Chapter 19
As soon as Eleanor entered his bedchamber, Brice knew something was wrong. Her face was pale, her lips pinched.
“What happened?” he asked.
She smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing happened. How are you feeling?”
He grunted because he was feeling like hell. His shoulder pained him like the devil, and he was incredibly frustrated that he could barely move it and that Colin had to lead the men tonight.
But seeing Eleanor lifted his spirits. He’d thought about tumbling her to the bed—one-armed, of course—and making love to her again. But one look at her and those thoughts reluctantly fled.
“Sit up,” she said. “Let me unwrap the bandage and see if that wound needs stitching again.”
“The wound is fine, lass, but something is wrong with ye. Tell me.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. “There’s nothing wrong, Brice, other than what happened last night can’t happen again.”
“Why?”
“Because I have to leave.”
His heart plummeted and an icy anger suffused him. She was leaving. “And where do ye plan on going?”
“I’m a danger to you and your people. You have to know that.”
“Ye don’t think I can protect ye?” Good God, were all women alike? Was he not good enough for any of them? This was Alisa all over again. He’d never been good enough for her, hadn’t given her what she’d needed, and she’d ended up leaving, too.
Eleanor covered his hand and squeezed his fingers. “It’s not that at all.”
He pulled his hand away, knowing he was being churlish, but his heart was breaking, and he’d sworn that he would never allow another woman to break his heart the way Alisa had. “Where do ye think ye’re going?”
She sat back and put her hand in her lap, looking at him with hurt and sadness. “A place where Blackwood can’t find me.”
He snorted. “Blackwood is a fool. We can hide ye under his eyes and he would no’ find ye.”
“Don’t underestimate him, Brice. He’s very dangerous.”
He sat forward, ignoring the shooting pain in his shoulder. “I understand what he did to yer Charles. But Charles was no’ strong enough against Blackwood, and Blackwood knew it.”
“I wish I could believe that,” she whispered.
“Trust me to take care of ye, Eleanor.”
She pressed her lips together and looked away. Brice sat back in defeat and despair. He’d lost her. Just like he’d lost Alisa.
“He’s not the devil,” he said bitterly.
“Sometimes I think he is.”
—
Eleanor slid through the great hall, keeping to the shadows, glad to see that Brice had not come down tonight.
She’d so desperately wanted to say goodbye, but she couldn’t tell him her plan. He would try to talk her out of it, and she was weak enough, in love enough with him, that she would let him.
Yes, she was in love with him. She held the emotion close to her, folding her pain around it. She’d loved Charles, but that love paled compared to what she felt for Brice.
No one seemed to notice her as she slid out the front door.
After convincing Cecilia to find her a pair of breeches and a shirt that would fit her, and swearing the maid to secrecy, Eleanor wrote a letter to Brice, telling him everything she’d wanted to tell him in person and thanking him for picking her up off the road and saving her life.
She’d left the note in her bedchamber and told Cecilia not to come in until the morning.
By then Eleanor would be on the ship, well away from Scotland, Blackwood, and Brice.
She’d stayed in her chambers and watched out the window for any indication that Colin and the men would be leaving. The entire time she was thinking of Brice in the connecting room and how she might be leaving Scotland, but she was leaving her heart with him.
The men didn’t gather until well after dark, when Eleanor was convinced she had either missed them or they had canceled tonight’s activities.
Now she stood on the top steps of the castle and watched them mill about.
They were all dressed for battle, with broadswords hanging at their sides and pistols tucked into their kilts and breeches.
She was glad to see others in breeches. Even though she was highly uncomfortable in the trousers, she never would have been able to leave her chambers in a kilt.
How scandalous, even in the Highlands, for a woman to show her knees.
Grooms were bringing horses out of the stable.
Eleanor pushed away from the door and headed toward the stables, keeping to the shadows.
She grabbed a horse from a groom with a gruff thank-you, pulled her hat lower over her eyes, and made sure her hair was tucked under the cap.
She really had no plan other than to ride with the men to the ship and board.
There were about a dozen of them, led by Colin, as they rode under the portcullis and out of the keep.
In England, Eleanor was considered an accomplished rider, but she quickly learned that accomplished in England was far different than accomplished in Scotland.
For one thing, she rode sidesaddle in England, wearing elegant riding apparel.
In Scotland she rose astride and in breeches.
She kept toward the back and attempted to adjust to riding astride, but she found she enjoyed the freedom of the breeches.
She could move much better in them, though it did take some getting used to, having her legs so scandalously exposed.
As they entered the forest, Eleanor looked back at Castle Dornach. All she could see was the darker outline of the guard tower against the dark, cloud-strewn sky. But within those walls lay Brice in his bedchamber, oblivious to her disappearance.
They rode silently and in single file. It was apparent these men knew how to blend into the landscape and appear that they weren’t there at all.
Eleanor tried to mimic them, but after an hour of riding, her backside was beginning to hurt.
Though she desperately needed a break, she was determined to say nothing.
Her plan hinged on Colin not discovering her until they were too far from the castle.
They rode and rode. Eleanor lost all track of time. No one spoke in all that time.
Finally Colin signaled for everyone to halt.
Most of the men faded into the shadows of the forest. Eleanor looked around, unsure where she should go or what she should do.
Colin caught her eye and motioned with a swipe of his hand for her to get off the road.
Eleanor tried to lead her horse, but he balked and sidestepped.
Desperately she kneed him, but he tossed his head and pranced forward.
“Oh, please,” she whispered to her mount. “Please go into the woods.”
The warrior who had been riding behind Colin was frowning at her.
She tilted her head down and desperately sawed on the reins, trying to get her mount into the safety of the trees.
The warrior rode up to her. Startled, her mount reared.
Eleanor held on with all her strength, clenching her thighs into the horse’s sides.
Her hat flew off, and her hair fell around her shoulders.
The man leaned over and grabbed the reins, bringing her horse under control with a muffled curse.
Eleanor looked up into the cold blue eyes of Brice.
“Eleanor,” he said flatly, his lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure.
Her traitorous mount, now calm, settled beneath her.
“Brice,” she breathed. “But I thought—”
“That I was tucked all safe in my bed while ye made a fool of me?”
She stared at him, dumbfounded, until his words penetrated her swirling brain. “No. That’s not what I thought at—”
“Save it, my lady. We have work to do, and ye are holding us up.” He tied the reins of her mount to his saddle and wheeled his mount around.
Eleanor’s horse followed meekly. Eleanor tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter, because she was still headed toward the ship, but as she stared at Brice’s rigid shoulders, she couldn’t help wincing. He was awfully angry. Furious, actually.
His arm was in a sling to keep it immobile. She had to wonder why he’d decided to go out tonight, of all nights. Of all the bad luck. Well, he would just have to understand that her plan was solid and the safest one she could think of.
He stopped in front of a small thatched hut that was barely discernible in the dark. The door opened and a hunched-over man stepped out. Brice slid off his mount one-handed and spoke to the man for a moment, then disappeared around the back of the hut.
The other men suddenly materialized from the darkness.
Colin stopped his mount beside Eleanor. “What were ye thinking, lass?”
She kept her lips pressed together.
Colin shook his head. “I only hope ye weren’t thinking of running away from him.”
“I have no choice, Colin.”
Beside her, Colin sighed. “ ’Twas a mistake running from him like this. There’s only one other time I’ve seen him this angry.”
When he didn’t say more, Eleanor knew he was waiting for her to ask. She held off as long as possible, but curiosity got the best of her. “When was the other time he was this angry?”
Colin’s horse shifted. “When his wife ran away from him.”
Eleanor’s heart did a little tumble. Oh, dear. She understood what this looked like to Brice now, but that wasn’t what it was like at all. “I’m not running.”
“Aren’t ye?” He moved away before she could respond.
Brice reappeared from behind the hut. Behind him were two shadows that coalesced into people. A man and a woman. By the weak light of the moon, she could see fear in the lines of their bodies. The woman stayed close to the man and grabbed his hand as they looked up at the men on the large horses.
Brice signaled to the men. They broke off into pairs and disappeared again, leaving Brice, Colin, and Eleanor alone with the couple.
Brice approached Eleanor’s mount and looked up at her. “Get off,” he said, his voice clipped and so cold it made her shiver.
She slid off the horse, landing with an oomph because Brice didn’t catch her. Instead he turned his back to her and spoke to the man. “Ye’ll ride this mount. The woman will ride behind ye.”
The man nodded, helped the woman up, and mounted in front of her while Eleanor stood to the side.
Brice turned to her and looked her up and down, starting at her worn borrowed boots.
His icy gaze raked her breeches and the overlarge shirt.
He curled his lip. “If we weren’t running behind schedule, I’d make ye walk.
But since we are, ye’ll have to ride behind me. ”
It took a few tries, but she managed to get up on the horse by herself while Brice stood back and watched, his expression stony. Even one-handed he seemed to almost jump up on the mount. He clicked his tongue, and the three horses and five people moved on.
Eleanor had no choice but to wrap her arms around his waist. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the hard stomach muscles under her hands. She tried not to feel the undulations of his back muscles as he swayed with the motion of the horse.
He smelled of honey.
They rode for a long while, until finally Eleanor couldn’t help but press her cheek against his back and close her eyes. He was so warm, so strong. So Brice. And he hated her because he thought she was running away from him, like his wife had.
They stopped and Brice slid off the horse, almost unseating Eleanor as he did so. They were at the edge of the ocean, the waves gently slapping against the sand. The men who had left them earlier were there with other people.
These must all be the fugitives, Eleanor thought, the men and women fleeing the persecution of the English.
They were quiet, huddled together, the looks on their faces different forms of desperation and grief.
They were leaving their homeland and probably their families.
It hit Eleanor then, just what she was doing.
Scotland wasn’t her homeland. With the exception of her time at Castle Dornach, her experience in the country had been horrific. But her grief at having to leave hit her squarely in the stomach, making her want to double over with the pain.
She wasn’t leaving only Scotland. She was also leaving the possibility of returning to England and her own family.
She was so much like the people standing in a tight circle in their ragged clothes.
She was homeless, driven out of her home by the English, just as they were.
She looked behind her, at the trees that stopped a few yards from the shore, and tears welled in her eyes.
Then another, more frightening thought hit her. She had nothing but the clothes on her back—borrowed breeches, a shirt, and old boots. No money. Nothing. She began to shake on the inside, and her breathing became harsh.
Brice left her side and strode over to Colin. While they conversed, Brice kept glancing over as if checking that she was still there. Did he know?
No. He couldn’t possibly know.
Eleanor looked toward the water and found the ship awaiting them just off the shore. It was a big, hulking thing with three masts.
She slid off the horse and stood at the edge of the water, looking at the ship that would take her away from Scotland and England. Away from everything.
Then she thought of Blackwood. He was out there somewhere, looking for her. Searching. Determined to find her.
That ship was her only escape from death, and she would take it because she didn’t want to die.
As she watched, a smaller boat pulled away from the ship, with two men rowing it toward them.
Behind her, she could hear Brice directing the fugitives—though it seemed wrong to call them fugitives.
They weren’t on the run because they’d done something wrong.
They were on the run because they’d fought for what was right, and now they were being hunted.
Just like she was being hunted.
She turned toward the group that had moved closer to the waves kissing the sand, and she moved closer to them. She shot a nervous glance at Brice, but he was deeply involved in gathering the lingering fugitives together.
Nervously she looked toward the tall ship and saw that the rowboat was pulling closer. Two of Brice’s men waded out into the water to pull the small boat in. Brice and Colin directed the people into the boat. Brice’s men moved fast and sure, as if they’d done this many times before.
There was a palpable feeling of relief and sadness among these people. Only Brice and Colin spoke, and then only when absolutely necessary.
Two men stood with their backs to them, searching the line of trees, their hands on the butts of their pistols.
Within minutes the people were all on the boat, and the oarsmen took up his oars. The two men who’d pulled the boat on shore got in position to push it back out.
It was time.