Chapter 19
“Icouldn’ae help but overhear ye,” the innkeeper’s wife stepped into the glow of the stables, where the horses were hurriedly being prepared.
Owen paused, somewhat concerned by the admission. If the innkeeper’s wife had heard them, perhaps someone else had, too. “What did ye hear?”
“Ye were discussin’ Edith Morton, were ye nae?
I wasnae eavesdroppin’ on ye, but words stand out to me.
It’s a habit I’ve gained through me years of runnin’ the inn,” she explained deferentially.
“Ye’ve nae reason to distrust me, M’Laird.
We’re Clan McVey. We’re yer allies in all things, and I couldn’ae have ye ride out without kennin’ where ye were goin’. ”
Owen took a tight breath. “Ye ken of Edith Morton?”
In truth, he did not know why he had not asked the innkeeper’s wife for information about the mysterious woman. If she lived close to Erinkillie, it stood to reason that the villagers might know something about her. At the very least, the location of her residence.
“Nae much, M’Laird, but I can tell ye where to ride,” the innkeeper’s wife replied.
“Edith hasnae resided long in this part of the country—half a year or so. She hails from further north, but she came into the inn with a lad—he couldn’ae have been much older than ye, M’Laird.
They were giddy as Spring lambs, stealin’ kisses by the fireplace, so I remember them well. ”
Heather came up to Owen’s side, to enter into the discussion. “Were they wed?”
“Either wed or on their way to bein’,” the innkeeper’s wife confirmed, with a nod.
“I spoke to ‘em for a time, as I do when there are new folk in me inn. Asked ‘em where they were headed, so it came as a surprise when they told me they were goin’ to the cottage out yonder, in what we call Brock Woods.”
Heather took hold of Owen’s hand. “Half a year ago, you say?”
“Aye, around that time.” The innkeeper’s wife frowned. “I didnae see the lad again, but I saw Edith from time to time, comin’ into the village. I’m nae sure how they came into possession of that cottage, neither, though I recall someone sayin’ it belonged to Edith’s maither’s family.”
Heather squeezed Owen’s hand. “Where can we find it? If you would be so kind as to draw us a map or give us detailed directions, we would be mightily grateful.”
“And ye must nae tell a soul that ye’ve told us of this,” Owen added. “There might be men comin’. Sassenach soldiers. Pretend ye ken nothin’ at all, for yer own safety.”
The innkeeper’s wife nodded effusively. “I wouldn’ae breathe a word to any Sassenach. I wouldn’ae even let ‘em into me inn.” She offered an apologetic glance to Heather. “Ye and that lad over there are an exception, of course.”
“Thank ye kindly.” Owen smiled, though his heart was clenching with anxiety. There was no telling when Elias and his men would appear. Still, he prayed that the terrible weather would delay them for a while. “Now, where do we go?”
Driving rain, fresh from the mountains, transformed the night into a world of impossible darkness.
It did not matter how many times Owen wiped the cold water from his eyes; more replaced it.
Although, he was more concerned with the shivering figure who sat in front of him.
He could do nothing more than hold Heather tightly with one arm and pray she would not catch her death of cold.
“Are ye sure that innkeeper’s wife kens where this cottage is?” Sawyer called out, sounding as miserable as Owen felt. It could not be helped. They needed to reach Edith, one way or another.
Brandon, who led the small group, turned back and held up a shielded lantern.
The only speck of light in the impenetrable shadows around them.
“I do believe this is the right path. It echoes the directions that William spoke of in his letter, though the innkeeper’s wife was far more thorough.
” He swung his lantern out, spilling muted light onto a moss-covered lump of stone.
“Brock Woods. We must be going the right way.”
Owen eyed the old waymarker, until his eyes saw the eroded words that Brandon had seen.
It did, indeed, say “Brock Woods,” but Owen was beginning to feel uneasy about their progress.
He did not like to think ill of his allies, and Laird McVey had never attempted to act against Clan Dunn, but what if Elias had gotten to the innkeeper’s wife before they did?
That wretch wouldn’ae hesitate to use potent threats. For one thing, the inn had been extremely quiet, and there had been no sign of the innkeeper. If it was some kind of captive situation, perhaps the poor woman had no choice but to lead Owen and his group astray.
“Did William speak of these woods?” Heather chimed in, her teeth chattering against the wet and cold. Evidently, she was thinking the same kind of thing as Owen.
Brandon nodded. “He called them “Badger Woods,” but I do believe “Brock” is an old Scottish word for “Badger.” It must be the same.”
“Aye, it is,” Sawyer confirmed, “but what if ye’re both leadin’ us toward a grim fate? It wouldn’ae have been too difficult for ye to get to the innkeeper’s wife before we arrived. What did ye threaten her with, eh?”
He feels as I feel. Owen held his breath, wondering if Brandon would answer. However, in the inclement weather, it proved difficult for Owen to see Brandon’s face, but he heard the splutter of outrage sure enough.
“After all I have done to support your Laird’s innocence, you would make such abhorrent accusations?
” Brandon brought the lantern up to his face, where his eyes burned with rage.
“I would urge you to remember that you have not lost someone who was as dear as a brother and was a brother to Miss Heather! I would not betray William’s memory or your Laird. ”
At that moment, Heather uttered a yelp, jolting in Owen’s secure embrace. Her finger shot out, pointing into the dripping black of the woodland they were about to enter.
“There is… someone there!” she hissed, diverting the three men from their petty squabbling.
From out of the trees, a figure emerged, slicked with rainfall and wielding a bow and arrow in her hands. Judging by the way she wielded the weapon, with one eye squinted, and an air of calm about her, she knew how to shoot.
“I can loose four arrows before any one of ye kens ye’re dead,” the woman declared, in a chilling voice. “Who are ye, and what business do ye have in Brock Woods?”
The woman could not have been too much older than Heather, with long, loose dark hair that appeared almost black in its wetness.
She wore a simple dress of white or gray, cinched at the waist by a coil of rope.
Her attire spoke of poverty, yet her figure denoted good health, as did the angry shine of her eyes.
She was extraordinarily pretty, in truth, though no beauty would ever come close to that of Heather. At least, not in Owen’s opinion.
“Are ye those Sassenach wretches?” the woman turned her arrow toward Brandon first.
Immediately, Owen jumped in. “Two of us are Sassenach, but they have nay loyalty to where they hail from. They’re friends of ours, and we’re nae Sassenachs.” He paused. “Have ye seen Sassenach soldiers hereabouts?”
“Have I seen Sassenach soldiers?” The woman snorted. “I spied ‘em on the road comin’ north, while I was fishin’ by the loch not a few hours ago. They were on the opposite shore, but I kent where they were goin’. Now, answer me question—what brings ye to Brock Woods?”
Owen thought for a moment. “Are they the first that’ve tried to come here?”
“Nay, and they willnae be the last, but they cannae find me. They’ll never find me.” The woman’s lip curled into a grimace. “They daenae ken what sort of lass I am.”
Just then, Heather slithered out of Owen’s grasp and clambered down from the saddle, before he could stop her. He heard her wince, as if she had rolled her ankle, but that did not prevent her from walking right up to the woman, facing down the arrow.
“Are you Edith Morton?” Heather choked: her body shaking violently from the cold.
The woman’s scowl deepened. “Who’s askin’?”
“I am Heather Spencer, sister to William Spencer. This is his dearest friend, Brandon, and this is my beloved, Laird Dunn, and his man-at-arms, Sawyer. We are here to protect you, if you are Edith, for you are in grave danger.”
The woman lowered her bow and arrow without hesitation, and simply stared at Heather for what seemed like an eternity, as the rain hammered down with relentless determination.
Evidently, they had not had to find Edith.
She had found them. And Owen could only assume that she had good reason to lurk in the darkness, guarding the only entrance onto the forest path.
They’ve come before. Who kens how long Elias has been tryin’ to find this lass, or how long he’s kent about that letter William left with the priest. Anger bubbled up inside Owen, for he could not abide a priest who did not keep to his oath of confidentiality.
“Ye… are Heather?” The woman’s voice cracked, and all of the bluster and bravery vanished from her face, leaving the expression of someone who had been waiting a long time for this moment.
Heather nodded. “So, you are Edith?”
“I am.”
A deep sigh emerged from Heather’s chest. “Then we are precisely where we are supposed to be. There are men coming, dear Edith, and they mean to capture you.” She hesitated.
“They are my father’s men, though I have no attachment to them…
or, indeed, my father. You are safe with us, but you must come now. ”
“I cannae.” Edith glanced down the forest path. “If ye’re truly who ye say ye are, ye’ll follow.”
Without another word, she darted away, blending into the trees until neither sight nor sound of her could be discerned. How were they supposed to follow Edith anywhere, if they could not tell where she was?
As if to answer Owen’s annoyed thoughts, an owl hoot pierced the patter of rain.
Sharp and clear and accurate, yet out of place, for owls did not care to make their eerie calls in bad weather.
They were not foolish creatures; they preferred to hide in the hollow of a tree or a well-canopied bough until the rain ebbed.
But that was not the only sound that came to Owen. Beneath the percussion of the downpour and the insistent owl hoot, a subtler noise made itself known. The faint clatter of steel, accompanied by the hushed hiss of furtive voices.
“Are you certain it is this way?” someone said, in a gruff tone.
“What do you mean? Are you blind, man? Can you not see the village lights?” a different voice replied.
Turning his head slowly, aware that any snort from the horses might bring those voices closer, Owen peered into the gloom at his back.
A fair distance away, emerging from a thicket of bushes, was a considerable battalion of men.
Twenty-five or so. They had not seen Owen and his group, for they were clearly too concerned with the beacons of the village that shone beyond a stretch of meadows and farmland.
Wordlessly, Owen slipped down from the saddle and patted his horse lightly on the rump. The intelligent stallion wandered away, into the trees, without so much as a whinny of protest.
Seeing what he was doing, Brandon and Sawyer echoed the movement, until they were all dismounted.
Fortunately, any crunch of underbrush was smothered by the sound of the rain, though Owen felt little comfort.
The enemy was too close. One mistake, and they would be seen, and he did not know if they could outrun the English in unknown territory. Or, rather, if Heather could.
I shouldn’ae have brought her here, he told himself bitterly, but there was no changing that now.
Striding up to her, he put his fingertips to her lips, wishing they were in the inn, in private chambers, where he could put those fingertips and lips to far more pleasurable pursuits. Alas, that would have to wait.
“I need to carry ye,” he whispered, as quietly as he could.
She nodded in understanding.
So, grabbing her and hoisting her up onto his shoulders to quicken their pace, he set off into the woodland, following the owl hoot with Brandon and Sawyer treading carefully behind him.
The moment they were inside the protection of the trees, every sound muffled around them. If the English had spotted them and given chase, they would not have known until the enemy was upon them. Yet, that owl hoot pierced through everything, guiding the rescuers in the right direction.
Although, that “right direction” did not appear to follow the forest path at all.
Indeed, tramping through tangled undergrowth and feeling thorns and briars snag at his legs, he realized they were heading deeper and deeper into the wildest parts of the woodland, putting their faith in a woman they did not know.
Still, half his mind was at his back, where that twenty-five-strong band of English had been crouching low. If the Sassenachs have been here before, it willnae be long before they catch up to us—
In truth, through the rain and the distorted, deadened noise of the forest, he was fairly sure he could already hear them.