Amanda Scott (17 page)

Hugo did not think it was a propitious moment to inform her that he did not mean to take her to Edinburgh. For one thing, he was certain Waldron was heading for his own easily defended lair at Edgelaw. For another, he wanted reinforcements.

He had increased their pace because it would prevent further discussion of Edinburgh. She was right in saying that nearly all roads led there, but he knew of at least one track from Linlithgow that skirted the royal burgh and would take them south. He was certain Waldron also knew it. In any event, he meant to see his two charges safe at Roslin before he went after Adela and her abductors.

He felt guilty about not sharing those intentions with her, but he was tired of fratching with the lass, and he was certain she would fly into a fury again when he told her where he was taking her. He enjoyed crossing swords with her, but he realized that he wanted even more to win her good opinion. That he was unlikely to do so stirred an unfamiliar shadow in his mind that he found hard to identify.

He glanced at her, admiring the proud tilt of her head. She had pulled off the tattered headscarf the crofter’s wife had given her, and her hair gleamed like polished gold whenever the sun’s rays danced out from behind the fluffy but ominously graying clouds to shine on it. She looked as calmly confident in the croft woman’s clothing
as she had in the more elegant garments she wore at Kildonan.

She caught him watching, raised her tip-tilted little nose into the air, and pushed a strand of raggedly cut hair from her cheek. A lustful jolt stirred his loins. He had never known his emotions to be so unpredictable, making him yearn to kiss her one moment and beat her the next. God knew, she deserved skelping for nearly all she had done in the past sennight, but most of all for cutting her beautiful hair.

He remembered how he had responded when she had said he was not stupid, chastising her as if she had been six years old. But he remembered, too, the impudent way she had made him laugh afterward. She was certainly different from other women he had met. He wondered briefly if he could tame her but shoved the tantalizing thought out of his mind, recalling that he had no business to be thinking such thoughts of anyone, let alone the sister of the woman he would most likely have to marry as soon as he rescued her.

A shower of rain caught them a few minutes later and lasted until just before he called the halt for their meal. They ate quickly, conversing desultorily until his men began readying the horses again. Neither Sorcha nor her sister seemed to mind the rain, although he had thought Sidony seemed tired before they stopped. Now, having eaten, she seemed as eager to go on as Sorcha was.

The clouds began to thin, and glancing at them, Hugo reflected with little satisfaction that unless blacker ones began gathering and spat thunder, lightning, and rain at them during the late afternoon, they would easily make Loch Lubnaig by sundown. The end of their journey together was fast approaching.

Tuesday night, learning of his lordship’s vow not to rape her had acted on Adela like a mug of heady brogac, but the sensation lasted only until he spoke of Isobel and her babe. With that new fear added to her old ones, she had all she could do to maintain her air of false calm through Wednesday’s journey.

They had risen before dawn and expected to put a great distance behind them until a thunderstorm in the late afternoon forced them to seek shelter in the woods again and make camp. By then they had come to a more heavily populated part of the countryside, but his lordship evidently knew the area well. Despite the bad weather he easily found an isolated place for their encampment.

Another storm struck just before they stopped for their midday meal on Thursday. Ahead of them, Adela saw Stirling Castle on its high, craggy perch. As they remounted half an hour later, one of the men said casually that they were likely to make Linlithgow by sunset.

Adela had never been to the royal burghs of Stirling or Linlithgow, but as shabby as she was, she felt no disappointment when they skirted Stirling. She was tired of riding, tired of being terrified one minute and flushed with gratitude or dizzy with relief the next. And she was especially tired of the clothes she had worn for five days. She had hoped the rain would wash away some of their odor but feared it had only made things worse. She knew she must smell as bad as most of the men around her, and some of them were disgustingly rank.

From the moment his lordship had mentioned bringing Isobel to her, she had desperately wanted to ask just what
he had meant. But she knew she would not like the answer and might make him angry simply by asking. Nor could she prevent his behaving as he chose. Furthermore, having noted that men departed the camp as often as new ones arrived, she had deduced that he must have arranged some form of communication similar to the one she had heard Cristina say Lachlan Lubanach used to keep himself informed of news throughout the Highlands and Isles.

That thought stirred her to wonder if Lachlan knew where she was. Surely, although they had rarely stopped in villages or clachans, folks would talk of these men and the direction they rode. Despite her persistent dreams of magical rescue, the possibility of a real attempt stirred not hope but fear.

What if Lachlan and Hector were following, just waiting for an opportunity to strike? What if they struck and his lordship’s men were ready for them, as he had promised they would be? If that happened and they killed everyone, including herself and Isobel, she decided grimly that it would be Sorcha’s fault just like all the rest—and Hugo’s, too.

What manner of man was Hugo that he had not replied to at least one of Sorcha’s messages? Had he been present at the wedding, if only to smile that crooked smile of his and say he was sorry he had led anyone to believe he held a tenderness for her and had come only to wish her well, it would have been enough to prevent her abduction. Of that she was certain.

Was he not an accomplished warrior? Did not Sir Michael depend on him to keep safe from harm all that the Sinclairs held dear? Had he been there, instead of
only a few villagers and a minimal wedding party, his lordship would have seen the deterring sight of Sir Hugo and at least twenty men-at-arms. She was certain Hugo never went anywhere without such a tail. He was too important, and if any man knew his own worth, Hugo did.

So, it was entirely his fault and Sorcha’s that she was where she was, and if his lordship succeeded in capturing Isobel, it would serve Hugo right, because he would see then that the world did not turn just to suit his notions and needs alone.

That last thought stirred prickling tears and a choking sensation that warned her she was about to cry. She could only be grateful that his lordship’s men rarely paid her any heed and that she was facing his back, clinging to his waist with her cheek against his cloak. Struggling to compose herself, she wondered how she could even think such wicked thoughts.

What had happened to make her feelings and reactions so unpredictable, so apparently unmanageable? She had always been able to control herself, and to manage those around her, for that matter. Unlike Sorcha, for example, who never even tried to manage anyone, including herself, Adela had exerted herself to deal with her blustery, temperamental father, and her equally unpredictable sisters. But even more, she had worked to control herself, never to reveal her most private feelings to anyone else, lest they somehow use the knowledge to plague her.

But no matter what Sorcha had done, blaming her for his lordship’s wicked actions was unfair, so why could she not dismiss the notion from her mind? Sorcha had certainly done nothing to make him go after the very pregnant Isobel.

If his lordship did capture Isobel, surely, Adela told herself, the babe would be in no jeopardy. Only a truly evil man could believe God would approve of killing an innocent bairn. And she herself ought to be safe enough if she did not anger him again. He had ruined her reputation. That should be enough punishment to satisfy any man.

Suddenly doubting her logic, she wondered if it might help if she offered to persuade Hugo and Michael to meet with him, and to help him explain his position so they would understand why they should help him fulfill his holy mission. Whatever it was, she believed more strongly each day that he believed it was right. If the Pope believed in it, too, who was she or anyone else to say they were wrong?

In any event, she hoped she was learning to read him, to see things more clearly through his eyes. He was not really a bad man, just a normal one with determination to do what was right no matter who got hurt in the process. Surely, knowing all that, she should soon stop feeling so much on edge with him. And then, if she could just help him fix everything, all would be well.

When they stopped at dusk for the night, well off the main road and some miles short of Linlithgow, she thanked him quietly for helping her dismount, and then, when the men had the tent up and his gear unpacked, she went to tidy things and arrange her fur pallet. She would have bartered her soul for clean clothes and a comb. Although she had long since lost the flowers Sorcha and Sidony had gathered for her, she still had her veil and chaplet and could manage to plait her hair with her fingers. But oh, how she longed to be truly clean and tidy again!

He entered the tent without ceremony just as she heaved a deep sigh.

“Art tired, lass?” he asked brusquely, handing her a jug when she turned.

“Aye, sir. Oh, thank you,” she added, smiling as she took the jug and saw that it was full. “I was longing for a wash. After we eat, with your permission, I mean to go right to bed. I believe I’ll sleep well.”

“Good, because you’ll need your rest. I’m going to want your help soon.”

“Oh, yes, my lord. I’m sure I can help you. Thank you again for being so kind as to bring me this water yourself.”

“I need your chaplet,” he said.

“My chaplet?”

His frown reminded her that he did not like her to question him, so she reached at once to pull it off, saying, “Of course, you may have it, although I cannot imagine what you can want with it.”

He took it from her and left without another word.

Adela heaved another sigh of mixed relief and bewilderment, soaked a cloth with water from the jug, and began to scrub her face and hands for supper.

S
ir Hugo called a halt at sundown near the southern end of Loch Lubnaig, and as dusk washed over the rolling green hills and wide patches of forestland that flanked the narrow, mile-long loch, they made camp near its eastern shore on a grassy slope that led into a forest about twenty yards above them.

While Rory and some of the other men built the cook fire, laid out sleeping rolls, collected water, and erected the small tent that was to serve as Sorcha and Sidony’s bedchamber, other men cast lines into the loch for fish. Still others skinned and gutted rabbits they had killed that afternoon for roasting. One man pulled a cloth sack from the small kist each carried strapped to his saddle, and produced bannocks for toasting over the fire and a pot of jam to share until it ran out. Others produced similar treats.

Sorcha enjoyed the hum of activity. The men had clearly traveled together often and enjoyed one another’s
company. When the rabbits were spitted and beginning to sizzle, several men adjourned to the edge of the camp nearest the track and began to polish weapons and tend other gear.

In the glow of the firelight as dusk faded to darkness, she watched Hugo drift from one small group to another. At one he talked quietly, at another he shared a joke, and at yet another, two men demanded that he settle a disagreement, which he did with laughter and a clap on the back for one of them.

“He moves like a cat,” Sorcha said quietly to Sidony.

“That is what Isobel says about Sir Michael,” her sister replied. “She says he moves so silently that he can be beside her before she knows he is nearby. I don’t think Sir Hugo is like that.”

“Nay, that he is not,” Sorcha said, thinking of the powerful sense of energy the man radiated. “I think one would be aware of him even if he were silent and the place pitch black.”