Chapter 10
Eleanor.
Her name was Eleanor.
At least Brice assumed that’s what her note meant.
Why had he not thought to ask her if she could write?
It had never occurred to him because not many women were that learned.
But he had known that the lass—Eleanor—was different.
Her ragged gown had set her apart as a woman of means. Possibly nobility?
Possibly.
Now that he knew her name, so many more questions crowded his mind. What was her full name? Where was she from? How did she come to be in Scotland?
The last question was the most frightening.
There was only one way an English lass of her class—or what he assumed was her class—came to be in Scotland, and that was by marrying an English officer.
The thought kept him awake the two nights he’d been away from her and touched on a fear that grew daily.
If he was housing an English officer’s wife, then he was a dead man.
They had ridden to the coast to meet the ship that was due to take the refugees to Canada.
The ship had been two days late, and his men and those who waited to board it had become tense with the thought that it would not show.
It had happened before. One other time he’d lost a ship to a storm.
The people he’d risked his life to protect had all perished, including the captain—his brother.
Much to everyone’s relief, this ship arrived, but his mind did not focus on that as it should have.
Damnation.
Eleanor.
Even her name suggested nobility.
Which meant that whoever she had married was nobility as well.
He kept a keen eye on the men, women, and children boarding the ship, their faces ravaged with the knowledge that this was the last time they would see Scottish land.
They were to start a new life in Canada, where they would not be hunted and tortured, their wives not raped.
There was hope on the other end of the voyage, but there was also devastation that they were being driven from the land their families had lived on for centuries.
Brice always felt deeply for them, knowing that so many more awaited the next ship, and the next, and the next.
But today he could not keep focused on that.
He kept thinking of Eleanor and what her presence meant.
“Rider approaching,” Lachlan said beside him.
Brice turned in his saddle. The ship was well off the coast, and his men were gathering their things, hiding the evidence of their presence.
“ ’Tis one of ours,” Lachlan said.
Brice relaxed until he noted that the rider was at full gallop, heedless of the rocky terrain. His men were well trained with their mounts, and only something very important would cause the messenger to risk his horse in this manner.
The man pulled his horse up short when he came to Brice and Lachlan. “My lord,” he said breathlessly. “I bring you news from the castle.”
“Out with it, man,” Brice demanded, his heart pounding in dread.
“English soldiers have entered the castle, my lord. Angus said ye must come at once.”
“Go,” Lachlan said. “I’ll finish up here.”
Brice spurred his horse toward home, his heart thundering as hard as Galad’s hooves.
It wasn’t uncommon for the English to visit his castle.
They’d done so before, and it was always a tense situation.
But he didn’t like that they had arrived while he was away, and he doubly didn’t like that he was harboring an English lass.
He was racing to get to Eleanor, to get to his people. But which did he race to save?
His people. He had to save his people.
If they even needed saving. They were a shifty lot, and he loved them for it.
The majority knew of the Staran and Brice’s role in it.
Hell, the majority participated in it, and their hatred of the English ran deep.
They would not reveal a word of his secret activities.
But would they divulge Eleanor’s presence?
If they discovered she was English, would they hand her over to the soldiers?
Most likely not, because harboring an English lady would mean certain punishment—severe punishment.
The ride normally took a few hours. Brice made it in half that time, slowing Galad to cool him off so as not to alert the soldiers that he had raced here.
He entered the bailey amid pointed stares from his men, who were no doubt waiting for him. Lesser English soldiers gathered together at one end of the bailey while his men eyed them from the other end. He could cut the tension with his broadsword.
He slid off Galad and tossed the reins to a stable lad.
The officers were stretched out negligently along the benches in the great hall as if it were their hall and not his.
He gritted his teeth and smiled through the throbbing anger that consumed him.
Bastards. They felt it was their right to go where they wanted, take what they wanted, with no thought to those who lived here.
Women scurried about, serving ale and food. His food, meant for his people. His ale, meant to quench the thirst of his people.
Immediately he discerned the leader of the group. A haughty, thin man with a pinched look about his face and an air of nobility, who held himself apart from his men.
Brice approached him. “Welcome to Castle Dornach,” he said.
The leader looked down his nose at him, which was an interesting thing to see, considering Brice stood at least a head above him.
The man’s nostrils flared as if he smelled something particularly nasty.
Brice hoped they weren’t planning on staying long, because he would have no back teeth left from grinding them together.
“Apologies for our unexpected visit,” the man said, though he sounded less than apologetic. He glanced around the room. “Lord Henry Blackwell, colonel of the Second Footguards.”
It didn’t seem to matter to this man that Brice was an earl, technically above the colonel in class. Brice took the insult and absorbed it, thinking of the ship of Jacobites who had escaped this man and his leader, the Duke of Cumberland, known to the Scots as the Butcher.
He looked around the great hall for Eleanor. Few women were to be seen, much to his approval. The English “appetites” for women—especially Scottish women—were well known. He preferred to keep his female clansmen away from them if at all possible. When he didn’t see Eleanor, his relief was great.
A retinue of his men silently filed in and lined the walls, their eyes on Blackwood’s soldiers.
“Pardon our intrusion,” Blackwood was saying. “We’ve been on patrol for days and found that we prefer a roof over our head tonight, as well as a warm meal in our bellies.”
No request for such hospitality, just arrogant confidence that Brice would grant them whatever they wanted. And he would. Because he didn’t want undue attention from these men. Especially Blackwood, who served directly under the Butcher.
“Of course,” Brice said, swallowing his anger and hatred for the moment. “Now, if ye will excuse me, like ye, I’ve been sleeping under the stars for a few nights and wish to wash the soil off before we sup.”
Blackwood tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering in a way that put Brice on alert. “And why would you be sleeping outside, Sutherland?”
“My land is extensive, Colonel, and my people scattered. As ye are well aware, it is my duty to see to their safety and comfort.”
Blackwood’s lips thinned. He couldn’t deny Brice’s claim that he was the leader of his people, but he well caught the barb that Sutherland felt the need to protect his people.
Brice nodded to him and turned toward the steps.
“Sutherland,” Blackwood called.
Brice stopped and breathed deep before turning around. He hadn’t given Blackwood leave to address him so informally, and the man knew it.
“Yes, Blackwood?”
The man’s jaw worked and his eyes flashed. Apparently it was acceptable for him to address Brice informally but not for Brice to address him as such.
“We’re looking for a lady. An English lady. Blond hair, blue eyes. A slight little thing.”
Eleanor. They were looking for Eleanor. In the back of his mind, he’d suspected as much. He raised a brow. “Have you lost one of your women, Colonel?”
Blackwood didn’t answer for a few moments, and Brice feared he had stepped too far.
“She is Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale. She is my betrothed. We became separated when her horse bolted.” He looked away, and when he looked back, there was something in his eyes that Brice could have sworn was a plea for help. “I worry for her, all alone in the Scottish wilderness.”
Brice’s shock kept him silent for a space of a moment. Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale. Lady. Countess. Damnation. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he was. “And you think she may have wandered onto my lands?” he asked.
Blackwood’s eyes flashed. “I don’t know where she could have…wandered off to.”
“Does she do this often? Wander the Scottish countryside?”
Eleanor. Countess. Eleanor was a countess. It all fit. The gown. Her table manners.
Blackwood’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “Of course she doesn’t wander the countryside. I believe she may have been stunned, not thinking right, and wandered off.”
There was an undercurrent of desperation in him.
Eleanor could very well be this man’s betrothed.
Brice had suspected that she was English nobility, following a military husband.
But something about Blackwood bothered Brice, and he was not about to give up Eleanor until he spoke to her.
“I’ve not seen an English lass roaming about my lands, and neither have I heard any reports of one being seen wandering around.
” His tone implied that no Scotsman would allow his woman to roam the countryside alone and unprotected.