Starcatcher, page 22
Elizabeth’s face brightened. “I will go talk to Alex.”
Marsali waited in her room, pacing, for Elizabeth’s return. Regardless of what Alex said, she was determined to find a way to get outside of Brinaire’s walls. Somehow, she had to reach Patrick and warn him not to go near Sinclair land.
And what reason would she give him for her insistence? That she had an odd feeling? Mayhap the feeling was only that: a feeling. Mayhap she was overreacting to being a new wife.
But she did not believe it. Her insides were quaking with fear for him; it was unlike anything she had ever experienced, and she could not ignore it. Especially not when she knew quite well that danger lay all around them. No, regardless of what he might think, even if he laughed at her for being worried over nothing, she simply had to warn him.
Her plan was risky. Men from both clans were all over these hills, trying to steal cattle and whatever else was not too heavy to carry or drive off. And Sinclair—if he was sowing the seeds of war, he and his men would also be about.
She chewed her nails as she paced. Patrick would never forgive her if she led his sister and brother into danger. They would have to stay well within the Sutherland borders, which meant going no farther than the hut. She could only pray that Patrick would still be there.
Unable to bear the waiting any longer, she tried to put her nervous energy to use by plaiting her hair in preparation for riding. A glance out the window showed her that little activity was taking place in the courtyard. A good sign.
The sound of voices nearing her door sent her flying to open it. Alex stood beside his sister, a lopsided grin on his face. “Elizabeth said you would like to ride this morning. I would be honored to escort you.”
“Your father?” Marsali asked breathlessly.
“His gout is worse. He has not left his room and probably will not,” Alex said.
“I donna want to get you in trouble,” she replied, paying cursory heed to a conscience that scolded her for putting both Alex and Elizabeth in line for their father’s wrath.
Alex waved off her concern. “Patrick told me to take care of you,” he said. “And you will not ride off, will you?”
“Nay,” she said. “I willna go back to Abernie.” And she only meant to lose them for an hour or so.
Alex nodded. “I have already asked Donnie to saddle three horses.”
Marsali looked more closely at him. She had seen him infrequently, and they had exchanged only a few words at meals. He, as much as Elizabeth, seemed bent on appearing to be invisible. Yet he was a handsome young man, tall and slender, with a face both sensitive and eager. He looked very much like Patrick had at seventeen, though his eyes were lighter. And as he stood there in front of her, obviously proud of making a decision, of pleasing her, she knew suddenly that she could not go through with it: She could not lie to either Alex or Elizabeth.
She would not try to escape them. But what would she do?
She did not know. But she had several hours to think about it: It would take that long to reach the pass that led to the hut.
“I am ready,” she said.
Alex led the way out of the castle, his air seemingly more confident than Marsali remembered. They met inquisitive eyes at the stables, but Alex ignored them, offering his assistance first to Marsali, then to his sister, in mounting. He settled into the saddle of his own horse, and the three of them left through the open gates.
It did not take Marsali long to determine that she never would have been able to lose Alex anyway, not on horseback. He rode as if he had been born to it, far better than most men she knew. And Elizabeth, though obviously less comfortable, also rode competently.
The sun broke through the heavy clouds, transforming drops of rain clinging to yellow broom and purple heather to glimmering jewels. ’Twas one of those Highland days that made the spirit sing in gratitude for life itself. But the persistent veil of fear would not allow Marsali to enjoy it.
She kicked her mare’s sides, briefly leaving the others behind as she galloped toward the hills that sheltered the small hut. Alex, either in deference to his sister’s lesser skills or her own need of freedom, did not try to catch her, though he could easily have done so.
When she reached the pass, she waited for them. A few minutes later, they drew up beside her, and Alex looked at her inquisitively.
She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then made her decision. “Will you trust me to go on alone? I swear I will return within three hours.”
Alex studied her. “Why?”
“Alex, I donna know any other way to say this. I think your brother might be in danger, and I have to warn him.”
Alarm flashed in the younger Sutherland’s eyes. “If Patrick is in danger, then why did you not say so before? We should have brought help.”
Marsali shook her head. “No. I donna know what the danger is. I have …”—she waved a hand in a helpless gesture—“I have only a feeling—a strong feeling—that something is wrong, that something or someone will hurt him. I have to warn him.”
Relief flooded through her when Alex did not question her sanity. Indeed, he seemed to accept her unsatisfactory explanation without hesitation. Still, he offered one protest.
“Why can we not go together?” he asked.
Marsali tamped down her frustration. It was a reasonable question. Yet she could not tell Alex or Elizabeth about Quick Harry. Patrick felt Harry’s survival depended on absolute secrecy.
And now she knew exactly how he had felt when she had asked questions that he could not answer. It was a miserable experience.
Finally, she let out an exasperated sigh. “I canna explain,” she said. “’Tis for your own good, but it all has to do with Patrick’s plan to end the feud between our families.”
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, while Alex’s narrowed with speculation.
“Patrick’s plan,” he said. “You mean like the … raids on the Gunn cattle herds?”
Marsali stared at him. He knew about the mock raids? His tone made it obvious that he did, and she supposed Patrick had told him when he had taken Alex along on the last raid. Still, she doubted that Alex knew about Quick Harry.
“I wasna aware you knew of the raids,” she said. “But they are only part of it. I am not certain I know all of it. Patrick believes very strongly that the fewer who know, the fewer there are who must lie.”
Alex was not mollified. “He does not trust us.”
“’Tis not that,” she said, no longer able to keep the impatience out of her voice. “He doesna want to put you—or your sister—in the position of having to lie to your father. And if you continue on with me now, you will both be forced to lie about things other than cattle raids.”
Alex scowled, and Marsali could see him struggling with the choices before him. She glanced at Elizabeth, not surprised to find the girl listening avidly.
“Are you going to Father’s hunting hut?” she asked.
Of course, both Alex and Elizabeth would know their own land. And what other destination could she possibly have in this isolated corner of the Sutherlands’ domain?
“Aye,” she said. Then, meeting Alex’s gaze once more, she added, “Please. Trust me.”
She was counting on Alex’s need to protect his sister winning out over his desire to prove that he could be trusted. And, in the end, it did.
He held her gaze steadily for a long moment. Then he gave her a single nod. “We will wait here. But if you do not return by the time the sun is overhead, we will go in.”
Marsali felt humbled by his trust, glad that she had told him what truth she could. “I will be back.”
She started up the path that went through the pass, looking back once to wave to the brother and sister, who were dismounting. She guided her mare as quickly as sense permitted through the narrow, rocky pass. When she came out into the open pasture, she kicked the animal into a gallop and headed for the hut.
It was empty. And there was no sign that anyone was about. Dismounting, she led her mare carefully through the woods to the cave, trying to be quiet.
Apparently, she was not quiet enough. As she reached the mouth of the cave, a huge figure stepped out, pistol in hand.
“Hiram!” she exclaimed.
His brow furrowed, and he slowly lowered his weapon. “Lass?”
“I am looking for Patrick. Is he here?”
“He left some time ago,” Hiram said.
“I hoped he would take you with him,” she replied worriedly.
“Someone was nosing around the hut yesterday,” Hiram said. “They didna find anything, but Patrick didna think it safe to leave Quick Harry alone.”
“How would anyone know to look in the hut for Quick Harry?” she asked.
He shrugged. “No one has found his body. Perhaps someone feared he might still be alive. ’Twas not far from here that he saw the raiders.”
“But then they would have to know of this place.”
“Aye,” Hiram said.
“Did you see who it was?”
He shrugged. “I was trapping some hares and saw two men on horseback. I couldna see the faces, and they were no’ wearing plaids but doublets and trousers.” Frowning, he added, “How did you come to be here, lass? You shouldna be riding alone. Patrick will have some heads for this.”
Ignoring his questions, she grabbed his arm. “Hiram, you have to go after him. He shouldna be alone.”
Hiram’s brows furrowed. “I donna ken ye, lass.”
“Something is wrong. I know it.”
“How do ye know?”
“I simply do. It is a feeling I canna explain. I only know that he is in danger. Please, Hiram”—she squeezed his arm—“please go after him.”
“He will ha’ my head,” Hiram muttered, but Marsali recognized his worried scowl and knew he was taking her seriously.
“I can stay with Harry for several hours,” she said. “Where was Patrick going?”
“An hour’s ride from here,” Hiram said.
“Can you catch him?”
“Mayhap. My horse is fresh.”
“Go. Please go.”
Hiram waited no longer. He disappeared into the cave and brought out his horse, mounting quickly.
“I will wait here for you,” she said.
He started to argue, then quieted at the stubborn set of her jaw. Instead, he dug his heels into the horse’s flank and galloped off through the clearing.
She turned toward the cave, hoping against hope that she had sent him chasing after nothing more than shadows.
Patrick rode hard toward the place he was to meet Rufus, wishing all the while that he was headed in the other direction: toward Brinaire and Marsali. For the first time in his life, he was responsible to a woman for his actions. His wife. He had told Marsali he would try to take someone with him, but it had turned out to be neither convenient nor wise. As a result, though he believed he had made the right decision, he felt guilty. And that, he supposed, was part of what it meant to be a married man.
Seeking to assuage his guilt, he vowed to be especially cautious. And God help him if something did happen; Marsali might never forgive him for ignoring her concern.
As he drew closer to the Sinclair border, Patrick quickened his horse’s pace. It was bloody close to midday, the time he was to meet Rufus, and if he missed the appointment, it would be three days before the next scheduled meeting. Keeping a careful eye on the trail, he came upon scattered signs that someone had passed this way not long ago. He slowed his horse out of caution, and guided the animal off the trail, into the woods, pausing to listen for sounds of riders.
He heard nothing and finally reached the meeting spot, a small glade marked by an outcropping of rock shaped like a castle tower. The sun was directly overhead. Midday. He dismounted and tied his horse to a low branch, then checked the dirk and pistol tucked into the heavy belt around his waist.
A large hollow log bisected the small clearing; it was covered by vines and moss; its center had rotted long before it had fallen and now offered shelter for untold settlements of small creatures. It also provided a perfect spot to hide a message. Patrick walked to one end of the log and searched inside. There was nothing. Rufus either had not or could not come.
As he stood considering the possibilities, most of which were cause for concern, he heard the high-pitched whistle of a titmouse. Here, here, here, here. Relieved, he whistled back. Suddenly, Rufus stood in front of him, a crooked grin on his face.
“Lord and master,” he said impudently. “I thought Hiram would be here.”
“Hiram is otherwise engaged,” Patrick said, “and I wanted to see for myself that you were still in one piece.”
“I am, and pleased that ye be concerned,” Rufus said lightly. “Or is it my task that gives ye more concern?”
“A bit of both, if you must know,” Patrick said, smiling. “Now, what do you have to tell me?”
“In a hurry, are ye?” Rufus teased. “To get back to the fair Marsali?”
“To end this bloody nonsense,” Patrick replied in as stern a voice as he could manage, which, with Rufus, was not very stern. The man always made him want to laugh. In kinder days, he thought, and given a better choice, Rufus would have made a wonderful court jester. As it was, he had learned to put his charm and wit to use as a spy.
“I do have some news for ye,” Rufus said. “A mon named Foster, an Englishman I think ye ha’ met, has joined with Sinclair.”
Patrick felt his heart miss a beat. “So it’s true. He does live,” he murmured.
“Aye, he lives,” Rufus nodded. “Though he can barely speak. Took a blow to the throat with a sword, it seems.”
Patrick held the other man’s gaze for a moment. They both knew who had sliced Foster’s throat.
Edward Sinclair was nothing but a spoiled, cowardly child compared to Foster. Aye, Sinclair was causing much grief, and he had to be stopped. But Foster was another matter altogether. Patrick had never met a man more evil, and Foster had sworn to kill Patrick even before nearly dying at Patrick’s hands. He was cunning and dangerous … and a superb swordsman. Patrick had barely escaped their last encounter. The man was now a wounded wolf, bent on striking back regardless of the danger to himself.
“He did not recognize you?” Patrick asked.
“Nay. I was in helmet and armor that day ye fought him. And covered with blood as well.”
“What is he doing with Sinclair?” Patrick muttered.
“No good,” Rufus replied. “He and Sinclair are planning another raid on Abernie. They be a wee bit impatient with the earl, and they speculate tha’ the young lord, yer boyhood friend, might be in league with ye. They believe another nudge is necessary.”
Patrick stared at his friend. “You have learned all that?”
Rufus looked wounded. “Of course, my lord. Ye know I have fine ears. The best in all Scotland, I would wager.”
“And they trust you?”
“As much as any mercenary. My greed seems as real as any. I asked for near a fortune, and they granted it. Not like some miser Scots I could name.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Thinking about changing sides?”
“Ah, Patrick, you wound me. Yer friendship more than compensates for yer lack of coin.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Patrick said dryly. “When do they plan this raid? And where?”
“I suspect in the next few days,” Rufus said. “Sinclair was nearly livid wi’ outrage when he heard tha’ ye had kidnapped the Lady Marsali, and his impatience keeps pace wi’ his fury. His language grows more colorful every day. He has even talked of raiding Brinaire and taking the lady. His honor, such as it is, has been impugned, he says.”
“Honor?” Patrick nearly choked on the word. “He gave that up years ago, and it was all his own doing.”
Rufus shrugged. “I canna say I like the mon. But he is a cunning one, and careful. He has someone at Abernie who spies fer him, and I fear the spy may be following the young lord.”
Patrick nodded. He was certain Gavin was being careful, but he would warn him of the need for special caution. “What about Brinaire? Have you heard of any spies there?”
Rufus shook his head. “Nay. But that is no’ to say there are none.”
“I will ask Gavin to have men cover their farming settlements to the north,” Patrick said. “Did you hear anything of the Lady Margaret?”
“Nay, and I asked, pretending an interest in yer father’s being cuckolded. But I did learn that Sinclair owns a keep on a small island. Gordie said it would be the perfect place to hide if one is in need of sanctuary.”
“Is it well guarded?” Patrick asked.
“Only by water, and secrecy. Sinclair has brought every man he can here.”
Patrick thought for a moment. An island. It could be in a loch or the sea. He would look into Sinclair’s holdings. “Do you know its location?”
Rufus shook his head. “Nay, but I can find out. Gordie is a gambler and braggart. A few cups of wine and a few games, which I allow him to win, and he becomes loose tongued.”
“Do it,” Patrick said. “And be careful.”
“Och, ye do care.”
“It would be such trouble finding another spy.”
“Ye wound me, Patrick.”
“No one wounds you, Rufus, but I do miss your impertinent presence.”
“Patrick.”
“Aye.”
“Ye be careful. Foster is no’ with Sinclair out of coincidence. He is a crazed mon, and he wants his revenge on ye. Nor will he rest till he has taken it.”
Patrick gave a short nod. “I know what Foster wants. And I will be careful.”
Rufus studied him for a moment, then, seeming to be satisfied that his warning had been heeded, he grinned. “And how is the fair Marsali?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.
Patrick’s mouth sloped into an answering smile. “Very fair, indeed. We were handfasted.”
Rufus’s mouth actually fell open, and Patrick knew a moment of true satisfaction. He had not thought anything on earth could shock Rufus.
“Was that wise?” Rufus asked after a moment.
“No,” Patrick said. “But inevitable if she was to stay at Brinaire.”
