Elizabet

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “As do I,” Colin replied, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Go back to sleep, Alison. All is well.”

  Alison turned a warm smile upon Seana. “Welcome home,” she said with genuine enthusiasm—as much as could be expected so late in the eve.

  Seana reached out to embrace her new sister, taking care with the candle flame, grateful for the warm reception. “Thank you, dear Alison.”

  “It will be my pleasure to share this home with you. Please dinna hesitate to treat it as your own,” Alison said with feeling, and Colin squeezed her shoulder slightly in response.

  “I appreciate that, Alison,” Seana replied.

  Alison lingered in the hall, looking warily up at Colin, and Seana understood. There was more to be said for their ears alone. Turning to Colin, Seana whispered, “I’ll be right in, my love.”

  Colin didn’t argue. He nodded, evidently having far too much on his mind. He bent to kiss her upon the cheek and went into their room, closing the door to give them privacy.

  Alison smiled shyly. “Sometimes I feel he still hates me,” she said very softly.

  It was no secret to any that Alison had once adored Colin and that he had rebuffed her. Considering that she and Alison now shared a house, as they were wed to brothers, Seana had worried that their relationship might be tense, but as she stood there looking at Alison’s sweet face, she knew she had worried for naught. There was something about Alison that made one want to place one’s arms about her shoulders and protect her from the world. Leith, Colin’s elder brother and laird, had done that very thing, and everyone had speculated their marriage had been born of pity. Seana knew better. Though she had never been close with Alison, she was wholly aware of the kind heart the woman possessed. Leith was a fortunate man. If Colin was uncomfortable in Alison’s presence, then Seana understood better than any the reason why. He had once recoiled from Seana in the very same manner he recoiled from Alison, but Seana had nearly outgrown her disfigurement, and Alison had not. She resolved somehow to find a way to make Colin look beyond Alison’s crossed eyes.

  “He doesna hate you,” Seana said, reaching out admiringly to caress the length of Alison’s shiny hair. She decided honesty was the best course between them. “He is but a clod when it comes to people’s imperfections.”

  Alison gasped in surprise and laughed nervously, casting a wary glance at the closed door.

  It was also no secret to anyone that Seana had once had a frail limb and that Colin had been repulsed by the weakness. Seana winked at Alison, indicating her bad leg with a wave of her hand. “But as you can see, there is hope for him yet.”

  Alison placed a hand over her mouth and giggled quietly.

  “We’ll get him past it,” Seana assured her new friend.

  “Och. It would be so wonderful to be one big happy family together.”

  “It truly would be.” The very thought of it filled Seana with joy. Growing up, she had never had anyone but her father. And now, suddenly, she had a best friend in Meghan and a sister in Alison. And Colin...

  She glanced longingly at the door.

  He made her happier than anyone ever could.

  “I shall see you on the morrow,” Seana promised.

  Alison nodded. “Oh, yes!”

  “Sweet dreams, then.”

  “Good night,” Alison replied, and turned to walk away.

  Turning to her bedroom door, Seana paused an instant to say a little prayer of thanks and then pushed the door open to find her husband standing at the window, staring out.

  “This is your home as well,” he assured her, mistaking Alison’s meaning.

  She walked up to him and put her arms about him, embracing him lovingly as she reached up on tiptoes to kiss his lips. “I know, Colin. Alison is wonderful, and I know I shall love her as though she were my own sister.”

  “Aye, but rest assured this manor is just as much yours as it is—”

  She lifted a finger to his lips. “Hush, now,” she demanded. “We’ve had a long day and I’m ready to rest my head. Why don’t we test our new bed before anyone else chances to knock on our door?”

  She didn’t have to ask again.

  With a quirk of his brow, Colin lifted her into his arms, and carried her to bed.

  * * *

  Elizabet sat at the little table, her face close to the candle flame, trying to finish the last stitches of the tunic she was sewing.

  She had worked all day on the garment, fashioning it from the soft, fine cloth of her undertunic. She’d thought, at first, to cook for him, using the supplies he’d brought her, but they were depleted now, and she’d despaired of finding a suitable gift to show her appreciation for all he’d done for her. But then she’d recalled the needle and thread that she always carried in the hem of her dress to stitch herself back into her gown after it had been laundered, and she’d set to work trying to fashion a tunic he would be proud to wear.

  At this moment she wore only the velvety surcoat, which had a slightly more revealing neckline, but it couldn’t be helped. She was warm enough, and she was thoroughly pleased with her handiwork. In truth, she had seen no finer garment on King Henry himself. Broc would look splendid in it.

  Blinking with exhaustion, she sewed the last stitch and snipped the thread with her teeth, setting the needle aside. Later, she would return it to her hem. At the moment, she was far too weary even to move. She pushed the candle away from her and held up the tunic to inspect it, pleased with the finished product. She hoped it would fit him—he was so large a man.

  He was beautiful, she thought wistfully.

  She almost dreaded Piers’ return, because it would mean she could no longer be able to remain here with Broc. The little hovel no longer seemed such a terrible place, and the thought of leaving it made her somehow sad. She nearly regretted asking him to bring John to her now. Once her brother realized where she was, it wouldn’t be so simple a task to convince him she should remain with Broc at least until they revealed Tomas for the murdering thief he was.

  Her brother would protest for propriety’s sake. She knew it wouldn’t look good to a prospective husband. This could sully her reputation beyond repair. But she couldn’t consider that right now.

  She yawned, then folded the cloth, setting it down on the table. And then she laid her head down upon her arms and closed her eyes.

  Broc would take care of everything, she was certain. She felt safe in his care. John would surely understand... why she must remain... with Broc.

  She reached out sleepily to lay her hand upon the soft tunic and fell asleep trying to imagine Broc’s face when she presented it to him.

  * * *

  He had to get rid of the hound before morning.

  Tomas sat listening to the conversation at table, trying not to roll his eyes at the elaborate show of affection between Montgomerie and his wife. The woman was no more than a Highland witch, and he treated her as though she were the Queen of England herself. He had significant doubts about Piers’ loyalties. The way he pandered to his wife and her kinsmen, he was behaving more like a backwoods Scotsman than a servitor of the Crown. He’d certainly not hand over Elizabet’s purse so that Piers could squander it on his doting wife.

  He deserved the monies. Meager as the sum was, he hadn’t bothered to kill two men only to lose it now. His sister would surely provide for him, but he didn’t particularly care for the notion of having to beg for every coin he received from her. Elizabet’s inheritance would see him through until Margaret’s husband favored them with his passing.

  He didn’t want the wench to be found. No one but he, John and Elizabet had been aware of the purse John carried, and neither did anyone else realize there was a letter intended for Piers as well. Even if he wished to let it go now, he couldn’t. Elizabet would reveal far more than he could allow.

  Later, when everyone had gone to bed, he would rid himself of the hound.

  “Tomas?” his hostess inquired, turning him from his reverie.
Until now, they had rudely excluded him from their conversation, discussing matters that hardly interested him.

  The entire table now turned to face him. Like her husband, the men seemed to hang on Meghan’s every word. “Aren’t you at all hungry?” she asked and tilted her pretty head.

  For sheep’s gut?

  Tomas lifted his brows as he glanced down at the food, trying not to show his revulsion for the mess on his plate. He took a sip of-his ale before replying. “I find myself weary is all, my lady.”

  “’Tis understandable,” she graciously conceded. “It has been a wearisome day for all.”

  For an instant, Tomas thought she might dismiss him from her table as one would an unmannerly child. It left him with a sour feeling in his belly, and he suddenly no longer cared for their company—not even for the ale. As soon as he had taken care of a few unfinished details, he intended to be away from this place once and for all.

  He rose from the table abruptly, raking his chair back rudely. “If you will be so kind as to excuse me,” he said, taking his leave. “I believe I shall retire for the night.”

  “Pleasant dreams,” Meghan said with a smile.

  Witch.

  He could see the relief flare in her expressive eyes.

  “We shall see you bright and early on the morrow,” Piers charged him.

  Arrogant cur.

  Tomas could hardly wait for the day when he could stop taking orders from pompous idiots.

  He bowed slightly with barely restrained anger, tempering his outrage. “Until tomorrow,” he said and left them, feeling their beady eyes upon his back.

  The sooner he was gone from here, the better.

  He wished that accursed Scotsman who had taken Elizabet would put her in her place, have his way with her, and then slit her throat and leave her body for them to find.

  Then he could leave Scotia in peace.

  Chapter 17

  Having come directly from Colin’s home to Montgomerie’s, Broc watched from the shelter of the small, partially constructed chapel, waiting for the manor to still.

  The chapel was likely a donation to Gavin’s ministry, and it was a generous gesture on Meghan’s part, though Broc knew without doubt that Colin would curse her for it. Neither Leith nor Colin encouraged their youngest brother’s sermonizing, and unless Piers had a taste for self-torture—and Broc didn’t think so—he wouldn’t appreciate it either.

  The chapel was nearly completed. It lacked part of the roof and a door, but the interior had been scrubbed clean and prepared for John’s funeral. His body lay resting upon a bier behind the altar. He would have been buried already, but Broc was certain that out of respect for Elizabet they were hoping to find her in time to lay him properly to rest.

  But they couldn’t wait much longer.

  Guilt pricked at him, though he resolutely set it aside, focusing on the task at hand.

  Donning a robe he found near the altar, he left the chapel and made his way to the stables. It was Gavin’s robe, he decided, as he adjusted its length over his limbs as Gavin was far shorter than he, and the gown fell only to midcalf. Still, its hood covered his face well enough, and that was all he was concerned with at the moment.

  He didn’t wish to find himself face to face with Tomas or either of his other two lackeys. As yet, no one seemed to know it was Broc they were searching for—save mayhap Colin—but he was certain the Englishmen would recognize him if they spied him again.

  Casting one last glance over his shoulder at the little building, he admired its modest architecture and wondered what Elizabet would look like on her wedding day with her hair let down and a circlet of flowers atop her head.

  It was obvious she was accustomed to finer things than Broc possessed. Still, he liked to think he could make her happy if he tried—if she would have him.

  It was the first time in his life that he’d ever considered binding himself to a woman. He had nothing to his name, no manor, no clan of his own, no wealth. All he had was his heart and his body and a small house with scarce a single luxury to his name—a bed, a chair, a table, and a blanket. Everything he’d ever earned he’d given to others, for his needs were simple and few. He found himself wanting. What would a woman like Elizabet desire of a man like him?

  She was beautiful and saucy and intelligent—and he wondered what she was doing right now. He worried she would wander away, worried that someone would catch him and that she would be alone without anyone to help her. If he feared being found out, it wasn’t for himself. It was for her—and for the honor of the MacKinnon clan.

  But first things first: Broc was convinced, after her revelations to him, that it was Tomas who wanted her dead. What he didn’t know was whether Tomas was acting alone or whether he had the aid of the other two men.

  He couldn’t allow himself to be caught. And he couldn’t allow that hound to remain in their possession. Colin’s suggestion had been ingenious, and Broc had little doubt the animal could find its mistress, given the opportunity. But he wasn’t going to give it the opportunity.

  Elizabet would be more than pleased to see her four-legged friend again. He just needed to steal the animal from the stables without anyone catching him—a task easier said than done.

  He heard voices inside the stables. Keeping to the shadows, he peered within, trying to find the occupants. Whispers, low and intimate, reached his ears, but he couldn’t make out the persons speaking. There was a giggle, then—very feminine—and a lower, huskier response—lovers?

  They must have placed a guard, but Broc couldn’t see the man. Mayhap he had an affectionate visitor and they were ensconced in one of the stalls? In any case, it wasn’t any of his affair. All he cared about was the dog. Slipping silently within, he walked lightly, trying not to alert the stable’s other occupants.

  The voices grew louder the further he went, and he determined they were within the last stall, where a single lantern hung high upon a post. Ignoring their lovers’ banter, he checked each stall, moving as swiftly as he was able without disturbing them.

  As Colin promised, he found the hound tied to a stake within the third stall he checked. On either side of him, the steeds stamped their hooves and snorted uneasily. Wincing at their protests, he opened the stall, startling the sleeping hound to its feet.

  Broc flung back his hood at once, letting the animal see him. Its ears flew back, as though in startle, but it remained quiet, watching him. Broc thought mayhap it recognized him, and his assumption proved correct. He extended his hand, kneeling, and the hound took a step toward him, sniffing his palm. He praised the mongrel silently, reaching out to pat its neck. The animal relaxed, shuddering, as Broc stroked it. It began to sniff his legs, finding the napkin he’d secured beneath his belt, and then nosing Broc’s clothes, likely sensing its mistress. It whined softly, peering up at him, cocking its head as though in question.

  Broc stilled, but the animal only whined louder. He held his breath, hoping the lovers hadn’t heard.

  “Filthy mongrel!” the man exclaimed. Broc stifled a groan. “I should go check on him.”

  “Nayyy,” the lover wailed in protest. And she must have held him fast, because Broc didn’t hear the lad rise.

  “I fed the stupid animal already,” her lover reasoned. “I cannot imagine what it could want.”

  “’Tis a silly mutt,” the girl declared, her voice turning coy, “and if you leave me like this, you’re going to regret it.”

  Her lover laughed, obviously amused.

  Broc rolled his eyes.

  The two of them giggled together and evidently returned to their pleasures, because Broc heard no one approach. He thought he heard them smacking their lips together and tried not to think about Elizabet—what it would be like to kiss her again. She had the softest-looking lips, perfectly formed.

  Saucy lass.

  Broc replaced the hood over his head, preparing to go. He untied the rope from the stake with one hand and petted the animal with the othe
r.

  Now to get the beast out of the stables without alerting anyone…

  He cracked open the door and peered out, then pushed it open when he was certain the way was clear. He led the hound out by the rope, closing the stall door carefully behind him, and then hurried outside. Once in the courtyard, he made his way to the meadow, grateful for the near moonless night. It was at least two furlongs before he would reach the forest, and he hurried toward it, longing for its sanctuary, murmuring praises to the animal once he was far enough away that no one could hear him. He called it by its name, and it followed happily, wagging its tail.

  It wasn’t until he was near the forest’s edge that he heard bellows. He peered over his shoulder, expecting to find himself being pursued, and froze where he stood.

  The stable had suddenly erupted into flames.

  From the raging bonfire bounded a squealing, bucking stallion, its mane afire. The sight of it, even at the distance, brought Broc to his knees.

  He couldn’t tell whether the shouts came from those he’d left within or from those who were hurrying toward the growing inferno. His gut twisted with indecision. He prayed the couple he’d left inside would make it out of the flames and was torn between wanting to go back and help and wanting to flee the scene before he was discovered. He tried to recall whether he had inadvertently caused the fire and was absolutely certain he had not. There had been no lights within the stable, no flames, except the one at the far end of the aisle where the lovers lay. Surely they had started the fire themselves and had fled to safety, though his heart ached for the animals left inside.

  The shouts intensified as the fire grew fiercer. Silhouettes scurried about in chaos.

  Taking the leash in hand, Broc took one last look at the melee and ducked into the woods, pulling the hound behind him. He ran as fast as the animal could go without dragging it in his wake. He ran, focusing on Elizabet, because if he didn’t—if he for one instant forgot what was at stake—he would turn around and go back.