The Highlander's Accidental Bride (19 page)

Searching the castle turned up no trace of Mary. Few people had taken heed of Lady Scott, who was often found about the castle early in the mornings. Eaden’s questioning at last revealed she had been seen walking into the bailey. Furious to think she’d left the castle unescorted, Eaden immediately roused the sentry, a young soldier who’d had the bad luck to draw the last watch of the night.

He quickly recalled a young woman riding out an hour or more earlier. Being restless and bored with his watch, the sentry had not questioned anyone leaving the castle. He’d only been interested in those entering the gates—and the commotion on the far side of the bailey.

“Damn!” Eaden swore fervently as he caught Duff and led him from the paddock. He’d wasted precious time earlier searching the castle for his wife. Knowing her to be angry and hurt, he’d expected her to hide away until she calmed and demanded an explanation. He hadn’t thought she’d be so upset or brave to take a horse and leave. She knew the dangers of a woman alone beyond the castle walls.

Eaden slammed the wooden gate, unable to find a more convenient outlet for his growing anger. Without comment, Ranald caught the gate as it rebounded from the force of Eaden’s hand, and deftly latched it shut.

Isobel’s death and the king’s men had further delayed him. Eaden cursed himself for teaching her to tack her own horse, though it certainly had not occurred to him at the time such a skill would be to his disadvantage.

“Damn it! Where could she be headed?” He shot a glare at Ranald, daring him to comment. His brother lifted a shoulder in silent response and slung his saddle to his gelding’s back, forestalling a pointless argument.

The soft slap of leather against leather pierced the strained quiet as they silently readied their horses. Giving Duff’s saddle a final tug, Eaden shook out the reins and prepared to mount.

“D’ye think Sorcha would help?” Ranald ventured.

Eaden shook his head. “She’s come into heat and I’ve closed her in a pen. I dinnae want her bred.”

“But she might be able to track Starnie . . .”

“All right. We can try.” It wasn’t he feared Sorcha would breed—worse things could, and had, happened. But her mind would be on one thing only during this time, and he feared it would not be the scent of Mary’s horse.

Eaden crossed to the kennel and released the hound. She leaped through the gate and danced around him for a moment, obviously thrilled to be out of her pen. The deep howl of a thwarted male boomed deep within the building. Sorcha whirled and bounded back inside.

He huffed in disgust and followed Sorcha to where she sniffed eagerly at a well-fortified gate. Taking her by her collar, he dragged her back to her kennel and shut the door tightly.

As Eaden silently gained his horse, Ranald gave a nod of assurance. “We will find her,” he vowed.

Mary stared at the ground. Starnie’s hoof prints were clear in the dust and she sighed with despair. She shifted wearily on the horse’s broad back, her legs and back aching with the effort to stay astride. With no saddle or stirrups for support, she’d tired quickly and longed to find someplace to rest. But with her path clearly marked by Starnie’s hooves, it was too easy for Eaden to follow her.

Sliding from Starnie’s back, she groaned as her feet touched the ground, her muscles in her legs and back bunching stiffly to hold her upright. She straightened slowly against the strain, searching for a leafy branch. Within moments she found what she sought.

She grabbed the stick, ignoring the bark scraping her hands. Leaving Starnie to graze, his reins tied to a nearby limb, she retraced her steps on the path. At last she stopped and waved the leaves gently through the fine dust of the trail, teasing the hoof prints from sight and smoothing the blades of grass flattened beneath Starnie’s tread.

Swinging the branch as she backed to the horse’s side, she finished erasing the hoof prints and surveyed her work. She’d never before tried to hide her trail from men who were almost certainly excellent trackers, and she had no idea if this would work or not. Or even help.

Mary dusted the tiny particles of dirt and bark from her hands. Releasing Starnie’s reins, she led him from the trail into the tall grass and yellow broom covering the expanse of ground from the road to the river.

Eaden reined Duff to a halt. Somehow he’d lost the trail. He turned the horse about, searching the ground for hoof prints, but they seemed to have disappeared. Surely Mary wouldn’t have thought to hide her tracks?

Rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, he stared at Ranald. “If she rides north, where could she be heading?”

Ranald took a moment to consider the question. “The abbey?” he ventured.

“To seek solace or sanctuary?” Eaden returned bitterly.

“A chance to reflect, perhaps.”

Eaden bent again to study the ground. “Do ye think she knows how to hide her trail?”

Ranald shrugged. “The lass has surprised me more than once.”

Eaden nodded. “We must split up. If she rides to the abbey, she is almost there. If she seeks to deceive me, she may already be heading south.”

“To Bellecourt Castle?”

“Aye.”

“We dinnae pass her on the road.” Ranald pointed out. “If she has left the road, she could be anywhere, or . . .” One forbidding glance from Eaden, and Ranald did not finish his statement.

“Head south. I will continue to the abbey.” He urged Duff forward until even with Ranald. Grabbing his brother’s forearm in a firm grip, he gave him a hard look. “If she goes to Bellecourt, she is not going to reflect. If ye find her, bring her home. Peacefully or kicking and screaming, I dinnae care. But bring her home.”

Mary led Starnie down the bank of the river. There, in a copse of trees, she tied him to a sturdy limb and turned to retrace her steps. With the leafy branch, she did what she could to erase their tracks to the water, but the mud at the very edge held the footprints firm. She could think of no good way to disguise the deep casts. A sudden roll of thunder caused her to look up. If it rained, it might wash the hoof prints away.

She returned to Starnie and led him to the river, walking him into the current where the running water rinsed away their tracks almost instantly. She steeled herself against the cold bite of the water but even so, her legs grew quickly numb, and the chill crept over her body. Within a short time, she was shaking uncontrollably with cold. To further her misery, a wind, racing ahead of the storm, picked up speed, plastering her wet robe and shift against her skin.

Suddenly, she stumbled and fell. She was now completely soaked by the river. Her hair clung to her neck and face in icy coils and she tried vainly to brush it back with fingers that trembled. Tracking the edge of the river southward, she knew she would soon be within sight of Scott Castle. She could not afford to stop now. She needed to be south of the castle, on the road to the border, before dark.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed on. At least the driving sheets of rain would help conceal her from view, though the going became extremely difficult as it kicked up white-topped waves around her, rising nearly to her waist. She stumbled against the roiling water, grasping Starnie’s reins tight to keep from falling. He tossed his head and whinnied.

“I don’t like it, either,” Mary muttered, her teeth clenched to keep them from chattering. She missed her footing again. Tears streaked unchecked down her cheeks.

“I should have killed him while I had the chance,” she stormed at the poor horse, thoroughly frightened and upset. “I’m cold and wet and miserable and dragging you through a damn river and he’s probably at the castle warm and dry. I’ll die out here and wash up on the bank somewhere downstream and you’ll find your way home . . .”

She brushed at the tears on her face, distinguishable from the rain only by the warm trail they left on her skin.

Then, Starnie balked. Planting his feet firmly on the rocky bottom of the river, he refused to go further. Mary pulled at his reins. “You stupid beast! You cannot stop!”

But Starnie had had enough of trekking through the water and he reared, lifting his forefeet high, pulling the reins from Mary’s grasp.

“No!” Mary grabbed wildly for the flapping leather reins, terrified of losing him and being left on her own. Even with Starnie she was quite likely to be caught, and not just by Eaden or his brother. Once remounted, she would feel safer and be able to cover the distance to Bellecourt much faster than if on foot.

Snagging the reins before he could bolt, she led him to the bank. He followed her eagerly, nearly treading on her heels in his hurry to be out of the river.

“I hope we’ve managed to lose them,” Mary muttered grimly as she spied the footprints the horse left in the mud. Starnie shook himself like a big dog, sending water flying from his coat. Mary raised an arm to ward off the flying droplets.

At last, the rain eased and stopped. The noonday sun could be seen directly overhead behind wispy grey clouds racing before the wind, affording her the illusion of warmth. It also illuminated her, and could potentially betray them to the curious eyes of any who would pass by.

Mary patted Starnie’s neck nervously. “Don’t whinny. There will likely be other people on the road now the rain is past. We need to be far away from here before anyone sees us.” She swallowed hard against her next thought.

A woman alone on the road is helpless.
It was imperative she elude reivers and other miscreants as well as Laird Scott.

Ranald bent his attention to the edge of the road. For such a well-traveled route, the dust appeared remarkably free of tracks. He sat on his haunches, letting his gaze travel slowly up and down the road, searching farther out with each pass.

There! A clump of roots showed white against the new green of the early spring grass. Could Starnie have snatched a bite as Mary led him from the road? Ranald rose to his feet, absently drawing his horse along behind him. He knelt beside the uprooted grass, fingering the broken stems. Dry soil fell from the clump.

She’s a fair distance ahead
. Ranald glanced up, searching for Eaden. The dust from Duff’s hooves already settled and even a shout would not bring his brother back. Ranald frowned. Unless Mary was cleverer than he thought, Eaden was headed in the wrong direction.

But they had not passed her on the road. Ranald rose to his feet again, looking outward. The glint of the river lay ahead. Did she think to lose her trail in the water? Or did she merely use a well-known landmark to guide her toward Bellecourt?

A rumble of thunder reached his ears. Wherever she was, she was about to get wet. He remembered the robe she wore as she ran from Eaden’s room. Had she thought to get other clothing? A disguise? His blood ran cold. She could find herself fair game for miscreants roaming the roads. The question was not where she was headed, but along what route.

And would he find her before she ran afoul of those who would not care she was the lady of Scott Castle?

Mary’s knees quivered. Her feet, slippers long ago shredded and lost, were bruised and bleeding. Muscles unused to riding bareback and trekking through cold, rain-swollen rivers, clenched in protest. Too miserable to do more than stand next to Starnie, hidden in the dense foliage of the glen, Mary focused on simply existing.

Fading sunlight lit the mist rising from the river. Golden-hued fog crept along the ground, promising protection if she could elude any who followed her a little longer. Her pale green robe hung around her, tattered and stained, no longer a potential beacon to curious eyes, blending with the mist and trees surrounding her. Praying Starnie would not call out, she slowly stroked his nose to keep him settled.

Starnie stamped a foot, shuffling his weight. Mary jerked her head up, horrified to discover she’d slipped into a light doze. She hauled his head down, hugging his nose against her chest. Impatient, Starnie wrenched free, tossing his head as he whickered a greeting. Mary grabbed frantically at his reins, jerking his bit.

“Ye’ll injure his mouth an’ ye keep that up.”

Mary whirled, slipping in the mud, splaying her hands against the horse behind her for support. She crumpled in relief as she recognized Ranald’s voice, though she could not pretend to be glad to see him.

“Go away.”

Ranald stepped out of the mist and into the weak moonlight casting haphazard beams into the little glen. “Ye’ve led us on a merry chase,” he chided her gently.

Mary bristled and looked past him, expecting Eaden to be on his heels. Ranald shook his head as though reading her mind. “Nay. Eaden and I parted north of Craigievar. We werenae sure if ye headed north to the abbey or south to Bellecourt. As the abbey was closer, Eaden chose that way. He is anxious to find ye.”

“I’ll not go back, Ranald. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Have ye, now? And why is that?”

“How can you ask me? You were there! You saw . . .” Mary blinked back tears and turned her head away.

“‘Twas no’ what ye think, lass. Eaden was no’ a part of it.”

Mary whirled, her face twisted in fury. “Don’t speak to me as though I am a fool! I was there! I saw them together!”

“Ye saw what Isobel wanted ye to see.”

“Do not ask me to believe Eaden was not enjoying himself with her.”

Ranald grimaced. “In all truth, I cannae say. But I can tell ye he dinnae ken it was her in his bed.”

Mary choked. “So any warm body will do?”

“‘Tis no’ that simple. Come back with me and let the two of ye settle this.”

“Don’t you mean the three of us?” Mary retorted bitterly.

Ranald said quietly, “Isobel is dead.”

Mary’s eyes widened as Ranald’s unexpected announcement forced a gasp from her. “What?”

“Eaden told me . . . well, never mind what he said. He wanted me to restrain her, keep her until her punishment was decided. She dinnae want it. She saw Eaden’s anger and at last understood he would never turn to her. ‘Twas but a moment’s decision, and I dinnae see it coming. She ran to the window and leapt to her death.”

A cry of distress tore from Mary’s lips. Ranald took a step toward her, but she threw out both hands, warning him away. Tears welled in her eyes and she fought the overwhelming urge to collapse to the ground and let everything fall apart around her.

Slowly her tears abated. “I am sorry. If only . . .” Her voice trailed off. What, exactly, could she have done differently? She had been shocked and horrified to discover Eaden in the throes of passion at Isobel’s hands. All of the woman’s hateful taunts had risen in her mind like crazed demons, telling her Isobel had been right—Eaden would ever turn to her, unable to withstand his attraction to the black-haired witch.

“I must bring ye back.” Ranald spoke firmly.

Mary glanced up, jarred from her thoughts. “No.”

“Ye will. Even sprawled across my horse, ye will come.”

“No. I will not.” Mary stiffened, her hands fisted at her sides.

Ranald looked at her askance. “Ye think to fight me?”

Mary stiffened her spine. Her best gambit was to bluff, for she knew she had not the strength to win should he decide to drag her back to the castle. “Tooth and nail.”

Ranald scowled. “Ye’re acting like a child.”

“Threats didn’t work, so you resort to flattery?” Mary tossed at him, sarcasm coloring her words. She did not believe he would lay a violent hand on her, but couldn’t be sure how far she could push him.

“Get on yer horse, Mary. Ye’re going home.”

“I’m going to Bellecourt.”

“Ye willnae.”

At an impasse, they glared at each other. A breeze slipped through the trees and Mary shivered with the cold.

“Ye’ll catch yer death, ye will.” Ranald dragged the damp plaid from his shoulders and tried to place it in Mary’s hands, but she shrank back, skirting Starnie’s powerful hindquarters, the horse now between herself and Ranald.

“Put this around ye. ‘Tis warm,” he insisted.

When she didn’t move, he swore under his breath and tossed the plaid over the horse’s back. “Here. Ye dinnae have to come to me. Just put it on. I’ll not drag ye home just to watch ye sicken.”

Mary stared at the plaid, longing to feel its comforting warmth, but afraid to accept anything from him. Sharing anything, even the meanest hospitality, would put her in his debt. Instead she vowed firmly, “I’ve made up my mind. I will not go back with you.”

“I am to bring ye home.”

“I cannot. I believed him true to me.” She sighed. “You cannot erase the sight from my mind. I would never be able to touch him, to see him, without seeing her. I would shrink from his touch, hating him for his betrayal.” Her shoulders drooped dejectedly. “We have no life together.”

“Ye willnae try?”

“What would you have done to find your wife in bed, pleasuring another man?”

Even in the shadows Mary knew his face darkened. “I would have killed him.”

Mary tilted her head. “It was very tempting. But I do not know who I would have killed.”

“Ye have my word, Mary. Eaden wasnae a part of it.”

“You don’t understand. You would do anything to protect your brother. With Isobel dead, Eaden can say what he likes, with no one to contradict him. I must go to Bellecourt and think this through, away from the lies and accusations.”

“I dinnae lie to ye, either.”

“No, I don’t believe you lied. I believe you told me what you deem to be true.” Mary willed him to understand.

He seemed to consider her words. “If I allow ye to go to Bellecourt to take the time ye need, will ye promise to send word in a few days?”

“I cannot say when, but I will send word.”

“Eaden willnae be pleased I dinnae bring ye back.”

Mary’s lips twisted in a wry, humorless smile. “I suspect he’ll let you live.”

“I wouldnae be so sure.”

Bone weary and vowing she’d never ride again, Mary at last reined Starnie to a halt before the gates of Bellecourt Castle. Her early morning appearance before the guard had given her some difficulty, but Ranald’s clenched jaw and challenging stare sent the sentry scurrying to alert the warden. Moments later the man appeared at the closed gate, scowling as he jerked his breeches closed. He raked her with an insolent stare, equally disdainful of her bedraggled state and her bristling Scottish guard.

“What is your business here?” he asked, as though she had unconscionable nerve to believe she had any right to expect entry into the castle.

Mary arched an eyebrow coolly, too tired and disillusioned by the past hours to put up with his rudeness. “I am Mary Marsh. I have come home.”