Chapter 14 #2
He grunted and stepped closer to her, resting his elbows on the stable gate, a few strands of hay sticking out from his hair, and over his plaid.
The look was rather endearing. How interesting that all it took was a few well-placed pieces of hay to take a warrior from indomitable to adorable. “What is wrong?”
She hesitated, contemplating telling him there was nothing wrong, but here she was in the stable in the middle of the night and even saying so would be to insult them both with the silly lie.
“I saw a rider leave the castle.” Her hands dropped to her sides.
His expression sharpened instantly. “Aye.”
“Moments ago. Quietly. No escort. Did ye see him?”
Lachlan’s gaze shifted ducked from out of the stall. “Nay, I only just came down a few moments ago. Did ye see who it was?”
Isabel shook her head, wishing she’d been able to discern something. “I also heard servants speaking of English riders nearby. As though they expected them. They didna say as much, but their tone seemed… unsurprised, even as they wrung their hands with worry.”
Lachlan studied her face carefully.
When he didn’t say anything she asked, “Ye think I am imagining danger?”
The faintest hint of a smile touched his mouth. “Nay, lass,” he said quietly. “I think ye notice things other people miss. Myself included.”
The words surprised her, and she nodded, crossing her arms over her chest, partly because she was cold and partly because she knew she should be afraid.
For a moment neither of them spoke. They stood close now, the torchlight catching the edge of his dark hair and the sharp line of his jaw.
Isabel suddenly became aware of how near he was.
Of how very thin her wrap and nightgown were.
Of her bare feet. Of the warmth of his body in the cool night air.
Of the way his arm had felt around her when they’d slept in the lodge.
Lachlan seemed to notice it too. His gaze lingered briefly on the loose strand of hair that had escaped her braid. And traveled boldly over the curves of her body.
“How did ye know I would be here?” He sounded surprised, like he just realized that she had found him with no effort.
She shrugged, “Ye’re no’ hard to find. All I had to do was follow the smell…” she let that draw out a moment, then added, “Of the horses.”
“So says any ferret. I’ve heard they have a good sense of smell.”
“Why ye—”
He huffed a laugh, “Ye are no’ afraid,” he said, a statement rather than a question.
“Should I be?” The answer was of course she should be, but ironically, she was angrier.
“Most ladies would be.”
“I am no’ most ladies.” She sniffed the air, but the shiver up her spine belied her truth.
“Nay,” he said softly. “Ye’re no’.”
Footsteps echoed across the courtyard then, bursting through the stable doors, as James, hair as wind-blown as his beard, hurried toward them.
“My laird.” Then spying her, his eyes widened and he bowed. “My lady.”
Lachlan stiffened. “What is it?”
“English riders have been seen on the southern road. No’ far from here.”
Lachlan’s eyes darkened. “How many?”
“Four. Perhaps five.”
He glanced briefly toward the castle walls. Isabel saw the moment when the realization struck him. If English riders were nearby… and the castle seemed to know about them already…
Finding the identity of the messenger who left under the cover of darkness just became that much more important. And perhaps even more important was finding out what the message said, and who sent it.
“Ready the men for our departure,” he said quietly.
Once James had marched off to gather the others, Lachlan rummaged in the hay behind him, pulling a small piece of parchment from his satchel.
“What is that?”
Lachlan glanced at her, and she could tell from the way he narrowed his eyes he was considering what to tell her. He glanced down at the rolled parchment, a dried wax seal holding the edges together. “A missive I’d hoped no’ to send.”
“What does it say?”
Again, he hesitated, before coming closer and in a low tone admitting, “Your uncle bid me send this if I believed the traitor to be within his ranks.”
“And now ye think so.”
Lachlan gave a single curt nod. “He’ll need to be more careful than he has been.”
Isabel looked back at Lachlan, glad that she’d come to warn him.
If he’d not known about the man leaving the castle, of Comyn’s servants expecting the English.
She didn’t think Lachlan would brush something like this off, or act rashly, but if he had attempted to enlist Comyn’s help?
Now she knew why she’d been unable to sleep.
Her own instincts had kept her awake. Self-preservation. Survival.
“Do ye think there a heavy risk of staying until dawn?” She thought of Elsa and all of Lachlan’s MacLeod brothers in arms, not to mention themselves, that needed rest.
He did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked toward the darkened windows of the castle. And she looked too, half expecting to see a specter climbing the walls.
“I trust very few people right now.” Then his gaze returned to her, warmer than his view of the castle. “But ye are one of them, Lady Isabel, and I hope ye feel the same.”
Something warm spread through her chest at those words. But before she could respond, he stepped back, a hand stroking his horse’s flank. “Time for ye to get dressed, afore anyone sees ye.”
Isabel glanced down then, suddenly all too aware she was without proper clothes. Or shoes.
The castle gates opened silently in the early darkness.
She didn’t know if she should be furious that all it took was a stern word from a laird and a coin in a pocket for them to be let out, or relieved.
Lachlan rode out first, their horses quiet on the damp earth.
Isabel followed with her maid behind, and their ranks were closed in by the last few of his warriors.
No horns sounded. No farewell was given.
No one woke Comyn. Lachlan confided that at the last minute he’d chosen not to send word of their leaving to her uncle.
She assumed he came to the same conclusion she had, the risk of being stopped, or eluded or the message stolen, outweighed the benefits, especially if he didn’t have a name. The Bruce would only be frustrated.
They slipped into the morning shadows like ghosts, disappearing on the moors into the dark fog of predawn.
The sooner they got to his holding on Skye, the better, she decided.
No more cat and mouse games. No more wondering who was trustworthy and who was going to stab them in the back.
Who was going to slip out of the gates to bring the enemy in.
And to say she was relieved not to lay eyes on Comyn and avoid his touch one more time was an underestimation of the joy she felt.
She wished she could throw her head back and race away on her horse, cackling as she went in picturing his smug smile falling when he discovered her disappearance.
But she was a lady and would act as such.
Which is why she just smirked silently to herself, imagining him tripping and falling out of a window in shock.
As they rode down the hill from Inverlochy, Isabel glanced back, wary of who was watching. Torchlight flickered in the gatehouse. For a moment she thought she saw someone standing there. A tall figure wrapped in a dark cloak, not unlike the garment of the man she’d seen leave before.
He stood there still as stone, watching them leave, and that steady, unflinching stare made a shiver run down her spine.
Angus followed her gaze. “That’s Kerr,” he said, a note of disgust in his tone. “One of Comyn’s captains.”
Kerr. Why was that name familiar? They rode on into the dark.
But Isabel could not shake the feeling that the man had been watching them long before they ever left the gate. And he was the same man who’d been staring at her in the great hall. The same man who’d left and must have come back. The name of the man her uncle would need.
The man watched as the party fled, pressing his ringless fingers into the stone.
When he was a lad, he used to put a tiny piece of honeyed bread on the ground, lay on his belly and watch the swarms of ants that would dig their way out of the dirt in order to reach their bounty. Then he’d smash and smash them with a rock.
Lady Isabel was the honeyed bread. The dumb warriors the ants.
Sweet as sin, and if he had his way, she’d be his.
Alas, the little piece of sweet was rushing off with the bumbling brute and his brutish warriors as if they would be able to protect her on the road. Didn’t they realize how close they were to death?
“Keep running, little ants. The sweet shall be mine, and I shall rejoice when ye fall.”