Chapter 8 #2
Fergus frowned. “I knew that yer clan had ties with certain influential lords in England, but do ye mean tae tell me that yer father intends fer ye tae marry an Englishman?”
She nodded. “Aye, I’m afraid so. He believes that forgin’ such an alliance will give us the advantage we need tae conclusively prevail over the McDougals.”
Fergus was gobsmacked.
Up until that point, there had been some small part of him that had remained uncertain as to whether he would allow her to drink from the cup or if he might find some occasion to prevent her from doing so, “accidentally” knocking it from her hands, perhaps, so that it would spill on the floor.
This new revelation snuffed out that impulse altogether.
If Laird Cawley intended to use her to ally himself with some powerful British house, then Fergus could not allow that to happen. For it would indeed turn the tide of the conflict in the Wallaces’ favor, and then his own clan might be eradicated entirely.
His unexpected feelings of tenderness for her did not outweigh that. He could not allow them to.
“Well, at least yer clan will nae longer be plagued by war and strife,” he said, “and that is a good thing, at any rate. Here, I’ll drink tae a new age of peace fer yer people.”
“Very well,” she replied softly, touching her goblet against his and taking a sip.
He drank from his cup as well, watching her closely.
Darina licked her lips…then frowned, confused. “Incidentally, how did ye ken that my family has ties with England?”
Inwardly, Fergus scolded himself for letting that slip. Not that it mattered now. “One of yer brothers mentioned it tae me earlier,” he lied.
She nodded, her eyelids fluttering and drooping. “Oh my. Suddenly, I feel…quite fatigued… I…”
The cup fell from her fingers, and she swooned. Fergus dropped his own cup, catching her before she could collapse to the ground. Then he slung her over his shoulder and made his way to the exit outside the castle walls.
He was relieved to find that there did not seem to be anyone standing on the grassy expanse between the wall and the stables.
However, he heard footsteps on the rampart above him and lingered in the exit way, waiting for them to pass by.
He knew that there would be fewer guardsmen on the walls since most of them would be attending the festivities, and he’d made a mental note of how long it would take for one of them to circumnavigate the ramparts.
He had plenty of time to dart across the field without being seen, and he did so, keeping himself hunkered down amid the tall grasses. They would hide him well enough and buy enough time for him to get a solid head start before her absence was noticed.
Or so he hoped.
When he got to the stables, he hesitated just outside for a moment, listening to the snoring of Old Lennox.
He heard it and relaxed a bit, bringing her inside the stables and selecting the most suitable horse.
He used a length of rope to bind her wrists and ankles, then slung her across the front of the saddle and mounted the horse.
Just as he was preparing to ride the creature out of the stable, he stopped and tilted his head, realizing that he could no longer hear snoring.
He looked to the entrance of the stable and saw Lennox standing there with a look of stern disapproval. “What manner of betrayal is this, Finn?” he growled.
“I mean her nay harm, old man, I assure ye,” Fergus said. “However, I must take her away from this place at once.”
“And I am tae simply believe ye, then, is that it? When ye have clearly already lied aboot yer purpose here? Do ye think me a fool?”
“I dinnae. Indeed, I ken ye tae be a good man and a kind one. I am truly sorry tae pay that back with treachery. I could insist that I am generally a better man than this, but ye would have nay reason tae believe that. Instead, all I can tell ye is that I have nay wish tae hurt ye, and therefore, I must demand that ye stand aside and let me be on my way.”
“I shall do nay such thing, damn ye!” Lennox grabbed a pitchfork and leveled it at Fergus menacingly. “Get down from that horse and surrender yerself at once, or I’ll be forced tae run ye through!”
“Ye have a stout heart,” Fergus told him, “and I admire that greatly. Even so, Sir, I am far younger and stronger than ye are. Surely ye must see how futile it would be fer ye tae fight me. Again, I beg ye tae stand aside at once before I am forced tae do somethin’ that I will sorely regret.”
Lennox curled his lip scornfully. “Ye’re nae goin’ anywhere with Lady Darina. Make the attempt, and I shall send ye straight tae hell. This is yer final warnin’, lad. Do nae doubt me.”
Fergus grimaced. This was the last thing he wanted to do, and he felt as though it would leave yet another thick black smudge upon his honor and dignity—one that would never be fully sponged away.
Still, he had come this far, and now he had no choice at all.
He dismounted swiftly and launched himself at Lennox. Before the old man had a chance to make a move, Fergus had effortlessly snatched the pitchfork from the old man’s arthritic hands. He swung the handle, and it connected with the side of Lennox’s head.
Lennox hit the ground hard, unconscious.
Fergus tossed the pitchfork aside and crouched down to make sure the man was still alive. He was, and for that, Fergus was thankful indeed. He used another length of rope to tie Lennox up, hoping the blow to the head would cause no long-term injury.
Then he climbed onto the horse again and rode off as fast as he could without a backward glance.