, he still hesitated. Instinct told him something was not right. The woman in the garden did not seem to share his concern, but why would she? Castle gardening was not usually considered a risky occupation.

Eaden hunched his shoulders, as much for concealment of his true height and stature as to loosen his muscles in preparation for whatever was brewing. He was in his sworn enemy’s castle, about to grab an innocent woman to obtain information. He had no illusions what would happen to him if captured. It was a certainty Mary would suffer, too.

He broke cover and strode quickly toward the garden, reaching for the dagger at his belt. Within seconds he realized he’d walked into a trap.

Both Eaden and the woman in the garden heard the war cry, warning him an instant before he located the source of the sound. The jerk of her head told him she’d spotted something alarming to his left. He whirled, crouching as he moved, spreading his hands wide, his dagger in one hand, reaching for the knife in his boot before he came to a stop.

A sword swung viciously above, perfectly aimed to separate his head from his body, had he still been standing. Eaden rolled to the side, coming to his feet between the outbuilding and the outer wall of the bailey. Using this as a shield, he slipped quickly back into the narrow opening and took stock of his situation.

“Come, Laird Scott. Come taste our steel.”

Several soldiers loomed in an arc before him, smiling grimly, beckoning him out into the open. The flash of meager sunlight on steel struck his eyes and he sank deeper into the shadows. One of the guards, an enormous man with an arrogant swagger, advanced on Eaden, waving his sword before him.

Eaden hefted his boot knife in his hand, testing its weight, feeling its balance. The guard grinned widely.

The soldier flexed his arm muscles to the jeers and shouts of his friends. Eaden retreated further, forcing the giant to lurch inside the passageway to get close enough to engage.

“Fight me, Scott,” the man challenged, beckoning Eaden with his sword. With a short lunge, Eaden threw his knife at the guard. The narrow blade sank to the hilt into the base of his throat. Caught mid-stride, the soldier halted as though snatched by an invisible rope, poised a moment in mid-air. His hands opened wide and his sword clattered to the ground as blood spewed from the wound. He collapsed, a look of pained surprise caught on his face forever.

The jeers of contempt from the Barde soldiers skidded into cries of anger. Obviously, none had considered their companion so vulnerable. Eaden flexed his hands, adjusted his balance as another guard, less arrogant, appeared in the entrance.

“Ye cannae remain here forever,” he shouted. Eaden ignored him.

The guard leapt over the body, closing the distance between himself and Eaden. Eaden hefted the dagger in his hand, and the soldier eyed him warily, lifting his short sword as he advanced.

Eaden waited for him to advance closer. The man’s gaze darted to the side, betraying his next move. Leaping forward, Eaden landed behind the soldier’s guard. With a vicious jab, he drove his dagger between the man’s ribs, angling it upward, the tip piercing his heart. He twisted the blade, hot blood cascading over his hand as the guard fell to the ground at his feet.

Eaden crouched in readiness, watching the entrance, listening for their next move. Suddenly, three guards barreled through the opening, shouting loudly as they charged down the aisle. Eaden braced himself as they came to him.

At the last second, he feinted to the side, ducking beneath the first soldier’s blade, slashing at the back of the man’s leg as he rushed past him. With a cry of pain, the soldier crashed to the ground, tendons severed, his leg forever useless.

The next guard fell upon Eaden before he recovered, and his blade caught Eaden’s arm, leaving a trail of fire racing down its length. He jabbed at the guard, but his dagger was slick with blood and as it snagged on the chain mail at the man’s neck, it broke from his grip and flew from his hand. With a grunt of pain, Eaden switched his knife from his left hand to his right. The guard stumbled backward over his fallen companion as the third guard charged past.

Suddenly, Eaden sensed a movement at his back. Something flashed at the edge of his vision and he stiffened for a blow. He ducked and raised his right arm, ready to parry with his knife, but a truncheon clipped his shoulder, stunning the nerve in his arm. All feeling gone in his hand, his knife fell from his grip.

A thin noose dropped over his head, jerking hard against his neck. His good hand flew to grab the rope, but it was already too tight, and it bit deep into his throat. Eaden clawed frantically, gasping for air as the world darkened around him.

Water surged like fire through his nose and Eaden snorted and coughed, certain he was drowning, coming to consciousness in a violent convulsion of movement. Pain burst behind his eyes and tightened every muscle, and he gritted his teeth. Something thick and wet threatened to choke him and he rolled to his side, spitting the coppery-tasting liquid from his mouth onto the wet stone floor.

The movement made his ribs grate painfully, and he groaned. Laughter rang out above him, and he gingerly tilted his head toward the sound. To his disgust, only one eye would open, but the lack did not prevent him from recognizing the red-haired man standing above him.

“Enough, Gilbert,” Laird Barde said with a chuckle, holding a hand out to stop the man’s action.

Gilbert scowled at Eaden as he set aside the bucket he’d been using. At the size of the puddle he lay in, Eaden figured Gilbert had been trying for some time to drown him.

“Welcome to Bellecourt Castle, Scott. I hoped ye would respond to our invitation,” Laird Barde said.

Eaden’s head ached and a ringing sounded in his ears. His entire body throbbed painfully, witness to the fact the angry guards had vented their frustration on him once they’d taken him down. He scowled derisively at their cowardly conduct, but a split in his lip opened with fiery warning. When he tried to straighten his body enough to sit up, the muscles in his abdomen screamed in protest, and he feared some internal injury.

He tried to pull his hands around, but rope cut into his wrists, holding them securely behind his back. He glanced at his feet and found them likewise secured.

“Ah, yes. I believe ye had a tussle with my guards. They were not aware how dangerous ye could be, but the less wary served as a warning to the others.” Laird Barde shrugged. “Ye received quite a beating, but it did not kill ye, more’s the pity.”

Barde’s words made no sense. Eaden knew the man toyed with him, but he hated any loss of control, and he couldn’t resist replying. “What the hell are ye talking about?”

Laird Barde favored him with a patronizing smile. “Yer pretty wife was most accommodating. I needed ye here, at my mercy, and she supplied the perfect bait.” He idly perused his fingernails, as if considering his next words. “She writes most elegantly, and with such emotion! I knew her heartfelt letter would bring ye here.” He crouched beside Eaden, dropping his voice to an evil arrogance. “Lady Scott helped set the trap. She is, ye will agree, a most remarkable lady.”