Sutherland's Secret (6 page)

It was time to stop hiding. Eleanor had never been one to hide. All her life she’d been a social creature, needing the company of others. Of course, the last few months—the last year—had not been normal for her, but she would no longer accept that as an excuse.

She had no idea what her future held, where she would be a year from now, a month from now, or even a week from now, but she did know that she could no longer take the charity of Sutherland without giving something in return.

Because she had no idea how to summon Cecilia, she waited until the afternoon for the maid to return to her chambers. As usual, Cecilia entered chatting, but Eleanor cut her off. She took Cecilia’s hand and led her to the cupboard of gowns in the other room.

“Do ye want to change yer gown?” Cecilia asked.

Eleanor shook her head and swept her arm up to indicate all of the gowns. While she liked the color blue as much as the next person, she wondered at the woman who wore only blue gowns. But learning about the woman wasn’t her mission right now. She tugged on Cecilia’s gown and looked at her hopefully.

“Ye want to wear
my
clothes?”

Eleanor shook her head again and pondered how she was to express her needs. She pulled at the skirts of her gown and shook her head. She pointed to the other gowns in the cupboard and shook her head.

“These gowns are not to yer liking?” Cecilia asked.

Oh, dear. Now she thought that Eleanor was being ungrateful when the opposite was true.

Frustrated, Eleanor opened her mouth, determined to voice her needs, but of course nothing came out. What was wrong with her that her voice had deserted her? Was God punishing her? Good Lord, hadn’t she been punished enough?

She put her hand to her throat and tried again. A guttural sound emerged, startling both of them.

“Are ye trying to speak?” Cecilia asked. “Oh, do it again.” The girl clapped her hands and looked so pleased that Eleanor tried again, but no matter how hard she strained, no discernible word emerged. Just a strange, deep gruff sound. She threw her hands up in the air.

“No, no,” Cecilia said. “Ye must no’ give up. Ye do no’ like the gowns and so ye want another gown, am I right?”

Eleanor shook her head, then deliberately nodded.

Cecilia’s brows came together. “I’m right
and
I’m wrong?”

Eleanor nodded and smiled and once again touched Cecilia’s plain linen gown.

Cecilia’s eyes brightened. “Ah. Ye want a gown
like
mine.” Her brows lowered again. “Why would ye want a gown like mine if ye can have a very fine gown like these?”

Eleanor stepped in front of the cupboard and put her arms out to the sides as if blocking the cupboard, then pointed to Cecilia’s gown again.

“Very well,” Cecilia said with doubt in her voice. “I’ll fetch ye a plain gown like mine, but I think yer daft.”

She went to fetch the gown, and Eleanor smiled. That had been taxing, but she had accomplished what she’d wanted.

Cecilia returned and helped Eleanor dress. The gown was made of light gray linen and was very simple, with a belt at the waist and no adornments. Immediately Eleanor felt better in it. She forsook shoes, having noted that most Highland women didn’t wear shoes unless they were going to church. That was fine by her, since she had none. Her feet were healing nicely, and she enjoyed going barefoot, something she would never have done in her old life.

She paused at that thought. Her old life. Yes, that’s what it was. For the life she had led was gone, forever out of reach. Another one awaited her, even though she had no idea what it would be. She felt a stab of grief that she would never see her mother and father and brother again, never step foot on English soil. But she could not dwell on that for long. Maybe sometime in the future, when she deemed it safe, she would write to her family and let them know that she was alive and well. If luck was on her side.

Eleanor made her way down to the great hall. She didn’t stop to hide in the shadows. Instead, with sure steps and her head held high, she went straight through the great hall and toward the back stairs to the kitchen. At least she hoped it was the kitchen she was heading toward. She’d never been anywhere except her rooms and the great hall.

No one stopped to look at her, and she knew her idea had been a good one. Wearing those beautiful gowns had marked her as someone different, an outsider, and it had separated her from the rest. She
was
different and an outsider, but now, dressed as an average Highland woman, she was less so.

It was approaching mealtime. The servants were milling about in the kitchen, waiting for the trays of food they would take to the great hall. She knew she would be serving the warriors and it made her stomach flutter. She still wasn’t comfortable around the big, fearsome men, skittish at the thought that one of them would discover she was English and toss her in the dungeon.

The servants looked at her oddly, but no one told her to get out, so she didn’t. They grabbed trays and began to file from the hot kitchen. The cook was yelling orders to servants who scurried about. Eleanor wiped the sweat from her forehead and ignored her own grumbling stomach, reminding herself that she was no longer a highborn lady. If she was to make it in this new world on her own—and eventually she would have to—then she needed to learn as much as she could and acquire as many skills as she could. There were plenty of positions for hardworking servants. She knew that from helping her mother try to staff several of her father’s estates.

You can do this, Eleanor.

She grabbed the next tray available and made her way up the circular stairs to the great hall. Her courage faltered when she was faced with Sutherland’s men. He had taken a small contingent with him, but quite a few had stayed behind.

She set a bowl of some sort of soup in front of the first table she came to and continued down the line. Most ignored her, intent on their discussions. Some eyed her appreciatively. Those she ignored, knowing not to encourage that type of flirtation.

The noon hour flew by. She didn’t know how many trips she made between the kitchen and the tables, but it was many. Her feet hurt and her arms ached from carrying the heavy trays, but when the great hall cleared, she experienced a satisfaction she hadn’t felt before. She smiled, looking at the tables strewn with bowls and eating utensils and spilled food.

“Best hurry and get it cleaned up afore Cook starts yelling,” one of the girls said to her as she passed by.

Eleanor’s smile slipped. She had to clean up as well? She looked at the mess in a new light. How rude of these men to leave such messes for the women to clean up. Had they no manners? Did they not understand how hard it was to serve them, only to have to turn around and clean up after them before even getting a meal?

She huffed out a breath and began gathering bowls. Watching the other women, she cleaned as they did. They were far more efficient at it then she would have been.

Well, at least you learned something today. You learned to serve men food, and you learned to clean up after them.
It seemed a fine if somewhat depressing start to her new life.

When she was finished, she was so tired she almost fell asleep in her own soup. She managed to take a few bites before dragging herself up the steps and falling onto her nice, soft bed and closing her eyes.

The next day she returned. Her feet still hurt, and her arms felt heavy and cumbersome, but she was determined to keep at this. She found she was faster than the day before, but the men were no less slovenly in their eating habits, something that made her frown. Were her English counterparts just as horrid? Had she ever stopped to think about those who served her food? Had she even considered what happened to the plates and utensils after she rose from the table and left the dining room?

She was cleaning up when an armed warrior flung open the front door, causing Eleanor to pause with a bowl in one hand and her tray in another.

“English soldiers are coming,” he said breathlessly.

The other serving girls began chattering all at once, but Eleanor’s heart had stopped. The bowl clattered to the table, spilling the dregs of that day’s soup.

The warrior raced on, muttering to himself. Eleanor was frozen to the spot, her mind blank in the panic that had taken over her body.

English soldiers were coming, and Sutherland wasn’t here.

She looked around the room. The other girls continued to clean up, still talking about the soldiers, but Eleanor couldn’t move. They’d found her.

She put her tray down and ran toward the stairs, thinking only of getting away. She couldn’t let them see her here. It would bring the Duke of Cumberland’s wrath down on these people, and that was the last thing she wanted to do.

She ran straight into Hannah.

“Whoa, there.” Hannah grabbed Eleanor’s arms to steady them both. She looked Eleanor up and down, noting the servant’s attire. “What are ye up to?” Hannah asked, her brows raised.

Eleanor shook her head and pushed away, picking up her skirts to run up the stairs. She stumbled into her room and raced to the window that overlooked the bailey. She had to get out. Get away from the castle. She couldn’t be seen here by the English soldiers.

Oh, please, please, don’t let it be him.

The bailey was quickly filling up with Sutherland’s warriors. Angus was directing them as if they were preparing for a siege. How much time did she have? Could she sneak out? But where would she go? Could she hide in the forest while the English were here? Her heart pounded and her palms were sweating. Her breathing was ragged, punctuated by small whimpers.

A shout arose from the portcullis and a line of red-coated English soldiers rode through. Eleanor gasped. She was too late. They were here and she was here, and nothing,
nothing
good could come of this. She’d doomed them all and possibly cost them their lives. She watched the soldiers ride in. It seemed like a lot, too many, but in reality it was only about a dozen.

And in the front, sitting tall, was Colonel Henry Blackwood.

She turned and ran to the door, slamming it shut and placing the bar across it. She looked around wildly for a place to hide. All good sense left her. She was nothing but a trapped animal, terrified, needing to run but with no place to go. Would she be safe up here? Would the officers approach the bedchambers? Was Blackwood here because he’d heard she was here? Had he found her, or was this dumb luck?

Oh, what did it matter? He was here, and if he found her, he would take her away and punish Sutherland and his people. And she would rather die than be taken by him again.

She raced into the adjoining room, but there was nowhere to hide in the sitting area and nowhere to hide in the bedroom. Breathless, she sank to the floor in a far corner and waited for Blackwood to find her.

Eleanor.

Her name was Eleanor.

At least Brice assumed that’s what her note meant. Why had he not thought to ask her if she could write? It had never occurred to him because not many women were that learned. But he had known that the lass—
Eleanor
—was different. Her ragged gown had set her apart as a woman of means. Possibly nobility?

Possibly.

Now that he knew her name, so many more questions crowded his mind. What was her full name? Where was she from? How did she come to be in Scotland?

The last question was the most frightening. There was only one way an English lass of her class—or what he assumed was her class—came to be in Scotland, and that was by marrying an English officer. The thought kept him awake the two nights he’d been away from her and touched on a fear that grew daily. If he was housing an English officer’s wife, then he was a dead man.

They had ridden to the coast to meet the ship that was due to take the refugees to Canada. The ship had been two days late, and his men and those who waited to board it had become tense with the thought that it would not show. It had happened before. One other time he’d lost a ship to a storm. The people he’d risked his life to protect had all perished, including the captain—his brother. Much to everyone’s relief, this ship arrived, but his mind did not focus on that as it should have.

Damnation.

Eleanor.

Even her name suggested nobility.

Which meant that whoever she had married was nobility as well.

He kept a keen eye on the men, women, and children boarding the ship, their faces ravaged with the knowledge that this was the last time they would see Scottish land. They were to start a new life in Canada, where they would not be hunted and tortured, their wives not raped. There was hope on the other end of the voyage, but there was also devastation that they were being driven from the land their families had lived on for centuries. Brice always felt deeply for them, knowing that so many more awaited the next ship, and the next, and the next. But today he could not keep focused on that. He kept thinking of Eleanor and what her presence meant.

“Rider approaching,” Lachlan said beside him.

Brice turned in his saddle. The ship was well off the coast, and his men were gathering their things, hiding the evidence of their presence.

“ ’Tis one of ours,” Lachlan said.

Brice relaxed until he noted that the rider was at full gallop, heedless of the rocky terrain. His men were well trained with their mounts, and only something very important would cause the messenger to risk his horse in this manner.

The man pulled his horse up short when he came to Brice and Lachlan. “My lord,” he said breathlessly. “I bring you news from the castle.”

“Out with it, man,” Brice demanded, his heart pounding in dread.

“English soldiers have entered the castle, my lord. Angus said ye must come at once.”

“Go,” Lachlan said. “I’ll finish up here.”

Brice spurred his horse toward home, his heart thundering as hard as Galad’s hooves. It wasn’t uncommon for the English to visit his castle. They’d done so before, and it was always a tense situation. But he didn’t like that they had arrived while he was away, and he doubly didn’t like that he was harboring an English lass. He was racing to get to Eleanor, to get to his people. But which did he race to save?

His people. He had to save his people.

If they even needed saving. They were a shifty lot, and he loved them for it. The majority knew of the
Staran
and Brice’s role in it. Hell, the majority participated in it, and their hatred of the English ran deep. They would not reveal a word of his secret activities. But would they divulge Eleanor’s presence? If they discovered she was English, would they hand her over to the soldiers? Most likely not, because harboring an English lady would mean certain punishment—severe punishment.

The ride normally took a few hours. Brice made it in half that time, slowing Galad to cool him off so as not to alert the soldiers that he had raced here.

He entered the bailey amid pointed stares from his men, who were no doubt waiting for him. Lesser English soldiers gathered together at one end of the bailey while his men eyed them from the other end. He could cut the tension with his broadsword.

He slid off Galad and tossed the reins to a stable lad. The officers were stretched out negligently along the benches in the great hall as if it were their hall and not his. He gritted his teeth and smiled through the throbbing anger that consumed him. Bastards. They felt it was their right to go where they wanted, take what they wanted, with no thought to those who lived here.

Women scurried about, serving ale and food. His food, meant for his people. His ale, meant to quench the thirst of his people.

Immediately he discerned the leader of the group. A haughty, thin man with a pinched look about his face and an air of nobility, who held himself apart from his men.

Brice approached him. “Welcome to Castle Dornach,” he said.

The leader looked down his nose at him, which was an interesting thing to see, considering Brice stood at least a head above him. The man’s nostrils flared as if he smelled something particularly nasty. Brice hoped they weren’t planning on staying long, because he would have no back teeth left from grinding them together.

“Apologies for our unexpected visit,” the man said, though he sounded less than apologetic. He glanced around the room. “Lord Henry Blackwell, colonel of the Second Footguards.”

It didn’t seem to matter to this man that Brice was an earl, technically above the colonel in class. Brice took the insult and absorbed it, thinking of the ship of Jacobites who had escaped this man and his leader, the Duke of Cumberland, known to the Scots as the Butcher.

He looked around the great hall for Eleanor. Few women were to be seen, much to his approval. The English “appetites” for women—especially Scottish women—were well known. He preferred to keep his female clansmen away from them if at all possible. When he didn’t see Eleanor, his relief was great.

A retinue of his men silently filed in and lined the walls, their eyes on Blackwood’s soldiers.

“Pardon our intrusion,” Blackwood was saying. “We’ve been on patrol for days and found that we prefer a roof over our head tonight, as well as a warm meal in our bellies.”

No request for such hospitality, just arrogant confidence that Brice would grant them whatever they wanted. And he would. Because he didn’t want undue attention from these men. Especially Blackwood, who served directly under the Butcher.

“Of course,” Brice said, swallowing his anger and hatred for the moment. “Now, if ye will excuse me, like ye, I’ve been sleeping under the stars for a few nights and wish to wash the soil off before we sup.”

Blackwood tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering in a way that put Brice on alert. “And why would you be sleeping outside, Sutherland?”

“My land is extensive, Colonel, and my people scattered. As ye are well aware, it is my duty to see to their safety and comfort.”

Blackwood’s lips thinned. He couldn’t deny Brice’s claim that he was the leader of his people, but he well caught the barb that Sutherland felt the need to protect his people.

Brice nodded to him and turned toward the steps.

“Sutherland,” Blackwood called.

Brice stopped and breathed deep before turning around. He hadn’t given Blackwood leave to address him so informally, and the man knew it.

“Yes, Blackwood?”

The man’s jaw worked and his eyes flashed. Apparently it was acceptable for him to address Brice informally but not for Brice to address him as such.

“We’re looking for a lady. An English lady. Blond hair, blue eyes. A slight little thing.”

Eleanor. They were looking for Eleanor. In the back of his mind, he’d suspected as much. He raised a brow. “Have you lost one of your women, Colonel?”

Blackwood didn’t answer for a few moments, and Brice feared he had stepped too far.

“She is Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale. She is my betrothed. We became separated when her horse bolted.” He looked away, and when he looked back, there was something in his eyes that Brice could have sworn was a plea for help. “I worry for her, all alone in the Scottish wilderness.”

Brice’s shock kept him silent for a space of a moment. Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale. Lady. Countess. Damnation. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he was. “And you think she may have wandered onto my lands?” he asked.

Blackwood’s eyes flashed. “I don’t know where she could have…wandered off to.”

“Does she do this often? Wander the Scottish countryside?”

Eleanor. Countess. Eleanor was a countess. It all fit. The gown. Her table manners.

Blackwood’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “Of course she doesn’t wander the countryside. I believe she may have been stunned, not thinking right, and wandered off.”

There was an undercurrent of desperation in him. Eleanor could very well be this man’s betrothed. Brice had suspected that she was English nobility, following a military husband. But something about Blackwood bothered Brice, and he was not about to give up Eleanor until he spoke to her. “I’ve not seen an English lass roaming about my lands, and neither have I heard any reports of one being seen wandering around.” His tone implied that no Scotsman would allow his woman to roam the countryside alone and unprotected.

After a moment Blackwood nodded, and Brice made his way up the steps, but instead of heading toward his chambers, he stopped at Eleanor’s door. He softly knocked, then tried the door when she didn’t answer. It was locked and most likely barred. He didn’t blame her. He would prefer to lock and bar his door if it meant not dealing with Blackwood.

He entered his own chambers, locked the door, and opened the little-used door that connected his chambers to his lady’s chambers. “Eleanor,” he whispered.

His gaze swept the empty sitting room before he walked into the sleeping chamber. Empty as well. As he had suspected, the door was barred, so there was no way she had left. Unless she’d discovered the connecting door he’d just used.

He walked back through the sitting room and found her huddled in the corner, the dagger clutched in her hand.

There was a war going on inside him. He was alternately furious with her and worried for her. Furious because she’d brought the English to his door and worried because the English were at his door looking for her.

Her back was pressed against the stone wall, her knees were drawn to her chin, and her thin arms wrapped around her knees, the dagger clutched in both hands. Her eyes were dry, her skin so pale he could see her veins.

He crouched in front of her. “Eleanor.”

Her eyes locked on his. Blank eyes, overpowered by sheer terror, stared at him but he knew she didn’t see him.

Well, this answered one question. She knew Blackwell. And it answered another question. She didn’t want to be reunited with Blackwell. He felt relief at the unvoiced worry that Blackwell had been telling the truth. He supposed that question had not been answered. They could very well be betrothed, whether Eleanor wanted it or not.

Brice sat back on his heels and unfolded her fingers from the dagger, placing it on the floor beside her because he didn’t want her to accidentally stick him. She didn’t even seem to notice.

“Eleanor.”

She blinked and looked at him, finally seeing him.

“Are you Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale?”

Her eyes widened.

“Ye didn’t feel the need to tell me this important piece of information? Ye can write yer Christian name on a piece of paper but not yer full title? Ye did no’ think it important that I know such a thing?” His words came faster, his anger taking over.

Her eyes continued to widen. She reached for him, but he pulled away. He didn’t want her to touch him right now. Not when his anger was so palpable.

“That’s an important piece of information to withhold, my lady.” He pointed toward the door. “There is a gentleman in my great hall asking for ye. Colonel Henry Blackwell.”

He wasn’t prepared for her sudden movement that put him on his arse. She jumped up and ran from the room. Brice scrambled to his feet and chased after her, only to find her standing helplessly in the middle of the bedchamber with a wild look in her eyes.

Brice took her by her shaking shoulders and forced her to face him. “I did no’ tell him ye were here, and I will no’ unless you want me to.”

She shook her head violently, a garbled sound coming from her.

“Then I will keep yer presence here to myself and will instruct my people to do the same.”

She shook her head again and pushed away from him. His words didn’t calm her; they only made her terror worse.

“Ye have my word, Eleanor. Ye are safe within these walls. I canno’ make you believe me. I can only show ye with time. Stay in yer rooms until they are gone. Unfortunately I do no’ know when that will be.”

She walked in a circle around the room like a trapped animal. Everything about her screamed terror. Brice let her pace for a while, but when she only became more agitated he grabbed her wrist and dragged her to a stop. “This bastard Blackwell, he claims ye two are betrothed.”

Her face turned an alarming shade of gray.

“I need to know if he speaks the truth. It does no’ change my mind, nor my vow to protect ye.”

“No!”

Stunned, they both froze, looking at each other with wide eyes.

“What did ye say?” he asked, needing to hear it again.

“No.” Her voice was rough and hoarse. She put a hand to her throat. “No,” she said again.

“No, ye’re not betrothed?”

She shook her head.

“So he’s lying.”

She held out her fists, showing him the scars that circled her wrists, and looked at him with her dark blue eyes.

Brice circled one of her wrists lightly with his fingers, stroking the raised scar. “Did he do this to ye?” he asked softly in an attempt to control his rage.

She nodded, tears shimmering in her eyes.

Brice closed his eyes against the stab of pain he felt in his gut. “Ah, Eleanor. If I could kill the bastard for ye, I would.” He felt her other hand cover his, and he opened his eyes to find her looking up at him. “No,” she managed once more.