The Highlander's Accidental Bride (23 page)

Mary stirred, not sure what had woken her, too groggy to make sense of her thoughts. The room was bathed in the half-light of a stormy day, and the low rumble of thunder reached her ears. She sighed. Doubtless the storm was the culprit. She grabbed the pillow next to her and hugged it close, trying to recreate the dream of Eaden beside her, but the memory fled beyond her recall.

With the sun scarcely visible, she couldn’t determine the hour. She felt as though she had only slept a short time, perhaps only a few minutes. Her thoughts were fuzzy, her eyes swollen and scratchy. Pursuing sleep proved useless as the storm continued to announce its imminent arrival.

Irritably, she yanked the covers back and sat on the side of the bed. She rubbed the palms of her hands over her eyes, trying to ease their strain, and slowly rose to her feet. Crossing to the wash table, she poured water into the bowl and bent to splash her face.

Feeling somewhat revived, she blinked in the pale yellow light. The shutters stood open and she found herself leaning out the window for a breath of fresh air.

Sudden shouts from below caught her attention. Something was amiss, but she could not see much, other than two soldiers who ran across the bailey yard and disappeared from view. Alarmed, Mary looked up at the parapet, somewhat reassured by the remaining guards standing steadfast at their posts, though they watched the bailey with interest.

The bedroom door opened behind her and Mary pivoted, taken by surprise.

“No, we do not require assistance,” she heard Miriam say. She swept into the room, a breakfast tray in her hands. She placed the tray on the desk, then slapped her hands on her hips and glared at the guard in the doorway. A ruddy flush crept up the boy’s neck as he scowled and retreated into the hallway, closing the door firmly behind him. Miriam gave a
humph
of satisfaction and turned a sunny smile on Mary.

“Stupid boy,” she announced cheerfully. “Thinking he could come in here and stare at you. They all remember you, you know. You’ve not been gone so long. Only now you’re the ‘Scott’s woman,’ which gives you a certain, um, notoriety.”

She set about unwrapping Mary’s breakfast as she talked. “Gilbert is strict, but at least he knows his place.”

Mary poured a goblet of water and picked an apple from the tray as she nodded in agreement. “Which is right at your father’s side,” she noted wryly. She set her drink down and crossed to the window, munching on the apple. “Do you know about the commotion, earlier?”

Miriam joined her and leaned out the aperture to look. “I’m not sure. The men have been on alert the past day or so. I think there’s been a miscreant hanging about. Perhaps they’ve caught him.”

Clouds, traveling on a brisk wind, abruptly blotted the weak sunlight. Rain began to fall, slowly at first, then in silver sheets. Miriam ducked back inside, closing the shutters firmly against the pelting rain and the smell of wet earth wafting in the air. She caught Mary’s hand and led her back to the desk.

“Have you discovered what it is your father thinks King Robert wants from me?” Mary asked.

“I cannot broach the subject with him. He has no time for me. The thought of besting Laird Scott absorbs him.” Miriam paused. “Other than your mother’s clothes and creams and salves, what could she have? Did she give you something special? A memento, perhaps?”

Mary frowned. Hiding the jade cross from Miriam had been her only act of defiance against her friend her entire life. It at last seemed safe enough to mention it.

“She wore a cross beneath her gown. It was a pendant of gold set with four pieces of jade and a diamond at their juncture. It is now mine. I have kept it hidden as she did.”

Miriam’s face grew animated. “A jade cross? Let me see!”

“I don’t have it with me. I left it on my dressing table at Scott Castle.”

“Well, is it fabulous? Why would your mother not show it?”

Mary gave a dispirited shrug. “I think it is pretty, but not worth a king’s ransom.” She smiled faintly. “I tried to ask her where she got it, but she would not tell me.”

Miriam’s eyes grew big. “Do you think it was stolen?”

With an irritated sigh, Mary rolled her eyes. “You remember my mother. Do you think she’d steal a necklace?”

Miriam’s face fell. “No, I suppose not.” Suddenly another thought struck her. “Do you suppose it was a gift from your father?”

“Most likely.”

“Did she ever tell you who he is?”

“No. The subject upset her too much. I suppose he could have been anyone.”

Miriam gasped. “You’re going to think I’m crazy . . .”

“What is it?”

“Well, the king supposedly wanted to meet you . . .”

“Yes. Because I married Laird Scott and you didn’t.”

“No. Because you have something he wants.”

Mary nodded reluctantly. “Yes. I have thought of that.”

“I think it is your necklace.”

“Why would the king want my necklace?”

Miriam leaned forward in her chair. “Because, what if, eighteen years ago, he gave it to your mother?”

Mary sat in silence as the shadows of the storm chased across the walls of her room. Miriam had left her to her thoughts hours ago, and still Mary could not get past her words. Laird Barde had said her mother went to stay with relatives at court after her husband’s death. Though he would have only been Steward of Scotland at the time, Robert would have been much younger and a known womanizer. Chances were good they had met, though Mary’s imagination stopped there. The idea her mother and the king could have been lovers was too incredible to consider.

Dazed, Mary rose to her feet, pushing her heavy hair from her shoulder as she reached to rub the back of her neck. Her fingers snarled in the dank tangles of her hair, but the air touching her skin felt refreshingly cool. Collecting a square of linen, she crossed to the table where the pitcher of water sat. She filled the wash bowl and untied the laces of her gown, allowing the loosened bodice to fall to her waist.

She wrung the linen and washed her face and neck, the slow actions soothing her troubled mind. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, feeling the hair on her arms prickle as the cool air touched her damp skin. With a shiver, she reached for the larger length of linen, rubbing it briskly over her skin to dry. Quickly she pulled her gown back up and reached for the lacings.

A rustle in the corner of the room disturbed her and she spun around, dreading the sight of a rat. She was partly right, though the rodent seated on a chair in the corner was of the two-footed variety.

“Don’t stop on my account, my dear.”

With a gasp and a quick jerk of her hands, she managed to get her laces tightened. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” Laird Barde replied.

Mary’s face heated angrily. “You’re Miriam’s father. You’re old enough to be
my
father! In fact, you’re my uncle,” she flung at him.

“By marriage, only. No’ by blood.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re a lecherous old man!”

“Mind yer manners, lass. Yer very existence here depends on whether or not I get what I want.”

“You’ll not get
me
,” Mary shouted, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest.

Laird Barde chuckled. “Mary, ye mistake me. Right now I want what the king does.”

Mary’s face paled, her cheeks growing cold.

“I see ye know more than ye are willing to tell.” Laird Barde rose to his feet and swaggered to her side. “I assure ye
will
tell me what ye know. What is so important to the King of Scotland, that he would request an audience with our little bastard, Mary?”

“Don’t call me that,” Mary growled.

“But `tis the truth. Ye have no value. Only that which the next man sees in ye.” He lifted a finger to twine in a lock of her hair. “I could be that man.”

Mary slapped his hand away and darted across the room. She grabbed the door latch and tugged. It was locked tight. She heard Laird Barde’s mirthless laugh behind her and she set her back against the door, hands fisted so tightly her fingernails dug into her palms.

Laird Barde stalked her, the leer on his face a promise of retribution. Mary’s chest heaved and she swallowed against the lump in her throat, her gaze darting around, looking for an escape.

She made out the nearly invisible lines of the secret door, and realized it stood slightly ajar. So he’d slipped in without the guard knowing? Mary judged the distance to the door, but the bed stood in her path, and she was not willing to risk letting him catch her there.

Shoving away from the door, Mary plunged past Laird Barde, angling in a feint away from the secret door. Taking the bait, he turned toward her, hands grabbing wildly at her as she rushed by. His back now to the hidden passage, Mary changed direction, slipping between him and the wash table in a straight line to the door. Elation surged through her, ending on a gasp of fright as Laird Barde’s hand closed on her arm. He jerked her to a stop, spinning her around to face him.

She stumbled backward into the washstand, her free hand grasping for support as her legs twisted beneath her. Her fingers closed on the handle of the metal pitcher and as she regained her balance, she swung the empty jug at his head. The ewer connected with a terrible thud, and blood spurted from Laird Barde’s temple. He dropped to the floor like a sack of sand and lay there, eyes unfocused, limbs twitching. Blood masked his features as it poured from the wound.

Fighting the urge to retch, Mary stared at the man at her feet. Gathering her wits, she realized she was free. She fled across the room and grabbed the edge of the narrow door. Heavier than she’d anticipated, it swung open silently at her impatient tug. She hesitated at the sight of the dark tunnel beyond. A choking, gurgling sound behind her spurred her on and she slipped inside the passageway, pulling the door firmly shut behind her.

Hands out to her side for guidance, Mary took her first step into the unknown.

Mary crept forward in the dark. The musty smell of the sealed passage nearly overpowered her, but she dared not sneeze, not knowing who or what would alert to her presence. She held a hand before her, recoiling each time she touched the cold stone wall. Her nerves strung tight, the sticky gossamer spiders’ webs she encountered increased her anxiety. Resolutely pushing away the thoughts of the eight-legged inhabitants of those webs and their unfortunate victims, Mary forged ahead, step by hesitant step.

Her hand touched stone in front of her. A dead end. Cautiously, she turned, feeling for the opening to tell her which way to continue. There were walls on three sides. Relief washed through her. This must be the door into Laird Barde’s room. If only she could figure out how to open it. She placed her palm on the stone, praying it wasn’t latched.

The door swung open silently, and Mary sent a fervent thanks to the ancient stonemasons who’d done their job well. And to whomever kept the hinges oiled. She eased into the room, looking around to be sure she was alone. A single lit candle cast a yellow light near the center of the room, leaving the corners in shadows. She felt fairly certain no one was there.

The flame caught in the draft from the open door, and danced wildly on the end of its wick. The shadows flickered and jumped, giving them life, and Mary clutched her chest as though she could steady her heart’s sudden frantic beating.

She closed the secret door behind her, relieved to see the candle’s flame return to a normal flickering glow. Crossing to the room’s main door, she dusted what she could of the tunnel’s filth from her skirts before turning the latch.

Opening the door, Mary pulled up short, surprise on her face. Miriam stood in the portal, her fist raised, an angry scowl on her face.

“What are you doing here?” Miriam recovered first and looked past Mary into the room.

Mary could only stare, slack-jawed with shock. Even if she could make sensible words form on her tongue, how could she tell Miriam she might have just killed her father? “I must leave, Miriam. I cannot stay here any longer.” There. That much was the truth, anyway.
Please don’t let her ask further
.

Miriam grabbed her arm, looking quickly over her shoulder before hurrying her down the hallway.

“You took an awful chance coming here. But I was going to get you, after I spoke to my father, anyway. He has done a terrible thing.”

Mary heard the snarl in Miriam’s voice and drew her arm away. “I know he is deceitful . . .”

Miriam beckoned Mary to keep up. “He’s going to get us all killed,” she continued in a low voice. “He has let his obsession with Laird Scott overrule his better judgment. He plans to kill him and keep you here.” She stopped and stared at Mary, pained disbelief in her eyes. “And not as his wife.”

Mary dropped her gaze in despair.

“He’s not already . . .” Miriam’s voice begged for reassurance.

“No, but he tried.” Slowly, she raised her gaze to Miriam’s and felt the sting of tears. “I hit him, Miriam. I know I knocked him down. ‘Twas how I escaped. I don’t know if I hurt him seriously or not.”

Miriam’s face blanched white. “Oh, Mary!” she whispered. “I’ve come to know of his cruel ways more and more in the past few months. I’d always thought him brave and stern, and felt safe knowing others feared him. No one dared attack our keep. Even his deliberate cruelties somehow seemed right at his hands. But I’ve come to see him differently of late and I know if he can, he’ll use you until he tires of you. He has captured your husband and I have no doubt he will torment you with his torture and death before long.”

Miriam reached into a small bag hung from a cord at her waist. Pulling forth an iron key, she pressed it into Mary’s hand. “Come. I will get you as far as the gates, but you will have to manage on your own after that.”

“Eaden is here?”

“Yes. I told you. They captured him.”

“Where?” Mary demanded, reeling from Miriam’s confession of her sire and Laird Scott’s imprisonment.

“The jail. You must rescue your husband.”

Mary had never been in this part of Bellecourt Castle before, though the threat of it was familiar to all the castle children who got into trouble from time to time.

The torch-lined walls were coated with soot that soaked up the light and added to the overall gloom. Rats scurried across their path, burrowing into the filthy rushes on the floor. The reek of unwashed bodies and a sickly sweet odor Mary could not name, competed with the heavy smoke from the torches, leaving a bad taste in her mouth. She gagged, but went doggedly forward, staying as close as she could to Miriam.

The soldier at the entrance to the jail had been indifferent about allowing two unescorted women inside. The burly guard in the antechamber was not so quick to let them pass. “Wot do we have ‘ere, now?” he called in a loud voice.

The other guard in the room slid his chair back from the rickety wooden table and sauntered over. Though hooded and cloaked, Mary could feel their boldly assessing stares upon her, and she drew the edge of the hood further forward over her face.

“We are here to see the prisoner.” Miriam’s voice was firm, brooking no interference.

The burly guard snorted, picking his teeth with a slender twig. He spat onto the floor. “Cannae.”

“You will. Or I will see that my father knows of your treatment of me and my companion.”

The guard raised his brow. “The laird’s brat, er, daughter? What d’ ye want with the prisoner?”

“I am here to see to his welfare. I heard he is injured. If he is to be held for ransom, he must not be allowed to die.” She nodded to Mary. “She is a healer.”

“He killed three of our men. Th’ bastard deserves what he got.”

Miriam drew herself up imperiously and gave the man a cold look. “Open the gate.”

The man scratched himself, glowering. Finally, he nodded. “Right. He’s in there.” Tilting his chin over his shoulder, he called to the other guard. “Bring th’ key and let milady and her crone in t’ see th’ prisoner.”

Muttering something unpleasant about ‘wimmin,’ the younger guard snatched an iron key from a hook on the wall and strolled forward. The hallway beyond the anteroom led to three cells. All were empty but the third. Absent a cot or chair of any kind, a solitary figure lay on the floor amid the squalor of the jail.

Mary shuddered, suddenly anxious to be near him, to rescue him from this level of hell.

Iron clanged as the lock turned. Miriam grasped Mary’s hand, pulling her close to whisper in her ear. “Go inside. I will send the guard on an errand. You must be quick.”

Mary nodded and followed the guard to the door of her husband’s cell. She cast one last look over her shoulder and saw the sad look on Miriam’s face.

For an instant she feared a trap, but calmed. Surely Miriam would have no need for such an elaborate deception. If Laird Barde had ordered her imprisoned, his soldiers would simply have dragged her down here and locked her away.

The guard swung the door open and moved back to allow her to pass. Mary scarcely noted the smirk on the lad’s face as she passed him, her skirts held tightly in her hands to avoid touching the noisome floor. A single, narrow window, high in the wall, allowed watery sunlight to cast a pale beam into the cell, hardly enough for her to see the shape slumped at her feet.

Legs showed plainly in the light, and she followed their length to the shadowed torso and nearly invisible head. Though she could not make out his features, she knew he watched her. She knelt at his side, stoically ignoring the odor wafting up as her knees crunched through the layers of soiled rushes.

“Are you all right, m’laird?”

“I’ll no’ say I’ve been in worse places.”

Despite his words, the sound of his voice sent Mary’s spirits soaring, and she glanced over her shoulder at the guard. He was gone, and she could hear Miriam’s high-pitched voice, ordering the men to more industry than they’d probably shown in the last month or so.

Her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light and she realized Eaden’s hands were manacled to chains in the wall behind him. Remembering the key Miriam had given her, as well as her admonishment for haste, she reached for the heavy locks. Hands trembling, she released him.

“Hurry!” She grabbed his arm and tugged hard. His groan of pain alarmed her and she sat back on her haunches to stare at him. “What is the matter?”

This brought a harsh bark of laughter, swallowed by a swift intake of breath. “No’ much.”

“You’re lying.” Mary stood as she watched his slow, awkward attempt to rise. Eaden gave a bitter laugh and managed to get to his feet.

She glanced down. “No chains on your feet?”

“They took them off. They dinnae think I’m so dangerous now.”

An ear-piercing scream bounced from the stone walls and Mary gasped, whirling toward the doorway. Shrieks of dismay reached her ears, and she nearly fainted with relief to hear Miriam’s voice.

“It’s a rat! A huge rat! Get it! Get it! Take it away! Oh, take it away! Now!”

She continued for some moments in the same vein, and Mary realized Miriam had cleared the guards from the area. She turned back to Eaden who swayed unsteadily on his feet.

“Come. We must make haste.”

Eaden reached for her and grasped her shoulder in a claw-like grip. She staggered beneath his weight as he leaned into her.

Hitching his step, he got his balance and gave her a mocking gesture of following. “After ye, milady. If ye’re sure yer friend has set no trap. I am out of patience with the lot of them right now.”

“Miriam has gotten rid of both guards. We haven’t much time.”

“Lead on.” Eaden gave her a push. They exited the cell. Miriam met them in the hallway, beckoning them to hurry.

“Follow me. You will find your horses in the stable. I did not have time to arrange to have them saddled, but their bridles are hung by their stalls.” She turned to Mary. “Be safe,” she whispered, giving her a quick hug.

Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “Miriam, I think . . .”

Miriam shook her head, pressing a finger to Mary’s lips to silence her. “Whatever is done is done. I will see to my father.”

Grabbing her skirts in her hands, Miriam ran down the hallway to the entrance. Her shrill voice echoed back to Mary and Eaden as she firmly berated the soldier for allowing rodents to live unchecked in her father’s castle. Mary and Eaden crept behind her to the doorway and saw the guard, Miriam’s finger stabbing emphatically at his chest, backed in the corner of his post, obviously unnerved by the young woman’s harangue. One could just imagine him thinking,
who cares if there are rats in the jail
?

Eaden urged Mary forward and they disappeared silently around the corner. They held to the edge of the walls, the grey rain shrouding them in its heavy mists. Mary looked back as Eaden stumbled. She raced to his side, bracing him with one shoulder beneath his arm. His quick intake of breath alarmed her, but he did not allow her to stop and ask questions. This was not the time to assess his wounds.

The stable proved a haven, fragrant with dried hay and warm horses. Mary and Eaden passed the partly closed door of the tack room. Glancing inside, they glimpsed the recumbent forms of three stable lads taking full advantage of the dreary day. Light snores mingled with the steady sound of rain overhead and the low nickers from the horses as they passed each stall. Mary found Starnie and pulled his bridle from its peg.

She slipped the headstall over his head, seating the bit in his mouth. She led him from his stall and over to a mounting block near the door of the stable. Not waiting for Eaden to help her, she scrambled atop Starnie’s broad back and settled herself on his furry hide.

Eaden mounted behind her, though she flinched in surprise to see him use the mounting block himself, one arm tucked tight against his side. She longed to ask if he was all right, but his gaze caught hers and his furious glare shut her mouth, question unasked. Pulling Starnie’s head around, she kicked his sides and urged him out into the storm.

A shout of alarm arose from the jail and three soldiers rushed from the castle to the prison, hands on the hilts of their swords, urgently gesturing toward both the castle and the jail.

Eaden slid to the ground. “Go through the small gate. Walk and keep your head down. They are looking for two people who have escaped, not one. I will join you shortly.”

Mary opened her mouth to protest, but he slapped Starnie’s wet rump.

She slipped out the gate, waiting for the cry marking her escape. Blood pounding in her ears, she forced herself to keep Starnie at a plodding walk. A short way down the road stood a copse of trees and she guided him to its shelter. Her heart had taken permanent residence in her throat by the time Eaden joined her in the trees beyond the castle gates, on foot and limping badly.

With a struggle, he mounted behind her and took the reins. The pelting rain made for poor conversation, though Mary didn’t think he wanted her questions right now. Silently, Eaden turned the horse into the woods beyond the road and they were soon hidden from sight.

The rain stopped as they approached the river. Almost within sight of Scott Castle, the clouds broke apart and the afternoon sunshine was a welcome blessing.

“I need a moment, Eaden,” Mary said. As he reined the horse to a stop, she slid from Starnie’s back and vanished into the bushes. When she returned, she paused, staring at her husband. He leaned wearily over the horse’s back, his gaze focused on something in the distance. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling his skin with shadows and light. She remembered the guard’s words. He’d killed three men? And deserved what he got?

She searched him for signs of injury, and saw again the careful way he held himself. She could see a dark area above one eye, but couldn’t tell if it was bruising or dried blood. Or both.