Page 14 of The Lost Highland Prince (The Last Celtic King #1)

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Chapter Thirteen

Maeve hummed to herself as she made her way to the bar, her good mood shining around her in a way that she thought must be obvious to anyone who looked toward her. She hadn't expected her time with Cailean to go so well, nor the time she spent with him to feel so natural, nor the conversation to be so easy. She wondered how much time she could spend here with him today.

Why was she so happy? She wasn't quite ready to explore the new part of her that was drawn to him physically, wasn't ready to put words around the way her body reacted when she saw his muscles ripple in the sun or the depths of his gray eyes. So he was handsome — so what? Lots of people were handsome, and Maeve refused to let herself think there was any more to it than that, even though she knew she was lying to herself.

But she couldn't deny that there was a pull between them, one that made her feel good every time they were together, and one that only seemed to be growing stronger as the days passed. Talking to him was so easy, and he was kind in a way she'd never really experienced before. She liked the way he treated not only her but everyone else at the camp; she adored hearing the people in the rebellion and some of the village folk talk about the things he'd done for them without asking for anything in return.

Maeve respected Cailean, she concluded. That was all it was, really. It was all it could be, and she was more than all right with that.

"Two more ales, please," she asked the woman behind the bar, but before there could be an answer, the door to the tavern slammed open and someone hurried inside. All eyes turned toward the newcomer.

It was Arthur, looking pale and panicked, his bald head glistening with sweat, his cheeks rosy from exertion. Had he run here all the way from the smithy? It was such a distance, and the thought instantly filled Maeve with fear. What had happened?

"Soldiers!" the blacksmith shouted in his deep voice. "There's soldiers!"

"The English?" someone asked as several people shrieked in fright.

"No, Scotsmen. Traitors," Arthur replied. Dead silence fell across the tavern as everyone listened to him. "A wee group sent from Clan Darach, soldiers sent tae find her."

Maeve froze where she stood, a sudden high-pitched ringing in her ears. Darach soldiers? Here?

"Who's her ?" someone demanded.

"Malcolm Darach's wife. They say she's the one who slaughtered him in his bed," Arthur explained. "They heard word she might be nearby, and they're gonnae search the entire village until they find her."

Panic erupted all around them. People called out in fright, and several men swore. Maeve knew why; if they searched the village, it wasn't only the fear of looting, or worse, scaring the people of Broken Windmill, though of course that was a very real threat. It was the fact that, if Darach's men did a full search of the village, they might find the rebel camp. And if they found the rebels and realized what was going on…

"I heard she escaped right from their cells," someone nearby hissed. "I heard she's a witch."

"Who cares about that?" Cailean's voice echoed across the room. "If anyone here is part of me group, we need tae move. We can find some way tae blend our camp in. We dinnae have the woman, so they've nae reason to search our camp more closely. They can interview who they like, and once they see we dinnae have her, they'll leave."

Nobody looked convinced, and arguing broke out around her, but Maeve saw the truth in what Cailean was saying. It might be possible to hide the truth of the rebel camp, since the Darachs were corruptible and here only for her. They might move on once it became clear she wasn't there, if they were offered a bribe.

But… she was here.

And she couldn't risk this.

Maeve could not, would not, risk her new home, her new family, for herself. She had to run, had to get as far from here as she possibly could before she led the rebellion to their deaths. She'd let them see her, just enough to distract them, then lead them away from the village as quickly as she could. It was the only hope that she had. The only hope that they all had.

Feeling her life crumble below her again, Maeve bolted toward the door. She heard Cailean shouting her name, calling her to come back, but she kept running, hoping that the confusion inside the tavern was enough to keep him away long enough for her to flee. She was going to miss her new life, but it was better to give it all up than to be the reason it all ended.

Hurrying toward her horse, panicked and afraid, she could picture what would happen if they captured her again. She was scared, more scared than she ever remembered being in her life, more scared even than she'd been in the dungeons when she'd been sure that her life was about to end. Because now, for the first time, she had something to lose.

As Maeve clambered onto the horse, she hesitated for just a moment. She could flee now and they'd be none the wiser. She could speed off to some remote village in the middle of nowhere and leave this all behind. After all, Cailean might be right. The Darachs might leave the rebels alone when they realized they didn't have her, right?

But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. What they would do to her when she got caught was nothing compared to what they'd do to Cailean and the rest of the rebels if they discovered the depths of the rebel plotting.

"Let's go!" she shouted to the horse, louder than she needed to, her heart in her throat as she knew that she would soon be drawing attention.

Behind her, light shone out as the tavern door burst open again and someone's shadow appeared in the doorway.

"Mary!" Cailean shouted. "Mary!"

A sob caught in Maeve's thought and she leaned forward, spurring her heels and urging her horse forward. She'd leave Cailean shouting for a woman who did not exist and she'd save him, even if he'd never know it.

Her horse galloped away at speed back in the direction of the blacksmith's hut and beyond, but Maeve made sure to twist and turn in her path, drawing as much attention as she could as she passed through the village. She was almost clear of the village entirely when she heard a faint noise in the distance.

"What's that?" an unfamiliar voice shouted over the confused din. "Someone's gettin' away!"

Determination and fear filled Maeve, and she stared straight ahead as she galloped on, ignoring the wind as it whipped the tears against her cheeks.

* * *

Cailean couldn't understand what was happening. His tactical mind was filled with ways to try to protect his camp and the village from the Darachs, but the rest of him was too caught up in his confusion about what Mary was doing. One minute, she'd been laughing, joking, and if he wasn't mistaken, even flirting with him. The next, she'd run away so quickly that he could barely keep up with her.

He saw her horse as she fled, apparently not hearing his voice calling over to her. Was she going to warn the rebels that the Darachs were here, and help them prepare for however they were going to get out of this one? It made sense to get to them as soon as possible, but Mary was riding off in the wrong direction for that. Maybe she was going to try looping the village, but wouldn't that defeat the point of rushing off?

Not only that, but the way she was riding was conspicuous. Her top skills were her stealth and dexterity, but the way she had fled was the most noticeable possible, and she was riding directly toward where the Darachs had been sighted.

Cailean reached his own horse and froze momentarily in place as he tried to calm his racing pulse and work out what he was supposed to do. The rebels needed to be warned. Someone needed to tell the council so that they could come up with a plan of action to protect not only the people of their movement but the villagers here in Broken Windmill. Cailean was a skilled and competent rider, and he knew that he would be able to help execute any plan that they came up with, even at short notice — he'd proven that to himself only a few months ago. But…

What was Mary doing? What?—

A thought hit him then, one that made him shiver to his very core. Could it be possible? Was she… could she be…?

His mind rebelled against the way he was thinking, but he managed to get himself under control. Now was not the time for emotions and it definitely wasn't time to focus on anything that wasn't a solid fact. He needed to act and he needed to act now.

"Arthur!" he called behind his back. The old blacksmith had followed him out of the tavern and was standing close by, looking toward him with the new kind of reverence that the cursed pin had brought. "I need a favor from ye."

"Anythin' for ye," Arthur said in a strange, respectful voice that made Cailean's stomach curl uncomfortably. "Name it."

"Get tae the camp, or get someone who can go quicker tae get there if it's easier," Cailean instructed, not allowing himself to focus on his own discomfort either. He had a job to do and he had already spent too much time pondering, even though it had only been a moment or two when all these thoughts had been spinning in his mind. "Warn them of what's happenin'."

"I'll send one of the lads. They can be trusted," Arthur promised him. "What about ye? What will ye do?"

"I need tae go after her," Cailean said. Then, without another word, he mounted his horse and sped off into the night, praying that whatever Mary had done, it wasn't too late to help her.

Or to find out the truth.