The Renegade's Heart (29 page)

“I must get my cloak,” she said and saw the
flash of his triumphant smile before she turned to fetch it.

“Will they return for you? Look for you?”

Isabella thought about this for a moment. “We
had the evening meal already. The brazier is lit for the night. I
shall extinguish the lantern and they may think me asleep.” She did
as much while Murdoch rolled the blankets on the pallet into a
cylinder. It did not really look like a person, but perhaps in
darkness, it would give them a few moments’ undiscovered.

He leapt to the window sill once more,
remaining utterly still while he surveyed the bailey below. With
startling speed, he seized the rope, spun and flung himself out the
window. He turned on the rope to land with his feet braced against
the wall. He hung there and gave Isabella a challenging smile. “By
yourself or with me?”

“I have never done this. I might fall and
reveal us both.” Isabella wished the truth were otherwise. “Will I
be too heavy for you?”

Murdoch shook his head, looking more reckless
than ever. His expression made Isabella’s heart skip. “Leave my
right arm unencumbered,” he instructed as she stepped on to the
sill. She donned her own gloves and seized the rope, mimicking his
gesture. She nearly shouted, it was such a shock to swing out the
window, but she bit back her cry.

And she landed against Murdoch’s chest with a
thump, her back to him.

“Well done,” he murmured, his lips against
her ear. He instructed her how to move her hands so that she held
some of her weight herself, then warned her that he was about to
move. “We descend in spurts,” he said. “The height of a man or
slightly more each time. When I tell you, loosen your grip slightly
on the rope. You will not fall.”

“Not unless you fall as well.”

He chuckled. “There is that. If nothing else,
I will break your fall.”

His confidence was infectious and Isabella
nodded understanding.

Murdoch kissed the back of her neck and she
closed his eyes at his touch.

“And away,” he said softly.

They dropped a good ten feet, the rope
slipping through his gloved hands as Isabella watched in dismay.
She feared that they would fall, that she would land atop him in
the bailey and that he would break a bone.

To her relief, Murdoch managed to grip the
rope tightly before she panicked. When he had steadied them once
more, she heard him take a deep breath.

“I have always done this alone before,” he
murmured by way of apology. “But it is not so different.” He did
not linger. “Away again.”

They descended the rest of the way in smaller
increments, just as he had said. He tugged at the rope and
grappling hook once they were on the ground, obviously disappointed
that he would have to leave it.

“Nothing for it,” he murmured, then winked
and seized her hand. They ran for the far side of the stables.

Isabella heard voices as they drew close to
the last corner of the low building and she halted Murdoch with a
hand on his arm. They leaned back against the stable, hidden by the
shadows and Murdoch peered around the corner. Men were talking,
making a jest, and she could hear the jingle of a horse’s trap.

Murdoch’s lips tightened when he leaned back
against the wall. Isabella knew he was furious and wondered what he
had seen. He touched a finger to his lips, demanding silence, then
pointed to the corner.

Isabella leaned past him to look and nearly
gasped in dismay. The ostler, Owen, was there, with two of his
boys. They led Murdoch’s horse by the reins toward Kinfairlie’s
stalls.

“The renegade must be within Kinfairlie’s
bounds,” Owen said. “And left his horse tethered there for a quick
escape. He shall not evade our laird on this night.” He reached up
and stroked the white stallion’s nose. “And all the better for this
one, for he shall be safe and well fed. Perhaps better fed than he
has been of late.” He clicked his tongue to the horse, sent one of
the boys to the hall to deliver the news to Alexander upon his
return, and took the steed into Kinfairlie’s stables.

Isabella leaned back beside Murdoch, and
could fairly hear him thinking.

“How many?” he mouthed, gesturing to the
stables behind them.

Isabella grimaced. She held up ten fingers,
then another ten, then shrugged.

Murdoch scowled, clearly unhappy to be
without his horse.

Isabella shook her head. She pointed toward
Ravensmuir, across the untended fields and gorse that lay between
the two keeps on this side. She mocked riding a horse and shook her
head. She let her fingers walk and nodded.

“Ravensmuir?” he mouthed in obvious surprise
at their destination.

Isabella nodded firmly.

Murdoch pointed at the shadowed hulk of the
ruined keep in the distance as if he could not believe what she
said. Ravensmuir was silhouetted against the brightness of the
sea.

Isabella nodded.

Murdoch stared into the shadowed fields,
clearly thinking. She did not doubt that he saw the gullies that
crossed the space and the rocks that nestled in the ground, for the
moon was full and illuminated the ground as brightly as the midday
sun. There were far more rocks than the big ones that were readily
visible, thousands of small rocks that could break a horse’s leg.
They would arrive more quickly if they ran.

He mimicked riding, then gestured to the land
they could see. He drew a line with his fingertip and shrugged.

Isabella understood. Where was the road?

She pointed back to Kinfairlie’s gates behind
them, then past the forest, drawing a wide arc in the air that
ultimately led to Ravensmuir from the far side of the forest.

Murdoch took a deep breath, cast one last
glance back as Zephyr nickered in the stable, then tightened his
grip on Isabella’s hand. She knew in that instant that he had
agreed with her advice.

He did not walk toward Ravensmuir,
though.

Murdoch ran.

* * *

Murdoch and Isabella fled on foot, racing
north from Kinfairlie’s keep. In the distance and to their right
was the glimmer of the ocean, turned silver by the moon’s light.
Far ahead was the shadow of Ravensmuir’s ruins, abandoned and
still. There was gorse underfoot and rocks, for this land had not
been tilled in decades. Kinfairlie’s forest and its village fell
far behind them.

Murdoch could not dismiss his sense that
trouble was brewing. All had gone well enough, but he feared he had
missed some key detail.

He had been angry, of course, to lose his
horse, and had initially wished they had Zephyr, for the stallion
would have made light of both the distance and the additional
weight of Isabella. When Murdoch saw the truth of the rough
terrain, he was glad the horse would not risk injury and he would
not be tempted to encourage speed on such ground. He felt certain
that the destrier would be well tended at Kinfairlie. He was not
certain he would be able to retrieve the horse as his own, but that
was another issue for another day. Zephyr’s welfare was assured and
he would satisfy himself with that.

Stewart and the boys would be safely on the
far side of Kinfairlie forest by this time, he was certain, perhaps
even at Queensferry. By the time the laird’s party reached the
woods, they would be far away – and safe. The welfare of those from
his brother’s household who had been dispatched with him was
guaranteed as well.

It was slow walking through the stony fields
in darkness, the ancient furrows always in the wrong direction and
deeply pitted with gullies. Kinfairlie’s tower had seemed ominous
and all too close. Murdoch had feared the laird would ride after
his sister, that he would cut across the fields readily, and that
their quest would come to an end too soon.

The relics would be lost. His brother would
not see his property returned. Murdoch would be lost, and for no
gain. In the silence they felt compelled to keep, it was all too
easy to fabricate dire endings to his tale.

Had Isabella been wrong about the destination
of the thief? Murdoch could discern no sign that any other soul had
passed this way.

In decades.

Who was the thief? What manner of fool would
choose this direction? Who would select crumbled Ravensmuir as his
destination? The thief would not be pursued, but he also might not
survive long within those collapsing walls. Murdoch trusted
Isabella, but he wondered whether she had been deceived.

For there was no denying that he had a potent
sense of foreboding. The hair prickled on the back of his neck and
he stifled the urge to spend the night safely hidden out of sight.
Murdoch felt as if a tide were rising behind him, gathering deadly
force.

When orange light flared in the distance far
to their left, he knew the source of that threat.

* * *

Two selfless deeds.

Finvarra was well-pleased with Murdoch Seton.
Rare was a man whose own nature would driven him to take a risk for
another. That Murdoch did as much fully cognizant of the stakes
only increased Finvarra’s estimation. The man had seen to the
welfare of a horse, at no small risk to himself, and had also
ensured that his squire was defended on that quest into Kinfairlie
village.

Finvarra was also impressed that Murdoch
could appreciate a fine horse, even if it was not his own. He
considered the chess board deep in Kinfairlie’s forest, well aware
that the Elphine Queen’s mood turned petulant, and sipped golden
wine from a chalice.

He was glad he had accepted her invitation.
He had not anticipated the beauty of Elizabeth, past, present and
future, and a glimpse only fed his appetite for the future. He
glanced toward his unhappy wife, sipped his wine, and considered
the merit of lingering at Kinfairlie a while.

He was pondering how best to aid Murdoch
Seton in achieving his third selfless deed - even questioning
whether his assistance was necessary - when the knights rode into
Kinfairlie forest with blazing torches.

When they lit Murdoch’s abandoned camp
ablaze, the Elphine Queen leapt to her feet in outrage. “How dare
they damage my forest?” she cried, though the mortal knights could
not hear her. “Does he imagine he can destroy me so readily as
this?” She raged into the sky like a venomous cloud and Finvarra
knew he had to act quickly to protect Murdoch from her wrath.

A glamour first, and then a refuge. He turned
away from Una and conjured with all his might.

Which was considerable.

* * *

Isabella gasped and stopped to stare at the
flames in the forest. Her hand rose to her mouth, her expression
horrified. “He truly does it,” she whispered. She looked at Murdoch
in consternation. “Alexander burns Kinfairlie forest. He threatened
as much. He said he would rout you, but I did not think he would do
it.”

Murdoch stared at this evidence of the
laird’s anger.

The orange flames seemed ferociously bright
against the darkness of the night. Murdoch could fairly hear the
crackle of the fire and he could see the smoke rising into the
starry sky. The fire did not spread, though, and he guessed that
Alexander had targeted his own abandoned camp site. The laird would
make a point, not destroy the value of his holding.

Murdoch was not welcome.

“It will not burn,” he told Isabella. “There
is too much snow on the ground, particularly in the forest. All
would be damp and smolder.”

“I hope so. I could not bear to see it
destroyed.”

“Look,” he said to reassure her, pointing.
“Already it begins to smolder.” Isabella heaved a sigh of relief
and leaned against him, but there was to be little reprieve.

For in that moment, he heard the scream. It
was an unholy cry of fury, one that grew in volume until he thought
his ears might bleed. At the same time, a deep shadow rose from the
forest like a great plume of dark cloud. It roiled against the sky,
then tumbled toward the ground. The black cloud spread with
lightning speed, like a wall of soot racing across the land. As
that cloud drew close to them, a woman’s face became clear at its
fore.

A woman with flowing black hair and eyes as
dark as night, her teeth bared as she roared with fury.

“She hunts you!” Isabella whispered in
horror. “She blames you!”

Murdoch did not know why and he did not have
time to consider the question. He seized Isabella’s hand and
pivoted, intent upon fleeing to Ravensmuir. Isabella needed no
urging to join him. Their boots pounded across the fields, their
breath ragged, their hands clutched together.

But when the cold dark cloud passed over
them, its force nearly took them to their knees. Murdoch flung
Isabella beneath him and sheltered her with his body as the tide
passed. He winced as a layer of ice formed over his back, that
unholy cry echoing in his ears.

The Elphine Queen did not see them, at least
not yet, for they survived the onslaught. Murdoch felt both blessed
beyond belief. Though he could not explain their good fortune, he
would accept it. When he lifted his head, the fields were touched
with ice and the air was so cold that he feared to take a breath.
He winced, certain the blue marks on his body were growing with
untold vigor, and doubted he could fully feel his toes.

“She will not claim you,” Isabella insisted,
kissing him with ferocity. Her heat flooded into his body,
invigorating him once more, and Murdoch regretted the moment she
lifted his lips from his.

“We must find shelter,” he said, urging her
to her feet. He stumbled but Isabella urged him onward, her faith
giving him the power to run again.

Ravensmuir still appeared to be a thousand
miles away and there was no scrap of shelter between them and the
ruined keep. Though it seemed their fate was hopeless, Murdoch
could not surrender so readily as that.