The Highlander On The Run (Iron 0f The Highlands Series Book 1)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Really?” Brogan frowned.

  Alexander tensed. He hadn’t heard that – not exactly. He’d had the word of that strange woman he’d ambushed in the courtyard, earlier. Then, to corroborate, he’d asked around in the kitchens, and discovered two others.

  “Yes,” he said. “A few of them do.”

  “You reckon we could infiltrate the place?” McNeil sounded happy.

  “Not as such, no,” Alexander said softly. “I reckon we should enter in the guise of whatever trade we’d usually have.”

  “A rope maker?” Brogan sounded dubious. “Why’d they need one here?”

  “Be creative,” Alexander teased. “I’m sure you can think of something.”

  Brogan pulled a face. McNeil laughed.

  “I’m a carpenter,” he offered helpfully.

  “Grand,” Alexander said lightly. “You can make a wagon for the king – and make its wheels to fall off in a convenient place.”

  McNeil chuckled savagely. Brogan grinned.

  Alexander looked up to find them both staring at him, eyes expectant.

  “Well?” he frowned.

  “Well, what?” McNeil said boldly.

  “What are ye staring at me like that for?” he said, offended. “If you’ve seen something wrong with my plan, tell me.”

  “What’re you going as?” McNeil asked. “When we infiltrate here?”

  “A woodsman,” Alexander said smoothly.

  The two soldiers looked at each other. Pointedly, they said nothing. McNeil shrugged his shoulders.

  “What?” Alexander challenged.

  “Nothing, sir,” McNeil countered quickly. “Just…a bit difficult tae imagine.”

  Both men started snickering. Alexander stiffened. He wasn’t about to let them undermine his dignity.

  “Come on, you two,” he said sharply. “Let’s get back tae the barn. It’s cold enough tae freeze ye solid.”

  They stifled their laughter swiftly, and McNeil nodded.

  “Aye, sir. It is, too.”

  Silently, they followed him back into the tree line.

  When they reached the barn – little more than three wooden walls, a wooden gate and a roof – they slid in and Alexander leaned against the wall, feeling weary. The place was warm still from the fire that had been tentatively lit, and he stretched his hands over the coals.

  McNeil and Brogan – lately returned from a five mile ride – rolled up in their bedrolls and seemed to fall almost instantly asleep. Alexander could hear the soft whispers of their breathing.

  He stayed where he was, staring thoughtfully into the coals.

  The red embers made him think of the hair of the serving woman he’d ambushed. He recalled, again, the way she’d twisted in his arms, trying to look up at him. He felt his body respond with a tug of pain in his loins, thinking of her full bust, pressing to his forearm.

  She’s a fine lass. I wish I could have got to ken her better.

  He closed his eyes, recalling the feeling of her lively buttocks, pressed to his groin. He winced, wishing that he could have stayed there, not knowing whether he was pleased for the release, or whether he would have wanted that sweet torture to endure.

  She’s a fine lass.

  He bit his lip.

  She was a servant, in the King’s household. The King of England’s now. She had been with Empty Coat before, though. He couldn’t help the thought that she was ideally placed to collect information. She alone would know the coming and going in the English household, here at Berwick, and also the background of the new king.

  He wanted to talk to her, but he knew how dangerous that would be. He was an outlaw – or he would be, if anybody knew he plotted against the elected King – and he was asking her to do treason. He wasn’t about to place anybody in that kind of danger.

  Not a lass. My men are prepared for danger.

  He felt himself grin. With the two of them stretched out on the beaten earth, snoring like seals on land, the thought of them facing any sort of danger was preposterous. The lass in the courtyard seemed as well prepared.

  “No, Alexander.”

  He would not risk involving her. Not for her, and not for him, either, could he risk that. He had already risked a great deal by waylaying her. He couldn’t regret it.

  Her eyes did it.

  He remembered catching sight of her across the courtyard. Tall, with those curls of red hair, a shade or two darker than his own, with eyes pale like pools under springtime leaves, she was beautiful.

  Not the sort of beauty you’d see in a hall at a castle, mind. But a wild, free beauty.

  He thought of a dandelion, a splash of gold in a green field. Like that, she seemed as untamed, as startling.

  You watch yourself, lad. He chided himself. You don’t want to go down that road. If you like her, you’ll get to ken her. If you do, you’ll take risks.

  He was prepared to risk everything for himself. However, not for somebody else.

  A startled sound from McNeil brought his attention back again. He looked at the floor as the fellow grunted, half-sitting. He tensed.

  Counting to ten, he waited while his lieutenant sniffed and grunted, then slept again.

  “Fine watchmen we have,” he smiled to himself. He spoke quietly enough to let them sleep.

  It was warm in the barn, and they had long ago banked the fire, so that from the outside not a chink of light betrayed them. Their horses were stabled with a loyal woodsman, half a mile’s walk away. There was little to betray their presence. Alexander had organized that. It meant they could risk sleeping.

  “Trust me to arrange sleep for those two, and then stay awake.”

  He grinned again and twisted onto his left side, feet near the hearth, hoping he could sleep too. He closed his eyes. His vision filled with images of the courtyard. The soldiers, their chain mail dull lead-gray in the cloudy light, their weapons glinting dully in flashes of sun. The big coach. The servants, standing about outside the kitchen and the colonnade, watching the departure. Somewhere at the back of it all, the girl with red hair and green eyes. Watching. Watching him.

  “Alexander Raeburne, go to sleep,” he told himself.

  Shivering, he drew his cloak about him and tried to do as he was bid. Sleep eluded him for hours, and, when it finally descended, he had troubled dreams he could barely later remember, save that in them was a lass with red hair and green eyes.

  UNEXPECTED VISIT

  “Is it light enough for you to see?” Addie asked, squinting at the stitching she was making.

  Opposite her, the firelight dancing on her soft face, Mrs. Pritchard chuckled. “Och, aye!” she grinned. “I’m used to it. I don’t rightly need to.”

  Addie frowned, bending closer to her work. “That’s remarkable,” she said. How could anybody sew without being able to see?

  Mrs. Pritchard chuckled warmly, as if nobody had ever complimented her before. They probably hadn’t, Addie reasoned – while the household appreciated the seamstress, they had little opportunity to praise her, and less likelihood to take the opportunities they had.

  “Well, we have to get it done, so what can we do?” Mrs. Pritchard mused, as if she’d heard Addie’s thoughts.

  “I suppose,” Addie grumbled. She bent closer to the stitching, almost touching her nose to the fine linen fabric.

  They were mending a tablecloth. It was the day before the King of England would leave Berwick Castle, heading back to his own land in England. The occasion would, naturally enough, be marked by a sumptuous banquet. That meant that everything had to be laid out as finely as possible.

  “I do have to ask why they bother with tablecloths,” Mrs. Pritchard said thoughtfully. “All that’s going to happen is someone will spill wine on it, and someone else will fall asleep at their place and like as not get gravy all over it, too. No, they’d be best off having trenchers and bare boards, like the rest of us.”

  Addie giggled. Mrs. Pritchard was nothing if not honest. She looke
d up at her friend, who raised a brow.

  “You seem merry, Addie,” she commented lightly. “Is there something on your mind?”

  Addie blushed. She was three and twenty, and she knew it was high time she wed. However, being in the difficult situation she was – a hairdresser, a notch above the other servants – or so they thought – and a stranger, with no family – she had little hope of meeting anyone.

  And I had little thought about it, before now.

  She felt impatient with herself. Since that encounter with the stranger in the courtyard, the thought of lads had been more on her mind. She had no idea why – the touch of his hands on her body had been repellent to her.

  Mayhap it’s just that I wish I was a lad! Then I’d have been able to break his bones better.

  The thought made her flush. She would have enjoyed that, she told herself firmly. Would have enjoyed seeing the surprise on his face as somebody twisted that imperious arm and broke it.

  “Perhaps there’ll be some handsome fellers at the ball, eh?” Mrs. Pritchard said, brows lifted in mild interest.

  “Ettie!” she scolded, shocked. “You don’t mean it?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Pritchard shrugged. Addie rarely used her name, except when they were alone, and she usually thought of her as “Mrs. Pritchard”, though in fact she could not have been more than ten years her senior.

  “You’d be interested, then?”

  She was surprised to see her friend grin. “Just because I like looking round the market stall,” she said slowly, “doesn’t mean I’ll spend the cash in my purse.”

  Addie chuckled. “No harm in looking?”

  “You take my meaning, Addie,” her friend nodded, breaking off her strand of thread. “Looking’s free.”

  Addie felt her cheeks flush. The last time she’d looked at a man – in that way – had been years ago. A stable hand in the service of the baron, the fellow had been killed in an accident. She’d barely known him, but the experience had shaken her. She’d not looked at anybody again.

  You noticed things about the stranger, though.

  She flushed, not sure what she thought of that. She felt almost traitorous for thinking that way about him. She hated him!

  Hate or not, he had strong legs, strong arms and broad shoulders.

  He’d had a fine smile and bright eyes too, she recalled. Her stomach tingled, recalling the way his eyes watched her.

  “You got something to wear, for the ball?” her friend asked, threading her needle through the thin cloth.

  Addie frowned. “I’m not going,” she said slowly. “I reckon.”

  “Why, no!” her friend protested. “You must! There’s a party for us servants, too – the cottagers, the tenants, the workers…everyone’ll be there! It’s a grand day!”

  Addie swallowed hard. While she was not averse to celebrating the King of England’s departure – his presence made the very air taut with apprehension – she wasn’t certain about attending a ball.

  “Will you go?”

  “Of course!” Mrs. Pritchard grinned. “Just because I’ve been alone the past five years does nae mean I want to stay alone.” She smiled warmly.

  Addie felt herself flush. “Ettie!” she said.

  “What?” her friend frowned, looking up from where she finished off her thread.

  “I was surprised.”

  “Well, don’t be,” Mrs. Pritchard grinned. “There's nothing surprising about it. It’s natural.”

  Addie went red. She looked at her work.

  I know nothing of the ways of men.

  She had, despite her relatively advanced age, never lain with a man. While she was not prudish – she knew women and men forestalled their vows often enough – the thought didn’t appeal. She supposed she’d never met anybody she’d wanted to get to know. She supposed, also, that was because she hadn’t met many people.

  “Yes, Ettie,” she said.

  “Yes…?”

  “Yes, I’ll come to the ball.”

  “Grand!” Mrs. Pritchard exclaimed. “Well, then. You can have a gown of the white linen. I knew I was saving it for somebody. By, it’s just…”

  “Mrs. Pritchard?” Addie’s voice went squeaky. She coughed, clearing it. “You mean…” she was beyond words. “You mean, you’d make me..?”

  “Of course!” her friend laughed. “My sweetling, I’m a seamstress. What sort of a person would I be, if I didn’t make gowns for my friends?”

  “Oh…?” Addie wordlessly embraced her friend. She smelled like lavender, used for washing the fabric and giving it a sweet smell. She squeezed her tight, blinking back unexpected tears.

  “There, there,” Mrs. Pritchard said, patting her shoulder. “Now, we’d best get this work done, eh? The faster it’s finished, the faster we can measure your gown.”

  Addie bent over the work, filled with fresh purpose.

  When they’d finished, she walked lightly down the winding staircase to the kitchen, the cloth bundled under her arm.

  “Addie!” Mrs. Miller said, as she walked past the fireplace.

  Addie stiffened. She passed the tablecloth to a serving maid, who took it quickly.

  “It’s for the dais, on the endmost place,” Addie whispered to her, then turned to the cook. “Yes?” she asked.

  The cook, red-faced, her hair tied back under a cloth, gripped her wrist.

  “Addie McMurrie? I ken it’s no’ your place. But we need every hand we can have in here. Will ye stay and make pastries? It’s a job I need fine hands for.”

  Addie felt uncomfortable. A far cry from the usual boisterous, rude ways of Mrs. Miller, the cajoling tones could only mean desperation. She nodded.

  “Very well,” she said. “If you show me how to roll them, I’ll stay.”

  “Thanks, Addie! That’s grand!” Mrs. Miller beamed. “Now. I want to make little pastries in the shape of wee packages, see?” she bent to the tabletop, where a vast mound of pale pastry was heaped, and pinched off a section, rolling it into a roughly circular shape.

  Addie watched silently and then imitated the process, making sure she kept to the dimensions Mrs. Miller had shown.

  The kitchen of the castle was like a kingdom on its own, she thought, taking a seat at the dark oak table and working in silence. Vast pots bubbled on the open hearth, a pot boy, cheeks sweating in the ruddy heat, sat scouring a brass lid. Mrs. Miller, spoon in hand, stirring preserves, ruled over the place like a bizarre monarch, dripping in sweat and steam.

  I wonder how my own Lord Baliol fares?

  Addie felt her heart grow taut with concern. She recalled the tense atmosphere in the hall, that day: the way the lords hand leaned in, hanging on the King of England’s decisions. The way some of them had looked afraid, some angry. Almost none were pleased.

  Addie shook her head, bending over the pastry. She wouldn’t want to be a king, not for all the pastries in the world.

  She spread jam over the circlet and then folded it up, as she’d been taught, laying it on the baking sheet beside the other five she’d already made. When she looked up again, to take more pastry, she tensed.

  Somebody was at the window.

  Swallowing hard, she stood. She went to the window, only to be called back by Mrs. Miller’s exclamation.

  “You already done, that you’re so interested in what’s out there?”

  “No,” Addie called back. She was distracted, still scanning the scene outside. The kitchen was offset from the castle walls, on the ground floor. Set in greenery, it had its own large kitchen garden, where fresh herbs and vegetables grew. From here, Addie could see nothing, save the apple tree. She frowned. Maybe it had been her imagination.

  “Must be the tension of the last few days, weighing on me.”

  “I’ve got enough weighing on me to keep you all busy for centuries,” Mrs. Miller interrupted.

  Addie sighed. She was clearly back to her old manners. In itself, that was disappointing. She was just getting to like the
woman.

  Or, at least, not to dislike her.

  She finished another pastry silently, becoming aware of a delicious, savory scent as the big savory pie Mrs. Miller worked on went into the oven. She looked up at the window, watchful.

  The boughs of the apple tree shifted, with a desultory air, in the autumn wind. There was nobody there, she told herself. Besides, it was already starting to get dark.

  “I should finish these pastries and leave,” she told herself firmly. Her friend was going to make adjustments to a dress she’d already started, so that Addie could wear it to the ball the next day.

  Nevertheless, she carried on, folding, rolling and daubing the pastries. The vast mound of dough seemed to never diminish, and she felt her hands tiring out.

  The kitchen was quietening down, as the first course was sent up to the great hall. Servants, bearing salvers of soup and vast trays of bread and bannocks, disappeared up the steps and out into the courtyard. Addie was almost alone in the kitchen, now, save for Mrs. Miller, checking on the vegetables.

  “A mite longer, and they’ll all be done…” she grumbled, poking them. “And then I’d best damp the coals. Adair! Where are ye, useless feller…?”

  Addie looked about, concerned for the hapless servant who was, she was sure, about to get the lash of Mrs. Miller’s unpleasant vocabulary. As her eyes darted past a dark patch, her blood iced.

  There, in the kitchen, leaning against a wall beside a cupboard, was That Man.

  The red-haired man, from the courtyard. The man who’d threatened her.

  She felt her arms go numb. Slowly, without her conscious volition, the dough she was rolling dropped from her hands. She pushed the chair back.

  “Addie?” Mrs. Miller grumbled, startling her. She froze. Across the way, she saw the tall man tense. Fractionally, he inclined his head, as if to say, don’t move.

  Addie froze. She was stuck half-standing, half-seated, bent over the kitchen table. Mrs. Miller turned to her.

  “What in the name of perdition do ye reckon you’re doing?” she asked frankly. “There’s still dough, there. There’s no use going yet. Besides. When that’s done, I’ll need a hand stirring the gravy.”