If I can get a horse, I can ride south. I can find the road from Queensferry. Maybe I can find the abbey.
She would seek refuge with the nuns. Maybe she could just stay there. Do charitable works. Never go home.
Never see Camden again.
The thought gave her pause. She shivered. Why would she want to see Camden? He'd never understand what had happened to her! If he knew, maybe he'd blame her? She deliberately stoked the fires of her rage. She wouldn't want to see him again!
She stood. Swayed. Steadied.
A horse gave a low whinny behind her. She tensed. Turned.
A white horse stood at the entrance to the clearing. Pale in the pale mist, the creature looked like he'd appeared there, woven from fog strands. She walked toward him.
“Whoa, lad,” she murmured. “You'll carry me, hey?” She reached up and stroked his nose. He huffed. The saddle he wore was a fine one, of Spanish leather. She tensed. Whose was he? Not Rodney or the verderers. They would never have a saddle like that. Not any of the English, either, she reasoned. A poor scouting force, none of them could afford this saddle either.
No, this saddle had come from the court. In which case, where was the knight who rode this stallion? She tensed, looking around.
“Who goes there?” she called in Lowland Scots.
No one answered. When she had waited a minute and still no one had appeared, she patted the horse's neck and led him forward.
“Come on, boy,” she said softly. “Come on. Let's go.”
She was about to mount up when someone spoke, startling her.
COMING BACK
“He likes having his ear scratched,” the voice observed mildly. “His name's Carter. I got him from a trainer in Berwick.”
Rubina closed her eyes. She knew that voice.
“Camden...?”
He let out a gentle breath. Her eyes focused on him clearly. Wearing white, at the edge of the clearing, a mail-shirt over his long white tunic, he was truly at ease. He didn't crowd her, didn't come near. Didn't touch her. She sighed.
“Camden. How did you...?” she trailed off. She was too tired to frame any words. She sniffed. Abruptly, she started sobbing. She was so tired! She had been awake all night, riding through the dark, a prisoner. She had been captive, she had been beaten, and she had been abused. She had her dignity and safety shattered and she didn't think she'd ever retrieve them. She needed rest.
Camden didn't attempt to touch her. Gently, keeping the horse between them as an assurance, she walked over and started adjusting the girth.
“If you let me lead him to the fence there, you can mount up,” he said. He wasn't looking at her, giving her, in her torn shift, the dignity and time to rearrange her clothing carefully. “He's a good fellow. Very obedient and well-trained – never shied once in all the years I've hunted with him.”
Rubina swallowed hard, blinking back her tears. “He's a good horse,” she said tightly. “When did you first ride him?”
“Oh, about five years ago. He was a yearling then,” Camden said, taking the bridle. He led him to the fence and, without thinking about it, Rubina followed them. When she got to it, it was natural to lean on the saddle and step up, using the fence to help her, so that she was mounted on the fine hunting-saddle. It was a man's saddle and she sat astride, feeling her stomach turn at the impropriety, tensing to hear him say aught about it. He didn't say anything.
“I think he's the best hunter I ever rode,” Camden continued blithely, as if she wasn't sitting astride on his horse, wearing a petticoat, in the middle of an enemy position. “I had a lot of success, with him. More so than with any borrowed stallion. Funny, that.”
“No, it isn't,” Rubina countered hotly. “You know how horses work best for someone they know and care about. The bond between horse and rider is the most important thing.”
“Aye,” he nodded, walking by his mount's left shoulder. They were walking together at an easy pace, heading out of the clearing. Distantly, she heard the sound of hunting horns, the eager bark of hounds. The sounds died off and Rubina found she was only distantly interested, as if whatever happened there was part of someone else's existence, not hers.
All that existed for her in that moment was the jolt and sway of the ride, the sheen of Camden's hair where he walked at the horse's shoulder. The pale light of morning and his voice, slow and steady, telling her about the horse on which he'd learned to ride.
“And he was a big fellow,” he said musically, “solid and gray and with the best temper of any horse you ever knew...”
She closed her eyes and let the soft lilt of his voice weave round her. They talked of horses and hunts and how best a child may be taught to ride. Of her own situation, of the recent events, of the reason why they might be here, together, alone in the woods, with the distant sound of a hunt behind and the cold woodlands ahead, nothing was said.
Rubina felt her soul unwind and felt herself relax a little into the rise and falling motion of the ride. The horse was gentle and well-paced, and she felt calm as the sun rose and they passed into clouded, shade-dappled woodlands.
“You still race?” she asked him conversationally.
“Oh, always,” he said with a contented chuckle. “You'd think it was all I did: any hunt, any ride, any joust, even, I can manage to turn into a race. Terrible character, I have – always competing.”
She sighed. Not quite a laugh, but close enough. “I can imagine,” she said.
He chuckled softly. “I tell you, my lady,” he said, “it's a terrible trait.”
“Not as bad as whistling, maybe,” Rubina said. “I have a cousin who whistles. It drives my great-uncle Brodgar to distraction, though he'd never say it, of course.”
“Oh?” Camden laughed easily. “Well, remind me to avoid your uncle Brodgar if I'm ever in a whistling mood. That sounds quite dangerous.”
She laughed. “It is.”
Therefore, little by little, pace by pace, as the day warmed and the sun rose behind pale cloud and the mist cleared, they made their way back to the castle.
It was only when, in the mid-afternoon, sharing a crust or two of bread from the saddlebag, when the shape of the hill of Edinburgh arose somewhere, dark, behind the treeline, that Rubina felt herself suddenly grow tense, and silent, and angry. They were there.
Reality intruded, harsh and threatening, filled with a dozen people who would care, well-meaning. Who would crowd her. Who would make her feel small, helpless and humiliated.
“Camden,” she said, voice a thread of sound.
“Yes?”
“I cannot go back.”
Maybe not ever. It was no longer her home, the home of the Rubina of this morning, all tense anger and coiled fear and, underneath all that, all shame.
She couldn't return to the castle in any case. Not with Camden, after a night of absence. People would think the worst. Yet she couldn't stay here with him. He would be bound to her by his duty, not by love. However, there was no other way.
I will not risk riding alone through these woods.
She was stuck with him. As long as she was with him, she would remember he knew her story. That he was here for compassion's sake. She would feel discomfort and hurt. As well as shame.
TRYING TO LEARN MORE
A long time ago, Camden recalled, his father had rescued a girl while they were out hunting. He could see her face before him now – a long, soft oval, blessed with wide lips and wide-set eyes. She had been a laborer's child, and a farmer had used her and then set the dogs on her to finish her off. His father had saved her life.
Roma, the girl, had been a maidservant for Camden's aunt, who had lived at the fort following his mother's death. Camden recalled how his aunt had told him to be whenever he was near her.
Don't look at her directly. Don't raise your voice, if you can help it, but don't talk down either. Be gentle, but ordinary. Be cheerful, hopeful, and calm.
That had worked for Roma, who had stayed on with th
em even after his aunt had left. She, slowly learning to speak, to communicate, to trust, had become the head servant, married a laborer and had four children. Camden sent a silent thanks to aunt Tamsyn as he used her advice afresh.
“Well,” he said with a small smile, “let's not, then.”
He heard her shift in the saddle, guessed – not wanting to turn round and stare at her – that she was staring at him, surprise widening her eyes.
“Where will we go?”
He thought about it. “To Queensferry?”
He heard her relax in the saddle, the creak of old leather as her weight shifted fractionally. “We could?”
“Well, I have a cousin in these parts,” Camden said carefully. “Daughter of my old aunt. She lives in Currie, so mayhap we'd be more sensible to ride there instead?”
He turned a little, just enough to see her expression. She was staring at him and, amid the surprise, was relief. She nodded.
“Let's go?”
Camden nodded. “Let's.”
He turned Carter toward the path that went west again, planning to head away from Edinburgh and northwest toward his cousin's home.
Praying he could still remember where Cousin Joanna lived, Camden went west.
“Your cousin,” Rubina asked cautiously as they rode.
“Mm?”
“She's lived here always?”
“Well, many years. She's the eldest daughter of my aunt. She wed a local knight and they settled here. Good to be close to Edinburgh, or so my auntie said.”
“Oh. Is she nice?”
He chuckled. “I reckon so. I've not seen her for ten years, but I know she's nice.”
“Good.”
They rode on. Camden was tired and footsore. “Would it suit you,” he said carefully, “if we stopped by the inn? I'd like to hire a horse. You can wait with Carter. I promise I won't be long.”
He glanced back again and saw her face stiffen. He felt bad. However, what could he do?
“Very well.”
They stopped and borrowed a horse and rode on. When they reached Currie, they had run out of topics of conversation and Camden could feel her irritation brooding. He reached out to halt her as they paused to get a sense of direction.
His hand touched her white-skinned one. She tensed and hissed in a breath. Glared at him. He wished she could cry. What was he going to do? He might have lost her forever.
I wish I had that evil Englishman in front of me. What the dogs did to him was a mercy compared to what I'd do.
He breathed out sharply and tried to compose himself.
“Sorry,” he said.
She blinked, her face implacable and cold.
“Fine,” she said.
They rode on until they reached the gate. He flinched. She couldn't come into the town wearing a shift. What could he do?
“My lady?”
“Yes?”
“Carter and this fellow need tending. Would you mind if we stop at the mill-house there?”
She cast a blank, indifferent gaze toward the direction he indicated. Her brow rose fractionally.
“Why not?”
He nodded. They rode on.
Leaving Rubina at the water's edge, upriver but still just in sight of the miller's home. Camden set off toward the cottage. He felt in his purse, knowing he had just enough to buy a robe off the miller's wife if he had to.
“Hello?”
The woman who answered the door gave him a hostile glare. He cleared his throat.
“Madam?” he said with courtly politesse, “might I buy a dress?”
A shilling and an exorbitant explanation later, Camden had a dress. He walked back upriver to Rubina. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“Um...milady?”
“What?” Her voice was coldly indifferent now, as it had been the moment they reached the outskirts of the town.
“I...” he blushed. “I need to relieve myself. Can you hold this?”
“Fine,” she said dryly. She held out her arms for the bundle. He saw a flicker of interest cross her face and then hurried away.
When he came back, he stared. She was wearing the long white linen gown that belonged to the miller's wife. It was full-skirted, with a tight bodice and plain, but it was beautiful on her as a ball gown would also be. He sighed.
She is so beautiful. I love her dearly. I wish she was happy, carefree, and playful as before.
He knew he couldn't make it happen, though, any more than he could change the weather or make the hillsides flat. He had to accept that she might never trust anyone again.
“So,” he said, pretending not to notice. “Shall we go?”
She nodded tightly. They mounted at the fence and rode in.
Camden was surprised, as they passed through into the town, that he remembered things. The place was cobbled and close-packed with houses, an inn and a stable was the first building they saw, followed by the smelter and the carpenter and the wheelwright.
“It's here, up the street of bakers,” he said. The last time Camden had visited Joanna was ten years ago. However, the town, fortunately, hadn't changed much. Breathing in the scents of spice and bannocks and, more overwhelmingly, of soot, he headed up the avenue of bakers and stopped outside a whitewashed house.
The street was wide, the thatched roofs here in good repair. Somewhere nearby was the market square – the better area of town. He had found it. He slid out of the saddle and knocked.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is Mistress Joanna MacCovern in?”
The housekeeper nodded. “Yes, sir. Who is calling?”
“Her cousin.”
Joanna appeared – the ten years had turned her hair gray and left deep furrows round her pale eyes, but she smiled at him with delight on her sweet, firm features.
“Camden! Come inside!”
He tensed. Rubina was beside him, a pale, icy presence.
“Cousin Joanna? Please meet Lady Rubina. Rubina? My lady, my cousin Joanna.”
He held his breath, sending Joanna a silent message with his eyes. Don't ask questions.
Joanna smiled. “My lady! Welcome.”
Camden stood back for Rubina, feeling relieved, as the two ladies went into the house. He waited while Rubina asked in a small, tight voice where the privy closet was and then hastily disappeared up the hallway. Then he turned to Joanna.
“What brings you here, my friend?” she asked. If she meant to ask him why he was riding alone with a woman who was clearly, despite the homespun garb, from levels further up the social ladder than he was, she didn't ask. All the same, it was implicit in her words, the tone she used.
Camden rolled his eyes to the wooden-beam ceiling, where they could both hear someone walking about. Joanna frowned.
“I don't want her to hear me tell you,” he whispered.
“Oh.” Her reply was tranquil.
He told her a little and Joanna nodded when he was done, her face warm and strong with understanding.
“She can stay as long as she wishes to.”
Camden swallowed hard. “Thank you, cousin.” He had not expected her to react any differently, but even so it was a relief.
“Not at all. Now,” she continued loudly, as if nothing had passed between them, “I have two rooms that will suit. You, cousin, can settle your bones in the parlor. Your companion can take my daughter Ettie's room.”
Camden nodded. “My thanks.”
“I am sorry to be any trouble to you.”
The soft voice that spoke from the top of the stairs had thawed since the ride and since meeting Joanna, Camden noticed. He allowed his heart to relax fractionally. He glanced up to where Rubina stood at the head of the stairs, her long red hair arranged, now, into a braid. She looked calm, pale and intensely lovely.
Joanna smiled at her with real warmth. “It's no trouble, my dear. No trouble. I do love company. Now come and take something to eat in the parlor...”
Camden saw Rubina tense but then c
ontinue down the stairs to join them. His cousin had oatcakes and ale sent up and they sat in the small wood-paneled room with sunlight streaming through the long windows.
Rubina ate little and didn't speak much. She seemed to listen with interest to the stories he and Joanna exchanged, silly stories about their childhoods and their shared acquaintances.
When the conversation died down, he heard Rubina clear her throat.
“Excuse me,” she said softly. “I need to lie down.”
“Of course,” Joanna said. “Mrs. McGuinness will show you up.”
Camden watched her stand with frigid dignity and walk out of the room, heading upstairs. His eyes clung to her tall shapely form, her long, red-burnished hair, her stately posture.
Joanna sighed.
He sighed too. “I love her,” he confessed. The dark wood-paneled space with its sun shafts and dust kept his secret.
Joanna smiled. “I noticed, lad,” she said kindly. “But what will you do?”
He shook his head. Leaning his elbows on the table, he rested his chin in them, letting the tension drain out of him now that Rubina was, for the moment at least, safe. “I don't know.”
“You've asked her to wed you?”
He chuckled. “Joanna, she's a duke's daughter. Whatever happens, even if her father disowned her, I could not dishonor her.”
“Is it likely?” Joanna asked bluntly. “You get some wicked folks about.”
Camden shook his head. “No. He'd never do it. Joanna, she's too far above me.”
She shook her head. “Well, then. You could still ask.”
Camden sighed again. “Not anymore. She hates me to even touch her. How could I marry her now...how could I foist myself on her?”
Joanna nodded, her face tense suddenly. “Well, I understand that what that brute did...” she trailed off, not wanting to speak of it. “I understand. You must, too. She might never wed you.”
Camden swallowed hard. “I know.” his voice was a whisper.
Adventures of a Highlander Page 71
