The Runaway Highlander (The Highland Renegades Book 2) (14 page)

Perhaps he didn’t think of Aedan as dangerous, but he’d seen the Sheriff attacking her. Surely, he would have
known what awaited her if she was returned to her mother. Did he really think Aedan could protect her from her own mother?

At this point, she doubted he wanted to, but a part of her couldn’t help wishing he would.

Chapter Eleven

Aedan pulled the horse to a rough stop at the first sight of the lights of Berwick. The sun was almost gone and the purple haze of twilight cloaked the land in darkness. Anne had been silent for so long, he’d assumed her to be sleeping, but her body tensed as they halted.

“Why are we stopping?” she asked.

“I have been thinking.” He dismounted and pulled her to the ground in front of him. “I understand that you fear the Sheriff, we all do. And you worry for your sister, even with your mother there.”

“Yes?”

He worked at the knots that kept her arms restricted. “I am not a man without honor, despite what you may think. Before I return you to Berwick, I want to know the situation there.” Aedan paused with his fingers on the rope over her hands. “Promise me you won’t try to escape again?”

“Why do you care so much if I escape?” Her lips pouted defiantly and her brow furrowed. “You’ve made it clear you don’t care if I live or die. You have
half the money up front. Why not just release me and wash your hands of the situation?”

Aedan’s heart ached and he opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words. He’d been paid well to keep his distance and the one time she’d closed that distance had been so tempting, he’d been thinking about it most of the ride.

True, he had the money to save Brighde, even without the rest of the payment, but knowing his father, he would need the rest of that silver when he returned.

Damned infernal woman. He didn’t care if she escaped. But he wanted to make sure she was safe.
He wanted to hate her for stabbing him, for exposing his deficiency with women. But he did have a weakness for her.

He was a walking contradiction when it came to Anne de Cheyne. Wanting to hate her, but wanting to kiss her,
both at once.

Aedan finally decided on releasing her hands and took a step back once she was free, expecting to be pummeled with her tiny fists. Instead, she rubbed her wrists and stared at him, the question still lingering on her face.

“I care if you live or die, my lady.” He wasn’t certain which would please him more at the moment, but he couldn’t admit that. If she knew this, his internal conflict, this power she had over him… he wasn’t sure what she would do with it.

He’d seen how her mother used that power.

“Why not leave me to my own devices, then?” She dropped her hands and crossed the distance between them.

Aedan glared back at her, then pulled back the fall of his hair that hid his scar. Anything to put the distance between them again. But she didn’t back away.

“You can’t frighten me away with your scar, Aedan Donne.” Her voice held a note of chiding and her eyes stayed on his. One of her hands was suddenly on the side of his face, the scar. She held him, daring him to move with that ardent green gaze of hers.

His breath stopped and the two of them stayed locked like that until she finally pulled away. He refused to be the one to break. He would do his duty to her, to her mother if he could, and then discharge her. This fire lighting between them was no good.

If she was promised to the Sheriff, then she would have to marry the man, pig though he was. And if she was not, no amount of persuasion would make her mother consider him as a candidate, whether Anne wanted it or not.

Eventually, the novelty of his scar would wear off and he would be just another ugly man. If she was one of those girls who was thrilled by the unknown, then by all means, let her get an eyeful of the thing. God knew he was sick of it. She would be sick of it before long, as well. Soon, like him, that scar would be all she would see in his face.

Anne picked up the rope that had just bound her hands and handed it to him. “You obviously intend to see this through. What is your plan?”

He pointed down the hillside where a tiny inlet cut into the otherwise smooth country down to the town. “There’s an old man who lives in that hill. He knows everything that happens in this corner of the world, and if he does not, he knows who to ask to find out. We’ll stop and see him, then do what he says.”

Aedan untied the two horses and handed one of the sets of reins to her. “You’ll not try to escape?”

“Why would I? You’re taking me to the very place I need to go.”

“You’re going back to Berwick, still?” He nearly laughed in shock.

Her delicate features drew downward. “Whether my mother intends this or not, I plan to find my sister and take her home. My father may not have the strongest will, but I believe that if I recount my encounter with
the Sheriff and tell him of Mother’s behavior, he will at least allow us to be free of her matchmaking.”

“Your encounter with the Sheriff?” Aedan searched his memory. He hadn’t seen her with the old man at any point in his time at Berwick, and she hadn’t said anything. “What happened?”

“To answer your question,” she said, swinging up onto her horse, “I will not try to escape. Now take me to this old man so we may proceed with the plan.”

Aedan mounted quickly and rode after her, still not quite certain that she would keep her promise
. He kept the rope at his side just in case she did not.

Molnar’s house, as it were, was difficult enough to find in the daytime. More than once, Aedan had to shout to Anne to halt where she was, in case she went too far and plunged off the bank, onto the rocky beach below.

After they went back up the hill, low light illuminated one of the dips that dead ended near the rocky cliff face, instead of leading down to the water. They dismounted and secured the horses to low bushes that clung to the craggy surface.

Molnar, an old potter, had built a makeshift door over the opening to a shallow cave in the rock that served as his house. The door was made of what looked to be the remains of a boat hull, and lay propped between the face of the cave and a large rock.

Aedan knocked at the door and a rickety voice answered in Gaelic. “Who goes there?”

The old man may have been a hermit now, but he used to be in the castle guard before he became a potter, and he would be waiting behind the door with a spear or a dagger of some kind, ready to skewer any intruders.

Rumor was, once he stabbed you through, he threw you on the beach for the waves. The ocean didn’t claim as many bodies as the hermit, it was said.

Aedan stayed a good distance from the door and its side openings. “It’s Aedan Donne, old man. I’ve a boon for you.”

“Well, come in, then. You know the way.” A clatter against rock and shuffled steps, and Aedan knew it was safe to enter.

He offered his arm to Anne and as he did so, his shoulder throbbed. “Come with me,” he said through his wince.

“Your shoulder,” she whispered.

Aedan shook his head. “We must enter as he bids us.” He grunted through the pain as he pulled the door away from the cave face and propped it against the hill.

She took his offered arm this time and didn’t comment.

The cave was dimly lit, but warm. Once inside, Aedan replaced the door with considerably less pain than the first time. Perhaps his shoulder was healing after all.

He grabbed Anne’s arm and stepped in front of her as they walked into the larger, taller part of the cave. Aedan stood at full height with Anne behind him.

“Molnar,” he called. The light came from the back of the cave where there was obviously a fire, because as they came farther in, the air was also warmer. A table and two chairs sat along one wall with a thick rug made of some kind of animal skin in front of it. On the opposite wall, there were crates stacked at the end of a makeshift bed, which looked to be mostly straw and some hides and blankets stacked on top. The last time Aedan had been inside the cave, it had looked very different.

The room took a bit of a turn along the back and there, Aedan found both the fire and the old man. He’d fashioned a spit and roasted an animal over the fire, which was almost as tall as Aedan’s thigh and blazing.

Anne held her hands toward the fire and smiled at the toothless old man who stoked it. She acted as easily at home here as she had been in the Sheriff’s house, and he admired her for it. True nobility of character didn’t always follow noble blood, his mother had always told him.
But when it did, that was the truest treasure.

His mother had been one such treasure. His sister was another. And Anne was proving this to be true of herself as well.

Except for the stabbing, of course.

“Molnar.” Aedan offered the man his hand, but instead of shaking it, the man slapped a hunk of bread into it and gestured to Anne. Aedan split the bread and gave Anne the choicer piece, then split his piece in half and offered the chunk back to the old man.

“Aedan Donne.” The old man sat on his heels and gnawed at the soft bread with his few remaining teeth. “I’ve not seen you in months, boy. Do you come seeking shelter?” Molnar pointed around him at the largely empty space. “As you can see, I have plenty of floor to sleep on, though you might be more comfortable on the turf outside, if colder.”

“May we?” Aedan pointed to the chairs and the old man nodded, turning the animal on the spit.

“I’m here for information.” Aedan pulled the cloth from his pocket that he’d been saving for the old man. The fabric itself was silk, and only a scrap, but it had the most intricate pattern of flowers woven into it with bright red thread. Molnar liked unique found items, and often used them to inspire his clay work.

The man fingered the gift, then took it from Aedan’s hands with a smile. “You know me well, m’boy.”

“I found it on the Roman road, lying on the ground as though it had been torn from a sleeve.”

The grey haired man clucked. “
Ahhh. This may have belonged to a nobleman.”

“Or noble woman,” Aedan said.

“Or even the king of England,” Anne added.

Molnar winced
, but held the delicate cloth with his fingertips. “Can you imagine, boy? What if this had been torn off the shoulder of the King himself?”

Aedan smiled down at Anne
, who was watching the old man with giant, mesmerized eyes.

“My nurse told me that King Alexander used to travel the Roman road often, dressed as a pauper to fool his people.” Those green orbs glistened with memory and Aedan’s throat clenched at the ch
ildlike tone of her voice. “He would often get bored in his castle, and ever the curious ruler, he wanted to know what his people thought of him and how they lived. So he would walk the Roman road, with rags to cover his kingly garments, and when he would meet a poor man doing good, the king would reveal himself and bring the peasant to dine at his table.”

Molnar reached across Aedan’s body and took Anne’s hand, his eyes shining. “You have a poet’s heart, my dear.
Never lose your sense of wonder.”

Aedan stared at her, finding himself drawn into the spell of the firelight and her eyes and the tale of a kind, strong king who would have kept all well and safe in his land. Tears stung behind his eyes at that thought. Oh, to have been alive when Scotland was its own. When the petty clan wars weren’t threatening to the land itself because the king provided the constancy to unite them when needed. What a beautiful time that would have been.

Before Alexander’s death. Before the fight for the throne. Before the invasion.

Now, Scotland was a place where men like Aedan were necessary, and men like Broccin had to fight in stealth, and there was no standing army. No hope.
No unity.

“And you, my boy, have a warrior’s spirit. You will forever be looking for someone to slay and someone to save.” Aedan glanced up at the old man and found his squinting eyes focused on his scar. “Who is it today? This young miss?
And are you planning to slay her or save her?”

“
Both, in a manner of speaking.” Aedan gestured to Anne. “This is Lady Anne de Cheyne, daughter of the Earl of Caithness.”

“
Ahhh. One of the old mormears.” Molnar laughed. “You don’t know this, my girl, I’m certain, but until our war with Norway, we never had these names. These English names. The protectors were the old mormears, and they’d been the defenders of Scotland for hundreds of years.”

“Yes, I knew that.” Anne pulled at Aedan’s arm. “There were families picked from all the clans of Scotland to be the protectors, and they were granted lands by the king and sworn to be his men.”

Molnar nodded. “Then the king of England claimed the right to our country and gave us his names. He thinks he can give and take our lands at his whim.” The old man spat against the wall. “England.”

Aedan looked for a hole in the conversation, so as to steer it away from any more spitting. “Molnar, I need to ask some information of you.”

“And give some in return, I hope.” Molnar nodded in Anne’s direction. “I’ll want to know what your lass is doing here.”