Eight #2
“You’re going to leave me?” She didn’t want to be alone. Everything was too strange, too new. “I thought I was going everywhere with you.”
“Obviously not.” He placed the whiskey in the tack chest before reaching for a dark wood writing case and a small leather purse, which he tucked inside the case. He closed the tack chest.
As he headed toward the door, Tad rose, tail wagging as if in anticipation of going wherever his master was. She noticed Gordon hadn’t bothered to retie her.
Did he think her beaten?
Never.
As if reading her mind, Gordon said, “You won’t be leaving this tent, Constance. Not tonight. If all goes well, in two weeks’ time you’ll be sitting at Colster’s table. So, stop playing as if this were a game or some drama for the stage. Be wise and stay here. I shall be back shortly. Tad, guard.”
The wolfhound’s tail stopped wagging. The dog’s happy grin turned to what appeared a frown of disappointment as he swung his great shaggy head in her direction, and she knew whom he blamed.
“He can outrun any deer on this mountain. I’ve seen him take down a boar with his bare teeth. You’ll be here when I return,” Gordon assured her.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked, wondering if the dog ever acted on any of his grudges.
“Until I’m ready to return,” Gordon responded, as if she were a distraction and little more—but then, at the door, he stopped.
He turned and walked back to the tack chest. He set aside his writing case, opened the lid and took out two pistols, a powder horn, a dirk, and a sword.
He placed the dirk in his boot, tucked the pistols in his waistband, lifted the horn’s cord around his neck, and attached the sword around his waist with a belt.
“I don’t want you tempted,” he explained to her before picking up the case and leaving the tent.
Constance sat back. The tent’s canvas was heavy and muffled most of the sounds outside. For a moment she gave in to defeat, but only for a moment…until she realized she had a new enemy—boredom.
There was nothing to do in the tent. After two minutes of sitting, she was ready to move. She didn’t bother trying to slip out the door. She knew Gordon well enough to know he meant what he’d said, and if he claimed Tad could stop her, then it was true.
However, that didn’t mean she couldn’t while away the time satisfying her curiosity about Gordon. She opened the lid to the tack chest. Tad watched with undisguised curiosity, one ear cocked higher than the other.
Gordon’s clothes were folded neatly. Constance ran a hand over them. He was not a vain man. They were plain and hard worn.
Beneath them she found a Bible with an inscription on the inside cover. The light in the tent was too poor to read the writing. She poked around the chest, found a tinder box, and lit the oil lamp hanging from the tent’s center pole.
The boldly written inscription said:
To my son, in whom I am well pleased.
Remember justice without heart mocks the very meaning of the word.
Your father.
September 8, 1797
Amidst the Bible’s pages she found a watercolor miniature of a woman with Gordon’s sharp, intelligent green eyes. She turned the portrait over. Someone had written: d. 1788.
There was not much else in the tack chest other than some tools, the whiskey, a jug of cider, and miscellaneous leather pieces of tack. She wished he hadn’t taken his weapons.
Constance replaced the Bible under his clothing. The huge dog had watched her every move. He didn’t seem so mean. She’d always had a way with dogs. She could usually coax them into doing what she wanted them to do.
Closing the tack chest, she rose and cooed, “Nice Tad.” She took a step toward the door.
Tad leaped to his feet and barked furiously.
Constance pulled back in surprise. The animal even bared his teeth. Fearing he would attack, she fell back into the chair.
As if having said his piece, Tad flopped down and with a sigh placed his head on his paws, peacefully returning to his post.
Constance sat still. There must be a way out of the tent, she thought, one that didn’t involve having her head bitten off by either the dog or his master. And she was determined to discover what it was.
Dusk had settled over the camp. Gordon crossed to Thomas’s tent and found the giant sitting outside before a small fire, a bottle in one hand and Grace McEachin on his knee.
“I don’t think it wise of you to be free with your hands and your drinking when we have women and children around,” Gordon said.
Thomas raised the bottle to his lips. His gaze held Gordon’s in open defiance. The man was tired. Gordon understood. Still, he would do what was necessary to have the rules of the camp followed.
The bottle came down. Thomas hadn’t taken a drink. Instead, his lips curved into a lazy smile as he shifted his weight, sliding Grace off his lap. “I was teasing you, Gordon. I know my place.”
Gordon doubted that.
“Where’s Miss English Princess?” Thomas asked. “Or are you out hunting her now?” he said, nodding to the weapons Gordon carried.
“Tad’s watching her. I removed these for safety. I’ll place them in your tent.”
“You believe that dog can do what we haven’t been able to?”
“Aye,” Gordon answered, giving a passing glance to the insolent young woman who now stood at Thomas’s side. She was a former vicar’s daughter who lived by her wits and her looks.
She was comely enough to do so. ’Twas rumored that more than one man had been tempted to stray because of her silvery blue eyes and black curling hair. Gordon didn’t mind if she was Thomas’s plaything. Single men needed their release. But he’d bluntly warned her off the married men.
“Fetch Brian,” he said to Thomas. “I’m going to use your quarters to write the letter to Colster.”
Thomas nodded for Grace to leave and then did as Gordon had ordered.
The giant’s tent was as sparsely furnished as his own, although Thomas’s table and chairs were of better quality and he did have a cot. Gordon preferred to sleep on the ground because that was how most of his men slept.
He set aside his weapons, removing the pistols from his waistband and the sword at his waist, lit a candle and opened his writing case, removing paper, ink, and quills. The tip of his quills were dull. A sound at the door made him look up.
Grace stood there, her arms crossed, a hip cocked back in resentment. “Must you interfere every time I’m with Thomas, Gordon?” she demanded.
He began sharpening the quills with a knife from his case. This wasn’t a discussion he wanted. She’d not thank him for it.
“Answer me,” she ordered. “Or am I not even good enough to talk to?”
Gordon set his penknife aside. “Why are you in the business you are in, Grace?” he asked, answering her question with his own. “You have beauty, brains, your health. Why whore? And why here?” he asked quietly.
She straightened. “Why are any of us here, Gordon?”
“I know why I am here, Grace. Do you?” He sat at the table. “Use your brains, lass. There is more to life than laying with men. You’ll never receive any satisfaction from the likes of Thomas. He’s a good fighter but he’ll never be faithful.”
He’d struck a nerve. “I don’t want a faithful man.
” She’d uncrossed her arms, her hands curled into fists, which she hid in the folds of her skirt.
“If there is such a thing. Look at your sister, Gordon. She played right and good and what does she have to show for it? What future does she have? At least I choose who I sleep with and am paid well for my efforts.”
Gordon went still. There had been a time when his sister was the delight of the countryside. A laughing, beautiful, frivolous young woman with a line of suitors out the door.
But then, after the rebellion at Nathraichean was discovered, English soldiers went to Dougal MacLeod’s house, where Fiona had been living since their father’s murder. The English kept her in prison for a week at Fort William before tossing her out into the street like a stray when they were done.
Gordon had arrived in time to bring her to the clan…but laughter was gone from her.
Now, Fiona wore black, never smiled, and spoke only when necessary, even to him—or should he say, especially to him? She wouldn’t even live with him, choosing instead to have her own tent where she kept herself separate from the others.
He leaned toward Grace. “Has she talked to you? Has she said what happened at Fort William?”
Grace shook her head, her mouth twisting with cynicism. “She doesn’t have to tell me anything. The truth is there in the way she holds herself. Can’t you see it? Or are you, like everyone else, pretending ignorance?”
Before he could respond, Thomas returned, with Brian at his heels. The giant looked at his woman and Gordon, a frown forming between his eyes. “Grace, I’d not thought you’d still be here.”
She shrugged. “I was leaving.”
“Aye, go then,” Thomas said.
The woman did. After she left, Thomas turned back to Gordon. “Was she wanting you?” he asked.
Gordon frowned, surprised by the question. “You know I have other matters on my mind.”
“I want her just the way she is. Don’t be giving her any of your lectures, Gordon. Don’t interfere.”
“I won’t. I haven’t.” Gordon held up his hands to show he held no tricks.
“Yes, right,” Thomas said, his doubt clear on his face. He turned and stomped out of the tent.
Gordon couldn’t hide his frustration. “I wish that woman would leave,” he said to Brian.