The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (4 page)

Merry waited for the sour woman and Hulda to lead the way, but when neither woman moved, she stepped forward and approached the man herself. Up close, she realized that he was much smaller than he’d first appeared, and the stench about him proved he clearly hadn’t bathed in months.

“Robert?” she asked, towering over him.

He didn’t respond.

Narrowing her eyes, she pressed, “Are ye hard of hearing, man?”

The dice-playing companions paused their game to look up in astonishment.

When Robert still didn’t move, Merry lost her temper. She had little time for games. Annoyed, she snapped, “Suffer from a lack of a backbone, do ye? Is that why ye think to ignore me?”

He looked at her then, his mouth parting slightly in surprise as one of the dice-playing fellows sprang hotly to his feet and drew his sword.

But Merry was quicker.

Whirling behind him, she pressed the blade of her dirk against the man’s throat before he’d scarcely managed to stand.

There was a stunned silence, one in which Merry could hear the man’s panicked breathing mingled with the pounding of her own heart.

And then Robert chuckled in approval. “You’re a bold fellow!”

Merry met his gaze with an unwavering glare of her own. “I dinna have the time to play games,” she scolded harshly. “I’ve come to do business and pay ye right well for your services.”

His smile broadened, revealing yellowed teeth. “I like to test the mettle of a man, you see,” he said with a shrug. And then pointing to the man quavering under the tip of Merry’s dirk, he added, “Let the fool free.”

After a moment, she let the man go with a shove and sheathed her dirk.

“A pox on your knavish soul,” the dice-playing man muttered as he slunk into the shadows amidst the amused snickering of his companions.

“Hulda says you wish to enter the dungeon,” Robert said without preamble. “Now is a dangerous time for such things. You would do better to wait—”

“I canna wait,” Merry interrupted. “I must enter, and I must bring others with me as I leave.”

He eyed her speculatively, and then said, “Three Rose Nobles. No less.”

“’Tis no more than highway robbery!” Merry snapped, outraged. Within her cloak, she hefted her money pouch, knowing she had scarce but ten shillings left in it.

Robert saw her hesitation. “Then a good day, young sir,” he said, turning back to the dice game.

Merry frowned, frustrated. She had no more coin, but she had the silver filigreed saddle—Ruan’s gift. Parting from it would be painful but worth the cause.

Adopting a brash tone, she tossed her money pouch at the man. “This coin and a fine-tooled saddle with silver tracings,” she said. “A saddle fit for a nobleman. ‘Tis worth a small fortune.”

Catching the pouch, he tilted his head speculatively to one side, and then shaking the coins into the palm of his hand, counted them swiftly. His eyes lit.

Knowing that he was going to agree, she added quickly, “And ye must supply two caskets of Rhennish wine and send them to distract the guards this very day. I canna wait.”

“Now?” he asked, astonished. “You’re mad. Night would—”

“Nay, ‘twill not be expected now.” She shook her head with certainty. “There are fewer guards now, are there not?”

“Because ‘tis madness to escape in the broad light of day,” he snorted, scratching his stubbly chin. “And there’s hangings this evening ...” At that, his eyes narrowed shrewdly.

“They’ll be expecting an attack on the way to Hairibee,” Merry answered his unspoken question. “Not afore, at the castle.”

His frown deepened and his gaze lost focus. After a moment, he gave a small laugh. “Mayhap ‘twill work. I’ve never known a guard to turn down the chance to swill the Rhennish juice.”

Merry nodded, forcing a calm smile.

“Forsooth, but you Scottish folk are touched in the head. ’Tis folly to try such a thing, but I’ll send the wine. I know just the men who won’t be able to resist it. Yes, I’ll see you in, and get you out the gate. After that, you’re on your own,” he said, shaking his head in outright admiration. “You certainly are a bold fellow.”

“Then I’ll return with the saddle within the hour,” Merry said, rising to her feet.

It all happened quickly after that, and by the time she’d returned, she’d found Robert true to his word. The wine had been sent, and he was ready, sitting in a cart. The back was filled with sacks of grain over which a length of burlap had been tied.

His eyes gleamed upon seeing the saddle, and he motioned for one of his men to take it away before patting the empty seat next to him and winking. “Hop to, lad. I’ve business with the watchkeeper. You’ll have until noon to get your men to the cart, and I’ll smuggle them out the gate,” he said, pausing to spit on the cobblestones. “After that, our ways part. For good.”

Merry nodded and leapt up by his side.

The cart lurched forward, and they didn’t speak as they rolled through Carlisle’s narrow teeming streets, over the rough-planked bridge that spanned the moat, and to the castle gate.

The two guards merely waved them through, and as the cart rolled by the eastern tower, Robert nodded. “There,” he muttered into his beard. “You have until noon, young fellow. Give wings to your feet.”

Merry didn’t need to be told twice.

Crossing herself, she hopped off the cart and sprinted toward the tower. The oaken door stood unguarded. There was not a man in sight.

Putting her shoulder to the door, she pushed it open cautiously and slipped inside.

Voices.

“I’ll have another,” one was saying. “’Tis wine fit for the king’s table, it is.”

“You’ve had enough now,” another replied.

“Hsssst,” came yet a third. “Do you want every man to know?”

Peeking around the corner, she saw three guards crouching around the kegs of Rhennish wine, and in the opposite corner, she saw an iron door with a ring of keys hanging on a nearby hook.

It only took a moment, and she had the keys. Another moment, and she was down the steps.

She gagged as she was met by the rank odor of unwashed bodies swarming with flies. But with sweaty palms, she crept forward, praying she would find Ewan quickly.

The braying of the guards’ laughter drifted down the stairwell as she peered into the cells.

“And what are you looking for?” one of the cell’s occupants called out.

“Who’s the long lad?” another asked.

Ignoring them, Merry scanned the faces.

It was difficult to see. The torches on the walls provided little light beyond illuminating the wall behind them. And the stench of the place was overbearing, leaving her yearning for the sea and the crisp clean winds of Skye.

The guards above broke out into a drinking song, a raw reminder that she had little time to spare.

Determined, she pressed on.

And then she saw him.

A virile, powerful man, a battle-hardened warrior standing in the corner. Light from the torches fell upon his flaxen-hair and face, revealing eyes as blue as the sea and arms of corded steel.

And even though she hadn’t seen him in well over ten years, she recognized him at once.

Ewan MacLean.

Chapter Two – Who Are Ye Truly?

“And who’s the long lad?” Alec Montgomery asked, looking down his aristocratic high-bridged nose at the strange dark-haired youth approaching the cell. “Ho, there. Did ye bring whisky?”

“Whisky?” a prisoner retorted from the cell next door. “They treat us worse than dogs. At least they feed their curs.”

“Aye, but ‘tis an extraordinary day this,” Alec tossed the words over his shoulder. “In but a few short hours, I’ll swing from the gallows. That’s deserving of a draught now, aye?” He laughed. But it was a bitterly false laugh and his green eyes were hard. Humorless.

Ewan MacLean eyed Alec in keen irritation. The young chestnut-haired man’s reckless ways had landed them in their current predicament, a situation proving unusually difficult to escape from.

“Stay wary, Alec. Our time will come,” Ewan cautioned under his breath and then pivoting on his heel, eyed the strange lad peering through the rusty iron bars that separated them.

A swift assessment revealed that he wasn’t a guard.

Nor a fighting man.

For a brief moment, Ewan felt a sense of recognition. But upon closer inspection, he found the beardless boy’s fine-featured face unfamiliar. His brown eyes were particularly large and even though he was tall, his build was slender—not in an awkward, gangly way, but in a long-legged, well-shaped one.

Ewan lifted a single brow. 

There was almost a feminine air about the lad, and he pitied him for it. Such lads were often the victims of jest.

And then the youth in question’s lips parted. “Ewan? Ewan MacLean? ‘Tis ye, is it not?”

Surprised, Ewan’s eyes widened as his men seated in the rank-smelling straw around him scrambled to their feet. The entire lot shouted orders at once.

“Unlock the cell, lad!”

“A highlander? With keys?”

“Be hasty, ye daft fool!”

“Silence!” Ewan thundered, pushing through them.

They fell back, and he arrived at the cell door just as it swung open. In a moment, he was through, stepping into the dungeon’s narrow dank hallway.

Free.

He didn’t hesitate. Grabbing the keys from the overwhelmed youth, he tossed the ring to the prisoners in the next cell. The more escaped prisoners, the harder it would be for the English to catch any of them.

And then grasping the lad’s forearm in an iron grip, Ewan questioned curtly, “Weapons? Did ye bring weapons?”

The lad licked his lips and nodded a little, drawing a dirk from his boot.

“And ye call that a weapon?” Alec snorted. “’Tis fit for a lass!”

“’Twill have to do,” Ewan grunted, taking the dirk, but he did add, “Ye came ill-prepared, lad.”

“A wee dirk? Just one wee blade?” the men grumbled around him.

“Eh?” the lad’s mouth dropped open, floundering for words as the men filed out into the corridor.

Ignoring them, Ewan eyed the steps winding up to where the guards lurked, partaking of wine. 
“’Twill be simple enough to disarm them from the sound of it,” he predicted curtly. “‘Tis the guards on the ramparts we must evade to make good our escape—”

“How many are ye?” the strange lad interrupted, his fine brows furrowed. “I’ve only the cart and horses for four—”

“Four?” Ewan cut him off brusquely. “Nay, I’ve over a dozen good men here.”

The lad’s brown eyes grew round. “But I’ve only the one cart and—”

“I dinna know where ye hail from nor why ye’ve come to our aid, but ‘tis time for ye to stand down, lad,” Ewan cut him off again. His blue eyes swept him up and down. There wasn’t much muscle there. “Stay aback now, aye? Ye clearly canna hold your own in a fight. I’ll see ye safe.”

The lad sputtered in protest, but Ewan brushed past him, and with a battle cry of
Bàs no Beatha
—Death or Life—he charged up the steps, brandishing the dirk.

It wasn’t a fair fight. The guards had imbibed too much wine. They fell before even drawing their swords. And while half of Ewan’s men secured the tower, the others, now armed and fierce, ambushed the guards patrolling the ramparts.

As the remaining prisoners welled up from the dungeon below, Ewan caught sight of the raven-haired lad that had unlocked their cell. The youth took one look at the blood on the floor and turned white.

“Have a care,” Ewan advised, pulling him away from the bodies. They couldn’t afford the lad to faint. They had to make good their escape. “Where are the horses ye speak of?”

The lad swallowed but managed a reply, “At the inn.”

“Inn?” Ewan growled in annoyance. “And what good are they there?”

To his surprise, color returned to the lad’s cheeks, and a spark of anger flashed in his eyes. “I had a plan, ye stubborn oaf!” he barked. “I paid good coin to sneak ye out in a cart. Aye, I had this planned right well—”

“’Twasn’t well thought out enough,” Ewan judged callously, peering out of the door for any sign of archers.

The lad burst out angrily. “Aren’t ye a wee bit of an ungrateful wretch now? Shouldna I be thanked for risking my life to save your thankless neck?”

“Ach, but ye babble like a fishwife!” Ewan scowled down at him. The lad was taller than most but he did not match his own imposing height. Again, for the briefest of moments, an expression crossed the youth’s face that seemed oddly familiar. Frowning, Ewan asked, “Who are ye? What are ye called?”

The lad blinked and clamped his mouth shut.

When it appeared he was once again floundering for words, Ewan growled impatiently, “I’ve no time for idle chatter. Stay behind me, ye fool, so ye dinna get hurt.”

Charging then out of the tower, he led the remainder of his men and the other prisoners out into the courtyard. Mayhem ensued and then the fighting began in earnest, but soon enough the English guards retreated enough for all to escape.

With the dark-haired lad still in tow, Ewan and his men fled through the gates, breaking up into small groups and fanning out into Carlisle’s bustling streets. 
He didn’t have to speak or give them orders. He knew he’d meet them soon at Sowerby Wood. They’d had little to do in prison but pace in tight circles and plan their escape.

Taking refuge in a nearby alley, Ewan let go of the lad’s arm just as Alec turned the corner at a run.

“There ye are,” Alec grinned, panting a little. Reaching over, he punched the lad’s shoulder. “’Tis a miraculous day, this. I am in your debt. Ye’ve saved my life. Why—”

Ewan held up his hand. “There will be time for talk later,” he said tersely. “We must leave afore the English find us.” Waving at the river, he turned to ask the lad, “Can ye swim?”

But the lad folded his arms across his chest and objected stoutly, “I’ll not be leaving without my horse.”

“’Tis only a horse,” Ewan began.

“Dinna be such a pig-headed fool!” the lad interrupted, drawing his fine brows in an angry line. “I’ll never leave Diabhul behind, Ewan.”

At that, Alec gave a snort of laughter.

But Ewan paused and narrowed his eyes. “Ye speak as if ye know me,” he said quietly. “Who are ye?”