Chapter 30
“Riders approaching,” the guard yelled from the tower.
Blackwood ignored the cry. There were always riders approaching, and he had far too many things to worry about at the moment. He couldn’t stop thinking of the woman—Eleanor. It had been weeks and they hadn’t found her.
Bloody hell, but he should have killed her when he had the chance and made it look like she’d taken her own life from grief and despair over her husband’s most embarrassing demise. Now he had to find her and kill her and make it look like something else.
His men were all fools. He was beginning to wonder if they were even searching for her, like they said they were.
He got the impression they weren’t. He supposed he’d have to go out riding himself.
Maybe he would visit the Campbell, who was an English sympathizer.
Maybe he’d heard of another chief harboring an Englishwoman.
Someone knocked on his door. “Enter,” he called without looking up from his paperwork.
Endless paperwork. It was damn boring and tedious, and he was as tired of it as he was tired of this godforsaken country.
He longed for London, where the true power lay.
If he’d had Eleanor on his arm as his wife, he would have been accepted into every household and quite possibly would have a title of his own by now.
“Lord Thomas Stiles, Viscount Scarbrough, sir.”
Blackwood stood quickly. He had no idea who the man was, but he looked decidedly important. He stood just inside the door to Blackwood’s office, his hat in his hand, looking around with a pinched expression as if displeased with what he was seeing.
Blackwood bristled. “My lord.” He strode forward and smiled. Until he knew who this man was, he would treat him with respect despite Scarbrough’s apparent displeasure.
Scarbrough turned familiar blue eyes to him, though Blackwood could swear he’d never met the man.
“Blackwood.” He nodded and looked around again.
He was English. That was good, at least.
Blackwood stood before Scarbrough with what he felt was an idiotic smile, waiting for the man to say something. Scarbrough didn’t seem inclined to fill the uncomfortable silence any time soon. Finally he turned those blue eyes to Blackwood. “I’ve come from London,” he said.
Blackwood’s mood improved. Maybe Scarbrough was here to bestow the title he’d been promised for his performance at the Battle of Culloden.
That would surely make his day much better.
“You must be weary, my lord. Would you like me to have a room prepared for you?” He didn’t want to, but he knew he should offer accommodations.
“No,” Scarbrough said shortly. He peeled off his riding gloves and slapped them against his thigh. “I’m on urgent business, and I was told by someone in London that you might be able to help me.”
Blackwood straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest. People in London were mentioning him? That could only bode well. “Of course, my lord. How may I lend my assistance?”
“I’m searching for my sister. We lost contact with her at the beginning of the year, and all of our inquiries have met with silence, prompting me to travel here in person.”
Blackwood’s pride ebbed and a sick feeling overtook him. “Of course, my lord. Wh—” He had to clear his throat. “What is the lady’s name, may I ask?”
“Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale.”
Blackwood felt his bowels loosen, and he clenched his thighs together. His smile began to slip. He swallowed through a throat that was suddenly parched.
“She is the recent widow of Lord Charles Hirst,” Scarbrough was saying.
“I remember Lord Glendale. Terrible business, that.” Blackwood frowned while his mind raced, trying to think of some way to salvage the situation so it did not come back on him.
“We got word through his family that he was accused and hanged for treason.”
Blackwood nodded. “It was a horrible shock to all of us, I assure you. Charles—that is, Lord Glendale—was the last person any of us would have suspected of treason.”
Scarbrough tapped his gloves against his leg and regarded Blackwood with narrowed eyes. It took all of Blackwood’s control not to shift his feet and to keep a neutral expression on his face.
“Of course, we don’t believe the treason charges, but that’s neither here nor there. My parents are beside themselves with worry over Eleanor. They fear the worst, I’m afraid.”
“I understand. She was terribly distraught over her husband’s death. I do remember that. We met once or twice, the first time at a ball, I believe. She was a lovely lady.”
Scarbrough’s gaze sharpened. “Was?”
Blackwood feared his legs would give out on him. He’d met superiors who were less frightening than this Scarbrough. “What I meant to say was that at the time I made her acquaintance, she was a lovely lady.”
For the first time something more than disdain filled Scarbrough’s eyes: Blackwood glimpsed grief. “I’m here to find my sister and bring her home. I’m hoping you can help me.”
Blackwood rubbed his chin and pretended to think, when in fact his mind had gone numbingly blank. How far could he carry this charade? His men knew he’d been looking for Eleanor since she escaped. How in the bloody hell was he going to keep that fact from her brother?
“There is a clan chief. Iain Campbell, the Marquess of Kirr. He is sympathetic to the English cause. He might know something. His lands are not a far ride from here. A day or so at the most.”
Scarbrough seemed to consider that. “It’s a start, at least. You say this Campbell is on the side of England?”
“Yes, my lord. He behaves more English than Scottish. He can at least keep his ears open for rumors.” Blackwood hoped to God that Campbell had not heard anything, and he prayed that the English bitch had died a most horrible death after her escape from his prison.
“We’ll ride for Campbell land this afternoon, then,” Scarbrough said.
Blackwood bristled at the command in the man’s voice. He was not the officer here, Blackwood was, and he refused to take orders from Scarbrough whether he was a viscount or not.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’ll have to rearrange my schedule, and there are a few things I simply cannot put aside. We can ride out tonight if you don’t mind riding through the night.” Maybe Blackwood could take Scarbrough in a few circles to delay their arrival at Campbell’s estate.
“Very well,” Scarbrough said. “Tonight, then. In the meantime I would like a room readied for me.”
Blackwood’s back teeth came together, but he smiled anyway. “Of course, my lord.”
—
Eleanor had been on enough runs with Brice and his men that it didn’t seem odd to wear breeches or to congregate in the bailey in the middle of the night.
Even better, she was not so sore after riding for hours.
She was becoming a real smuggler, and that thought brought a smile to her lips.
Her parents would be appalled. Her friends would be atwitter, and she would definitely be the talk of the ton if her secret were discovered.
She was sad that this would be one of her last nightly runs. The Campbell was probably on his way to Castle Dornach right now. She pushed that thought away. There was no room on a run for heavy thoughts. She needed all of her concentration for what lay ahead.
As they rode under the portcullis, Eleanor decided there were no words to describe the feeling she got when she helped the refugees.
Their relief and appreciation touched her heart in ways that nothing else could.
There was no work in England equivalent to what she was doing here.
Certainly there were committees she could serve on that helped the orphaned children or the wounded soldiers.
There were any number of causes, and if she didn’t find one that pleased her, she could easily create one.
But sitting in a room, drinking tea and eating biscuits in fine gowns, was nothing compared to being outside in the dead of night with a group of people who were running for their lives and who would get you killed if they were found with you.
The excitement, the fear, it hummed in her blood and made her come alive. She knew Brice felt it, too, for after a run they always had the best, most intense coupling. In some ways she felt it was the only solution to burn off the aftereffects of a successful run.
She knew the routine by now. They followed each other in single file.
She was usually a few men behind Brice. She’d learned to keep alert and to be wary of every sound, every movement in the trees.
She was not allowed a weapon other than the dagger Brice had given her that first day, but she had never needed one.
In the beginning they’d encountered soldiers periodically, but as time went on they encountered fewer.
It was as if the soldiers were giving up.
She knew that not to be truth. She heard the reports that were given to Brice, and she heard the stories of the refugees. The horrors of being run out of their homes, of their wives molested and their children tormented. Of their crops burned, their homes torched.
Anger burned inside her for these people. An anger she wasn’t certain she could control when she reached London. But to speak out in their favor would be tantamount to treason.
The group split into two. Half the men veered north to pick up a group of refugees, while the other half went south toward Campbell land with Brice and Colin. They were picking Morna and her little family up from Cait’s tonight, and Eleanor was excited to see the baby.
Eleanor was reliving the night of the babe’s birth when Brice’s fist came up suddenly.
The line of four riders, including her, came to an immediate halt.
The men around her drew their weapons. Eleanor’s dagger was in her hand before she even thought twice.
She wasn’t too worried. They’d come across English soldiers before without being detected.
This time when they rode into the trees, she found herself with Brice. Colin and the other man were hidden on the opposite side of the road. Silently she and Brice slid off their mounts and crouched behind a line of bushes.
Eleanor watched the soldiers with detachment as she thought about the small family waiting for them.
They would be delayed but not overly much.
Eleanor shrank into the bushes when the soldiers passed.
They were so close that she could easily reach out and touch the horse’s foreleg.
And then she looked up and gasped. It was a nearly silent gasp, but Brice tensed beside her.
The leader of the small group of men was Blackwood.
Seeing him sent goose bumps up and down her arms and a shiver through her body.
He was sitting straight and tall, looking ahead in that haughty way he had.
Eleanor’s breath was stuck in her lungs.
She dared not move, but all she wanted to do was flee like a frightened rabbit.
Brice pressed his thigh against hers, the only movement he would attempt, but she understood his silent message. He was here with her and would protect her.
Blackwood passed and she watched, unable to take her gaze from him. His shoulders were rigid under his red coat. His black boots were gleaming even in the dark, and his hat stood tall and straight on his brown hair.
Her gaze swept through the other men, wondering if any of them were the guards who had watched over her. But Blackwood wouldn’t be in the presence of a mere private or sergeant. He thought himself too good for that.
Her gaze stopped on the man in the middle of the group, and she pressed a fist into her mouth to keep from crying out. It couldn’t be…She leaned forward to get a better look. Brice grabbed her shoulder and shot her a warning look.
She centered all of her attention on the man in the middle.
He was the only one not dressed as a soldier.
From where she was crouched, all she could tell was that he was garbed in breeches and tall brown boots and a greatcoat that covered the rest of his clothing.
He wore a tricorn. She knew that hat and she knew those boots, but most of all she knew that horse he was riding because it was his favorite.
Thomas.