Page 7 of The Guardian’s Bride (Highland Secrets #3)

I n the dank underground cell, Rowena sat wondering how things had gone wrong so quickly. She glanced again toward the chamber’s other occupant. Not eight steps away, a Highlander snored, his bulky form wrapped in a dirty plaid blanket. The guards had called him a filthy Scot when they pushed her in here, and certainly he wore the wrapped woolen plaid common to northern Scotsmen. Messy dark hair and a beard peeked out of the plaid draped over his head, though his face was hidden, and his snores were loud and sloppy.

Beyond the oak door strapped in iron, she could hear English guards muttering and chuckling. A small, barred window set in the door let a shaft of torchlight into the small chamber. Those guards had dragged her in here and dumped her on the floor. Thinking back on the events that put her in this position, she pushed back the tendrils of hair that had escaped her veil and wrapped her arms around her raised knees, her blue gown spreading over the dirty straw.

She gleaned that Yester was east of Soutra near a river, which meant a few days’ travel separated her from home and safety. A few days from now, Gilchrist and his cousin Finley would return to Soutra to find her gone. They would not sit idle, but would search for her. She need only wait.

But that meant waiting here for days, a woman alone in a filthy cell with a snoring stranger, and leering guards outside the door. As the snores continued, she tried to ignore the bundle of plaid in the shadows. The man had scarcely moved beyond those long, full snores. Good. She needed no trouble from him, having enough of a dilemma.

She had been betrayed. The whore who poisoned King Edward, the guards had said. But the accusation and arrest made no sense. She had seen King Edward at his request, had done all she could, had left him in improved health. What had changed? Had he truly ordered her arrest? Remembering Brother Hugo’s sly looks at Soutra and at Lanercost too, she recalled that he had been suspicious of her methods and had mentioned the punishment of witches. She shuddered.

Hugo must have some hand in this, but why? How was the king now? She had prepared nothing harmful.

Ducking her head in her folded arms, she felt fear rise like bile in her throat. She breathed deep, clenched her fists. She would summon the steel backbone that she had developed over these last years—she had grown from the innocent, idealistic girl who had lost her young knight and the life she wanted, grown through widowhood and traveling, a woman alone, a female among males. She was accustomed to challenge. Here was another. She could wait this out.

Poisoned King Edward, had she? Well done, lass .

Aedan MacDuff lay still, recalling the guards’ comments when they brought the girl to his cell. Wrapped in the plaid, his eyes closed, he listened to the soft sounds across from him in the stone chamber. When the guards brought the lass here he woke, but stayed silent, knowing it was the best course. She had shuffled around a bit, sat with a whoosh of skirts, and quieted.

Hearing sniffling now, he found it hard to listen to a lass cry and do nothing.

He had also heard the guards mention that she would be held here temporarily until they were ready to move her to Berwick. Lord knows what might happen to her there, especially if King Edward had taken ill again. The king was none too healthy, Aedan knew; some said he was dying.

But if the girl had tried to poison Edward, that was trouble indeed—serious charges, a trial, perhaps hanging. Even burning, if she was accused of witchcraft, as they might do in France. Attempting to kill a king was tantamount to treason.

He gave a loud snort and rolled slightly to peer at his cellmate, his eyes obscured by a thick fall of hair. An arched and barred exterior window streamed afternoon light into the stone cell, mingled with torchlight through the slot in the door. Golden light flowed around her. He saw a slender young woman in dark blue, knees tucked, head down, shoulders shaking.

She wore a fine blue gown, a sleeveless gray over-gown, and a pale kerchief that covered dark hair that hung in a long braid down her back. A married woman? If so, where had her man been when she’d fallen into this kerfuffle? He also noticed she was neatly shaped with slender curves and graceful limbs.

But she could have a face like a sheep. Still, the sweet sight of her body fed his eyes and his sorry soul.

She sniffled again. The sound bothered him. Snoring again for good measure, he waited. She did not move. Her tousled, plaited hair was woven with yellow ribbons. A woman of privilege, veiled like a wife—what was she doing here?

No puzzle why he was here, though. A month had passed since they had hauled him to this place. Built like a bull, he had given as good as he got. But still, here he was, needing a bath, hating the food, tossing crumbs to the mice. And trying to appreciate the unexpected chance to rest, heal, think.

Someone had arranged this, and he would dearly like to know who, and why. Edward was not fool enough to punish a guardian of Scotland, and with luck, the English were not aware that he did work for Robert Bruce when he could. Instead, his crime was the treason of aiding in Bruce’s crowning—and simply being born a MacDuff.

So here he was, and he was determined to find a way out before they could transport him to Edinburgh, a plan he had overheard. There, he would be locked in a place he could not easily escape.

But he knew Yester Castle by its dark reputation, and since it was not a large fortress, he had figured out an escape route. Taken by English a few years back, Yester was situated on a broad hill above a loopy bend in the Hope Water not far from a village. The chamber where he lay and the girl sat sniffling was an underground storage room rather than a dungeon. The exterior barred window at ground level let in light and air and showed a grassy meadow where he sometimes saw boots marching past. The window in the cell door showed an underground corridor lit by torchlight, where guards often sat vigil playing dice or sharing ale.

Yester was a partial ruin after the English attack, and an old chapel, partly rubble now, perched in view across a meadow. Edward of England had put his bullying stamp all over Scotland. But assessing the ruins had given Aedan some ideas.

Nearly a month here had also given him time to grow stronger by pacing the cell, pushing against the walls, using his weight to build back his strength. Apparently, the English used this compact stone tower to park supplies, house a small group of soldiers, and keep temporary prisoners. Watching through the door or the window, he had seen guards and prisoners come and go and had overheard some of the orders.

But he had not seen a woman held here before. Just now, the two of them were the only prisoners.

She sniffled again, followed by a sorry little hiccup. Aedan opened a bleary eye. The jug of ale they had brought him earlier had been strong and bitter and he had been damned thirsty. But he had a head for strong drink like a little girl so had been sleeping off the resulting headache. Awake now, he felt clear enough to resume devising his plan to get free of this stone box.

But he could not leave a lass alone here. They’d called her a whore, but he had his doubts. His instincts about people were good when he was not working off the fog of a bad ale.

Footsteps, then the creak and snick of the latch as the door swung open. The girl looked up; he glimpsed a sweet, kind face. When a guard stepped into the cell, Aedan closed his eyes to feign sleep.

Straw rustled underfoot. “You! Whore! You are to be moved soon. Berwick, those are the orders. You will not be treated well there, I promise. Best enjoy your time here.”

“Why am I here? You have no cause to keep me.” Her voice was honey, Aedan thought. Warm, dark honey. Not the sticky purr of a whore, but the calm allure of a queen or the peaceful certainty of a saint. “I was betrayed. Nor should a woman be locked in with a criminal.”

Aedan pouted, hearing that. But to be sure, the woman did not know him.

“Betrayed? That lug over there would say the same. But he won’t pester you. He’s sleeping off his cups.”

“I must send a message to King Edward.”

“The king you tried to poison? Hah! You might see him if they cart you from Berwick to Carlisle. You will be taken to Berwick on a charge of treason and an attempt to murder the king. Then they may cart you down to Carlisle for your trial and execution.”

“Execution?” Her voice faltered. “But I did not harm Edward. He summoned me.”

“All I know is the king took ill after you were there. They say you poisoned him.”

“I never did,” she whispered.

Aedan heard confusion and despair in her voice. She was no whore—but she must have brought something to the king, perhaps food or a curative. Word was King Edward was desperate for doctors, alchemists, astrologers, seers, and the like to help with his illness. Some would be quacks pressing remedies in hopes of reward. Whatever this woman had done, it had gone wrong.

He heard the shush of fabric as she stood. “If the king is that ill, I must see him. I need an escort to Lanercost. Who is in charge here?”

Steps crushed straw as the guard came closer. “You will have an escort to Berwick. That is all I know. First, I have something you need now. Come here—”

Aedan heard a grunt, a soft gasp and a muffled slap, an angry growl—

Enough. Throwing off the plaid, he surged to his feet.

The Highlander rose from the shadows like a shaggy brown bull. With one hand, he pushed Rowena firmly aside and with the other grabbed the guard by his surcoat, picked him up, and hurled him against the wall. She heard the guard’s metal helmet strike the stone wall like a bell, and the man slid down to dump on the floor, legs apart, head tilted back.

Stomping past her, the Scotsman bent and knocked the guard hard in the jaw. “That is for your manners,” he growled. “You harmed, lady?”

Staring, Rowena collected her wits and knelt by the guard. “Is he hurt?”

“Does it matter? Did he harm you?”

“He did not. And you are a brute. But thank you,” she added. Taking the unconscious guard’s chin in one hand, she felt his jaw and lifted each eyelid to peer at his pupils. Then she stood, brushing straw from her skirt, and turned.

Hands fisted on his hips, booted feet spread, shoulders broad, the Highlander looked fearsome, a giant. A volume of brown hair and a riot of a beard obscured his face like a hedge. But his eyes were surprisingly gentle, his frown contrite.

“How is he?”

“He will live.” She passed him to go to the door.

“Do not call another guard in here,” he growled.

“I am just looking out.” Standing on tiptoe, she looked through the small, barred opening in the door and saw an empty table and a flickering wall torch. She turned. “No one is there. He must have been alone.”

“Saw his chance, the rat.” He kicked the guard’s boot.

“Leave him be.”

“Soft-hearted damsels invite trouble,” he muttered, and hunkered down to tug the man’s helmet away. The guard’s head, covered in a quilted cap, flopped to one side.

“Good, he will be more comfortable,” she said.

“Soft heart,” he repeated, and snatched the cap as well, pulling it over his head, earpieces dangling. Then he set the bowl-shaped helmet over it and crammed it down. A wealth of wild, waving brown hair fluffed out beneath.

“Tiny wee head,” he grumbled.

Rowena felt a twinge of alarm as he slid the man’s broadsword from its sheath. She feared he might lop off the guard’s head then and there, but he thrust the handle toward her. “Hold this.”

She gripped the hilt, blade point down, and watched as the Highlander divested the guard of the red woolen surcoat sewn with yellow lions rampant. He worked the surcoat free with a muttered curse. The fellow’s arms, encased in chainmail, thunked down.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Escaping. You and me.” He stood. “I will leave his armor. It would never fit.”

“Escape?” she squeaked.

He removed the helmet, set it down, and pulled the surcoat over his head. “With this, we have a chance. Damn,” he said, voice muffled, head covered, one arm through the wide opening of one sleeve, the other caught.

“If you keep pulling, it will rip.” She set the broadsword down to go to his aid. “Stop stretching it. This is too tight. He is a smaller man than you.”

“Most are. Make it fit. Do whatever women do to make things fit.”

She tugged at the cloth until his arms popped through, then gave it an extra pull as she straightened it over his wide shoulders and chest. Then she stood back.

“What do you mean, escape?”

“I mean, I am getting out of here and you are coming with me.”

“I am not leaving with you. I do not know you.”

He jabbed a thumb toward the door. “Do you know them? You do not. They will take you to Berwick and show you the same courtesy that cretin did. And then you will wish you had fled with a stranger this sorry day.”

“I will ask them to take me to the king.”

“That is foolish.”

“Why? I saw the king weeks ago. He will listen to me.”

“Hah!” Picking up a wide leather belt, he strapped it over his hips. Rowena noticed the empty sheath looped there; they had taken his dagger. He wore a sporran attached to the leather belt he had fastened over tunic and trews. When he pulled the surcoat over that, the red cloth strained to cover bulky clothing and brawny man.

Fixing the guard’s leather strap across his broad chest, he raised the sword and slid it behind him into the strap’s sturdy back loops. “Good enough,” he grunted. “I need a bigger sword.”

“Sword or not, we could be caught as soon we step out of here. We could be hanged for this.”

“I have been planning this escape. We will be fine.”

“When were you making plans? You were sleeping off the drink.”

“I was thinking and listening. Nor would I leave a woman alone here while I dance out disguised as a guard.”

“Disguised? You are rather…noticeable.” Truly, he was a beast with wild hair, a bushy beard, and a surcoat about to split across his broad shoulders.

“Let us pray they do not look closely. Come on.” He reached for her arm.

“Wait.” She slipped her hand into the embroidered purse on her leather belt and took out a small pair of scissors. “Less beard would change your appearance. You might look more like an Englishman.”

“I do not care to look English.” He stepped back as she brandished the scissors.

“Then go out as you are and see how far you get.”

He gave a reluctant grunt and lifted his chin, tugging a handful of beard for her to clip. “Hurry. But leave some of it.”

“You are too tall for me to do this properly. Kneel.”

“God’s bones, woman,” he said as he knelt, his head, still in the quilted cap, now level with her shoulders. “Will you knight me next, and shall we have wine and sweetmeats? We have no time for this.”

She took hold of his beard, pushing his hand aside to slice bit by bit through the beard. Russet, brown, and gold spiraled to the floor. “Are you a knight, sir?”

“I am.”

“What are you called?”

His eyes were closed. “Mine is not a name to speak aloud in this place.”

Puzzled, she paused to scrutinize her work; the beard was choppy but improved. A fine masculine face emerged with a strong, elegant structure: a lean jaw, squared chin, high-set cheekbones, and long, neatly shaped nose. His hair was a riot of long brown curls partly mashed under the cap; under thick dark brows and half-lowered eyelids, his eyes were hazel green. Peeking through the shorter beard, a dimple slotted at the corner of his pursed lips, a note of amused impatience. Propping his firm chin in one hand, she began to trim his mustache.

“Not the mustache,” he mumbled through taut lips.

“I wish we had time to trim your hair.” She brushed back the messy waves and curls spilling over his broad brow. A scar creased the side of his cheek, thin and pink, with faint dots from old stitches. She stopped, stared.

She knew that scar.

“We have no time, lass. Are you done?”

Could it be—what was the man’s name at Holyoak, months ago? She could not think in the moment, on the edge of panic, with the Highlander pressing her to hurry. As he raised his hand, she smacked it away and snipped the beard to neaten it further.

“Enough!” He scowled, his mossy green eyes touched with gold. Beautiful, she thought. Months ago, she had hardly seen them open.

“That looks better.” She fluffed his beard. He lowered her hand, his fingers gentle.

Muttering gruff thanks, he stood, took up the helmet, and jammed it over cap and curls. “Too small. Damn thing might pop off.”

“Bend down.” She reached up to smooth the thick chestnut curls bulging out from under the helmet, then tugged up the narrow collar of his shirt and tunic, lost under the ill-gotten surcoat. “Better.”

“Now you.” He took up his discarded plaid, shook it, held it out. “Put this on.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I do not—”

“ Ach, it is not that dirty! Hurry, now. They will look for a lass in a blue gown. I cannot wear the plaidie with this gear and will not leave it behind. My sister wove it and she would have my head if I lost it.”

“I see.” She realized she had decided to go with him. He swirled the plaid around her shoulders and draped its edge over her head. Then he cupped his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her.

“Listen, lass. Be careful, follow me, and say naught, aye?”

“But—”

“Hush. Once we are away, say whatever you please.” He stepped and snatched up a length of rope from the straw. “Hold out your hands.”

“What are you doing?” Rowena squeaked as he wrapped and knotted the rope around her wrists.

“You are in my custody and I am your guard. Ah! Nearly forgot.” He went to the unconscious guard, fiddled at the man’s belt, and returned with a dagger, which he jammed into the empty sheath. “Come ahead—er, come ahead, you ,” he repeated in a graveled voice.

A nervous giggle escaped her. “You look like a festival mummer.”

“ Ach , she cuts me to the quick. And me thinking I look a handsome English devil.” He took her upper arm through layers of plaid, cloak, and gown, his grip firm. Opening the door, he peered out, then guided her in front of him. “Act frightened.”

“It is not an act,” she murmured.

But the Highlander was like a wall, a shield, a fortress. She was glad of it, though his name eluded her.