Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart (18 page)

The chapel was nearly completed. It lacked part of the roof and a door, but the interior had been scrubbed clean and prepared for John’s funeral. His body lay resting upon a bier behind the altar. He would have been buried already, but Broc was certain that out of respect for Elizabet they were hoping to find her in time to lay him properly to rest.

But they couldn’t wait much longer.

Guilt pricked at him, though he resolutely set it aside, focusing on the task at hand.

Donning a robe he found near the altar, he left the chapel and made his way to the stables. It was Gavin’s robe, he decided, as he adjusted its length over his limbs as Gavin was far shorter than he, and the gown fell only to midcalf. Still, its hood covered his face well enough, and that was all he was concerned with at the moment.

He didn’t wish to find himself face to face with Tomas or either of his other two lackeys. As yet, no one seemed to know it was Broc they were searching for—save mayhap Colin—but he was certain the Englishmen would recognize him if they spied him again.

Casting one last glance over his shoulder at the little building, he admired its modest architecture and wondered what Elizabet would look like on her wedding day with her hair let down and a circlet of flowers atop her head.

It was obvious she was accustomed to finer things than Broc possessed. Still, he liked to think he could make her happy if he tried—if she would have him.

It was the first time in his life that he’d ever considered binding himself to a woman. He had nothing to his name, no manor, no clan of his own, no wealth. All he had was his heart and his body and a small house with scarce a single luxury to his name—a bed, a chair, a table, and a blanket. Everything he’d ever earned he’d given to others, for his needs were simple and few. He found himself wanting. What would a woman like Elizabet desire of a man like him?

She was beautiful and saucy and intelligent—and he wondered what she was doing right now. He worried she would wander away, worried that someone would catch him and that she would be alone without anyone to help her. If he feared being found out, it wasn’t for himself. It was for her—and for the honor of the MacKinnon clan.

But first things first: Broc was convinced, after her revelations to him, that it was Tomas who wanted her dead. What he didn’t know was whether Tomas was acting alone or whether he had the aid of the other two men.

He couldn’t allow himself to be caught. And he damned well couldn’t allow that hound to remain in their possession. Colin’s suggestion had been ingenious, and Broc had little doubt the animal could find its mistress, given the opportunity. But he wasn’t going to give it the opportunity.

Elizabet would be more than pleased to see her four-legged friend again. He just needed to steal the animal from the stables without anyone catching him—a task easier said than done.

He heard voices inside the stables. Keeping to the shadows, he peered within, trying to find the occupants. Whispers, low and intimate, reached his ears, but he couldn’t make out the persons speaking. There was a giggle, then—very feminine—and a lower, huskier response—lovers?

They must have placed a guard, but Broc couldn’t see the man. Mayhap he had an affectionate visitor and they were ensconced in one of the stalls? In any case, it wasn’t any of his affair. All he cared about was the dog. Slipping silently within, he walked lightly, trying not to alert the stable’s other occupants.

The voices grew louder the further he went, and he determined they were within the last stall, where a single lantern hung high upon a post. Ignoring their lovers’ banter, he checked each stall, moving as swiftly as he was able without disturbing them.

As Colin promised, he found the hound tied to a stake within the third stall he checked. On either side of him, the steeds stamped their hooves and snorted uneasily. Wincing at their protests, he opened the stall, startling the sleeping hound to its feet.

Broc flung back his hood at once, letting the animal see him. Its ears flew back, as though in startle, but it remained quiet, watching him. Broc thought mayhap it recognized him, and his assumption proved correct. He extended his hand, kneeling, and the hound took a step toward him, sniffing his palm. He praised the mongrel silently, reaching out to pat its neck. The animal relaxed, shuddering, as Broc stroked it. It began to sniff his legs, finding the napkin he’d secured beneath his belt, and then nosing Broc’s clothes, likely sensing its mistress. It whined softly, peering up at him, cocking its head as though in question.

Broc stilled, but the animal only whined louder. He held his breath, hoping the lovers hadn’t heard.

“Damned mongrel!” the man exclaimed. Broc stifled a groan. “I should go check on him,.”

“Nayyy,” the lover wailed in protest. And she must have held him fast, because Broc didn’t hear the lad rise.

“I fed the stupid animal already,” her lover reasoned. “I cannot imagine what it could want.”

“’Tis a silly mutt,” the girl declared, her voice turning coy, “and if you leave me like this, I’m going to whine even louder!”

Her lover laughed, obviously amused. “I do like it when you whimper,” he assured her.

Broc rolled his eyes.

The two of them giggled together and evidently returned to their pleasures, because Broc heard no one approach. He thought he heard them smacking their lips together and tried not to think about Elizabet—what it would be like to kiss her again. She had the softest-looking lips, perfectly formed.

Saucy wench.

Broc replaced the hood over his head, preparing to go. He untied the rope from the stake with one hand and petted the animal with the other.

Now to get the bloody beast out of the stables without alerting anyone…

He cracked open the door and peered out, then pushed it open when he was certain the way was clear. He led the hound out by the rope, closing the stall door carefully behind him, and then hurried outside. Once in the courtyard, he made his way to the meadow, grateful for the near moonless night. It was at least two furlongs before he would reach the forest, and he hurried toward it, longing for its sanctuary, murmuring praises to the animal once he was far enough away that no one could hear him. He called it by its name, and it followed happily, wagging its tail.

It wasn’t until he was near the forest’s edge that he heard bellows. He peered over his shoulder, expecting to find himself being pursued, and froze where he stood.

The stable had suddenly erupted into flames.

From the raging bonfire bounded a squealing, bucking stallion, its mane afire. The sight of it, even at the distance, brought Broc to his knees.

He couldn’t tell whether the shouts came from those he’d left within or from those who were hurrying toward the growing inferno. His gut twisted with indecision. He prayed the couple he’d left inside would make it out of the flames and was torn between wanting to go back and help and wanting to flee the scene before he was discovered. He tried to recall whether he had inadvertently caused the fire and was absolutely certain he had not. There had been no lights within the stable, no flames, except the one at the far end of the aisle where the lovers lay. Surely they had started the fire themselves and had fled to safety, though his heart ached for the animals left inside.

The shouts intensified as the fire grew fiercer. Silhouettes scurried about in chaos.

Taking the leash in hand, Broc took one last look at the melee and ducked into the woods, pulling the hound behind him. He ran as fast as the animal could go without dragging it in his wake. He ran, focusing on Elizabet, because if he didn’t—if he for one instant forgot what was at stake—he would turn around and go back.

“I saw the arrow fly,” Baldwin informed Piers. “With my own eyes!”

Piers knew Baldwin wouldn’t lie. The man had been with him far too long.

Ordering his wife to remain inside, he turned and slammed open the doors, flying into the night’s chaos.

Who the hell had cause to burn his stables? And someone had—there was no mistaking it. A burning arrow shot into the air was certainly no accident!

“Who was left within?” Piers asked Baldwin.

“No one, Piers! No one, though young David and his wench were inside when it happened. The girl made it out fine. David remained to open the stalls and suffered severe burns because of it, but he’s out, at least, albeit in pain.”

Piers scowled. “Brave lad.”

“Aye, we owe him our gratitude.”

“I’ll see he is rewarded for his efforts.”

Baldwin nodded. “He saved at least five mounts. Two were not so fortunate…” He hesitated. “Yours being one of them.”

An explosion of curses erupted from Piers’ tongue. “By God’s teeth, if I discover the culprit, I swear I will cut off his arms and his legs and then hang him from the nearest tree to feed the vultures!”

Baldwin winced.

Piers came to a halt before the stable and stood, arms akimbo, glaring at the burning building. His men scurried about, trying in vain to put out the flames. They weren’t equipped to battle fires. The well was too far, the water supply insufficient. Their best course was to let it extinguish itself. Thank God the stables had been constructed apart from the manor house and far from the forest. As it was, he was in danger of losing the barracks behind it, but thankfully no more than that. He’d fully intended to build a new one in time, but he damned well couldn’t afford to do so at the moment. And yet there was no help for it. He couldn’t do without housing for his men. The horses would have to be put out in the field, and the fences would have to be secured, but the weather was mild as yet, and he wasn’t so concerned about the beasts.

God damn whoever was responsible!

“Holy Christ!” a voice shouted from a distance. “What the hell happened here?”

It was Tomas. His arrival couldn’t have been more ill timed.

Or more perfect, as the case might be.

Piers cast the man a rancorous glance, wondering where the hell he had been riding so late. Lucky for him that he had his horse—or well-timed.

“I thought you were going to retire for the night,” he said to the man with barely restrained animosity. There was something nefarious about his guest, something he had sensed from the first instant their eyes had met. If there hadn’t been two bloody witnesses to corroborate his story, Piers might have called him a liar to his face.

“I wasn’t tired, so I thought to take another look about for Elizabet.”

“How convenient,” Piers replied acidly, clenching his teeth. He formed a fist without realizing it and released it, trying to remain calm. He silently urged the man to keep his distance, because he was about to rip his tongue from his throat.

“Damned convenient if ye ask me,” Baldwin said low beside him.

Tomas seemed to ignore the barb. “I feel responsible,” he said with feigned sorrow.

Piers turned to look at him, wondering if it were a confession for the fire.

But as he dismounted beside them, he added, “Her father placed her in my care and I feel as though I’ve failed him.”

Piers was still glaring at him. The man turned to face the burning stables, averting his gaze. “What happened here? Did someone drop a lantern into the hay? Careless buggers!” He spat upon the ground.

“Nay,” Piers corrected him, somehow certain Tomas knew far more about the blaze than he was willing to admit. “It seems someone torched it apurpose.”

Tomas turned to face Piers, his expression marked with the same lack of emotion he had displayed in the case of John’s death.

No conscience.

No concern.

Naught but an empty expression.

“So you were worried about Elizabet?” Piers asked.

God damned liar!

“Aye,” Tomas replied, and turned again to gaze at the inferno. “What about the dog?” he asked without turning again to regard Piers. His voice was toneless.

Piers merely stared at the man, a seed of suspicion beginning to take root.

Baldwin burst forth with a string of blasphemies. “God! The dog!” he said, swiping at the air in anger. “We forgot about the damned dog!”

“What a pity,” Tomas replied and continued to stare into the flames.

Piers blinked at his response.

He peered back in the direction the man had come from, trying to gauge the distance an arrow could fly. He turned then to Baldwin and asked him, “From which direction did the arrow come?”

Baldwin was still cursing over the loss of the hound. “That way,” he said, indicating the direction Tomas had come from.

Piers flicked Tomas another glance. The man was still staring into the flames, but Piers was well aware that Tomas’s attention was directed at him.

In that instant, he knew without a doubt, Tomas was responsible, and Piers was going to prove it.

Without another word, he spun on his heel and left Baldwin to deal with the fire, because if he had to remain in Tomas’s presence even an instant longer, he was going to seize the man by the throat and rip out his lying, conniving tongue.

B
roc was out of breath by the time he reached the hovel. Guilt tore at him for leaving the scene of the fire. The images and sounds tormented him still. Screams and shouts filled his senses. Roaring flames stung his eyes.