Sutherland's Secret (4 page)

Brice slept the sleep of the dead. Two nights out in the elements and taking care of the woman, plus traveling to Graham’s gathering and many nights before that of no sleep, had taken their toll.

So it was his subconscious that registered the scream, and his warrior’s trained body responded before he was fully awake. He was rushing down the hall, his broadsword raised before the sleep cleared from his eyes.

A foursome of his warriors, their own weapons at the ready, met him in front of the woman’s door just as another scream rent the air. Brice dismissed them and slowly pushed the door open to peer inside.

The chamber was lit softly by the dying embers of the fire in the grate. The room was sultry from her bath earlier in the evening. Brice took it all in at once. Nothing was out of place, and the chamber seemed empty except for the small form writhing in the bed. He motioned for his men to stay where they were.

Slowly he approached the bed, but he’d spent the last two nights with her, and he suspected he knew what was happening. Another nightmare. Cecilia had reported to him that the woman’s body was covered with scrapes and bruises on top of scars. But she’d said the woman had bathed and eaten well before falling asleep.

She was on the bed now, moaning and thrashing.

He leaned his broadsword against the small bedside table and noted that the dagger he had given her sat atop the table, within easy reach. Cecilia had told him that the lady had brandished the weapon at her, and he had secretly smiled at the picture it painted.

He touched her shoulder, wishing he knew her name so he could whisper it to calm her. She did not come out of her nightmare but moaned again, rolling away from his touch.

“Shhh, wee’un,” he whispered. He placed one knee on the bed to touch her shoulder again, because she had rolled so far away.

When she didn’t calm, he put the other knee on the bed, slid his body against her back, and took her in his arms. She whimpered. Through the fading light of the fire, tears glistened on her cheeks.

Her clean cheeks.

She stopped thrashing and pressed that cheek against his chest. Her breathing was harsh and shallow, and her heart pounded against his chest. He held her and mumbled soft platitudes that would have seemed silly in the light of day. Good thing Lachlan was not here to see this. Brice would never live it down.

Eventually the tears stopped and her breathing evened out.

Wide awake now, Brice lay there with her in his arms and looked at her. The first thing he noticed was that she smelled much better. He guessed Cecilia had pilfered his wife’s drawers for soap that smelled like flowers. He didn’t know what flowers they were, but they smelled powerfully good coming from the bundle in his arms.

Her soft hair trailed across her shoulder and over his arm. He knew enough of English women to know that they loved their hair long. Hers was short in comparison, but it was the most beautiful blond he’d ever seen. The firelight picked out bits of red and brown, but it was predominantly yellow. Not a bright yellow but a pale yellow.

He touched it with his free hand. It was soft, like the downy feathers of a newborn chick. She sighed and he yanked his hand back, suddenly feeling guilty for touching her. Not that it made much difference, since she was so firmly nestled in his arms. Good thing he was between her and her dagger.

Her lashes fluttered, but her eyes didn’t open. Her lashes were more red than blond. Her cheeks were sunken and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. Food and rest would cure that: He made a promise to himself to see that she was well fed and had nothing more to worry about than when her next nap would be. He didn’t think about what he would do with her after that. Something would come to him. If only he knew her name and who her people were. Surely someone was looking for this beauty.

Although someone had definitely abandoned her. He felt an urge to find the person and beat him senseless and starve him as the man had done to her. His free hand curled into a fist, and he had to consciously relax his muscles against the anger that flowed through him.

He concentrated on the lady in his arms, on her soft hair and even softer breaths, on the floral scent that enveloped them in the large bed. He matched his breathing to hers, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep.

The next morning Eleanor awakened refreshed and so hungry that her growling stomach woke her.

Cecilia entered after knocking softly on the door. “Good morning to ye, m’lady. I trust ye slept well.” She threw back the shutters on the window, letting in bright sunlight and a cool breeze. Eleanor sat up and breathed in the clean air.

“I’ve brought a gown with me. It should fit ye. Not perfectly, of course, but good enough.” Cecilia went to the chair, where a dark blue gown was draped. She shook it out and looked it over critically. “It should do. Anne is a fair hand at sewing. We can call her up, if you like, and see what other gowns we can alter for ye.”

Eleanor looked at the dark blue gown and wondered where Cecilia had unearthed such a thing. It was beautifully made, although a few seasons out of style, but what did she care after the rags she’d worn for five months. She looked at Cecilia quizzically and gestured to the gown with a brow raised.

Cecilia looked away, color staining her cheeks. “Ye’ll be wondering where I got it, won’t ye?”

Eleanor nodded.

“It belonged to the previous Countess of Dornach.”

Previous? Eleanor’s curiosity was piqued. The previous Countess of Dornach, as in Brice’s mother? Or Brice’s wife?

Cecilia looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “His lordship’s wife,” she said. “She passed. In case ye were wondering.”

Eleanor bit back a smile, warming to Cecilia already despite her firm lecture to herself not to trust anyone at Castle Dornach. She rose so Cecilia could help her don the gown.

“The men are in the great hall breaking their fast,” Cecilia said after dressing Eleanor and before closing the door behind her.

Eleanor stood in the middle of the room, fingering the fine fabric of the dark blue gown and looking at the closed door. Was that an invitation to join the men in breaking fast? Or would Cecilia bring up her food?

Her stomach growled loudly in the quiet room. Eleanor snatched her dagger off the small table and tucked it into the belt at her waist. Cautiously she approached the door and put her hand on the knob. She turned it with her breath held, fully expecting it to be locked, as all the doors had been in the past five months. To her surprise, the knob turned and the door opened.

She peeked into the deserted hall. Sconces lit the darkened pathway at different intervals, guiding her toward the steps she remembered climbing the day before. Slowly she descended, following the quiet roar of many men breaking their fasts.

Her foot left the last step, and she hurriedly stepped to the side to press her back against the wall and into the shadows.

There were dozens of warriors sitting at the tables and talking among themselves while they ate. They were all wearing kilts of blue and green, although the designs differed; they all had their weapons strapped to them. Always at the ready.

She picked out Sutherland right away. He sat among his men, talking to them as he shoveled food in his mouth. Her stomach growled again and she pressed a hand to it, silently bidding it to remain quiet. Although who could hear it over the voices of several dozen men, she didn’t know.

Servants scurried about between tables, carrying trays of food and drink. Suddenly nervous, Eleanor shrank farther into the shadows. The men now seemed sinister, frightening, with their myriad weapons that could so easily cut her down. She fingered the dagger at her waist. So ineffectual against a broadsword or a pistol. Sutherland would have known that when he handed it to her.

She slid along the wall and scurried back up the steps and into the safety of her chamber, where she threw the bar over the door and sank to the floor in front of it, trembling.

The moment Eleanor entered the great hall, Brice was aware of her presence. He stayed where he was and didn’t go to her, curious to see what she would do. Of course, the rumor of the presence of a strange woman in the castle had spread quickly, but not many saw her hiding in the shadows.

Brice watched her cautiously. He’d held her in his arms all night long, waking only as the sun was beginning to rise. He’d left her bed quietly, assured that she was fast asleep, and gone to the lists to train away his aggression and frustration. He didn’t know what it was about her that caused these strange reactions. He wanted to protect her, but he didn’t allow himself to fully trust her. He still didn’t know if she was English, but he strongly suspected she was, and he always went with his hunches. It was the duality of his thoughts that frustrated him the most.

He noticed the telltale signs of her fear. It had taken courage to enter the great hall among her enemies—if indeed she was English—and he was inordinately proud of that courage. But then she ran back up the steps, tripping on the third one and catching herself.

Hunger had driven her down here, and fear had driven her away.

He rose from the bench and motioned to his men to keep eating. He grabbed a tray from a passing servant and jogged up the steps. He tried to open the door but found it barred.

Irrational anger consumed him. No one barred a door to him in his own home. His wife had done that to him too many times to count, and he’d been furious each time.

He pounded on the door with a fist. “Open the door,” he bellowed. He heard nothing on the other side and his anger grew. “I said, open the door!” Nothing. “Ye don’t want me to force my way in. It will no’ be pretty, I assure ye.”

There was movement on the other side and the sound of the bar being raised. The door slowly opened, but she was not standing there. She had scurried to the other side of the room, on the other side of the bed, where he had found her the night before, hidden in the shadows of the room.

“What is it with ye and the shadows?” he muttered, setting the tray of food on the table by the fire.

She looked at him warily, her dagger clutched in her hand but not pointed at him.

“Ye can put yer weapon away. I’ll no’ hurt ye. Haven’t I promised ye that before?” He knew his voice sounded irritated, but he was irritated, damn it. He waved to the tray. “I brought ye food. I figured ye came to the great hall to eat, and ye left without eating.” Her wary gaze slid from him to the food and back to him. He sighed. “Eat. If ye like, I’ll stand on the other side of the room, far from ye.”

She crept from the shadows toward the table of food and looked down on it. Slowly she drew a chair closer and sat. She picked up the eating utensils and delicately cut a piece of meat, put it in her mouth, and chewed. It was a far sight different than the first time he’d seen her eat. She wasn’t shoving food in her mouth; rather, she was eating with all of the manners of one wellborn. Interesting. It matched with the fine fabric of the gown he’d found her in.

She watched as he took the seat opposite her and settled into it. He motioned for her to continue eating. She took another piece of meat and put it in her mouth. He waited while she ate until she pushed the plate away, sat back, and contemplated him.

“We need to talk,” he began.

She put a hand to her throat, alarm crowding her eyes. The gown she wore perfectly matched her deep blue eyes. It was a bit too big and a little too long, but it hugged her curves and accentuated…well, her attributes.

He pulled his thoughts away from that direction. There was only one place where Cecilia could find a gown like that. It must have belonged to his dead wife, who had been taller, with wider shoulders and smaller…attributes.

He pulled his gaze from the gown to look into her eyes. “I need to know who ye are.”

She simply stared at him.

“Yer name?” he asked hopefully.

Her gaze slid away from his, and he sighed in frustration.

“Do ye no’ trust me yet? What do I have to do to earn yer trust? I gave ye my dagger.” He held his arms out to the sides. “Poke me with it, if ye please, and if that will convince ye.”

Her lips twitched in a smile and his heart stuttered. If she ever fully smiled, it would be devastating to his heart. She was a beauty, that was for certain. She’d left her hair down, and it fell in soft waves around her face and over her shoulders.

“Tell me, lass,” he said softly. “Can ye speak?”

Those dark blue eyes met his, and after a few moments she shook her head.

“Have ye ever been able to speak?”

She nodded, looking down at the table.

He sat back to contemplate her. “What happened to ye that made ye stop speaking?”

She turned her head away to look into the fire and swallowed. Quickly she shook her head, and he took that to mean that even if she could speak, she would not tell him.

“Are ye running from something?”

She nodded, still looking into the fire.

“Are ye in trouble?”

Her shoulders came up in a shrug.

“How can ye no’ know if yer in trouble?”

Pounding on the door made her jump, and fear returned to her eyes. Brice cursed and went to answer the door. Lachlan stood on the other side. He peered over Brice’s shoulder and frowned at the girl. “We’re ready,” he said.

“I’ll be down shortly.” Brice closed the door and faced the lass. “I have to leave. I’ll be gone a few days at most.”

She jumped up from the table, her eyes darting around the room. She moved swiftly toward him and touched his arm. He looked down at her frail, pale fingers against his sun-weathered arm, then back up at her face. It was the first time she’d approached him while awake, let alone touched him.

She shook her head vehemently and tugged on his arm.

“Do ye no’ want me to leave?” he asked.

She shook her head again.

“I must, lass. There’s much to be done. I’ve plenty of other responsibilities that are calling my name.”

She stepped back and her hand fell from his arm. He found himself wanting to snatch it back, put it where it was. He wanted the light not to fade from her eyes.

“Ye’ll be safe here. Ye have my word. Ye can go to the great hall for yer meals. No use staying in here. This is no’ yer prison.”

Her eyes widened, and what little color had come to her face in the last day, faded. Brice tilted his head to the side. “Were ye imprisoned, lass? Is that where ye got yer scars?” He nodded toward her wrists.

Immediately she folded her hands over her wrists and hid them in her skirts. Gently Brice pulled them away from her and rubbed the raised scars with the pads of his thumb. “Ah, lass, I wish ye could speak, but I fear the tales ye would tell.”

Her lashes fluttered over her eyes as she looked down at his hands on her wrists.

She looked up at him with fierce determination and opened her mouth. He could see the effort she was making to force a word out. He leaned forward, silently urging her on, straining toward her as if he could lend her his strength to utter just one word. Just her name.

But nothing came out. Her shoulders slumped, and the determination was replaced with despair.

Brice released one of her wrists and touched her shoulder. “Work on that while I’m gone, lass. Mayhap when I return, ye can tell me yer name.”

Without thought, he drew her toward him. She looked up at him and came willingly, stepping close until there was barely a breath between them. He leaned forward, his entire being focused on her pink lips.

“Brice!” Lachlan pounded on the door, startling Brice enough that he pulled up and placed a swift kiss on her forehead, then fled the room before he did anything else stupid.

Brice and Lachlan led the people through the dark forest. There were only three this time. A mother, a father, and their young son. Brice had been worried about the son, but he’d been assured the lad knew what to do.

’Twas a tricky business they were in. Tricky and deadly and no room for error. Error would cost them all their lives, and the consequences would trickle down to his people.

Silently they walked. Daylight was just a few hours away. If they continued at the same pace, they would reach their destination in time. But Brice didn’t trust the woman to keep this grueling pace.

He and his men had been transporting wanted Jacobites through Scotland and onto his waiting ships for months now. It started with Cait Campbell—yes, a Campbell. About the only Campbell whom Brice was able to tolerate.

Her home sat on the border of Campbell and Sutherland land, but she was a Campbell by marriage. And a healer. She’d sent a message to Brice shortly after the Jacobite defeat at Culloden, and he’d gone per her request. To his shock, he found her cellar full of wounded Jacobites. Hiding them had put her in danger, but she’d refused to turn them away.

The countryside had been overrun with English soldiers who had been ordered to kill any Jacobite they could find, using only swords, dirks, or bayonets. Even thinking about it put Brice in a foul humor. Animals. All of the English were animals with a severe lack of humanity. It was well known that anyone who aided a Jacobite was tortured, their property taken from them, and their wives beaten—and sometimes worse.

But Brice had not hesitated. He’d not fought at Culloden, but that didn’t mean he sided with the English. If he had to choose, he would choose for Scotland and its people, and that was what he did that fateful day in Cait’s cellar. He’d taken the wounded soldiers and, over a fortnight, hidden them here and there, moving them only at night, until they reached his ships at Dornach, where he saw them off to Canada and the growing community of displaced Scots making a home there. By then more had come to Cait for healing, and the
Staran
—the trail—had been born.

Brice had too many other responsibilities to accompany his men on these missions every night, but he offered his assistance as often as he could. He accepted their help only after he was certain they were well aware of the risks. Every one of his warriors offered their assistance. It warmed Brice’s heart that they were so generous.

The woman tripped and fell with a soft cry. Brice and the rest of the party froze, waiting and listening, as the woman’s husband rushed to help her stand.

Brice made just as certain that the refugees knew the risks. Even though they all said they could handle the rough terrain and the grueling trip, Brice knew they spoke out of desperation. He knew that some would not have the fortitude, and some would not survive.

He slowly let out the breath he’d been holding. The man helped his wife up and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and wiped the tears from her cheeks. They would have a better life in Canada. One where they were not hunted or in fear of torture, rape, and death. And that was what drove Brice to risk everything.

The woman straightened her shoulders, looked at Brice, and nodded with determination. He motioned for everyone to continue.

They reached the next safe house within minutes of the sun rising. The little family was safely hidden in the farmer’s barn, fast asleep, by the time Brice and his men left.

He had two ships transporting the Jacobites. One landed on the shores of Dornach every two weeks. Brice always breathed a sigh of relief when a ship disembarked, but the relief never lasted long, for there was a never-ending line of terrified Scotsmen waiting to flee their homeland.

“So what will ye do with her?” Lachlan asked later that morning. They were still a few hours from Castle Dornach, a warm, soft bed, and much-needed sleep.

Brice didn’t have to ask whom Lachlan was speaking of. His second in command, who was more like a brother, had not wasted words when telling Brice what he thought of the woman living in the lady’s chamber.

“I do no’ know.” He’d tried not to think of the woman while he’d been gone, but images of her had interrupted his concentration more than a few times. Just snippets. The curl of her hair on his arm, the sweep of her lashes on her cheek. The slight smile she’d bestowed upon him the day he’d left. The panic in her eyes when she realized he was leaving her. They were frustrating and unwanted, these thoughts. And yet he couldn’t stop them.

“Have ye discovered more about her?” Lachlan asked.

“Nay. She canno’ speak.”

Lachlan snorted. “Canno’ or will no’?”

Brice recalled how she’d strained to speak, how hard she’d worked to get one word out. “Canno’.”

“Ye certain about that?”

Brice sighed. “What will ye have me do with her, Lachlan? Put her back on the road for someone else to find? How do ye think that will turn out?”

“ ’Tis dangerous to all of us to keep her.”

“I’m aware.” He knew what a dangerous game he was playing. Before leaving the castle, he’d told his commanding officer and Cecilia to keep an eye on the woman. She was not to send any letters, and she was not to leave the castle grounds under any circumstances. He couldn’t afford for her to contact the English in any way.

“Hannah told me that Cecilia said the woman was in bad shape.”

Hannah was Lachlan’s wife and ran the day-to-day operations of the castle, since Brice had no wife to do so. Not that his wife had been competent at that.

“Aye. She’s been mightily misused,” Brice admitted. Images of her scarred wrists and bruised legs rose before him, and the bile in his stomach churned. He had a hollow feeling that her situation would not be so easily solved.