Entrapment #2
He chuckled outright. “Aye, well, some of them are, I assure ye,” he agreed, a glint of humor in his eye. “I’ve named my own kin ‘flap-eared loons’ myself.”
She joined in his laughter.
A flock of fenland birds rising from the nearby reeds halted further conversation. Alec waited until the beating of their wings subsided in the mists above before asking, “And what else did your mother say of Montgomerys?”
She turned her head. He could see the profile of her face and the curve of her cheek as she smiled and recalled, “She used to say ‘twas only three misfortunes and a fire that made the Montgomery fortune ere ye stole Cunningham lands and began this feud.”
Alec blinked. ‘Twas peculiar. If a man had said the same, he’d have roared in anger.
Instead, there was only a tug of sympathy as she spoke of her cherished mother, and then her impudence ignited his blood with a jolt of passion.
Aye, the brazen wee beastie! Just what would she do should his hands catch the radiant flame of her deep red hair and tilt those soft lips back to his?
Would they taste sweeter than the finest wine?
Grasping the nature of his thoughts, he clenched his jaw and redirected his mind back to the subject at hand.
“You’re a saucy lass to say that so boldly, aye?” he judged. Still, he felt compelled to correct her. “’Twas Cunninghams who started this feud, burning a Montgomery castle.”
She tossed her head, and then replied, “Methinks those who knew the truth of it have been dead a hundred years.”
It was the simple truth, and one he’d rarely heard uttered aloud by any other than Taran. Disconcerted, he searched for a suitable response, but she switched subjects instead.
“Ye made me confess, ‘tis your turn now,” she suggested. “What do ye Montgomerys say of Cunninghams aside from calling us rump-fed pottocks?”
Aye, he’d said plenty of the Cunninghams over the years—the vast majority, nothing he’d repeat in polite company.
It took him longer than he cared to admit to recall a few of acceptable humor.
“Upon occasion, I may have called them half-faced pumpions and swag-bellied joltheads,” he finally answered.
It was pleasant to hear her laugh again. “I confess, ye have the better insults,” she said. “Mine are rather paltry, naming ye halfwits, ravishing scoundrels, and the like.”
The word ravishing piqued his interest. Nay, it kindled his blood. This time, he couldn’t resist the chance to play. “Ravishing scoundrels, ye say?” he repeated, dropping his voice into a mischievous rumble.
She tensed at once, pulling away from his chest. “Aye, rogues,” she replied, the camaraderie vanishing in an instant. “My mother called the lot of ye thieving highwaymen.”
Aye, the lass was skittish. ‘Twas no matter. He’d revel in the challenge. Slapping his knee, he gave a short laugh. “Mayhap we’re more alike than we’re wont to admit,” he said with a chuckle, intent on throwing her off the scent of his interest. “We say the same of ye Cunninghams.”
Slowly, she relaxed, and he spoke of other things then, steering away from Montgomery-Cunningham matters, all the while moving down the muddy road at an easy pace.
He failed to notice just when the sun burned the mists away, nor did he see when the road filled with other travelers.
To him, it seemed only minutes later when they arrived at the timber bridge spanning the River Clyde.
The sun was bright and the sky was blue—at least straight above them.
Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, promising the respite from the rain would be a short one.
Watchmen in green plaids blocked the bridge’s entrance, allowing only a few travelers to cross the raging waters at a time.
Several more watchmen patrolled the line of those waiting to cross, and it grew only longer by the minute.
From the looks of it, it would take hours before any of them saw the other side.
As Alec and Andrew pulled rein behind a young lad leading a pony with bundles of thatching reeds tied to its back, he was surprised to see Taran cantering back towards them from the bridge. He frowned. When had the man even left their party?
“The bridge holds, but the water rises still,” the highlander said upon his return. “The watchmen are Mackenzies. They’ll let us pass first. Come.” Waving them forward, he circled his horse and headed back to the bridge.
“Ach, but the cart would never have made it! Hold your whisht now, lass,” Andrew grumbled, tossing the words back at Gellie to quiet her as he broke out of line to follow Taran.
Alec grinned. From the lad’s pinched expression, it was clear he hadn’t enjoyed his morning as much as Alec had. Stretching in the saddle, he slid his arm comfortably back around Sorcha’s waist and trotted down the waiting line.
Most were local folk, but a priest on a white mule caught his attention. It was the way he sat, unusually straight. Alert, even. ‘Twas more like a warrior than a priest. Curious, Alec slowed his horse and, leaning forward, caught a passing glimpse of the man’s thin, hawkish nose.
Had he seen him before?
The priest turned away and a moment later, a pig escaped from the two middle-aged women behind him.
The squealing animal charged across Alec’s path.
His horse shied and flicked its ears, but he was able to calm the beast quickly.
When he glanced back at the priest, he was surprised to find the man no longer there.
Alec frowned.
A whistle from ahead—Andrew’s whistle—broke into his thoughts, and shrugging the matter aside, he broke into a short canter to join the others at the bridge.
Looking downstream, the river was a beautiful thing, the sunlight reflecting off its surface to make it glisten like a jewel, but up close, it was a different beast entirely. Churning torrents of muddy water swirled violently under the bridge in a deafening roar, at times making it rattle.
With firm jaws clenched tight, Taran and Andrew crossed first, moving slowly and staying far apart to ease the burden on the straining timbers.
Alec’s horse began to stamp nervously as he waited his turn.
Finally, it was time, and reaching down to give the animal a comforting pat on the withers, Alec guided it forward.
The horse resisted at first, pinning its ears down to its neck, but under Alec’s insistence, the mare stepped onto the trembling bridge.
The structure was unstable, and the wooden planks continued to shift beneath them as they inched across.
Alec grit his teeth, and under his arm, Sorcha felt as stiff as a rod, but no more than himself.
The middle was the worst of it, the yawing structure swayed from side-to-side as the water pounded it from beneath, but they pressed doggedly on until, as last, they’d completed the torturous span.
On the other side at last, Alec expelled a relieved breath, feeling Sorcha do the same against his chest.
“Aye,” was all Taran said when they’d arrived.
Then, with a chill wind blowing against them, they rode south, directly towards the dark clouds hurtling their way.
* * *
They made it to the small village of Neilston shortly after nightfall, descending the hills from the north in bitter chill rains that soaked them to the bone.
They’d spoken little during the ride and rested even less, battling the winds as they galloped over glens, waded through rushing burns, and edged around bogs scattered with foul-smelling black pools of water.
At the village, they found a room at the brewery. It was a tiny chamber, scarcely able to fit the straw pallet, but it provided space enough for both lasses. The men would spend their night on the floor in the common room again, rolled in plaids before the fire.
After seeing to the horses, Alec stretched and tiredly rubbed the back of his neck. One more night, and he could sleep in a bed. He couldn’t wait. Dunking his head in the rain barrel outside, he donned as dry a plaid as he could find and headed for the warmth inside.
The winds whistled outdoors, rattling the shutters as he slipped past a fisherman dickering with the brewer’s wife over a fair price for his next catch.
Stepping over several men already asleep on the floor, he stalked to a table and sat down to examine his hand.
The cut stung as he unrolled the bloodstained bandage, but it was as minor as he’d thought and already healing.
Satisfied, he flexed his fingers and heaved a long, weary sigh.
The brewery door opened and a handful of belligerent men from Clan Pollock swaggered inside, shaking the rain off their hair and beards.
They made for the barrel of ale near the bar and grabbing chairs, grouped around it, but the burliest—a brute of a man missing a front tooth—did not sit down with the rest. He stood as if on guard, rocking back on his heels and casting suspicious looks at every conscious traveler in the room.
Within seconds, he’d locked gazes with Alec.
Alec lifted a guarded brow in return, speculatively rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb. Clearly, these men warranted watching.
“Let me see your hand,” Sorcha murmured from over his shoulder.
Surprised, he tossed a quick glance to find her standing behind him, swathed in Taran’s hunting plaid and cradling a wooden bowl in her hands.
A quick furtive glance in the direction of the Pollock clansmen revealed that to a man, they’d shifted in their seats to gawk at her in open interest. Just as he’d thought. Mischief-makers, the lot.
“Are ye deaf?” Sorcha asked, a hint of a smile in her voice. Setting the bowl on the table, she sat down beside him. “Give me your hand. I found lavender—”
Still looking upon the clansmen, he warned in a low voice, “Dinna wander here, lass. ‘Tis not safe.”
She followed his gaze to the rowdy clansmen. “Aye, I’ve dealt with my share like that,” she said, brushing his concerns aside. “The markets are filled with them. They’re muckle bluster and naught else.”