Page 30 of The Scottish Bride

“I would advise it, but we should ask the lady,” Liam said.

“I can go along by myself now. Thank you. I thought to head to the high road, where there is a tavern. I can hire a horse or a cart there.”

“Hire us,” Finley said. “We will take you where you need to go.”

“We are not mercenaries. Where do you want to go?” Liam asked.

“I must find—a friend in Selkirk who can help me.”

“The lass can ride with me.” Gilchrist set foot to stirrup to remount. “We should go now. Someone will discover she is missing soon.” He beckoned toward her.

Cradling his hands for her foot, Liam boosted her to his brother’s horse. She settled on the blanket behind the saddle, legs to one side, used to riding as any lady would. Liam set his hands at her waist briefly to ensure she was stable, sensing her slim, firm body beneath her cloak and gown. Then he stepped back.

Gripping Gilchrist’s belt, she looked down at Liam. “Thank you.”

He nodded and crossed to his horse, lashing her bags to his saddle, then setting foot to iron stirrup to launch into his seat. “What makes these sacks so heavy? Did you take the iron candlesticks when you left?”

“Books,” she answered.

“Books! A curious thing to take in a hurry.”

“I like books.”

“Do you now?” he murmured.

“Please,” she said suddenly, “I do not want to go back to the castle.”

“If we intended that, you would be back inside the gates already,” Liam said.

“I want to trust you, even though you are English soldiers, but—”

“Scottish knights all,” Gilchrist assured her, “and we know how to treat a lass.”

“Scottish knights ride for England, too,” she said.

No one answered as they set out. It was an uncomfortable truth, Liam thought, riding ahead. Saving the girl from a disastrous fall was excitement enough, but important questions remained. Her books, heavy on his saddle, weighed on his mind.

Finley moved ahead then to lead the group along a narrow well-trodden path that wound toward the high road. Roc, the hound, trotted along beside them, then ahead, pausing now and again to nose around, investigate, and catch up.

Finley turned. “Lady, was it Sir Malise or his men after you?”

“You know Sir Malise?”

“Aye, we all do. If you need to get away from him, we are glad to help.”

Liam glanced at her. “The lady must have had good reason to pitch out a tower window on the laundry.”

“I did. Besides, my door was guarded so it was the only way out.”

“Guarded on Comyn’s order?”

She nodded. Yet another reason to throttle the man, Liam thought.

He saw that her head was bare, her blond braid unkempt, a creamy ribbon unraveling along its length. So she did not wear the linen coif she wore at Lochmaben. That told him she had been in a rush to escape.

“You claim to be Scots, not Comyn’s men, yet two of you wear Edward’s colors.” Her arms were snug around Gilchrist’s waist, bunching his red surcoat with its golden lions. Finley wore the same. She looked at Liam. “But not you.”

“I dislike wearing Edward’s brand on my back.” On his mail sleeve, he wore the Seton badge, three red crescents on yellow. The painted shield suspended from his saddle bore the second part of the arms, golden shields on dark blue. He would not wear Edward’s lions willingly. In the forest days ago, he had reclaimed his old dark blue surcoat and chain mail; his studded boots were worn but sturdy, and his gray cloak was lined with tartan cloth woven by his mother. Though he had lost Dalrinnie, his loyalty to the Seton name endured.