“The woman in the field,” Mac whispered. “’Twas him,” he said, his voice stronger. “’Twas the earl who did it.”
The earl’s face went from red to white.
“Arrest him,” he sputtered.
The guard at his side did not move.
“They were fighting.” Mac withdrew from Greer’s arms and stood on his own, even as she tried to pull him back.
But Mac pushed away from her, his tone unwavering as he pointed to the earl, as though the story of a woman’s unjust death and his incarceration sent energy pumping through his veins. “The lady said he was stealing money from the king.”
“Silence,” Lord Calver bellowed.
But Mac would not be silenced and continued, his voice ringing off the stonework, “She said she’d tell, and he lunged at her, attacking her before shoving her down the hill.”
“I should have killed ye when I had the chance,” the earl cried in outrage as he grabbed a sword and dagger from the guard at his side and raced toward Mac.
19
Drake lunged in front of the earl as the man threw the dagger toward Mac and Greer, followed immediately by a vicious swing of the sword. There was only enough time to see Greer curling her body around her brother before Drake obstructed Lord Calver’s wild assault.
Their swords connected with a clash that rang sharply off the stone walls. “Get him out of here,” Drake growled to Greer through gritted teeth.
Movement sounded behind him—what he could only assume was Greer doing as he asked. He needed them gone. Safe.
Even if it meant he didn’t know where she went. Or how he might find her again someday.
Or that this might be the last time he ever saw her.
He didn’t regret his decision to tell her he loved her, and now, more than ever, he was especially glad to have made the admission.
Lord Calver swung his blade once more, and again Drake impeded the blow. He couldn’t retaliate against an earl. No warrior could attack a nobleman and live to tell the tale.
Even if the man was a murderer.
“Dinna just stand there,” Lord Calver hissed at the guard. “If ye dinna summon help, I’ll have ye hanged for yer betrayal.”
The man sprinted off, this time to follow orders at the threat of his own neck.
Calver returned his attention to Drake, his eyes bulging and bloodshot with rage. “Get out of my way.”
Drake remained where he stood, blocking the earl’s path to where Greer and Mac had run. “The lad goes free. He hasna done anything wrong.”
“The lad knows too bloody much.” The earl’s lip curled. “I’ll have ye killed if ye dinna move.” He jabbed at Drake with his blade, the effort careless with a lack of finesse.
Drake shifted back slightly to avoid the strike. “I dinna want to fight ye.”
“Of course, ye dinna want to fight me.” The nobleman whipped his blade at Drake’s chest. “I’m an earl. And ye’re no’ even a knight. It was an insult for the king to send someone so common.”
Men’s shouts sounded in the distance.
“I’ll kill ye myself.” Calver thrust his blade toward Drake, who leapt to avoid being skewered.
A wall hit his heels.
The earl grinned and charged at him a final time. Drake darted to the left. As he did so, he lowered his sword to keep from hitting the lord. Except that the earl had moved more swiftly than Drake had anticipated. Mayhap it was that his da’s blade, with its razored edge, was exceptionally sharp after the additional honing at the blacksmith’s, or mayhap it was the way the man dove at him. Regardless of the cause, the man brushed the tip of the sword point, which sliced through the earl’s tunic as if it were made of air. Blood welled against the light-colored fabric of his night clothes.
The crimson stain spread far too quickly to be simply a normal wound. Drake was immediately reminded of an injury he saw on the battlefield once, where a warrior’s thigh was cut in battle, and his blood gushed out too rapidly to be staunched. The man had died within minutes.
The soldiers rounded the corner as the earl sank to his knees in a glistening puddle of blood widening around him.
“He stabbed me,” Lord Calver whispered in a hoarse, frightened voice. “He stabbed me.”
The guard who had gone for help rushed to him and crouched at his side. He drew up the hem of the tunic where gore spurted from the wound.
Lord Calver’s face had gone pale, and his eyes rolled up into his head.
Drake stood there as the man fell backward, his head hitting the stone floor with a sickening thud, the pain never felt by the earl, who was already dead.
“He’s killed the earl,” one of the guards shouted.
“My blade nicked him,” Drake said in disbelief.
“Does this look like a nick to ye?” the man kneeling at the earl’s side demanded.
“I dinna want to fight him,” Drake said with force. “He wouldna leave me be.”
“Arrest him,” another guard said to the others. “Lady Calver will decide what to do with ye.”
Drake almost groaned, certain how Lady Calver would treat him after he had rejected her.
The men advanced toward him as one. Men who had been willing to allow a lad to go free were not so amenable when their lord had been slain. No matter how cruel he might be.
But Drake would not run. He was no coward. He had done what he knew to be right. First, by protecting the boy who had been unjustly locked in the dungeon. Then by refusing to fight the earl.
Still, somehow, it had all gone horribly wrong. In the end, Drake would put his faith in justice, which he knew would prevail in the end. It always did.
One of the guards pulled his hands behind his back.
“I’ve got him,” another smaller guard said in a testy, gruff voice from beneath a helm.
The shackles that went around his wrists were far looser than he had anticipated. But the guard behind him did not tighten them further. Instead, he shoved Drake forward to follow the other guard leading the way back to the dungeon.
It was the same path he had taken earlier, except Drake would not be rescuing someone this time. He would be thrown down there himself, locked in a cell to await his sentence.
He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, ready to face whatever came his way.
They turned down the corridor in the direction of the dungeon stairs while the commotion of the earl’s death was marked with shouts of alarm and the high-pitched cry of Lady Calver.
All at once, the guard behind Drake rushed past him and threw a punch at the guard in the front. The man slid to the ground like a grain sack and the smaller guard with the helm grabbed his arm, tugging him toward a side door.
The guard tilted their face upward, and familiar green eyes sparkled back at him. “Bean is waiting out front with Mac. Let us make haste before the guards come for us.”
Then, before he could even regain his thoughts, Greer shoved him toward the door, and together they began to run.
Sweat prickled on Greer’s brow as they ran. Beneath the heavy guard’s attire, all of her was slick with perspiration that burned as it dripped into the slight cut from where the earl’s dagger had grazed her ribs.
Bean was outside where he said he’d be, with Drake’s horse affixed to a wagon with Mac hidden beneath a cloth.
“Get underneath,” Greer ordered.
Drake hesitated at this, but she nudged him. “If ye’re caught, we all are. It will be easier to flee if ye are concealed.”
That seemed to make up his mind as he quickly and silently disappeared under the canvas. Greer climbed up onto the narrow seat of the cart beside Bean.
“Where’s Brevis?” She asked of his horse.
Bean clicked his tongue, and the destrier trotted forward. “Bringing him would be too obvious. I’ll get him back when this business is sorted out.” He said it with a determined tone, but she could make out the hurt brimming in his blue eyes.
“Ye’re a
good lad.” She ruffled his hair and was rewarded with a sad smile.
The cart rattled over the lowered drawbridge as they left the castle. Still, the tension didn’t ease from Greer’s shoulders, not even when they had passed through the raised portcullis and out into the village. The shuttered wooden gate came into view, and that was when her heart slipped into her throat, its beat echoing back at her from her side as the wound made its presence known.
Two guards stood out front, one with his head leaned back, clearly sleeping while the other looked their way.
“Gate’s closed,” the alert one said.
The other snorted awake. “Closed,” he reiterated in a thick voice.
“Aye, I see that, and ye need to open it,” Greer said in a husky voice meant to make her sound more like a man.
“Nay,” the first one scoffed.
“I take it ye dinna get the orders this afternoon?” Greer demanded. “I knew it. I hope that warrior from the king can get this lot into shape.” With an exaggerated sigh, she continued, speaking as though they were dullards who needed her to drag her words to be understood. “The earl needs this cloth dyed by midmorning. It canna be done in time if we wait for the bloody gates to finally open at dawn.”
The men looked at one another.
“Ye can go ask him if ye like.” Greer gestured back to the castle. “I’m sure he’ll no’ mind being woken in the middle of the night for a task he ordered done this morn.”
The guards didn’t bother to reply and instead set to work, pulling the bar free from the massive gates, and drawing one side open wide enough for the cart to pass through.
Bean’s hands were white knuckled where he gripped the reins of the horse, and his skin appeared to be made of wax in the glow of the moonlight. But he kept the slight click of his tongue normal enough to pass without arousing suspicion.
“Fine horse,” one of the men said as they drove by.
“An old one that’ll be dead soon,” Greer muttered. “Ye think they’d lend a healthy destrier for a bit of cloth to be dyed?” She scoffed. “Close up the damn gates before someone slips through who shouldna.”
They didn’t question her as the cart cleared the massive gate, and it slowly shut behind her. The hollow thud of the bar falling into place thundered behind them.
Only then did Greer finally exhale a shaky breath.
“Ye lied,” Bean said. “A lot.”
“I did,” she agreed quietly, grateful to drop the husky, masculine voice that strained at her throat. “And I’d do it all again to save my brother and Drake.”
Bean glanced up at her and nodded. “I would too.”
“Ye did well, lad.” She smiled at him. “Verra well.”
The helm cocooned heat all around her head and stank of wet metal, but she kept it in place as they rode to avoid drawing notice. She directed Bean to the small cottage where she and Mac lived, set near the water for her washing and away from most of the other villagers.
Once they stopped, she rushed into her house for clean clothes for her and Mac. The familiar scent of fresh-cut wood from the table they had painstakingly built together, and the residual smoky peat scent from their fire carried with it the smell of home, of comfort. Tears pricked her eyes for the life they had lost. But she had no time to waste on sentiment.
She tugged off the soldier’s garb and hid it in a bundle with some bedding before throwing on a fresh dress. Her movements were swift despite the pain in her rib. A glance confirmed it was little more than a slice. Nothing to worry over.
She grabbed clothes and shoes for Bean, as well as a small vial. The tincture had been concocted by the local healer for a fever Mac had several months before, when he fell ill with the same malady that had stricken many of the village children. It would surely help him now.
Within minutes, she was back in the cart, lying beside Mac under the tarp while Drake took her place on the bench beside Bean, disguised by the cover of darkness. They set off at a swift pace, intent on getting as far from Lochmaben as the night would take them. Greer snuggled her brother close and let him sleep against her as they rode on, reveling in every exhale of his warm breath against her collarbone. They rode on through the night and did not stop until dawn. Even then, they only did so within the woods near a remote village.
Bean was sent to obtain provisions for them as the rest remained behind. Greer squinted up at Drake as he drew back the tarp, exposing the brilliance of the morning light. Greer put her hand over her eyes to block out the rising sun.
Beside her lay Mac, who had begun to wake when the cart drew to a stop. He beamed at Greer now, appearing at least somewhat restored from the water and bread given to him the night before while she was in the cottage.
“How are ye?” Greer asked, sitting upright and stretching from a night of cramped sleep. A pinch at her side reminded her where she’d been caught by the dagger. She quickly lowered her arms and wrapped them around her to keep anyone from seeing her discomfort.
It was a mere scratch, nothing for anyone to lose their head over. Mac’s welfare was far more important.
“Ye came for me.” Her brother pushed into a sitting position in a slow, pained way that touched deep into her heart.
“Of course I did.” She ruffled his hair. It was dirty, aye, but it was still Mac’s hair, and she’d take it however she could get it.
She uncorked the tincture. Its sharp scent cut through the air. Mac used to wrinkle his nose at the odor and beg to be left alone. He did not protest now as she brought it to his lips and let two drops fall against his pale tongue.
Once Bean returned with food and drink, Greer helped Mac eat a meat pie and drink a bit of ale. Though the sustenance seemed to fortify him, his eyes once more began to fall closed.
“I’m so verra tired,” he murmured as he slid down into the bed of the wagon again.
“Rest.” Greer smoothed a hand over his warm brow. It was not burning with the same fire as the night before, and for that, she was grateful.
What he really needed was a cottage where he could take several days to sleep and recover. Mayhap even a sennight or a fortnight. But that wasn’t a luxury they had. Not with Lord Calver’s soldiers most likely searching for them. While the guards’ lack of experience would most likely lead to a haphazard search, Greer would take no chances.
She had lost Mac once. She would not lose him again.
Nor would she allow anything to happen to Bean, who had so bravely aided them. And Drake…
Her gaze settled on his strong profile, and her fingertips ached to trace over the dark hair prickling his jaw, to curl into the cradle of his arms and breathe in his familiar scent. A strange aching sensation filled her chest, but one she now recognized.
She could not lose the only man she had ever loved.
20
There were no stops at inns on the journey to Dunfermline Palace, especially with the cart traveling at a slower pace than being on horseback. Though Drake wished nothing more than to provide comfortable beds and hot food for Greer and wee Mac, he knew anywhere they went would expose them. They needed to reach Dunfermline with haste, preferably before Lord Calver’s men could, and secure the king's ear first.
Lord Calver still had men who were loyal to him—even in death. The guards had proved that the night Drake fled Lochmaben. Especially with Lady Calver in charge of the men until the earl’s heir took his place. No doubt she would seek to protect her financial independence for as long as possible after losing her husband. Further scandal would jeopardize that.
Drake did not want to see Greer, Mac or Bean lose their freedom over this. And so it was that they rested where they could on the trail, in a cave one night, at the edge of a clearing another night. Through it all, Greer remained at Mac’s side, vigilant to the point of not caring for herself.
“Dinna forget to eat,” Drake cautioned, nudging a bit of cheese and bread her way.
“In a moment,” she distractedly replied as she wiped at Ma
c’s face with a damp bit of linen.
“Greer, I’m fine.” Mac turned his face to get away from her ministrations. “Ye need to eat. As Drake says.”
She paused and lowered her hand. Flecks of sunlight filtered down from the canopy of leaves overhead and shone on her, highlighting how pale her skin had become. Shadows showed under her eyes, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on her brow.
The day was cool, one that shouldn’t warrant any sweat at all. Drake frowned. “Greer—”
“I’m no’ hungry.” She stepped down from the cart with the linen towel still in her hands. Upon landing, she staggered. While she managed to catch herself, it was enough to worry Drake.
He followed her to the small stream where she sank to her knees and settled on her heels to wash the cloth in the quick flowing stream. They hadn’t been alone together since they left Lochmaben. She had put her entire focus on Mac. While Drake understood her reasoning, he could not stifle his alarm over her wellbeing.
“Greer,” he said her name gently.
She looked up at him. She appeared so small where she sat, so exhausted that it pulled at him.
“Are ye well?” he knelt in the soft, damp grass and swept a lock of auburn hair from her brow. Her skin was flushed and hot with fever.
He drew his hand back in surprise.
“I just need rest.” Greer squeezed the water from the linen and pushed up to her feet.
As she did so, Drake couldn’t help but notice she favored her right side. “Are ye hurt?” he demanded.
“I’m no’ the one who needs to be helped.” She gazed at him with glassy eyes, her cheeks flushed.
How had he not noticed it until now?
“I need to help Mac, and I need to help…” Her voice caught. “I need to help ye, Drake, so ye’ll be free from any punishment.” She wavered. “I need…”
He reached for her and enfolded her burning body against him, supporting her. “Ye need help, lass.”
She shook her head, but even as she did so, her lashes dipped over her cheeks. He lifted her into his arms.
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