Sutherland's Secret (17 page)

“That was his grandfather, and that was years ago,” Brice said.

“Like father, like son.” Colin pointed at Brice with his apple to accentuate his point.

“Do ye mean like father, like grandson?”

“The fruit does no’ fall far from the tree.” Colin took a big bite and nodded to Eleanor, who was listening with wide eyes.

“Campbell will no’ kill us in the middle of the night,” Brice said in exasperation. Now that they were making plans, he felt an impending sorrow that fell on his shoulders like a wet blanket. The end was far too near for his liking.

He looked at Eleanor to find that she was watching him with those big blue eyes, the shade of the Highland sky. Whenever he looked up on a beautiful day, he would think of her eyes.

He stood quickly. “I’ll write the invitation now and send it this afternoon.”

He walked away, his steps heavy, his heart heavier, and his stomach in knots. Their days together were numbered too few. Fewer than the fingers on one hand.

“Riders approaching,” the guard yelled from the tower.

Blackwood ignored the cry. There were always riders approaching, and he had far too many things to worry about at the moment. He couldn’t stop thinking of the woman—Eleanor. It had been weeks and they hadn’t found her.

Bloody hell, but he should have killed her when he had the chance and made it look like she’d taken her own life from grief and despair over her husband’s most embarrassing demise. Now he had to find her and kill her and make it look like something else.

His men were all fools. He was beginning to wonder if they were even searching for her, like they said they were. He got the impression they weren’t. He supposed he’d have to go out riding himself. Maybe he would visit the Campbell, who was an English sympathizer. Maybe he’d heard of another chief harboring an Englishwoman.

Someone knocked on his door. “Enter,” he called without looking up from his paperwork. Endless paperwork. It was damn boring and tedious, and he was as tired of it as he was tired of this godforsaken country. He longed for London, where the true power lay. If he’d had Eleanor on his arm as his wife, he would have been accepted into every household and quite possibly would have a title of his own by now.

“Lord Thomas Stiles, Viscount Scarbrough, sir.”

Blackwood stood quickly. He had no idea who the man was, but he looked decidedly important. He stood just inside the door to Blackwood’s office, his hat in his hand, looking around with a pinched expression as if displeased with what he was seeing.

Blackwood bristled. “My lord.” He strode forward and smiled. Until he knew who this man was, he would treat him with respect despite Scarbrough’s apparent displeasure.

Scarbrough turned familiar blue eyes to him, though Blackwood could swear he’d never met the man.

“Blackwood.” He nodded and looked around again.

He was English. That was good, at least.

Blackwood stood before Scarbrough with what he felt was an idiotic smile, waiting for the man to say something. Scarbrough didn’t seem inclined to fill the uncomfortable silence any time soon. Finally he turned those blue eyes to Blackwood. “I’ve come from London,” he said.

Blackwood’s mood improved. Maybe Scarbrough was here to bestow the title he’d been promised for his performance at the Battle of Culloden. That would surely make his day much better. “You must be weary, my lord. Would you like me to have a room prepared for you?” He didn’t want to, but he knew he should offer accommodations.

“No,” Scarbrough said shortly. He peeled off his riding gloves and slapped them against his thigh. “I’m on urgent business, and I was told by someone in London that you might be able to help me.”

Blackwood straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest. People in London were mentioning him? That could only bode well. “Of course, my lord. How may I lend my assistance?”

“I’m searching for my sister. We lost contact with her at the beginning of the year, and all of our inquiries have met with silence, prompting me to travel here in person.”

Blackwood’s pride ebbed and a sick feeling overtook him. “Of course, my lord. Wh—” He had to clear his throat. “What is the lady’s name, may I ask?”

“Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale.”

Blackwood felt his bowels loosen, and he clenched his thighs together. His smile began to slip. He swallowed through a throat that was suddenly parched.

“She is the recent widow of Lord Charles Hirst,” Scarbrough was saying.

“I remember Lord Glendale. Terrible business, that.” Blackwood frowned while his mind raced, trying to think of some way to salvage the situation so it did not come back on him.

“We got word through his family that he was accused and hanged for treason.”

Blackwood nodded. “It was a horrible shock to all of us, I assure you. Charles—that is, Lord Glendale—was the last person any of us would have suspected of treason.”

Scarbrough tapped his gloves against his leg and regarded Blackwood with narrowed eyes. It took all of Blackwood’s control not to shift his feet and to keep a neutral expression on his face.

“Of course, we don’t believe the treason charges, but that’s neither here nor there. My parents are beside themselves with worry over Eleanor. They fear the worst, I’m afraid.”

“I understand. She was terribly distraught over her husband’s death. I do remember that. We met once or twice, the first time at a ball, I believe. She was a lovely lady.”

Scarbrough’s gaze sharpened. “Was?”

Blackwood feared his legs would give out on him. He’d met superiors who were less frightening than this Scarbrough. “What I meant to say was that at the time I made her acquaintance, she was a lovely lady.”

For the first time something more than disdain filled Scarbrough’s eyes: Blackwood glimpsed grief. “I’m here to find my sister and bring her home. I’m hoping you can help me.”

Blackwood rubbed his chin and pretended to think, when in fact his mind had gone numbingly blank. How far could he carry this charade? His men knew he’d been looking for Eleanor since she escaped. How in the bloody hell was he going to keep that fact from her brother?

“There is a clan chief. Iain Campbell, the Marquess of Kirr. He is sympathetic to the English cause. He might know something. His lands are not a far ride from here. A day or so at the most.”

Scarbrough seemed to consider that. “It’s a start, at least. You say this Campbell is on the side of England?”

“Yes, my lord. He behaves more English than Scottish. He can at least keep his ears open for rumors.” Blackwood hoped to God that Campbell had not heard anything, and he prayed that the English bitch had died a most horrible death after her escape from his prison.

“We’ll ride for Campbell land this afternoon, then,” Scarbrough said.

Blackwood bristled at the command in the man’s voice. He was not the officer here, Blackwood was, and he refused to take orders from Scarbrough whether he was a viscount or not.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’ll have to rearrange my schedule, and there are a few things I simply cannot put aside. We can ride out tonight if you don’t mind riding through the night.” Maybe Blackwood could take Scarbrough in a few circles to delay their arrival at Campbell’s estate.

“Very well,” Scarbrough said. “Tonight, then. In the meantime I would like a room readied for me.”

Blackwood’s back teeth came together, but he smiled anyway. “Of course, my lord.”

Eleanor had been on enough runs with Brice and his men that it didn’t seem odd to wear breeches or to congregate in the bailey in the middle of the night. Even better, she was not so sore after riding for hours. She was becoming a real smuggler, and that thought brought a smile to her lips. Her parents would be appalled. Her friends would be atwitter, and she would definitely be the talk of the ton if her secret were discovered.

She was sad that this would be one of her last nightly runs. The Campbell was probably on his way to Castle Dornach right now. She pushed that thought away. There was no room on a run for heavy thoughts. She needed all of her concentration for what lay ahead.

As they rode under the portcullis, Eleanor decided there were no words to describe the feeling she got when she helped the refugees. Their relief and appreciation touched her heart in ways that nothing else could. There was no work in England equivalent to what she was doing here. Certainly there were committees she could serve on that helped the orphaned children or the wounded soldiers. There were any number of causes, and if she didn’t find one that pleased her, she could easily create one. But sitting in a room, drinking tea and eating biscuits in fine gowns, was nothing compared to being outside in the dead of night with a group of people who were running for their lives and who would get you killed if they were found with you.

The excitement, the fear, it hummed in her blood and made her come alive. She knew Brice felt it, too, for after a run they always had the best, most intense coupling. In some ways she felt it was the only solution to burn off the aftereffects of a successful run.

She knew the routine by now. They followed each other in single file. She was usually a few men behind Brice. She’d learned to keep alert and to be wary of every sound, every movement in the trees. She was not allowed a weapon other than the dagger Brice had given her that first day, but she had never needed one. In the beginning they’d encountered soldiers periodically, but as time went on they encountered fewer. It was as if the soldiers were giving up.

She knew that not to be truth. She heard the reports that were given to Brice, and she heard the stories of the refugees. The horrors of being run out of their homes, of their wives molested and their children tormented. Of their crops burned, their homes torched.

Anger burned inside her for these people. An anger she wasn’t certain she could control when she reached London. But to speak out in their favor would be tantamount to treason.

The group split into two. Half the men veered north to pick up a group of refugees, while the other half went south toward Campbell land with Brice and Colin. They were picking Morna and her little family up from Cait’s tonight, and Eleanor was excited to see the baby.

Eleanor was reliving the night of the babe’s birth when Brice’s fist came up suddenly. The line of four riders, including her, came to an immediate halt. The men around her drew their weapons. Eleanor’s dagger was in her hand before she even thought twice. She wasn’t too worried. They’d come across English soldiers before without being detected.

This time when they rode into the trees, she found herself with Brice. Colin and the other man were hidden on the opposite side of the road. Silently she and Brice slid off their mounts and crouched behind a line of bushes.

Eleanor watched the soldiers with detachment as she thought about the small family waiting for them. They would be delayed but not overly much. Eleanor shrank into the bushes when the soldiers passed. They were so close that she could easily reach out and touch the horse’s foreleg. And then she looked up and gasped. It was a nearly silent gasp, but Brice tensed beside her.

The leader of the small group of men was Blackwood. Seeing him sent goose bumps up and down her arms and a shiver through her body. He was sitting straight and tall, looking ahead in that haughty way he had. Eleanor’s breath was stuck in her lungs. She dared not move, but all she wanted to do was flee like a frightened rabbit.

Brice pressed his thigh against hers, the only movement he would attempt, but she understood his silent message. He was here with her and would protect her.

Blackwood passed and she watched, unable to take her gaze from him. His shoulders were rigid under his red coat. His black boots were gleaming even in the dark, and his hat stood tall and straight on his brown hair.

Her gaze swept through the other men, wondering if any of them were the guards who had watched over her. But Blackwood wouldn’t be in the presence of a mere private or sergeant. He thought himself too good for that.

Her gaze stopped on the man in the middle of the group, and she pressed a fist into her mouth to keep from crying out. It couldn’t be…She leaned forward to get a better look. Brice grabbed her shoulder and shot her a warning look.

She centered all of her attention on the man in the middle. He was the only one not dressed as a soldier. From where she was crouched, all she could tell was that he was garbed in breeches and tall brown boots and a greatcoat that covered the rest of his clothing. He wore a tricorn. She knew that hat and she knew those boots, but most of all she knew that horse he was riding because it was his favorite.

Thomas.

“Eleanor?” Brice asked as soon as he was certain the English were out of earshot.

Eleanor was pale, her eyes wide, and her body rigid. He didn’t blame her for her reaction; he was proud that she hadn’t revealed their presence when she’d seen Blackwood.

He gathered her in his arms and held her tight. Every thought he had of keeping her with him vanished when he saw that bastard. He couldn’t keep Eleanor here while that man was alive. He’d wanted to stand up and yank him off his horse and beat him until he screamed for mercy. But he’d held himself still and let them pass and seethed at his helplessness.

It was a moment before he realized Eleanor was struggling to get out of his hold. She was trying to speak, but he had her face pressed against his chest. He pulled away. She was nearly frantic.

“Eleanor, he’s gone now.”

“No. You don’t understand. That was my brother.”

Brice frowned. “Yer brother? With Blackwood?”

“Yes! The man…the one who wasn’t a soldier. That’s my brother, Thomas. Why is he with Blackwood? Why is he
here
?”

Brice looked in the direction that the English had disappeared. They were heading toward Campbell land. Had her brother come to Scotland to find her? Were they hoping Campbell would help them?

“We need to get him,” she was saying. “We need to get my brother.”

“I can’t just take him from the English. Do ye think they’ll let me ride up to ask him politely to come with me?”

“Why is he with Blackwood?” she asked, desperation in her voice.

“I do no’ know.” But this boded ill for Eleanor. If Blackwood found her—and it appeared he was increasing his search for her—Brice had no idea what would happen. And he had no idea what Blackwood had told Eleanor’s brother. She was right. They had to get her brother away from Blackwood. But how, without getting arrested?

“Come,” he said.

They mounted their horses. His men met him in the middle of the road.

“We’re going to follow the soldiers,” he told them.

The men exchanged glances of disbelief.

“They have a man with them. Eleanor’s brother. We need to take him from the soldiers, but I do no’ want ye to put yerself in danger. If things go bad, leave. Ride back to Castle Dornach. Tell MacLean what happened. Do ye understand me?”

They nodded and the foursome set off. They caught up to the soldiers fairly quickly. Per his command, the two men went to the other side of the road and disappeared in the shadows. He and Eleanor did the same on the opposite side. They rode as quietly at they could until they were close enough to the soldiers. Eleanor was still pale—even more so now—and she couldn’t take her eyes off the man in the center.

Brice studied him. There was nothing outstanding about him. He was dressed as an Englishman and had the blond hair of his sister. He was neither tall nor short. He wore a sword at his waist and rode in a relaxed manner.

Brice put his mouth to Eleanor’s ear. “When I capture him, I want ye to take that sword off him.”

“But—”

“He’ll no’ know it’s ye until he sees ye, and I do no’ want him drawing that sword on me before he does.”

She nodded. Now all he needed to do was figure out how to get the man away from the English.

He was contemplating that when a loud noise from the front of the soldiers made their horses sidestep. One reared. The universal Highlander war cry pierced the night, and it confused Brice until he saw Colin appear out of the shadows, his broadsword raised, his mouth open wide, and the battle cry on his lips.

Immediately the soldiers surged forward, leaving the Englishman alone in the middle of the road.

Brice slid off Galad and moved toward the soldiers. He yanked Thomas off the horse, covered his mouth, and dragged him away. He looked over his shoulder and caught Colin’s eye. The MacLean winked just as he was taken down by the four soldiers.

Eleanor’s brother was slight but strong; however, Brice was stronger. He dragged the man into the trees. Eleanor grabbed the sword at his side, and to Brice’s surprise she pointed the tip at his throat. “Cease,” she commanded.

Both her brother and Brice stilled. Pride filled Brice at this woman who, just weeks ago, had been a trembling, terrified mess. Now she was straddling her brother’s legs, dressed in breeches and a white shirt, a sword held confidently in her hand as she looked down on her brother with her yellow hair in her eyes and her expression fierce.

She blew the hair away. “Thomas, it’s me.”

Thomas’s eyes widened. He’d stopped struggling, but his muscles were tensed to fight.

“We have to go,” Brice said to Eleanor, glancing toward the road, where the soldiers were fighting with Colin, who was holding his own but wouldn’t for much longer.

Eleanor leaned down into her brother’s face. “I need you to trust me. Do you trust me, Thomas?”

Thomas continued to stare at her in amazement and confusion.

Eleanor huffed out a breath. “I’m not in any harm, and you’re not, either, but you have to do what Brice and I say.” She glanced over her shoulder. Brice could see her fear that Blackwood would find them. “Thomas?” She looked back at her brother.

Thomas nodded. Brice released him slowly, ready to grab him again should he do anything stupid.

Thomas stood and reached for his sword, but Eleanor held it away from him. “I’ll keep this.”

He peered at his sister. “Eleanor?”

“Aye. I’ll explain later, but now we have to ride.” She stomped over to the horses and grabbed their reins.

Brice watched Thomas watch his sister. “She’s something, isn’t she?” Brice said.

Thomas looked at Brice, then back at Eleanor.

Brice slapped Thomas on the shoulder, and he stumbled forward a few paces. “Just wait, man. There’s more to come.”

Eleanor mounted Galad smoothly, as if born to mounting horses. She nodded to the mount she had been riding. “You take that one,” she said to Thomas. “I’ll ride with Brice.”

Hiding his smile, Brice mounted behind her. “We need to ride hard,” he said softly, but loud enough that Thomas could hear as well. “Can ye ride?” he asked Thomas.

Thomas’s shoulders stiffened. “Of course.”

Brice nodded and led the way. Eleanor sat in front of him, leaning quietly against him, comfortable in his arms. It was as if they were one person, they rode so well together. Brice tried not to think about what would happen next or what the appearance of Thomas meant in their lives. There was time enough for that later. Now he would simply enjoy riding with Eleanor.

His relief was great when they reached Castle Dornach. They’d ridden hard, and it had taken only an hour to get home, but it had been a tense hour. Brice was on edge, expecting soldiers to jump out at any moment.

He slid off Galad and helped Eleanor dismount. Thomas watched them closely. Eleanor tore herself out of Brice’s arms and ran to her brother, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tight.

Thomas held her for a long moment while Brice handed the reins to the groom and instructed him to rub the horses down.

He tried not to let his heart break, but seeing Eleanor in her brother’s arms was almost too much to handle.

Eleanor pulled away from Thomas and touched his face. “What are you doing here?” she asked in wonder.

“Looking for you.”

It was so good to hear his voice. It reminded her of home and made her homesick.

“How are Mother and Father?” she asked, anxious to hear more.

“Worried about you.”

Thomas looked around, craning his neck to look up at the castle. “Where in the bloody hell are we?”

“We need to get inside,” Brice said, striding up to them. Eleanor turned to him with a wide smile but saw the look in his eyes and stopped what she was about to say. She’d never seen him look so bleak. It occurred to her that everything was going to change now that Thomas was here.

“Come, Thomas.” She motioned for Thomas to follow them into the great hall.

People stopped to look at the new arrival. Thomas shifted beside her. “Eleanor—”

“It’s fine, Thomas. These are my friends.”

He appeared skeptical but remained silent while Eleanor followed Brice up the steps and into his solar. Brice closed the door and turned to face them. Eleanor went to Brice to stand beside him.

“Thomas, I would like you to meet Brice Sutherland, chief of clan Sutherland and Earl of Dornach. Brice, my brother, Lord Thomas Stiles, Viscount Scarbrough.”

The two men eyed each other warily. They nodded but didn’t shake hands.

“Brice saved my life, Thomas.”

Thomas was the one to finally give in. “I thank you, my lord.”

“Call me Brice. We don’t stand on formalities here.”

Thomas nodded.

The tension in the air was palpable, and it increased Eleanor’s anxiety. She desperately wanted Brice and her brother to get along. They were both important men in her life.

“Where have you been, Eleanor? Why haven’t you answered our letters or written to let us know you were alive and well?”

She hesitated and looked at Brice. He was leaning against the front of his desk, his cool blue eyes watching her. Obviously it was up to her to tell the story. “I think we should all sit down,” she said, her voice trembling a bit. She’d never considered that telling her family about her plight would be so disconcerting.

Thomas glanced at Brice, who seemed to be glowering at Thomas. “I’ll stand,” her brother said.

“You two are being impossible.” But neither of them was listening to her, too busy measuring each other.

Thomas, Eleanor knew, was a staunch supporter of England and was not fond of the Jacobites. And while Brice had not fought at Culloden, he supported the Jacobite cause. Thomas was polished and Brice was a Highland warrior. The differences were magnified as the two men faced off. Eleanor loved them both and was frustrated that they could not see past their dislike.

“Why don’t ye tell us what ye know about Eleanor’s disappearance?” Brice said.

Thomas stiffened. Eleanor shot him a pleading look, but Thomas always had been a bit difficult. He was a viscount in his own right and had been raised to inherit the earldom after their father. He didn’t take kindly to being told what to do, and Brice liked to tell people what to do.

“We heard of the death of Charles.” Thomas looked at Eleanor in sympathy.

“What did ye hear of his death?” Brice asked, crossing his arms over his muscled chest. Thomas’s jaw worked.

Eleanor put a hand on her brother’s arm. “This is important, Thomas. We need to know exactly what you know.”

He seemed to relax a bit, but he still watched Brice with narrowed eyes. “We heard he was accused of treason and hanged. My God, Eleanor, I’m so sorry. If Father had known, he never would have sanctioned the marriage.”

“Father didn’t know because Charles wasn’t involved in treason.”

Thomas appeared surprised. So Blackwood had managed to convince his superiors in London that Charles was guilty.

“I wondered,” Thomas said. “But we were told by some of the highest members of the English army. The Hirst family has left London in disgrace.”

Eleanor closed her eyes in pain for Charles’s family. Blackwood had ruined so many people, and for what?

“We sent letters to the address you had given us in Edinburgh but received nothing back. Our queries were met with silence. Father used all of his considerable connections.” Thomas shot Brice a look, but Brice stared blandly back, unimpressed by her father’s connections. “Mother wanted to travel to Edinburgh, but Father refused, saying it was too dangerous to travel to Scotland now. They sent me. I went straight to Edinburgh, but you were gone, and no one there knew anything about where you’d gone. It took me some weeks to find someone to bring me to Fort Augustus, where I spoke to Colonel Blackwood.”

Eleanor flinched at Blackwood’s name. Brice’s impassive gaze slid to her.

“What happened to you, Eleanor?” Thomas asked.