Chapter 18 #2
“Or deliberate,” Lennox said quietly.
Frederick glanced toward him. “A message, then.”
“Mayhap,” Lennox replied. “Or a test. To see how we respond.”
Fergus shifted, his jaw tightening. “The hounds were set on the trail as soon as she was found. They followed it north, but they have nae returned yet.”
Frederick nodded once. “They will send word when they do.”
Fergus’s gaze dropped briefly to the ground before lifting again. “I should have been there,” he said, the words low. “I stood watch that night. I should have—”
“Nay,” Frederick said, cutting him off before the thought could take root. “Ye stood where ye were needed. This was nay failing of yers.”
Fergus did not look convinced, but he gave a short nod all the same.
They fell into a brief silence, the weight of what had been said settling between them.
Frederick’s mind moved ahead, turning over what little they had learned.
A draught to dull the senses. Multiple captors.
Enough confidence to bring the lass back within their own borders without fear of being seen.
It did not sit well.
“Ye can bring her to the keep if ye need. Erin is there full-time these days. It may help moving her far from where she was taken for a while. Ye ken she would be safe there, and we can move ye to the keep guard for the time being, if ye wish it. If she wishes it.”
“Me laird, I thank ye. It will be something I will try to discuss with her after yer visit.”
The door behind them opened once more.
Erin stepped out, her expression composed, though there was a gravity to it that had not been there before. Fergus turned to her at once, hope and fear colliding in his gaze.
“Well?” he asked, his voice barely steady.
Erin did not speak.
She met his gaze and gave a small, deliberate nod.
It was enough.
Fergus’s breath left him in a broken rush, and he bent forward, one hand bracing against his knee as the tension that had held him upright gave way at last. A sound escaped him, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, thick with relief.
“Christ above, thank ye,” he murmured, though whether the words were meant for Erin or for something greater, Frederick could not say.
Frederick stepped forward without thinking, his hand coming to rest firmly on Fergus’s shoulder. The man stiffened for a moment before the contact seemed to ground him.
“She is safe,” Frederick said, his voice steady. “That is what matters now.”
Fergus nodded, though his composure had not yet returned.
Frederick hesitated only a fraction before drawing him into a brief, firm embrace. It was not a gesture he offered often, nor lightly, but in that moment it felt necessary.
Fergus returned it, just as briefly, his grip tightening once before he stepped back.
“Send word when the hounds return, Fergus,” Frederick said as he released him. “I am relieved that she has returned to ye. And the offer stands to move into the keep should she need… anytime.”
“Aye, me laird,” Fergus replied, his voice still rough but steadier now.
Frederick inclined his head once more, then turned, Lennox falling into step beside him as they made their way back toward the village entrance stable.
For a time, neither spoke.
The path wound gently upward, the ground still damp from the night before, the air carrying the faint scent of earth and smoke. Frederick’s thoughts remained with the girl, with the fragments she had offered and the gaps that lay between them.
“They wanted her to return,” Lennox said at last.
Frederick did not look at him. “Aye.”
“To show us they can come and go as they please.”
“Or to see what we will do next,” Frederick replied.
Lennox glanced toward him. “And what will we do?”
Frederick’s jaw tightened slightly. “We will wait for the hounds. And we will prepare in the meantime.”
Lennox gave a short nod. “I will speak with the men.”
“See that the northern watch is doubled,” Frederick said. “And that no one walks alone beyond the inner paths unchaperoned. Nae until we ken more.”
“Aye.”
Near the outer edge of the village, a small cluster of shops had begun to stir to life, their doors open to the morning air. Frederick’s gaze moved over them without much thought until something caught his attention.
A display of fine fabrics hung just outside one of the shops, their colors richer than most would carry in a place such as this. Silks and delicate weaves that spoke of distant trade, of hands more accustomed to finer work than what the Highlands often demanded.
Madame Estelle Marchand.
He had heard of her, though he had not yet had cause to visit her shop himself. A modiste from France, they said, who had chosen to make her living here of all places. An odd choice, perhaps, but one that had drawn more attention than she likely intended.
The door stood open, and for a brief moment, he caught sight of movement within. A figure passing behind the hanging fabrics, slight and quick.
Frederick’s gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary.
“She keeps fine work,” Lennox remarked, following his line of sight.
“Aye,” Frederick said. Mayhap for the lass…
“Do ye think she has something to do with this?”
“Nay, nae at all, actually. I was thinkin’ of somethin’ else entirely,” Frederick admitted, and then turned away, toward the village stables where they had rested their horses.