by Cathy MacRae
De Percy stepped from behind the raised table that seated a number of glowering English revelers dressed in their festive finery. Mhàiri kicked the sodden, mud-caked hem of her cloak out of the way and ignored the melting snow dripping icily from the braid down her back.
“’Tis seldom we entertain Scots in the great hall,” de Percy taunted. “But exceptions for a lady as lovely as ye can be made. ’Tis Yule, after all.” He gestured expansively to the chair to his left, and the man sporting a heavily embroidered tunic and several jeweled rings vacated the seat, sending Mhàiri a venomous glare.
She lifted her chin. “Thank ye, but my business willnae take but a moment of yer time. I wouldnae interrupt yer feasting, yet the timing was yers.”
De Percy inclined his head. “My man indicated ye are here to pay the ransom for Gregor Scott.” He flipped the tails of his robe to one side and returned to his chair. With deliberate delay, he peered at the various platters on the table. His hand hovered over first one, then another, before finally choosing a goose leg. He set it on his trencher then dipped his fingers in a bowl before wiping them on a piece of linen. Mhàiri fumed silently at his disrespectful tactics.
Her knees quivered—whether from exhaustion or from fear, she didn’t know or care. She simply wanted to exchange the brooch for her uncle and go home, away from this man who had made a vow to rout the Scots, and who commanded much of the land in both northern England and the southern border of Scotland.
“The ransom has doubled.” De Percy’s languid look flashed a dark challenge. William bristled. Mhàiri nudged William’s foot with her toe, begging him to exercise restraint.
“’Tis yer prerogative,” Mhàiri sighed, lifting a hand in a tepid flutter as if bored. “Fifty pounds was already double yer original charge, but if ye cannae make up yer mind . . . .”
De Percy’s eyes narrowed and a faint grin slid across his face. He lounged back in his chair. He perused Mhàiri with exaggerated care. “I do not see a chest of gold about ye. Tell me what ye have that ye believe will ransom yer erring uncle.”
Willing her hands to steady, she drew the leather thong over her head. The velvet bag slipped from the neckline of her gown, swinging gently from Mhàiri’s fist. She stared at the pouch, the weight of the brooch inside testing her grip. She glanced at de Percy whose gaze riveted on the mesmerizing sway.
Teasing the strings at the top of the bag open, Mhàiri approached the lord’s table. His eyes fixed keenly on hers as though wary of treachery, and he slowly held out his hand.
The brooch tumbled from the bag, catching the multitude of candle and torch lights and casting it back into the room in sparks of blue and red. The gold of the brooch glowed, warm and inviting, drawing the eye to the stones which seemed to pulse with an inner beat.
De Percy glanced up sharply. “Where did ye come by this?”
“’Tis a legend of some repute. A brooch from the Holy Land, it has been passed down in my family as a priceless heirloom.” Perhaps not the entire truth, but it had passed from her da to her ma—and now to her. And the mystery should intrigue de Percy.
Baron de Percy closed his fingers over the brooch then opened them, tilting his head as he stared. The stones, filled with the light of ancient fires, winked conspiratorially.
“I will take this.” He blinked then scowled as if startled by his own words. “And remind ye the price was doubled.” He snatched the bag from Mhàiri’s hand and slipped the brooch inside. “This will do for the original ransom. I want more.”
“There is no other brooch like this, I assure ye. And my grandfather’s coffers are empty.”
Mhàiri grew uncomfortable with the baron’s gaze as it drifted from her face to the hem of her cloak and back. “Might I remind ye, yer ransom demands specified ye would accept trade only in coin or jewels, naught else?”
A sneer crossed his face. “My demands can be met in more creative ways.”
The woman on his right rose in an angry huff. “Let me see the brooch.”
Dismissing Mhàiri with a turn of his shoulder, de Percy inclined his head. “Certainly, my dear.” He placed the bag in the woman’s outstretched hand. Her eyes widened as the brooch slipped onto her palm. She leaned into de Percy, murmuring words Mhàiri couldn’t hear. Her eyes flashed at his response and a fierce argument flared between them. Halted a moment later, de Percy fixed Mhàiri with a furious look.
Mhàiri’s heart raced.
“It is done. Take yer uncle and do not linger in my hall.”
Light-headed with relief, she turned to William and read the mistrust in his eyes. She stepped back to his side and placed a hand on his arm.
“Dinnae glower so. We are about to have what we came for.”
“I trust him about as far as I could toss him,” William rumbled, his eyes on de Percy. Mhàiri followed his gaze and met the baron’s mocking grin. He bit deeply into the goose leg he’d retrieved from his trencher, tearing meat from the bone.
Cold shimmied down Mhàiri’s spine at the implied threat. De Percy’s benevolence was an illusion at best. He was a vicious enemy and they were still at his mercy.
She and William remained standing while Gregor Scott was retrieved from the castle’s holding cell. Mhàiri was faint with hunger and worry by the time a man, more sinew than brawn, and clothed in filthy rags appeared in the doorway.
“Mhàiri, lass.” Her uncle crossed the room, halting several feet away, a wry grin on his face. “I’m no’ fit to give ye a proper greeting, but offer ye my thanks, nonetheless.”
Relief swept over her to see her uncle alive and supporting himself. Grime didn’t quite hide bruises no doubt inflicted by de Percy’s order—or by guards fed up with Gregor Scott’s fiery manner—and Mhàiri bit her lip against tears welling at the thought.
“I’ve come to take ye home,” she said, holding her hand out.
“And how did a bonnie lass such as yerself raise a ransom my sainted father couldnae?”
Mhàiri glanced over her shoulder at the woman now in possession of the heirloom. “My ma’s brooch. ’Tis priceless.”
Gregor’s eyebrows shot upward. “It must be worth a fair bit. I am indebted to ye.”
He faced de Percy. “It appears our time together is at an end.” He stepped to the head table and plucked the second goose leg from the frayed carcass.
De Percy’s mouth opened then snapped shut. He scowled, his hold on his temper clearly slipping. “Be gone before I change my mind. Your niece and I could arrange a different sort of payment.”
Gregor Scott drew himself up, meeting the baron glower for glower. “I havenae killed an Englishman in much too long. If ye’d like to correct that lapse, try touching her.” His smooth voice belied the reckless promise.
“Come, Mhàiri.” William’s command broke through the ice linking the two men. Mhàiri eased toward William, willing her uncle to follow.
A broad grin lit Gregor’s face and he spread his arms wide. “I take my leave of my host, though I must say there is little enough to encourage me to return.” He bit a chunk from the goose leg and leaned across the table to drop the bone on de Percy’s platter.
The woman next to de Percy dropped the brooch into a pouch at her belt then used her hand to fan the air, nose wrinkled fastidiously at the prisoner’s rank smell. Gregor’s pleased smile included her reaction as he drew near. “And a farewell kiss for my hostess.”
In a lightning-fast gesture, he pressed his palm to the back of her head, drew her forward, and planted his lips on hers. Just as quickly, he released her and bounded backward, grabbing Mhàiri’s arm as he whirled about, pulling Mhàiri and William in the force of his wake.
The woman’s shriek of protest drowned amid the excited babble rising from the hall. Gregor picked up his pace, all but dragging Mhàiri alongside.
“Ye had to kiss his wife,” William groused. The Kerr soldiers shoved aside a pair of the baron’s men blocking their way. “Robbie! Will!”
Their mo
unts—plus a dapple gray for Gregor—stood at the threshold of the doorway. William tossed Mhàiri onto her pony. He and the others leapt into their saddles, reining the horses sharply about before setting them at a run toward the gate.
“Someone should kiss the lass!” Gregor shouted. “De Percy is more interested in killing Scots than bedding his poor wife. They’ve only the two lads for all their years wed.”
They bent low over the horses’ necks as voices rallied behind them. The words were unclear, but the tone did not invite Mhàiri to linger. She kicked her pony harder. Moments later, they were through the iron-studded gates and fleeing the English countryside.
* * *
Mhàiri’s arms and legs trembled but she resisted William’s decision as he called for a halt. They had ridden beneath the stars for hours, but clouds now hid the twinkling lights and the air had grown thick with the threat of more snow.
“Get down before ye fall off—or yer pony collapses.” William arched a brow. “Do ye need help?”
“Nae.” She cast a look over her shoulder as she dismounted. “Is it safe to stop here?”
“As safe as anywhere this side of the border, but the ponies need a rest and a bit to eat.” He measured a portion of oats from a pouch into a cloth bag then tied it to his horse’s headstall, then did the same for Mhàiri’s pony. Their soft chomping filled the little glen.
Gregor stepped over a snow-covered log. “William knows the area well. ’Tis a small copse in an offshoot of the valley where I’ve hidden cattle before. We’ll not unsaddle the horses, though, in case the snow doesn’t fall quickly enough to hide our trail.”
Mhàiri sank onto the log. “Ye were incorrigible, uncle, taking such as risk as to kiss de Percy’s wife.”
Gregor grinned and tossed a rounded object to her. Startled, she caught it in both hands, then looked at him in surprise as he sat next to her. “How did you . . ? Why?”
“De Percy willnae be best pleased to find the ransom stolen from him, but not terribly surprised, either. I certainly had no other inspiration to kiss the poor woman. I dinnae expect we’ll hear from him soon, though. Rumor has it he has enough trouble with King Edward’s death a few months back, and young Edward’s recall of Piers Gaveston. De Percy has been replaced, as have other experienced commanders loyal to the young king’s sire, and is in no way pleased with his new monarch. But Robert Bruce has escaped Galloway and retaken much of the eastern portion of Scotland, forcing young Edward to summon his banished barons and earls to attempt to bring Bruce to heel. De Percy has more problems than a missing piece of jewelry.”
He placed a kiss to Mhàiri’s forehead. “’Twas yer ma’s brooch, lass. Ye shouldnae have to part with it. I will find something to appease de Percy, should he raise a ruckus.” He squeezed her shoulder.
“’Tis more than a piece of jewelry, Uncle. It contained a sliver of the True Cross. I’ve kept the relic, though I removed it before I handed the brooch over to de Percy. I planned to have a new reliquary made, but this will work fine. Dinnae fash. I’m pleased to have the brooch again, though I admit I nearly fainted when ye caused such an uproar in de Percy’s hall.”
“’Twas an enormous risk ye took,” William grumbled, though the merry glint in his eyes belied his scold. “Bearding the baron in his own hall took a wee bit of spunk.”
Gregor closed his eyes and leaned against the tree at his back. “I am the scourge of my da’s existence,” he agreed. “Give me an hour’s rest if ye can, and then I’ll want an accounting on why the Kerr is taking an interest in George Scott’s lad—and Muckle Alan’s daughter. For now, I need time to think on a proper greeting for the auld man who let me rot in an English prison for a year, and a way to repay my reckless niece.”
William scratched his whiskers and grinned. “I believe I have a way ye can accomplish both.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Michaell stared at the snow-covered hills rolling gently from Lord Scott’s keep. His aim over the past hours had been to warn Mhàiri’s grandfather of his intentions and to see to the defenses. Waiting was not his strong suit with visions of Mhàiri at the hands of the notorious Baron de Percy rising before him. He’d argued vehemently against her traveling to Barnard Castle, far across the Scottish Border, but William had assured him he would guard her with his life. William and his Kerr soldiers would give Mhàiri’s quest more weight than the presence of a mere lad.
Bah! Michaell slapped his palm on the frozen battlements. At what point did he earn the right to be counted among the men? This was no time to belittle his brother’s help, but the old scars still rankled.
Mhàiri would return to him soon. He would better spend his time planning how to handle Richard Henderson than belly-aching about his brother’s lack of confidence.
As always, thoughts of Mhàiri brought a smile to his face. She’d been such a sonsie lass when they’d met years ago, he couldn’t help but fall in love with her. She was always cheerful, always eager and bright. No matter what she demanded he teach her, she settled to the task with determination. He’d not seen another lass so intent on lying on her belly beside the burn, so quiet, so patient, as when he taught her to tickle a trout from its lair. Her fierceness with a dagger had surprised him. He’d caught her mimicking him with a blade too heavy for her to use effectively, and he’d exchanged it for one more her size, then taught her enough—enough so she’d saved herself the night they’d fled her home.
He’d nearly failed her then, and swore he never would again. He’d given her his heart as a lad, and once she returned home, he would not let her go again.
Nothing stirred on the horizon. White snow, gray now with the gloaming, met a sky heavy with storm clouds, promising more snow before morning. Setting an extra guard against surprises in the night, Michaell retired to a private chamber.
* * *
He tossed and turned as the hours passed. Wind whistled its winter tune through the narrow windows, the embers in the fireplace glowing and retreating in response. Finally unwilling to remain in the chamber longer, he dressed quickly and climbed the stairs to the ramparts.
“Naught to report,” the guard nearest him said. “We will be able to see a fair distance once the snow stops, but e’en so, there has been no glimmer of torch nor fire.”
“He would be a fool to advance in this weather without it.” Michaell spoke more to reassure himself with the guard’s response than with any great insight as to Lord Henderson’s state of mind.
“Or verra certain he’ll catch us off-guard.”
The reply wasn’t what Michaell had hoped, but the man’s point was valid. How angry would Lord Henderson be? Did he know—or even suspect—there was a plan afoot for his betrothed to marry another man? How badly did he want Mhàiri’s dower lands? How badly did he want Mhàiri?
Michaell clapped the guard’s shoulder in agreement and retreated to the hall in search of a hot drink and a bite to eat.
“It doesnae make sense there has been no word from Lord Henderson about preparations for the wedding.” Michaell drummed his fingertips on the table, mentally counting the days. “’Tis the fourth day of Yule—there are only a few days left before Gregor Scott’s time runs out, yet Lord Scott has yet to receive the monies promised.”
Loud voices erupted at the far end of the room. A bench groaned in protest at being scraped across the floor, then tipped over amid a crash of pottery. Michaell leapt to his feet as men bobbed about. One shoved the man next to him, spilling him over the fallen bench. He rolled to his feet, fists clenched, swinging wildly.
Euan, the Scott captain barked an order, but the two men did not immediately respond. Michaell strode closer. Euan’s second order set two soldiers grabbing each of the combatants by their arms and dragging them apart.
“Ye scurrilous bastard!” the first man shouted, shrugging against the burly restraints. “I’ll see ye hanged for this!”
The second man, a cut streaming blood down the side of his face, glared at his accuse
r.
Michaell approached the captain. “Bring them one at a time to the laird’s chamber.” He strode away as Euan motioned one of the brawlers to follow.
The guards slammed their prisoner into a chair, a warning for him not to rise. Arms crossed over their chests, they placed themselves at either side, hands close to their weapons.
Michaell studied the man for a moment. This was the man who had thrown the first punch and he wanted to know what had provoked such a response—inside the hall.
“I’m to understand this wasnae a simple dispute?”
The prisoner glowered, then lowered his eyes. Euan kicked his chair. “Ye’ll answer as if he’s yer lord.”
With a jerk of his head, the man tossed Michaell a feral look. “Ye’ll hang the man soon enough. He’s one of Lord Henderson’s men.”
“What do ye mean? He’s a Scott, aye?”
“He was. Until he was offered enough money to turn.”
“What’s yer name?”
After a moment’s hesitation, the man growled, “Albert.”
Michaell nodded. “Albert, tell me what ye know.”
“Duff was a bit in his cups.” Albert shrugged as though he had little reason to defend the man beyond past friendship. “He bragged he was soon to earn a bag of silver pennies, enough to buy all the whisky he wanted. I asked him how he’d come by such, and he admitted Lord Henderson—or rather, his man—had agreed to pay him to join against Lord Scott.”
Albert cast a side glance at Euan. “There’s a few not happy with the way Lord Scott’s treated his son. I’m not saying I’m one of ’em, nor am I pleased to learn he might not last out the year.”
“Do ye know of others like Duff?” Euan growled.
“Nae. None who have turned. Though, what do I know?” Albert settled glumly in his chair.
“Did he say how he was to betray Lord Scott? What his orders were?”
