Page 24 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

24

THE JURY IS OUT

* * *

B rigid watched the men of Todlaw's war council pace the great hall like caged wolves. Tables had been assembled, benches arranged, but no one sat. They were waiting for food, eager to have the meal done with so they could drag Atholl out and put an end to the anticipation.

In light of the tension in the room, the younger children had been taken below stairs to be fed.

Brigid was grateful not to be facing this alone, grateful to have Flanders nearby to assure her she was safe, even if that was only temporary. If only he’d been near when Bella was caught… But no. She couldn’t hold that against him. How could he have known what was happening on the other side of the pass? He'd come as soon as he learned of it, risked everything for a woman he barely knew.

And if she couldn't have her sister beside her now, when she was about to learn her fate, she was blessed to be surrounded by friends.

Flanders paced a large swath of floor that the others left to him, taking exactly eight steps before turning back. Each time he turned in her direction, his eyes found hers, and a thrill shot through her chest. Eight steps closer, then he'd turn away and she could breathe again. Eight steps, turn, and another thrill.

He’d repeated this dozens of times, then he changed tack. He didn’t turn away. With his jaw set, he strode directly toward her, that thrill mounting with every closing step. Without explanation, he lifted the child she'd been playing with and set him gently aside, then took her hand and marched out the back of the hall.

She scurried to keep up.

At the rear corner of the hall stood a spiral stair that led both up and down. He pulled her into the darkness, descended a few steps, then turned toward her. In the dim light, his face was all sharp lines and shadows, but his eyes burned bright. With the difference of a few steps, his face was level with her own.

"I've been a fool," he said, his voice low and impassioned. "Waitin' for the right moment, the perfect words. There's no such thing."

Her heart hammered in her chest. "Flanders?—"

"Nay, let me say it." He took her face in his hands, his touch gentle despite the intensity in his eyes. "Ye came into my dreams four years ago, and I've been chasin' the ghost of ye ever since. Now that I've found ye in the flesh, I'll not let ye go. Not for Stephan, not for Atholl, not for The Regent himself."

Tears pricked at her eyes. "Ye barely know me."

"I know enough. I know these eyes. I know this smile. I know a glow in my belly when ye reach for me.” His thumbs brushed her cheeks. "I know that when ye're near, life makes sense in a way it never did before."

A tear slipped down her cheek. "And if they try to take me?"

"They must go through me first." He pressed his forehead to hers. "I'll volunteer to take yer place, if needed, if it will satisfy those bastards?—"

"No!" She clutched at his tunic. "Ye must promise ye'll do no such thing. I couldn't bear it."

He smiled sadly. "Ye don’t like me to lie, remember? So, I won't. I'll do whatever I must to keep ye safe."

She wept then, for all she'd lost and all she might yet lose. Sorrow washed over them both in wave after wave that might have knocked them to their knees had they let go of each other. And when they’d finally spent their grief, he kissed her—once, twice, again and again, until the world beyond the stairwell ceased to exist.

A stolen bit of joy. Possibly the last.

Finally, they let go and awkwardly wiped each other’s tears. She reached out and made order out of his Viking-blond hair and smiled into his eyes. Her bright bear smiled back. And without another word, in a sort of drunken haze, they left the staircase behind and returned to the hall, their fingers knotted together.

The food had arrived during their absence. Platters of meat, bread, roasted root vegetables and sauces covered the tables, but few of their friends showed much appetite. Gerts caught Brigid's eye and gave her a sad smile, an unspoken understanding.

Together, they took a bench and sat with their shoulders touching. Brigid tried to eat, but the food had no flavor for her. Flanders managed no better.

"Ye know," Hemming said, breaking the heavy silence, "instead of hearin' Atholl out, perhaps we should just wall him inside." He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. "Let his men try to find him."

"Oh, but he'll call out," Snorre countered, a glint of humor in his eyes.

Rolf was eager to join in the jest. "We'd need to shut him up before we shut him in.”

Gerts leaned forward, her expression perfectly serious. "I could prepare some hensbane. Enough to keep him quiet for a day or two."

A deadly silence emanated from the far side of the room. Brigid turned to see Atholl's guards seated together at the farthest table, their faces grim. They had to have heard every word.

The tallest stood and encouraged the others to do the same. "We will see the earl. Now. "

Robert stood and nodded, barely keeping his expression in check. "Of course. It is time."

* * *

Brigid and Gerts, the five men of the war council, and four nervous guards made their way out of the hall, up the staircase, and to the solar where the Earl of Atholl had been isolated to deliberate the charges, the defense of those charges, and the strength of his own character.

As they approached the door, Flanders’ hand tightened around hers. He was as anxious as she.

Two Todlaw men stood to either side of the portal. Both were relieved by their approach. "He's been demanding to see ye, Laird Robert," one said. "We told him ye were at table, just as ye said to."

They opened the door to reveal Atholl, red-faced and pacing the chamber. He stopped abruptly, the look in his flashing eyes promised retribution.

Brigid’s stomach sank. Of course, they might have been kinder to the young man, but the more time she spent in the earl’s presence, the less she believed it might have mattered. The man obviously hated everything and everyone associated with The Bruce, so it was a wonder he wanted to have aught to do with the royal household.

"At last," the earl snapped. "Ye’re a fool to keep me waiting.”

"My apologies, my lord," Robert said, with little regret in his smooth tone. "We have a meal prepared if ye've finished yer deliberations."

The guard who'd overheard their jests pushed into the room. "My lord, I believe we should depart immediately."

Atholl's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

"For yer safety, my lord."

Atholl studied the carefully blank faces before him, then nodded sharply, as if he finally understood his vulnerability and how little love there was for him in that room. "Very well. We leave at once." He tapped his finger on a folded parchment on the table. "My judgement. Remember that my voice is the voice of The Regent in this matter. I’m sending a duplicate to Stirling post haste, and I shall deliver another to Laird Stephan myself."

He pressed a hand to his breast, where he carried the other copies. Then he jerked his hand away, as if he’d revealed too much.

Hemming stepped forward, staring at the spot. "Perhaps we should read it before ye go, my lord. In case we have questions."

"The document is quite clear," Atholl replied coldly. "You will escort us to the gates. Now .”

For a long moment, Hemming stood his ground, sizing up Comyn’s grandson, weighing his fate. Neither Flanders nor Robert said a word. No one moved as the possible scenarios swirled like dried leaves overhead. All anyone needed to do was pick one. Just one move would decide all.

Gerts’ low chuckle broke the silence and, still red-faced, Atholl pushed around Hemming and fled.

Hemming protested to Robert. "We can't just let him go, surely.”

"We cannot murder five men who ride under The Regent's banner," Robert said quietly. "And we cannot send the men of Todlaw to war without just cause."

"Then read it," Flanders said, his voice hard as stone. "Give us cause."