Page 8 of The Guardian’s Bride (Highland Secrets #3)

I n the dim corridor, Aedan breathed in relief to see the area empty but for a table where an oil lamp burned; someone would return soon enough. Leading the girl around a corner, he held out a warning hand. Ahead, a half-open door showed a leaden gray sky indicating rain and twilight. The day had grown long while he had slept, saved a girl, flattened a sorry guard, and mucked about changing his gear. And the woman complicated things further with beard-trimming and pretty gray eyes to distract him. He had an escape plan but had not been ready to follow it. Well, nothing for it but to try.

“This way. Careful,” he cautioned as they moved to the exit. The underground rooms and passages beneath the old tower, made of rough-hewn stone on an earthen floor, held boxes and sacks rather than prisoners. If he had found other captives, he would have released them for helpful chaos and Scots justice.

With empty rooms, the guards had no good reason to put the girl in his cell. They must have thought he would jump her for his pleasure and their entertainment. But they had the wrong man.

He motioned her ahead, pausing when he heard voices outside.

“What do we do now?” she whispered.

“Walk out boldly, guard and prisoner.” He guided her to the open door. The fresh cool air felt like a luxury; he had hardly been outside for weeks. A breeze mingled the scents of grass, trees, smoke, and something delicious roasting, and he guessed that guards had gathered near an evening fire where their supper rotated on a spit.

Yester Tower was a small keep with a small number of guards and was easily negotiated, but the tower’s size afforded few places to hide. Aedan knew he was recognizable due to his height and build, though his stolen helmet and surcoat gave him a chance. He knew that soldiers passed through here often, so he must gamble that he would be mistaken for a newly assigned man.

Stepping outside and down stone steps to an earthen spread, he saw smoke rising beyond a hillock and heard voices. The charred smell of roasting meat was so tantalizing that his stomach rumbled.

“What now?” the girl whispered.

“Hold,” he murmured, keeping her behind him, a hand on her arm. She was so finely shaped that his fingers nearly wrapped around her arm; he eased his grip. Where the smoke rose, he glimpsed a cluster of helmets as the men waited for their dinner.

Hoping they were distracted by hunger and cooking chores, he eased forward with the girl, keeping watch as he went. With luck, no one would notice the two slipping away from the tower in the dusky light.

Nearby were a few outbuildings and a stable, but he knew taking a horse to ride away would invite more trouble. Across the meadow was the ruined chapel backed by woodland. He headed there with the girl as rain pattered over his ill-fitting helmet.

A guard was walking from the woodland toward the tower. Noticing Aedan and the girl, he stopped, raised a hand, called out. Aedan paused, standing in front of the girl, instinctively protective.

“Off to Berwick? Or will you two be doing something else?” The man chuckled.

Aedan bristled. “Berwick. Riding through the night. Orders,” he said curtly.

“Where is John Harley? He went to get her.”

“Did ye not see him run out?” Thinking fast, Aedan landed on a tale he had heard about Yester Tower. “Scared, he was.”

“Scared of the big fellow in the cell?”

“Eh, that one would sleep through anything. Nah, it was the shrieks! This place is haunted. The locals talk of it. Have ye not heard the howling at night?”

“Haunted?” The man cast a wary glance at the tower. “The sound could be a fox.”

“Could be. But they say this place was built by a wizard a hundred years ago with help from the de’il and his hobgoblins. They call it Goblin Hall.” He shrugged.

“Goblins? A wizard? God’s foot, I heard naught of that.”

“If we knew, how many would stay here? Goblins built the foundation, they say. The underground chambers are cursed by the de’il, whose hobgoblins play games at night and in storms.” Aedan glanced up. “Might rain hard tonight.”

“Harley ran out, you say?”

“We all ran out and left the Highlander there. That old chapel is haunted worse than the tower, I hear.”

The guard looked toward the chapel and shivered. “We only use this place for storage and to house prisoners briefly. We should all leave.”

“Aye! Well, best get this chit to Berwick so they can lock her up there. Keep away until them spirits calm down after the storm. Hey, smells like supper is ready.” He jabbed a thumb toward the fire, took the girl’s arm, and deliberately headed for the stables as the guard turned to walk toward his supper.

“Goblins?” the girl asked.

“Some, they say. We will hope that tale keeps them away for a while.” Aedan headed for the chapel ruin. “Move fast and keep close.”

Loping ahead, a hand on her arm, he knew her tied wrists hampered her, yet she managed, skirts billowing. Rain fell in earnest as he tugged her toward the chapel. Despite broken walls and fallen stones, it would provide shelter briefly.

Ducking inside, pulling her with him, he shoved the half-burned door closed. A gap in the front wall looked out on the tower, stables, surrounding hills, and woodland. Aedan studied the lay of the land, judging their chances. Then he urged the girl toward the shadowed end of the chapel and seated her on a stack of fallen stones.

“Stay here. I will go watch.”

He found a vantage point near the entrance where he could see the group by the fire. They tucked into supper, acting relaxed, helmets off, perhaps talking of haunted Yester now. He had told the truth, having heard tales of the place, yet never thought to be here.

Soon he returned to the girl. She held out her hands, still joined by rope.

“Sorry.” Dropping to a knee, he worked the knots loose. She rubbed her wrists.

“Thank you. What now?” Her honeyed voice plunged through him; that alluring sound in another time and place could have taken his defenses down quick. But he was wary and guarded, his glance straying to the view beyond the broken walls.

“We wait. When they discover we have left, they will go in pursuit. For now, we are better off here.”

“How long must we stay here?” Her eyes were gray-blue framed in black lashes. Wide, earnest, calm, keenly intelligent eyes.

“In a hurry? Where would you go?” He sat on a rough block of stone, tugged off the helmet, and shoved back the wild tangle of his hair.

“I want to go home, but I should return to Lanercost to see the king.”

“That is no place for you if you attempted to poison him.”

“I never did. King Edward knows I would never harm him.”

“Your king is a madman, and you would be a madwoman to go to him. Either way, I will not take you there.”

“You do not need to take me anywhere. I will go on my own. And he is not my king, he is my patient.” In the rainy half-light, she was a beauty, her face a delicate oval, eyes the gray-blue of thunderclouds. Dark hair showed in ripples beneath the draped veil. She looked familiar in a misty way, as if he had seen her in a dream.

A memory stirred, slipped away. “Are you a healer, a wise-wife?”

“An herbal healer. Not a wife. And not very wise.” She gave a rueful shrug.

“It is not wise to poison a king and not finish the job.”

“I did not do that!” Her chin jutted out.

“But you could have done it. You have the knowledge.”

“Anyone who works with herbs could. But I would not.”

“Pity, seeing as it was Edward.”

She flashed him a steely look.

What troubled him was not only the guards beyond and the risk of being discovered. Memories accosted him, swept in, faded out. The girl was familiar.

The chapel was a sad ruin, like Scotland’s very faith collapsed. He sighed and glanced toward the guards by the fire. Leaning his elbows on his knees, entwining his fingers, he considered how to get out of here and to Fife, and what to do with the girl.

“If I cannot get to Lanercost,” she said, as if she knew his thoughts, “I must get home to my family and friends.”

“Stay away from Edward if you value your life. When it is full dark, we will head out. A few miles from here is a river, where we can hire a boat.”

“A boat?” She scrunched her nose: a bonny little nose over a bonny mouth, full and lush, and those gray thundercloud eyes, deep and long-lashed, captivated him. He glanced away. Whoever she was, he must focus on getting them out of this place.

“A boat is often the fastest way around Scotland, as you no doubt know,” he replied. “We will need to move fast. I am sorting out how and by which route.”

“I suppose we should travel together for a bit. May I know your name?” Her eyes were keen on his. “You said it is no name to say aloud, but we can be quiet here.”

“My name alone could hang me.” He met her gaze.

“Is it so? I am Rowena,” she offered. “Lady Rowena Keith.”

“Keith.” He frowned at the elusive memory. “Kin to the Marischal of Scotland?”

“He is my great-uncle. My father was another Robert Keith, lord of Kincraig.”

The realization hit him like a rinse of ice water.

Lady, we were nearly betrothed once .

“Henry Keith’s sister?” He leaned toward her.

“Do you know my brother?”

“A bit. Rowena is an unusual name.” His thoughts tumbled. He was not ready to tell her what he suddenly recalled.

“My mother had a copy of Historia Regum Britanniae . Geoffrey of Monmouth. She saw the name there.”

“I have read some Arthurian tales. As I recall, Rowena seduced Vortigern.”

“I hope that was not her inspiration! Mama had a brother called Rowan. He died young, so my name served his memory. Will you give me your christened name?”

“Aedan. Aodh, ” he added. “Ancient god of sun and fire. The old Celts.”

“The name suits you. Sir Aedan. I—we—” She shook her head, denying some inner thought. “Did you invent that tale of goblins and a wizard?”

“Real enough at Yester. We will be fine.” He winked should she frighten easily.

“I am not afraid of wizards. Some called my great-grandfather a wizard, but he was a kind and clever man—a soothsayer, but not a wizard with a familiar.”

“Your great-grandfather?” He tipped a brow.

“Thomas the Rhymer,” she added.

Not surprised now that he knew who she was, he nodded. “I met him once when I was young. A fascinating gentleman.” Her great-grandfather had been part of the betrothal discussion years ago. The old man had impressed him. Though Aedan had been more interested in knighthood than marriage then, he had bonded to the idea of the Keith girl and the promise. “They do say the Rhymer spent time with the faery ilk.”

“There were stories, but he rarely spoke of it himself. He did say that when he was a young man, he met the queen of the faeries in Elfland, as he called it. He wrote a ballad about it that he sang for us. We loved his tales, though I sometimes wondered if they were true. I had a practical turn of mind even as a child.”

“And now? Do you believe in such?”

“He gave each of us some things that he said were faery-blessed. Later I came to believe that there is some merit to it.” She sounded cautious. “I studied folk medicine and such.”

“I am blessed to be in such marvelous company.” He smiled.

“He was marvelous, not me.” She tilted her head. “May I see your arm?”

Puzzled by that, he extended his right arm. She tapped his left. When he lifted it, she pushed up his tunic sleeve to reveal part of the long scar that ran there.

“Does it hurt?” She touched it gently. A tingle shivered through him.

“I took the wound in a melee,” he explained. “Loch Ryan, if you have heard of it. Battle on a sea loch. A terrible day for the Scots. An enemy sword caught me just where I braced my shield. Another blade caught my leg. I fell, and went overboard, and was hauled aboard another ship. We got away.”

“I am so glad you survived.”

Memories flashed like stars. Cool hands on his brow. A balm poured over the gashes, stinging and soothing. A voice, honey and wine. Gray eyes like clouds. He blinked.

“You,” he said.

“Me,” she murmured, peering at the angled scar.

“The healing woman at Holyoak.” He stared at her, heart beating fast. Rowena Keith, the very lass he had nearly married, was the bonny young healer who had treated him at Holyoak. Not Robina, but Rowena—the woman he had ached to find.

“Your arm has healed nicely, though it is just three months.”

“I am much better.” Sometimes the bits of one’s life could suddenly converge, he thought, stunned; it was the mystifying work of angels.

“A robust man can recover quickly. Though I was concerned you might not make it. You were so ill by the time you reached Holyoak.”

“Whatever you did made the difference.”

She watched him, her eyes solemn gray, slim fingers resting on his forearm. He remembered that kind gaze, that soothing touch; he recalled silk stitches like tiny thorn pricks, the cleansing sting of wine, the comfort of cool cloths and warm compresses. He had clung to the sound of her voice, her presence a balm when he feared he might die. She had been a blur in candlelight then. Now he saw her clearly and felt as if his heart opened, warmed. He was very glad to find her and thankful he could help her.

“You were with the monks at Holyoak. I took you for a nun at first.”

“A widow. Sometimes I help in Holyoak’s infirmary. When you came there, the abbot sent for my help. I am pleased to see you well again.”

“Sometimes I feel aches in rain or cold, but that is all. I am in your debt.”

“You are not. I am in your debt today for bringing me out of that tower. What is that sound?” She gasped at the blast of a ram’s horn followed by shouts. Aedan went to the gap in the front wall to peer out. Rowena Keith followed.

“They are sounding the alarm,” he said. “They must have gone to the cell, so they know we left. Wait. Be silent.” He hunkered low, watching through a gap in the wall. He set a hand on her shoulder to pull her down too. She sat, curled small beside him.

Men ran to the stables and soon a few rode out. The sky was growing dark with the threat of rain. Aedan thought it was time to move to the shelter of the forest.

“They left without looking in the chapel,” Rowena said.

“They were fool enough to believe we rode for Berwick. They did not count the horses.” He chuckled. “We should go into the forest. Wait a bit to be sure they are gone.”

She peered through the gap, then sighed. “I am a little hungry.”

“As am I. What do you have besides scissors in that magic bag of yours?”

“Some dried plants, a couple of stones. A few coins.”

“Plants and—stones?” he asked quickly. A memory sparked.

“Charm stones,” she replied. “They are often used in healing in the Highlands.”

“I have heard of such. Did you use one when you treated me?”

The memories crowded his mind. The girl singing a chant, hands graceful in the air. A crystal glinting in the darkness. Stones, crystals—the days of his injury and illness were blurred, memories out of reach, returning without warning.

Stones. Thomas. The Keiths—

The day the Rhymer visited Fife, Aedan had been fifteen, feeling privileged to be included at a meal with the venerable soothsayer. He and his brother Duncan, the sixteen-year-old earl—how he missed him, every memory tinted with that—had been wards of Bishop Lamberton of Saint Andrews, who had tutored the boys. Now they sat with Keith, the Rhymer, other Scottish earls and barons. Aedan heard a discussion of his possible marriage to a daughter of Keith of Kincraig, kin to the Rhymer. But Lamberton argued that Aedan should study for the priesthood.

Yet Aedan had been more intrigued by the leadership council being formed, a group of earls and warlords who would govern Scotland as regents until a new king could be found. King Alexander’s fatal fall from a horse on a rainy night had left Scotland in turmoil. Edward of England was already prowling and growling at the gate, and something had to be done. Until a solution was found, the council of guardians would oversee Scotland’s laws and sovereignty.

The Guardians of the Realm of Scotland was such a heroic name. Aedan’s brother would be a member as an earl, despite his age, and Aedan yearned to be part of it too.

Later, at supper, True Thomas spoke to him, an unexpected honor.

Thee, lad, the old man had said, I see a warrior and a guardian in thee. One day thee will carry much on big shoulders. Guard the crown, the blade, and the crystal.

“Sir?” He felt bewildered. “My brother will be a guardian of Scotland, not me. I want to be a knight, but the bishop thinks I should be a priest.”

Listen now. Knight, not priest. Guard Scotland and its treasure. Look for the woman with the crystal stone. The Rhymer patted his shoulder and walked away.

Guarding a crown and a crystal sounded like something out of an Arthurian tale. Though he enjoyed such stories, Aedan had dismissed it as imagination.

Now he remembered the old Rhymer’s unlikely message, his vivid blue eyes, his stirring aged voice. Years later, Aedan was given the responsibility to look after the Scottish regalia—yet how strange that Thomas hinted at it earlier.

And now the old man’s great-granddaughter sat beside him. Aedan stared at her with sudden understanding. The blade, the crown—and the woman with the crystal. Could that have something to do with what the Rhymer had said? The coincidence was too much. He rubbed his brow, puzzled, hoping to remember more.

“Why did you mention stones?”

He cleared his throat. “Stones and plants and wee scissors, is that what you have? We need weapons and food. Perhaps they left some supper on the fire.”

“That would be a risk. We can find water and berries in the woodland.”

“A fine supper for a faery sprite like you, but this great troll needs more substance.”

She laughed. Good. Levity would help if they were to get through this day with their heads still attached to their shoulders.

He watched the riders disappear into the distance, relieved, his thoughts churning. He might have married this lass once—yet she was the one who had saved him, and who reappeared today. He shook his head, unable to put it all together. Did she know about the betrothal, being so young then?

“Lady, there is something you should know. You might not recall it. You were very young.”

She tilted her head in a way that he was coming to know—curious, keen, her thoughts keeping pace with his. “Do you mean our near betrothal, Aedan MacDuff?”

“So you remember.”

“I knew a match was discussed when I was young. My brother heard your name at Holyoak and reminded me. He thinks highly of you.”

“I like him. Our paths have crossed. I liked your father too, and the Rhymer as well. They favored the union, but the Bishop of Saint Andrews objected. That was that.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Papa and Grandda both approved of you.”

“If you must throw in your lot with a rogue, at least he is a known rogue.”

“A rogue who owes me his good behavior.”

He huffed. “He does indeed. We have something in common, which should make the journey more pleasant for you.”

“I hope the unpleasant part is over.” She shivered and glanced at Yester.

“I agree.” He peered through a gap in the wall. “They are gone. We can leave.”

“Should we take horses from the stable?”

“I would rather hang for treason than horse thieving. The river is not far, though we might be seen walking in the open.” He picked up the helmet. “I will look like an English soldier. But you—” He scrutinized her. “Take that gown off.”

“What?” She set a hand to her chest.

“I may look a beast, but I am not that sort. Take off your gown and turn it inside out. I see another color there.”

“This?” She flipped the gown’s hem to show the underside, a lining of unbleached flax linen in a pale earthy color.

“Aye, wear it that way. They will be looking for a woman in blue, not a gown the color of dirt or suchlike.”

She gave him a sour look and stood. “Turn away,” she said. He did, and heard the swish of cloth as she changed. “Will this do?”

He turned back. Now her gown was a drab color, with blue seams and blue hems. She had tugged her gray surcoat over it and buckled her narrow belt, looping the embroidered bag there. The low-slung belt emphasized the graceful swell of her hips, and the gray overdress had long side openings that showed how neatly the pale gown fitted the lush curves of breast, waist, hip.

“Gates of hell,” he said.

“What?” She looked up.

He flushed, wishing he had not said that aloud. “The gates of hell, some call the openings in the lady’s surcoat that show the gown and the—woman beneath.”

“Then look away,” she said crisply, smoothing her garments.

“Turn your cloak to the outside too. That darker plaid is good. Wear my plaid over it too.” He draped it over her shoulders once she swirled the cloak inside out. “The kerchief is good. Is it earned, or do you wear it for protection as an unmarried lady?”

“Earned,” she answered, shrugging into the layered plaids.

“You said you are widowed?” He said it too bluntly, and suddenly wondered why he had not married the Keith girl years ago. He had wanted it to happen. Recalling that Rowena had been about five when their betrothal was abandoned, she would be perhaps twenty-seven now, while he was thirty-six.

“My husband was lost at the siege of Stirling Castle,” she explained. “Captured and taken out in ropes.” She held up her tied wrists.

“I am sorry I put those on you. Was he sent back into the castle?” he asked quietly, knowing the rest—one of Edward Longshank’s worst cruelties toward the Scots.

“Aye. Edward ordered the Scottish prisoners back inside so he could use his new siege machine, his War Wolf, on the walls. My husband was killed.”

He sucked in a breath. “I understand all too well, for I lost my wife with the birth of our son five years back.” He did not share that readily, but felt comfortable giving it to her. But he wondered why a widow of good family had not remarried, as so often happened. Her healing work, perhaps. She was dedicated, he knew that.

“That must have been hard,” she said, and he nodded. “John and I were married only a few weeks. And after he died—I lost the child that had just begun.”

His heart surged. “Lady—”

“So I earned this veil. And it suits when I travel. Do you think they will be back soon?” she rushed on, looking through the gap.

“I hope not, but we should get away.” From the first, he had felt an urge to protect her, but that intensified with the bond he now felt. Fate had brought him together with the girl he had so wanted to find, who had captured his heart. He would honor that.

But he was not sentimental or foolish enough to reveal that to her. If what he felt growing within him, heart and soul, was simply gratitude rather than infatuation—or love, if he could allow it—he could repay her by keeping her safe.

Yet he felt again the bewildering sense that angels were playing about, moving bits of his life around like pieces on a chessboard, and he, ignorant of the game. He was a pawn, a foot soldier jumping here or there to defend the queen—this lass.

“Come ahead,” he said. “The soldiers will look for a big man in plaid or a stolen red surcoat, and a woman in a blue gown and cloak. They will not be looking for a wren-colored wee wifey.”

“A what?” She blinked.

“I mean—you have a good guise,” he stammered.

“Wee wifey, is it.” She ducked her head to remove the veil, a length of pale gauzy linen. Aedan watched, baffled, as she twisted her long braids deftly around her head and secured them in place with pins pulled from somewhere. Then she wrapped the linen to cover her head, tossed the tail across her breast and over one shoulder, and gave him a beatific smile. “Better?”

Lord, aye. She was lovely, the veil a graceful halo around her face. Something tugged within his heart. “Good, then. Come on.”

She followed as he stepped through a hole in the wall to walk quickly into the forest. “What if we are stopped?”

“With this English gear, I look like any English knight. And you—” He tilted his head. What a beauty, vibrant even in drab colors. He could not quite think.

“Not your prisoner. Another guard could claim custody. Not a wee wren-colored wifey either.”

“Fair enough. The knight’s bonny Highland bride, will that do? A bheil Gàidhlig agad? Do you speak Gaelic?” He translated in case she did not.

“ Beagan. ” A little.

“We will chance it. Come on.”

He offered a supporting hand as she stepped over a fallen sapling. As she waded through ferns into the forest, her skirts swung in such a fetching way that he had to look away. Watching for pursuers was a better use of his attention.