Chapter 8
The fire crackled and spat, sparks spiraling upward into the velvet dark.
Evan sat with his back against a wagon wheel, cloak wrapped about his shoulders, enjoying the warmth.
Around him, the wagons loomed in a rough circle, shadowed hulks creaking quietly as they settled.
Beyond, stretched the open wild, black and boundless, where only the low murmur of guards patrolling marked the line between safety and danger.
He’d eaten his fill of salted beef and bread, washed it down with a cup of thin ale, and though his belly was content, his mind was restless.
Nights like these—company, warmth, food—were dangerous luxuries.
They dulled the senses, made a man think he could ease his vigilance.
And for someone like him, vigilance was all that kept him breathing.
Still, the chance to rest his bones was not unwelcome.
He rolled a twig between his fingers then tossed it into the flames. “So,” he said, turning to the merchant, Duncan Fraser, who was sitting on his left. “How have the roads been this season?”
The merchant shifted his weight. He was a thick-bodied man, barrel-chested and square-jawed, with a face lined by years of long roads and longer bargains.
His hand rested on his cup, fingers short and powerful.
For several heartbeats, he considered Evan, those shrewd eyes catching the interest beneath the idle question.
“Troubled,” he said at last, his voice low.
“More troubled than I’ve seen in many a year.
” He spat into the dirt as though the words left a foul taste.
“These damned Articles of Union have stirred the country like a stick in a hornet’s nest. Every man ye meet is picking a side, and some think steel’s the better tongue than reason. ”
A ripple of discontent ran around the circle. The guards shifted uneasily. One muttered something about selling Scotland’s soul for English coin, and another cursed him quiet, reminding Evan that arguments over politics had a way of drawing knives faster than anything else.
Evan considered. Trouble on the roads meant risk—but risk also meant opportunity. He could use unrest to slip past enemies, take advantage of chaos. But the mention of the Articles stirred unease in him, too. He had no love for politics and no wish to become embroiled in it.
He leaned forward. “And how are things in the capital? I’ve heard whispers.”
The merchant’s eyes flicked up sharply. Then he gave a grunt and leaned back, rubbing his jaw.
“Aye, there’s been more than whispers. The Earl of Newborough himself rooted out a conspiracy a few months back.
Men plotting to bring French troops into the country, to fight against the crown and keep the Articles from taking root.
” He shook his head. “Madness, if ye ask me. It was crushed, but there’ll be others.
There always are. Ye’d best keep yer wits about ye when ye reach the city.
Edinburgh’s fair to bursting with sharp tongues and sharper blades just now. ”
Evan dropped his gaze to the flames, jaw clenched, and exhaled slowly through his nose.
The Earl of Newborough. He hadn’t thought to hear that title out here, so far from civilization.
It was a title he knew all too well, but one that belonged to part of his life he’d buried, a past better left rotting in the ground.
And yet, like a ghost, it rose again, whispering through the smoke and crackle of the fire.
When he risked a glance up, he found Ruby watching him, her eyes narrowed in that way that suggested she was piecing something together. He gave her nothing but a crooked smile, as if to say what of it? and then shrugged, pretending the words meant little.
The conversation moved on. One of the guards launched into a tale about a lass in Aberdeen and too much whisky, a bawdy yarn that drew laughter and ribald jests.
Isla teased her father about his snoring, and the older man grumbled good-naturedly in response.
The air lightened, voices rising with laughter, the earlier tension momentarily forgotten.
Evan leaned back against the wagon wheel. He was grateful for the shift in topic, grateful not to have to talk further of Edinburgh or conspiracies.
But his thoughts kept circling back.
The Earl of Newborough. Edinburgh. A life he’d thought long left behind.
He shifted, uncomfortable with the direction of his thoughts, and found his gaze drifting back to Ruby. She sat quietly, blanket pulled around her, listening to Isla with a faint smile tugging her lips. She looked tired, worn, yet more relaxed than he’d seen her so far.
He frowned. Who was she? And what would have brought her so far from home?
Running from a husband, as he suspected?
Or was it more than that? She’d said some very strange things.
Words like “office,” and “video entry system” and “pepper spray”.
Where had she learned such strange terms?
Especially if she really was from Edinburgh as she claimed.
The fire popped, snapping him out of his thoughts. He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to relax. Duncan told another story, and the night rolled on.
To anyone watching, Evan knew he would appear at ease—a man enjoying the warmth of the fire, drinking in the company of fellow travelers.
But he was not.
And when the time came to run, he’d be ready.
THE FIRE HAD BURNED low, little more than a ring of glowing embers cradled in the bed of ash, yet Ruby found herself unwilling to move.
The warmth of it clung to her skin, mingled with the faint tingle left behind by the whisky she’d sipped earlier.
It had loosened her, softened the edges of the constant nervous tension she’d carried since arriving here.
The guards had dispersed, laughing among themselves as they went to their posts if they were on watch, or crawled into bedrolls if they weren’t.
Duncan had muttered something about rising with the dawn and vanished into his tent.
Isla had gone too, squeezing Ruby’s hand as she passed and whispering something about letting the fire burn out.
That left only her and Evan.
He shifted his weight, the shadows casting his face into sharp lines.
She thought he might say something, but instead he leaned forward, snapped a twig in half, and tossed it into the coals.
The fire gave a brief flare of light, reflected in his eyes, before settling again.
He looked like a man with the weight of too many thoughts pressing on him, thoughts he’d rather not voice.
Ruby drew her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them, and studied him.
Perhaps he thought she hadn’t noticed the way he’d startled when Duncan had mentioned the Earl of Newborough earlier.
But she had. She always noticed. It was the risk manager in her, the part of her trained to look for cracks, to find the detail that didn’t fit.
“You know him,” she said softly.
Evan’s gaze flicked up, surprised, though his hands didn’t still. He broke another twig, tossed it into the fire. “Know who?”
“The man Duncan mentioned. That earl.”
His jaw clenched almost imperceptibly, and then he smiled—that infuriating, lazy half-smile he wore whenever he wanted to dodge a question. “Aye, I ken the name well enough. Every man in Scotland kens the Earl of Newborough. He casts a long shadow. I know the name, not the man.”
“You jumped like a wasp had got in your pants when Duncan mentioned him. Seems an odd reaction for someone you only know by name.”
For an instant, his mask slipped. His mouth opened as if he might actually answer her, but then he shook his head. “Ye have a sharp tongue, ye know that? Too sharp by half. It’ll get ye into trouble.”
She smiled wryly. “Maybe. But you’re avoiding the question.”
Evan leaned forward again, closer this time, and Ruby caught the scent of him—smoke and leather, salt from the sea still clinging faintly to his clothes.
He dropped another twig into the fire, then looked at her with something unreadable in his expression.
“Ye want me to talk? Then why dinna ye tell me yer secrets first? It seems only fair.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “My...my secrets?”
“Aye. Ye speak and behave like no woman I’ve ever met.” He gazed at her. “Who are ye really, Ruby Douglas?”
Ruby’s pulse jumped. “I...um...I—”
“Perhaps,” he murmured, “ye could start with this husband ye are running from.”
Oh, hell. Why was he asking her this? Why did it matter? She wanted to tell him to mind his own business but the firelight, the whisky, the quiet night pressing in—it all worked to weaken her resolve. And he was looking at her like he actually wanted to know, not just to satisfy idle curiosity.
“He isn’t my husband,” she said finally. “But there was someone. We were engaged to be married.”
Evan tilted his head. “Were?”
“That’s right. Were.” Ruby’s voice wavered, but once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop. “He was having an affair with someone from work. I found out, and I called it off. Simple as that.” She let out a short, bitter laugh. “Though it didn’t feel simple at the time.”
For a moment, there was silence. The fire popped, sending up a faint spray of sparks. Ruby wrapped her arms tighter around her knees, suddenly aware of how exposed she felt, like she’d peeled back a layer she hadn’t meant to.
But Evan didn’t mock her. He didn’t pity her either. Instead, he gave a small nod, as though acknowledging something private and important. “Thank ye,” he said quietly.
Ruby blinked. “For what?”
“For trusting me with the truth.” His eyes met hers across the flames, steady and warm.
The sincerity in his tone disarmed her completely. She opened her mouth to make a flippant remark to cover her unease, but instead she found herself smiling—really smiling, for what felt like the first time in ages.
“You’re not what I expected,” she found herself saying.
He arched a brow, amused. “And what did ye expect? A rogue without conscience? A man who lives only for himself?”
“You’ve given a pretty good example of it so far,” Ruby said. “But you... you’ve surprised me.”
Evan chuckled, a low, easy sound that rolled out into the night. “Good. I’d hate to be predictable.”
The tension between them eased and the sharp edges of the earlier conversation turned into banter.
He teased her about her strange turn of speech, and she shot back with pointed remarks about his smugness.
He told her a ridiculous story about once trying to pass himself off as a priest to get out of a brawl, and she nearly choked on her own laughter.
For that brief stretch of time, the world seemed to fade. It was just the two of them, the firelight flickering between, and a warmth that had nothing to do with the whisky.
Eventually, Ruby’s laughter trailed off into a soft sigh. The night air was growing colder, the embers dimming. She pushed herself to her feet, brushing off her skirts. “I should get some sleep.”
Evan stood too, though he didn’t make a move toward her. His gaze lingered, and she felt a strange flutter in her chest, one she resolutely ignored.
“Aye,” he said. “We have an early start.”
Ruby nodded, then turned away. Isla had set up a tent nearby for the two of them, and Ruby ducked inside, careful not to wake the other woman already curled beneath her blanket. She lay down, staring into the dark above, the thin fabric of the tent rustling in the night breeze.
Her thoughts kept circling back to Evan—his smile in the firelight, the sound of his laugh, the unexpected gentleness in his eyes when he’d thanked her.
She closed her eyes and pressed her face into the blanket, willing herself to sleep.