Starcatcher, page 28
Patrick chuckled. “I will try to remember the difference,” he teased, his finger tracing her mouth, pushing up the edge that was trying to frown. “And you are always seductive, love.”
“Will you at least eat some broth and bread before you go?”
“Aye,” he said. “The message from Gavin said he would be at the waterfall at noon.” He looked out the window at the sun overhead. “I have an hour before I need to leave.”
“I will fetch the food and order Hiram to keep you safe.” She heard the fierceness in her voice even as she saw amusement twinkle in his eyes.
“You will terrify him, lass.” He sat on the ledge below the window, looking relaxed, his legs stretched before him. Legs, Marsali noted, that were really terribly attractive beneath the plaid. She had never noticed a man’s legs before. But then, she noticed everything about Patrick Sutherland. And everything was quite perfect.
Her gaze wandered up to his eyes, and she flushed as she realized he had been watching her. She felt the heat in her face, and with a shy smile at the man who made her act so foolishly, she fled.
Marsali had been right. He had needed the hot broth, bread, and cheese she brought him. His arm pained him, but it would have pained him if he had stayed in bed, as well.
Hiram rode silently at his side. He, too, had protested this meeting. His mouth was uncharacteristically grim and he was muttering unintelligible phrases to himself. Patrick did not believe them complimentary.
“Speak up,” he finally commanded after nearly an hour.
“Ye should be resting.”
“I have seen you riding with worse wounds.”
Hiram grumped another indecipherable insult.
Patrick smiled despite the burning pain in his shoulder. Bloody hell, but the riding did jolt what was tolerable into thrusts of pure agony.
He sought a way to distract himself.
“’Tis not just my wound that worries you,” he charged Hiram.
“Ye willna listen to anyone,” Hiram countered.
“Ah, Hiram, how could you make such a charge? I have always listened to you and Rufus.”
Hiram raised one bushy red eyebrow, eloquently expressing his opinion of such a claim. “Then go back, and let me meet wi’ this mon,” he said.
“You are a stranger to him,” Patrick said. “And I fear that it might take my persuasion to keep him on course.”
“Ye risk too much,” Hiram said.
“I am wagering the future, Hiram,” Patrick said softly.
“Ye should take the lass and leave. No one wants peace except ye.”
“You are wrong. Quick Harry. Gavin. My clansmen. Theirs. None of them want war. Sinclair started this, and by God, I will end it.”
Hiram’s frown deepened. “Ye canna save the world, no matter how hard ye try.”
“My aims are much smaller, Hiram.” Then, because they had always respected each other’s privacy, he hesitated before commenting as innocently as possible, “Marsali said Jeanie is here.”
“Aye,” Hiram said, throwing him an odd expression.
“You mentioned her before,” he ventured.
“I may ha’,” Hiram admitted.
“Is she as bonny as I remember?”
“Aye,” Hiram said after a moment’s pause. Then his mouth clamped shut.
Patrick smiled to himself. He liked the idea of a besotted Hiram. Hiram had been as close in many ways as any brother. He had always been a shy giant of a man who had avoided women. Now that Patrick had savored the wonders of making love to a woman who owned his heart, he wanted his friends to know the same joy.
They were silent the rest of the way. Patrick led Hiram to the waterfall, as he had never been to this particular spot. Patrick went first for fear they might scare off Gavin, who expected only him. He thought about leaving Hiram a short distance away, but it seemed like high time they met.
Both Patrick and Hiram dismounted, and Patrick took a seat on a low, flat rock. He felt dizzy and sick again. The world slid around him in odd ways. Then he heard a whistle. It was the same whistle he and Gavin had used as children, the one he had taught Rufus and Hiram.
Hiram looked at him in surprise. Patrick shrugged as he returned the whistle and saw a movement above. In minutes, Gavin stood in front of him, looking suspiciously at Hiram.
“Your sister wouldna allow me to come without him,” Patrick said.
Hiram interceded rudely. “One of your clansmen ripped his shoulder open. He still bleeds from the wound.”
Gavin’s gaze went immediately to the bulge under the plaid and the stiff way Patrick held his left arm to his side.
“Who?”
“Black Fergus.”
Gavin groaned. “Where is he now?”
“Eating and drinking in our hall. He and seven others are paroled prisoners. One way to defeat us would be to send us more prisoners. They will eat us into surrender.”
But his jest did not produce a smile.
“None are hurt?”
“Nay,” Patrick said.
Gavin looked closely at Patrick. “How badly were you hurt?”
Patrick shrugged the question aside. He was tired of all the bother about little more than a prick. “You wanted to meet?”
“Aye,” he said. “Father is sending an emissary to Parliament, asking that you be outlawed. I suggest you send someone to plead your case.”
Patrick nodded.
“I want to know what is going on,” Gavin continued. “I donna like lying to my father.”
“Neither do I,” Patrick said curtly, the pain in his shoulder sharpening again. “I donna think we will have to wait much longer. I have a man with Sinclair. He says Sinclair is becoming impatient. There will be another raid soon.” He hesitated. “How many men can you send to guard the border farms?”
“A hundred,” Gavin replied. “Mayhap more.”
“Bring the women and children into Abernie,” Patrick said. “Concentrate ten men at each farm but keep them out of sight. Station others on horseback throughout the woods so they can carry messages and call your people to wherever the attack takes place. If I can, I will send a warning as to exactly where the raid will be. I will also send men to join you. They will wear black bands around their arms and any kind of clothing other than Sutherland plaids. I donna want them attacked by Gunns.”
Gavin’s brows furrowed as he listened to the rapid-fire orders.
“That would leave Abernie and the cattle herds virtually unprotected,” he finally said.
“Aye,” Patrick agreed steadily. Now he would find out exactly how far Gavin trusted him. He was asking his friend to leave his keep—his family—unprotected. If Patrick was lying, the Sutherlands could walk into Abernie.
“Father would never agree.”
“He would if he thought the Sutherlands might raid the crofters,” Patrick countered.
Gavin sighed, looking away. Patrick wondered what he was thinking. But he knew he could not push his friend.
Patrick leaned to the side to relieve the damnable pressure in his shoulder, and Hiram instantly started toward him. But Patrick shook his head, and Hiram paused, looking from Patrick to Gavin and back again. Then he retreated. This was not the time—Patrick would have to manage on his own.
A minute went by, then another.
Finally, Gavin turned back to Patrick, his gaze searching his friend’s face. Then he nodded.
“I will try to do as you ask,” he said. “I will have to say that the warning came from Marsali through Jeanie. That is the only thing my father will believe.”
Patrick did not like the idea, but he had little choice. If anything went wrong, he would make sure the blame was diverted elsewhere, anywhere other than onto Jeanie or Marsali.
He held out his hand and the two men clasped each other’s wrists in friendship. Patrick saw Gavin’s gaze go to his shoulder again.
“Take care,” Gavin said. “Give my love to my sister.”
“Aye,” Patrick said.
Gavin looked over at Hiram, but the big man only glowered at him. Hiram apparently blamed all Gunns for Patrick’s recent wound. “Take care of him,” Gavin said, and Hiram’s frown faded slightly.
“I will get the horses,” he said, leaving Gavin and Patrick alone for a moment.
Patrick smiled. “How are the cattle?”
“Weary,” Gavin said. “My father believes Sutherlands are uncaring villains for allowing their cattle to get so thin.”
“The poor beasts will be as glad as any of us to have this finished,” Patrick said.
“But who ends up with the mangy beasts?” Gavin asked, a combative gleam in his eyes. “Possession, you know …”
Patrick tried to laugh, but his shoulder hurt too bloody badly.
“My man in the Sinclair stronghold says there is talk of a secret place … perhaps an island. Do you know anything of it?”
Gavin’s brows knitted together. “There is Creighton, but it was abandoned years ago when the sea washed away the foundations and made it an island.”
“Aye,” Patrick frowned. “I thought it had crashed into the sea.”
Gavin stared at him. “What are you thinking?”
Patrick moved away from the supportive rock as he saw Hiram approaching with the horses. “Mayhap naught,” he said, using his right hand to help him mount. Once he had gained the saddle, he looked down at Gavin. “Hiram will bring you any message. He has been at Abernie before and would not be suspect.”
Gavin nodded.
“I will have men on the border by tomorrow night,” Patrick said. “But there must be Gunns if we are to catch Sinclair. Your father wouldna believe a Sutherland.”
“They will be there,” Gavin said.
Patrick looked down on his boyhood friend, remembering all the fine days they had spent together, the games, the adventures, the shared secrets.
Now they shared something much larger: the fate of their clans.
“God go with you, Gavin,” he said.
Gavin grinned. “More like the devil.”
Alex perched in the leafy branches of a tree, composing a poem in his head. Marsali was the inspiration. He greatly admired her, and envied Patrick the looks he received from her.
Occasionally, he looked out over the forest for movement, but he had been here a day and a half now and had seen little but the scurrying of squirrels and an occasional rabbit. He had spent the night shivering inside his plaid, reluctant to start a fire which might give him away. At dawn, he had climbed into his tree again, eager to be of help to his formidable brother.
Now he was beginning to despair that anyone would come. His attention was wandering, and his mind occupied itself with the poem he planned to put to his harp.
He heard a low whistle, like the song of a bird, but he had not heard a bird sing in these trees the whole time he had waited. His skin prickled. His heart beat faster when he heard the soft neigh of a horse. He peered out from between the branches and saw a lone horseman. The poem fled from his mind as he studied the approaching rider.
As he drew closer, Alex recognized the lanky form of Rufus, and, eager again, he slipped down from his perch.
Rufus had a pistol out, and Alex knew a moment’s fear before Rufus lowered the weapon. “God help ye, lad, has no one warned ye not to drop in on someone like that?” He frowned down at Alex.
Alex stood speechless for a moment as his watery legs tried to keep him upright. Then to his embarrassment, he stuttered as he started to explain. “Pa—Patrick sent me.”
Rufus grinned suddenly and dismounted. “I thought to find Hiram. He has a habit of dropping from trees, too.”
“Hiram?” Alex said with surprise. “Is he not too large?”
“Ye would be surprised, lad. He can get in trees I canna.”
Alex grinned back, feeling suddenly at ease with this warrior. He was, after all, a friend of Patrick’s. From what Alex had seen, Rufus was the fastest man with a sword who had come this way in quite some time. He had defeated five Sutherlands in a row before throwing his sword down, saying there was no challenge there.
Rufus threw an arm around Alex’s shoulder and walked with him to the fallen tree trunk. “Patrick must greatly trust ye to send ye here. No one knows about me being at Sinclair’s, other than Hiram and your brother.”
Alex tried to keep from grinning with pleasure; he wanted a face like stone, just like Patrick’s. “I was afraid you were not coming.”
“I was much delayed by Sinclair and his sudden desire to go hunting. Thank God, ye waited.” Rufus grinned again and sprawled on the log. “I tired him out and made sure he wouldna wish to come again. Still, I canna stay long. I promised Sinclair a wild boar or stag. Even a rabbit will do. Tell your brother Sinclair plans to attack at dawn tomorrow. The Gunn farms fifteen miles northeast of Kilcraig. ’Tis close to the northern border between Gunn and Sutherland land.”
Alex tried to assimilate the outpouring of information, the jumble of disconnected facts. “The northern border,” he said. “I know it.”
“Good lad,” Rufus said. “Dawn. Also tell him that Sinclair has women at a keep named Creighton. ’Tis there they are making Sutherland plaids. I wouldna be surprised if they were keeping something else there also.”
“What?” Alex asked, bewildered.
“The keep is said to be abandoned,” Rufus said, “and yet they send guards and have women there. Now, why do you suppose that is?”
“I donna know,” Alex said.
“A captive, mayhap?”
Alex knew he should understand. Rufus looked so expectantly at him, as if he need say no more.
“Your stepmother,” he explained finally. “Patrick knew yer father could have naught to do with murder, though I wonder why he is so sure. The marquis seems perfectly capable of anything to me. And the Lady Marsali is equally positive that her aunt would ne’er ha’ killed herself.”
Thoughts tumbled through Alex’s mind. He, too, doubted his father would murder a defenseless woman. Even in a rage. Honor meant too much to him. Alex often thought it was the only thing that did mean anything to him.
And if Margaret was indeed alive, being held prisoner, then …
“But why would Sinclair keep her alive?” Alex asked.
Rufus shrugged. “I wouldna be knowing that. ’Tis only a possibility, lad. Probably a slim one. But ’tis something I thought Patrick should know. Now ye best be getting back with the news.”
Alex nodded. “I tied my horse deeper in the woods.”
Rufus nodded with approval. “Smart lad.”
Alex grimaced at the “lad.” He was feeling very much like a man now. Patrick, after all, had gone to war at sixteen. Still, pride glowed inside him that this friend of Patrick’s thought him capable. He decided to return to his horse before he made a fool of himself.
With only one backward look, he saw Rufus mounting his horse. Alex quickened his steps. Patrick would be waiting.
Patrick would be pleased.
Chapter 23
Marsali had learned long ago that being a woman had many disadvantages. A woman was not considered intelligent enough to learn to read or to have opinions. She could make few of her own decisions. She could not choose her own husband. Yet the past week had nearly convinced her that the advantages of being a woman overshadowed, if not outweighed, the disadvantages.
For one thing, when she and Patrick lay together, she felt as if she were a treasure of untold worth that meant more to him than life itself; he made her feel deeply grateful that she was a woman, and nothing could have convinced her otherwise.
But how did a woman go through life waiting to see if her love would return home in one piece—or if he would return at all? How did she wait in ladylike grace when what she wanted to do was grab the first steed and ride to her love’s side? How did she spend hours planning a meal or sewing a platitude, all the while knowing that momentous events were occurring that would change her life forever?
Marsali did not believe she would ever learn the trick of it. She thought she would always feel as she did that day: frightened, anxious, her stomach in knots and her throat aching from the effort of holding back the sudden urge to cry. It was dreadful, and in her turmoil, she leveled the blame at Patrick. One minute she felt like strangling him. The next she wanted only to throw herself into his arms and kiss him.
To distract herself, Marsali surrounded herself with Elizabeth and Jeanie. And they pulled her into the kitchen, where Jeanie started talking to Colly as if the woman were an old friend.
Colly’s frown quickly disappeared, and she chatted happily about her son. As Marsali listened, she wondered whether the woman’s previous bad temper had come simply from insecurity. She was not altogether surprised when Colly admitted that she had lied about her experience to obtain the cook’s position. She was only a widow with a young child, and desperate.
Leaving Jeanie but with Elizabeth in tow, Marsali returned to her room determined to ask Patrick if he could find an empty room for Colly’s child in the keep. If the poor woman had less to fret about, her cooking might improve.
The ferrets were fussing in their basket, and brushing past her, Elizabeth ran to release them. She plopped immediately onto Marsali’s bed to play with them. But to the neglected creatures’ dismay, Elizabeth’s attention was caught by the sight of the illustrated book Marsali had left lying open on the bed.
Elizabeth looked at Marsali in amazement. “Do you read?”
“Aye,” she replied, picking up Isolde as she sat beside Elizabeth. She stroked her pet as she explained, “I took lessons with Gavin, after Patrick left. I made a terrible nuisance of myself until Gavin asked the tutor to include me. I think, with Patrick gone, he disliked having the tutor’s full attention.”
Marsali watched Elizabeth, whose gaze was fixed on the book. Elizabeth’s green eyes came up to meet hers, and her voice was filled with both reverence and longing as she asked, “Will you teach me to read? The vicar taught Alex, but refused to teach a girl.”
Marsali smiled. “Aye, I taught my sister, and I would be glad to teach you.” Indeed, she would welcome having a valuable way to pass time.
