The man merely nodded, stood and walked away with an unsteady gait.
The young girl moved back to his side and washed his face.
“What … is his name?” he asked.
She shrugged. “We call him Will, but no one knows his true name.”
“We?”
“There are ten of us. Will takes care of us.”
“More water.” Dear God, but he was thirsty. And hot.
He closed his eyes. Braemoor. What if he never had the chance to do what he wanted with Braemoor? He had no heirs. If he were to die, the lands would fall to the crown, and probably be given or sold to an Englishman who would most certainly clear the land. Everything he had planned, had wanted to build, would fade away and it would be as if he never existed.
And Janet? What would happen to her?
The young lass returned with water. He sipped it, but he felt as if he were burning up inside. He could never have enough and too soon the cup was empty. He closed his eyes. He would bargain with God. He needed a few more months. A year.
Or would he be making a bargain with devil?
Will did not know what had stayed his hand.
He had made killing his life’s work. He had come as close to death as one could at Culloden, where he’d suffered such grievous wounds that he was passed by Cumberland’s soldiers who were giving death blows to the Jacobite wounded. An old woman, looking for her son, had found a flutter of life in him, had enlisted some help and then hid him. He’d taken over a year to heal, and even now he bore a scar on his cheek and he would never be able to walk naturally again. His leg had never healed properly. Even worse were the memories of the battle, of a British lance going through his best friend, of the slaughter of others.
He hated the English with every drop of blood in his body. He hated their Scot allies even more.
The man Will once was, the lord he’d been, was believed dead. He knew that. His family was gone. His face was so scarred that he could never escape notice. His crippled leg was another constant reminder of months of pain and of the man he once had been. Bitterness and hatred had crowded out every other emotion.
So he had supported himself, and other refugees, by killing every traitorous Scot and bloody Englishman he could find and relieving them of whatever goods they carried to help the desperate young stragglers he’d found in the Highlands.
He’d hope to see them to safety, but he was too visible with his scars. But he, too, had heard of the Black Knave and had hoped to convince him, by force if necessary, to take his small and pitiable band to safety. He did not know who else to trust, and he did not have the financial resources to buy loyalty.
His prey was the lone wealthy traveler who disappeared into thin air. ’Twas a cowardly way to live, but he had so little regard for his victims he did not care. And, he told himself, he had no choice. He could not take prisoners, nor could he let his victims live and tell of his existence.
This man was the first he had spared. Only the card, the hope that this somberly dressed Scot might know something of the Black Knave, had saved him. Will prayed it was not a mistake.
He also wondered why the man had been at Lochaene. He knew the estate, knew about the Campbells who lived there. One of their people, in fact, had been among his informers who alerted him to possible victims. Rewards were small, but still coveted in a part of Scotland where people were dying of hunger. But he was cautious. One person told another who told another. In the latter case, Burke, who had been with him, had received the message from a man named Bain who in turn said he had been given information by a lady. The lady had understood the implications of the information, he’d said.
It must have come from Lochaene—but from which lady?
He knew about the families that ringed his forest. It was only wise to know that.
Braemoor. Why had that word stopped him? What in his mind had stayed his hand? Another whisper. A connection to the Black Knave.
The man himself was nothing extraordinary. He’d been careless like the others. His clothes were somber but of fine quality. The lack of bluster had been on his side. No begging or pleading or promises that were never meant to be kept. All of those would have invited a quick death.
The lack of them had puzzled Will. And then, of course, there were the cards, and the prickling in his mind at the name of Braemoor. All his concern might be for naught. The man was warm, and Will knew the wound was festering. Without help, he might well die.
No loss that. Another traitorous Scot.
Someone wanted him dead. A royalist household.
Why?
Will did not like puzzles. He did not like his hesitation. He did not want to worry about the life or death of an enemy. He’d killed his conscience long ago.
But questions nagged at him. Was it the countess at Lochaene who wanted him dead? Or the dowager countess? It made a difference to him.
But Braemoor had been as close-mouthed and cautious as Will had learned to be.
He will die without help.
The old woman who had nursed Will was dead, killed by some drunken English soldiers. He had been hidden up in the loft of a barn. He’d heard the whole thing, but had been unable to go to the woman’s assistance. That weighed on him, too.
He made a decision. He would leave the matter of Braemoor’s life or death up to the Countess of Lochaene. If she wanted him dead, so be it. If not, mayhap she could save him. And if Braemoor did live, he would owe Will a very large boon.
One Will intended to collect.
Chapter Eleven
Janet rode in from visiting the last two of her tenants. There were twenty families remaining where once there had been more than a hundred. She did not know them personally but she knew the kind of people they were. Proud. Hard-working. Devoted to family and land.
They were, she knew, much like those on her father’s land, land now in the hands of some Englishman. Her father had known every tenant on their land. They all came to family celebrations: birthdays, weddings, births. They had mourned together as they had celebrated together. She knew how much they loved their hard but beautiful mountains. She knew how they treasured their plaid, and pipes and dance. They had been clansmen, and her father had been one of the few remaining chiefs who had felt an obligation to them. Even before Culloden, the traditions had been changing. The tragedy at Culloden—and its bloody aftermath—had only speeded the process.
But while she had known every family on her father’s land, she knew few at Lochaene although she had lived there three years. Her husband did not have the same relationship with his tenants as her father had. Alasdair, in truth, cared nothing at all about any of them.
But now she had the power to change things. She had been trying to visit each of Lochaene’s tenant families, to convince them to stay, to tell them they could hunt and fish without fear. She had given sweets to children who’d had none for a very long time. She’d tried to inspire a trust long since gone.
She had even given an older tenant—McNann—the position of butler to replace MacKnight. Reginald and Louisa had both protested. He had no training and looked like a ruffian. But she overrode them. She wanted someone she selected, and he needed additional funds for his brother’s family.
Except for the argument over McNann, there had been something like peace at Lochaene since Braemoor had left nearly a week earlier. Reginald and Louisa had been unusually pleasant, and she had tried to be the same. She only prayed it lasted—for the children’s sake if not her own.
Anxious to get back to the children, Janet nudged the mare to a faster pace. Colin was drinking cow’s milk now in addition to her own. He still clamored, though, at her breasts for milk, and they remained sore and swollen. She hated to give up that bond between mother and child, and yet she knew if she was going to be successful in managing Lochaene, she needed more freedom.
Janet decided to go across the field. She would have to jump a low rock fence, but that challenged her. It had been far too lo
ng since she’d ridden across the fields with her father and brother. She leaned forward on the horse, flicked her crop lightly, and the mare stretched out, racing toward the fence. Up and over. Flying.
Suddenly, the saddle started slipping. She kicked her feet clear of the stirrups, then tried to pull the reins, but the horse was spooked. The mare’s gait faltered, then she started running as both the saddle and Janet began to fall. She twisted and threw out her arms to cushion her fall.
Stunned, she lay on the ground as the horse continued to run toward the stable. She tried moving. Though parts of her body ached, everything worked; she did not believe anything was broken. She stood and limped over to the saddle and looked at the girth strap. It was torn.
The tear was ragged. It could have been simply worn. Nothing at Lochaene had been well tended for years. Or, a cut could have started the tearing process. If it had separated during the jump rather than on the landing, she might well have been killed.
Donna think about it. But she had to. If anything happened to her, what would become of her son?
Janet thought about that night on the rampart, the shadowy figure. She had not mentioned it to Braemoor. Mayhap, she should have.
She shivered, fear sending cold waves through her.
It was an accident.
She stood unsteadily, tried a step, then another. She was about half a mile from the stables, but she suspected someone would come looking for her when the horse returned. Should she wait? Or walk? Suddenly, she thought of her son.
What if this was no accident? And if it were not, if she was in the way of someone, then so was her son.
She put the torn cinch over her arm. She would ask the smithy in the village to check it. Then she started walking painfully toward the manner. She wanted to hold Colin, to feel him safe in her arms.
Neil screamed Janet’s name through the haze of heat and pain. Thirsty. He was always thirsty. Janet was lost in his dreams, in his nightmares. They were intertwined. He saw her on Culloden Moor, covered with blood. Someone was coming toward her with a sword and he tried to stand in front of her, but something blocked him. She was being surrounded. There was blood everywhere. His own. Hers.
“Braemoor!”
He tried to open his eyes but the lids were too heavy.
“I’m sending you with Burke,” he heard a voice say. Will’s voice. It seemed to be a long way off. “You need more help than I can give you. Braemoor—do you hear me?”
Neil tried to hear, to listen. The voice commanded it. “If you live, you owe me,” the voice said. “I will claim the debt.”
And then he was being moved, carried, lifted on a horse. Pain was a living, burning thing inside him. He wanted to protest but there was not enough left inside him, not enough sound or voice or will. Neil was vaguely aware of being tied to a saddle, but then everything—even the nightmares—faded into nothingness.
Janet clutched Colin to her tightly, so tightly he started to whimper in protest. Reluctantly she put him back into the cradle. She had not been able to tear herself away from him since her return to the manor house yesterday afternoon.
Tim had met Janet as she’d neared the manor. He was mounted on a horse, and when he’d neared, he slipped down and ran to her. “My lady, are you hurt?”
“Just some bruises,” she said.
“The horse returned tae the stable withou’ a saddle,” he said.
“The saddle slipped off.” She handed him the cinch. “I want you to take this to the smithy and have it repaired. Ask him to examine it first. I want to know how it came apart.”
The lad’s eyes grew large but he merely nodded. “Would ye like to ride back?”
Janet shook her head. She was almost back, and it would be as painful getting into the saddle as it would be to walk the remainder of the way.
Tim took the reins of the horse and they had returned together. Louisa was outside pacing anxiously, and she had quickly run over to Janet. “I was so worried when the horse came in.”
“Reginald?”
“He left this morning on some business,” Louisa said.
And Marjorie was away, visiting friends near Edinburgh. Had Reginald done something to the cinch before he had left? Louisa wouldn’t have. She feared horses. She would never go near them, and Janet thought she would not know a cinch strap from a stirrup.
It was only an accident, she told herself again. Nonetheless, she ran up to the nursery. Grace and Rachael were reading, the kitten and puppy intertwined in an unlikely ball at their feet. They both looked up at her, horror on their faces as they saw her soiled dress and dried blood on her arms. Annabella was napping, as was Colin. She knelt next to Colin’s cradle and listened to his soft breathing, then kissed him lightly so he would not wake.
Clara looked at her torn clothes and a small cry escaped her lips. “My lady? What happened?”
The question was echoed in the children’s faces.
“Just a wee fall,” Janet said. “I just wanted to see you all before … changing clothes.”
Rachel ran over to her. “You are hurt.”
“No more than a few scratches, love.” She leaned down and hugged Rachel. “You have to expect that when you ride. And you know what? I am going to look for a pony for you two so you can learn.”
She had not thought of that before, but she did not want them to be afraid because of her fall. She should have changed before coming up here, but she had not been able to wait to see whether they were all right. The last thing she wanted was for them to fear riding. It was one of the great joys of her life, and she had missed it sorely when Alasdair had limited her access to the horses.
Rachel’s face lit. Grace looked apprehensive. It was not unusual. Grace was the worrier.
Janet leaned over and tipped up Grace’s chin with her fingers, then soothed out the tiny little worry lines. Grace was so incredibly dear. “I truly am all right,” she said. “It was an adventure.”
Grace did not look convinced.
Janet sighed. “I am going to take a warm bath and then we will eat supper together up here. Would you like that?”
“Oh yes,” Rachel said.
Grace nodded somberly.
Janet leaned down and scooped up Colin despite a small whimper of protest. She was not going to let him out of her sight tonight. “I will ask cook to prepare a meat pie,” she said, knowing that that was a favorite of the lasses. “And a sweet.”
She went down to her chamber. Lucy had met her just inside the manor house after she arrived and had already heated water for a bath. The hip bath was steaming.
Janet put Colin on a rug on the floor, knowing she had to keep an eye on him. He was crawling everywhere now. Then she gratefully accepted Lucy’s help in undressing—removing the riding dress, stockings, chemise, then drawers. She stepped into the bath and sunk as far as she could, letting the hot water soothe the bruises. It stung the scratches, but she did not mind. She was alive. Her son and daughters were well. That was all that mattered at the moment.
Janet tossed and turned, often reaching out to touch her son. She did not know what hour it was when she finally rose and went to the window. Wispy clouds played among the stars and moon, casting shadows across the courtyard.
She sat on the window seat. Had today’s mishap truly been an accident? Perhaps she might know more after the smithy saw the cinch. Sleep. Get some sleep.
But she continued to look out. She hated to admit that she missed Braemoor. Yet she did. Far more than she wanted to. She felt alone and isolated, and there was a strength about him she had not remembered or, mayhap, had tried to forget. In her mind’s eye, she saw him striding across the courtyard, or riding from the stable with such complete assurance. And that kiss. That infernal kiss. Just recalling the feel of his lips against hers sent sparks through her body. He’d made her feel safe. But more than that, he had made her feel as if she could do anything.
Then she saw movement on the road into Lochaene. Two fast-moving hors
es. She watched as they stopped in front of the stables. The rider on the first horse leaned over the other, which was loaded with some kind of bundle. In a second, the bundle fell, and the rider raced away, the second horse behind him.
The bundle moved.
Apprehension prickled along her spine as Janet ran down the staircase and opened the heavy doors. She ran over to the bundle. A body.
She immediately recognized Braemoor’s clothing, but the blue cloth was brown with dried blood. The face was dark with black bristles. He was mumbling but made no sense. She leaned down and touched his forehead. It was burning.
Janet ran to the stable where Tim and Kevin slept and woke them. Tim came with her while Kevin went to get their new butler.
She sat next to Braemoor along with Tim. She put her head down to his heart. His body was burning with fever. Blood crusted his face and hair, and the one leg of his breeches had been torn away. A bloodied bandage covered the upper half of his leg.
When McNann arrived, she got to her feet. “You and Tim take him up to the second floor. The blue room. Kevin, you ride for the physician. Tell him he must come as quickly as possible.”
Kevin went to saddle a horse as Tim and McNann struggled to get Braemoor to his feet. She followed them as they half carried, half dragged him inside, up the stairs and into a bed. Then they stood aside, looking helplessly at the wounded man.
Like most Scottish women, Janet knew a little of healing and herbs. As mistress of a household, she was often called upon to see to illnesses and wounds. One look at Braemoor chilled her.
Who had brought him here? And why? And how did he come to be so badly wounded? He had left four days earlier. She had thought him back at Braemoor. Where had he been these past days?
She leaned over the bed. “My lord,” she said. “My lord. Do you hear me?”
His eyes were closed. But he mumbled something.
She unwrapped the blood-soaked rags around his thigh and looked at the ugly wound. It had been clumsily sewn and was red and raw. There was also a flesh wound on his shoulder, but that was already healing.
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