Highland Treasure

by Lynsay Sands

  While she waited, Elysande noted that the last two Scots—Fearghas and Donnghail, she thought their names were—were following Tom and Simon and her riderless mare into the courtyard. It made her realize that she hadn’t even thought to check to be sure they were still behind them when they’d ridden through the city gates.

  “There ye are, lass,” Rory said as he finished freeing her.

  “Thank you,” Elysande murmured, reluctantly retrieving her arms from around his waist after he took back his gloves. She’d enjoyed sharing their body heat, but now sat back and pulled her cloak closed as she waited for Tom and Simon to come help her down.

  “There now. How many horses have ye?”

  Elysande peered down to see a round-bellied, bowlegged little man scurrying toward them, clutching a ratty old blanket around his shoulders.

  “Nine,” Rory answered. “And we’ll be needing food and drink and a place to sleep fer the night.”

  The man’s eyes fairly glowed with avarice at this news. “It’ll cost ye, but we’ve got plenty of pottage and ye’re welcome to bed down in the stable.”

  “The stable is fine for us, but the lady’ll need somewhere warmer,” Rory said at once, and Elysande stilled as the man’s greedy eyes found her.

  “Well, now, we sometimes let travelers bed down in the kitchen and I wouldn’t mind if she did, but I’m thinking me wife won’t be happy letting her sort sleep there.”

  Elysande felt Rory stiffen at the words, and wasn’t surprised when he growled, “And what sort is that?”

  “A woman what travels so freely and alone with men. And some of ’em Scots,” the man answered as if it should be obvious, and Elysande supposed it was, at least the traveling alone with men part. That was not how a lady was expected to travel. She should have servants and at least one older kinswoman or maid for propriety’s sake. Unfortunately, the situation hadn’t allowed for that.

  Aware that Rory was almost vibrating with fury, Elysande touched his arm gently and said, “The stable is fine. I would rather be with the rest of you in case we need to leave quickly.”

  As the little man nodded and hurried toward the stable, Rory jerked around to peer at her with surprise. “We should be fine,” he assured her. “The soldiers took the other route north. And we do no’ even ken if they were de Buci’s men.”

  Elysande shrugged. “But they could be, and they could also easily have split up later and sent half the men the way we came when they did not encounter us on that other route.”

  When he looked dubious, she said, “I can see you doubt me, but you did not witness de Buci’s actions at Kynardersley. I have known him all my life and never seen him act like that. He was mad with desperation. If those men at Monmouth were his, or even if they were not and he has discovered I am missing, he will search high and low for me and will not stop,” she assured him grimly. “I will not be safe until I reach Sinclair, and even then I would not put it past him to attack my aunt and uncle’s holding. His very life depends upon it and de Buci knows it.”

  Rory’s mouth spread into a smile at the suggestion. “He would no’ even make it to Sinclair with an army, lass. Scots like the English as little as the English like us. No clan would let a horde o’ English soldiers cross their land and there are a lot o’ clans between here and Sinclair. Once we’re in Scotland, ye’ll be safe.”

  “Then I look forward to reaching Scotland,” Elysande said, though she didn’t really think what he said was true. She wouldn’t feel safe until de Buci was taken care of. While she hadn’t known what he was searching for that night at Kynardersley and why her mother and father along with most of their faithful soldiers had died, she had found out afterward. And that knowledge told her that de Buci would kill anyone and everyone who got in his way. He had to, for it was his own life he was fighting for. What he was searching for would put his neck on the block if he didn’t retrieve it before it reached the king.

  Rory ground his teeth together as he handed over payment to the alewife for stabling their horses, being able to bed down in there with them and nine bowls of pottage along with nine mugs of ale. The amount she’d demanded was outrageous, enough to cover nine rooms as well as meals at an inn if any had been willing to take them. But there wasn’t much choice in the matter. The woman had them at a disadvantage and knew it.

  Leaving the alewife chortling happily as she counted his coin, Rory made his way to the long table the others had settled at in front of the large fireplace. Elysande sat on one side with Tom, Simon, Conn and Inan, while Alick, Fearghas and Donnghail filled the other, leaving the spot across from Elysande open. Rory dropped into it with a sigh and glanced around at his companions.

  Everyone looked tired, he noted, and their cheeks were windburned; at least the men’s were. Elysande still wore her coif and veil and he couldn’t tell if she was windburned too, but at a quick glance everyone seemed well enough, and that was something. The last part of the journey that day had been bad enough that he’d worried about frostbite setting in, or a horse losing its footing in the snow and taking a tumble with its rider, or— Well, the list of what could have gone wrong was endless, but they’d made it here relatively unscathed and he decided he’d take that as a win.

  It was the only win of the day. He’d missed the weekly market so didn’t have the wolfsbane to make the potion he’d hoped would ease Elysande’s pain, and they hadn’t reached Scotland before nightfall as he’d planned, which meant—

  “Another night in bloody England,” Conn growled suddenly, as if reading his thoughts.

  Rory smiled faintly and shook his head. “It could be worse.”

  “What could be worse than having to stay in England?” Inan asked morosely.

  “Death,” he answered promptly, and they all laughed.

  All except for Elysande and her soldiers, Rory noted, and realizing he was insulting their country, he cleared his throat before saying, “Do no’ mind us. ’Tis been a long day.”

  “Nay. ’Tis fine,” she said quietly. “I do not blame you for disliking England if our countrymen all treat you as the alewife and her husband did.”

  Tom scowled toward the door to the kitchens where the alewife was hopefully collecting their dinner. “The husband threw out insults like he thought you were too deaf or dumb to understand them, and the wife overcharged you shamefully for our pitiful lodging. Made me embarrassed to be English.”

  Simon grunted in agreement, and Rory relaxed somewhat but said, “Aye, well, there are many in Scotland who are just as rude to the English.”

  The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realized how true they were. Once they crossed the border, Elysande and her men might encounter the same rude treatment he and the others had experienced the last several weeks in England. The idea was a troubling one.

  And apparently not only to himself, he thought when Conn shifted suddenly and said, “The last time I was here there was a draper’s shop a street over that carried the occasional lengths of plaid cloth. If he’s still there and open tomorrow we might see what he has and get some for our English friends here.”

  Inan nodded. “’Twould make them less noticeable once we reach Scotland if they were dressed like us.”

  “Oh, nay!” Tom said with horror. “I’m not running around with naked knees! ’Tis indecent.”

  “Aye,” Simon agreed. “And in this weather we’d freeze our bollocks off in those skirts of yours. Sorry, m’lady,” he added as he apparently realized what he’d just said.

  Rory couldn’t see Elysande’s expression, but was guessing she was blushing under her veil. She did emit a slightly choked sound as she waved away the apology. “’Tis fine.”

  Clearing her throat then, she said, “But it may be a good idea for us to dress more like Scots. If de Buci did catch wind that we traveled this way, he will be looking for a group that includes an Englishwoman and two English soldiers. Dressing like Scots might help keep him and his men off our trail.”

 
; Tom and Simon stared at her blankly for a minute and then looked at each other before Tom grimaced at his comrade and reluctantly pointed out, “She’s right about that.”

  “Aye,” Simon agreed on a sigh, and then lowered his head and muttered, “There go our bollocks.”

  Rory and the other men were still laughing at that when the alewife and her husband appeared with trenchers of pottage. They passed around the food and then moved off to fetch ale for them before disappearing back into the kitchen, leaving them alone. The moment they were gone everyone began to eat.

  Pottage was a stew of boiled vegetables, grain and sometimes meat. But this one was lacking any meat as far as he could tell. It was also a bit thin, as if the alewife had watered it down to make it stretch for all of them, but it was hot and tasty enough, Rory supposed, and then glanced to Elysande when she gave up trying to eat with her veil on, and tossed it over her head.

  Rory’s gaze automatically ran over her face, examining the bruising that covered all of one side, as if it had been slammed into a wall repeatedly. Much to his relief, it wasn’t as swollen as it had been when he’d first seen it. The bruising also wasn’t as dark, the almost black cast it had originally been was fading more to a reddish-purple color. It was healing. In a week or so it would be mostly gone, and it would be wholly gone by the time they reached Sinclair.

  A soft curse drew his gaze to Alick to see that he was staring at Elysande’s face with dismay. He wasn’t the only one. Every man at the table was taking in what had been done to her—even her own soldiers who had already seen it—and every man there was wearing an expression of dismay mixed with disgust that anyone would abuse a woman so.

  Rory glanced quickly back to Elysande, hoping she hadn’t noticed the attention focused on her. Though she was staring steadfastly down at her pottage, there was a tinge of pink in the cheek on the undamaged side of her face that told him she was very aware of it, and embarrassed.

  Mouth tightening, Rory cleared his throat to get the attention of the others and then scowled at them in a silent order to stop their gawking. They got the message and immediately dropped their gazes down to their food. Satisfied, he glanced back to Elysande to find her looking at him with a somewhat wry smile.

  “I do not mind their looking,” she said quietly. “I would stare too if I were them.”

  “I assumed ye wore yer veil to avoid being stared at,” he said solemnly.

  Elysande shook her head. “I wore the veil because I did not want any of you to feel sorry for me, or think I was weak.”

  Rory’s eyebrows rose at the admission. “M’lady, I canno’ imagine anyone thinking fer a moment that ye’re weak. The verra fact that ye’ve sat a horse fer the better part o’ the last two days with yer back and side as black bruised as yer face fair boggles me mind. I’ve tended grown men, warriors, who did naught but lay about and moan for days after suffering less damage than was done to ye. Ye’re no’ weak,” he assured her.

  “Her back and side are as badly damaged too?” Alick asked with dismay. While they’d all heard her tell of the beating she’d taken, Rory recalled then that only he, Tom and Simon had seen the damage done, and then they’d only seen part of it. He suspected that black bruising that covered her back and side ran down over her buttocks and at least the upper backs of her legs too. Perhaps even her shins.

  “Aye,” he sighed, and then turned back to Elysande and paused at the narrow-eyed gaze she was giving him.

  “So you did come upon me in the woods earlier than you let me think,” she accused quietly.

  “Er . . .” Rory muttered, his gaze shifting to Tom and Simon, who were looking about as dismayed as he felt. And he was feeling like a boy caught sneaking a peek at the maids at their bath. Any minute he expected his mother to come box his ears.

  “And you saw me naked.”

  Rory shifted his eyes quickly back to her with alarm. “Half-naked. Ye still had yer breeks on,” he pointed out.

  “Breeks?” she asked with bewilderment.

  “We call them breeches,” Tom explained to Rory, and then told Elysande, “And it is not his fault that he saw you, m’lady. We were all quite concerned when you were gone so long from camp, and the three of us set off together to look for you. Me, Simon and Lord Buchanan.”

  “It was too much to hope you’d leave me out of it, wasn’t it?” Simon muttered under his breath with disgust.

  “Well, you were there too,” Tom pointed out with exasperation.

  “Aye, but she didn’t know that,” Simon countered.

  A small burst of laughter broke up their bickering and they all turned to peer at Elysande. Rory was surprised to see her eyes dancing with amusement.

  “’Tis fine,” she told her men at once. “I am not angry, Simon. I suspected you may have arrived sooner than you let it be known anyway. I was just teasing.”

  The soldiers looked relieved, and then Tom assured her, “All we saw was your back, m’lady, and God’s truth I was so focused on the bruising ’twas all I saw.”

  When Elysande merely nodded and began to eat again, the rest of them continued eating as well, and it wasn’t until everyone had finished before anyone said anything more. This time it was Tom who asked, “How long should it take us to get to Sinclair?”

  “Better than two weeks,” Rory said.

  “Two weeks?” Elysande asked with dismay.

  “Aye,” he said slowly when she continued to stare at him with horror. “Sinclair is nearly as far north as ye can go in Scotland. We have to cross the whole o’ it to get there, and after two days’ travel we are no’ even out o’ England yet.” He paused briefly, and then added, “We could do it more quickly had we each a spare horse to switch to halfway through the day, but as we do no’, ’twill take better than two weeks to get there,” he explained, this time stressing the “better than” part.

  “And that is only do we no’ end up snowed in here or somewhere else until the spring,” Alick added.

  “Nay! We cannot be snowed in here or anywhere else. The spring will be too late to warn him. I must—” She stopped talking suddenly and snapped her mouth closed. Rory cast a questioning glance at Tom and Simon, but the two men looked as bewildered as he was by her upset.

  His gaze slid sharply back to Elysande when she stood abruptly.

  “I need to think. I mean, sleep,” she muttered, and left the table. They all watched silently as she turned away and hurried from the room. But the moment she disappeared down the hall, Tom and Simon stood to follow.

  “Who do you think she was talking about when she said spring would be too late to warn him?” Alick asked.

  “And what does she need to warn whoever it is of?” Donnghail asked.

  “I’m thinking it has something to do with what that de Buci bastard was looking for,” Conn said slowly.

  Rory glanced at him sharply. “Ye think she knew what de Buci was after the whole time and allowed her mother—”

  “Nay,” Conn interrupted, shaking his head firmly. “No daughter would see her mother beaten and not give whatever she must to save her. Neither do I think her mother could ha’e stood by and watched her beaten without speaking up either.”

  Rory relaxed back on the bench at those words, relieved that Conn thought that way, because he did too. There was no way he would believe that Elysande or her mother had known what de Buci was after.

  “But,” Conn added now, “’tis possible the bastard said something during those times he tried to rouse Lady Elysande’s mother when she was feigning sleep. Or perhaps the guard in the dungeon said something to Elysande that gave away what the man was looking for.”

  “Aye,” Rory murmured, remembering what Elysande had said while trying to convince him that de Buci was a threat. She had said that she feared de Buci might even attack her aunt and uncle’s holdings to get to her. That his life depended on it. What he should have wondered at the time was how she knew de Buci’s life depended on his finding whatever he was search
ing for if she didn’t know what it was? That hadn’t occurred to him then though. He’d been more interested in, and even amused by, the idea that any Englishman could march an army to Sinclair without every clan south of it getting up in arms and eager to kill the arrogant bastard.

  Standing abruptly, Rory headed for the door, saying, “Stay here and finish yer drinks. I need a word with Lady Elysande.”

  Chapter 5

  “Nay,” Elysande said firmly.

  “But, m’lady, ’tis warmer in the loft and there is fresh hay there for sleeping,” Tom argued with frustration as she gathered her cloak around her in preparation of easing herself down onto the hay of the only empty stall left in the stables.

  “That may be so,” she admitted wearily. “But I cannot climb that ladder in the state I am in, and you certainly cannot carry me up it. So I fear I am sleeping down here.”

  “If Simon and I worked together,” Tom began soothingly, “surely we can get you up there, m’lady.”

  “How?” Elysande asked with exasperation. “I am bruised from my shoulders all the way down to my calves. Will you lift me by my ankles?”

  “All the way down to your calves?” Tom echoed with dismay, and then turned toward the stable door as it swung open. She saw him reach for his sword, only to relax when Rory entered.

  “Go back inside and finish your ale, lads. I’ll help your lady up to the loft.”

  Elysande stared at the man. His words suggested he’d heard their conversation as he approached, but it was his demeanor that had caught her attention. He seemed different somehow. Stiffer, almost stilted. By her guess, he was angry about something.

  Tom considered him silently for a moment, and then straightened and said, “We will stay in case you need help.”

  Rory wasn’t impressed. “Nay, ye’ll no’. I need a word with Lady Elysande,” he said firmly, and then eyed her grimly as he said, “About why de Buci’s life might depend on his getting what he is looking for.”