The Highland Secret Agent

by Emilia Ferguson

  The horseman was a distant line on the road now, the only indication of him was the rise and fall as he lifted with the motion of a trot. She bit her lip, willing herself to hold back her own tears.

  She waited for even that last trace of him to blur before she left, then she turned and went back to the turret.

  “My lady?”

  “Yes?” she asked her maid, who was busy tidying away her jewelry on her dressing table.

  “I had a message from his lordship. He requests your presence in the great hall for dinner.”

  “Well, he'll not have it,” Ambeal said stubbornly. Then she paused. “Why? Did he say?”

  “No, milady,” she continued, brushing Ambeal's hair as she took her place at the dressing table, working out the knots left by the fleeting breezes out of doors.

  Ambeal frowned, considering the possible reasons for her father's summoning her to dinner that evening. Was it possible that he had some plan to wed her off to someone? She shuddered. He couldn't be so sure of Alf's demise.

  “Was he checking the accounts?” she asked. Perhaps he had some announcement to make, something innocent that had little bearing on her life or on her future.

  “He was in his study when he called to me,” her maid confirmed. “Mayhap he was. He and Mister Brewer were reckoning on the lines.”

  “Oh.” She meant they were adding up the household expenditure, a process that required summation of rows of counters on lines on the desk. That eased her.

  Probably just something about not buying anymore cloth for gowns this year, she thought, feeling reassured. That wouldn't be a hardship as the attic was already stocked with bolts of velvet and satin, linen, brocade and gauze.

  “Well, I had hoped he'd give a banquet in your honor,” her maid said, brushing her hair back from her brow. “It would have been good to have some dancing in the hall.”

  Ambeal nodded. Her maid, Bronna, was perhaps seven years her senior and was always ready for a bit of lighthearted fun and dance. Ambeal smiled at her, turning to face her.

  “Well, that is kind,” she said. “I'm glad you're pleased I've returned.”

  “Oh, my lady!” Bronna said warmly. “We all rejoice, I'm sure of that.”

  Ambeal bit her lip, looking down at her hands sorrowfully. Her father likely wished she had not come back. Her value to him was as a bargaining piece for his grand schemes of expanding his territory, not in herself.

  “I should go down to the courtyard,” she said abruptly, standing and smoothing down the skirts of her red velvet dress, the skirt halved to show an under-skirt of white linen. “I promised Ewan I would take the hounds out coursing.”

  Ewan was their hunting master, a beloved ally in the castle, more like a mentor than a servant. He had taught her to ride when she was a small child, something her father would probably never have countenanced, much less allowed.

  “Very well, milady,” Bronna called. “Best change dresses for that.”

  Ambeal raised a brow. “I will, Bronna,” she said. “I don't want to ruin my new gown anymore than you want to see it happen.”

  She walked out hearing her maid chuckle away to herself behind her.

  In the courtyard, she found Ewan and they planned a ride for that afternoon. It is just what I need, she thought privately. A diversion. She had to keep herself from thinking of her grief and her worry for Alf.

  In the hall again, she headed left, out into the colonnade. She had forgotten she had asked Bronna to air the new tapestries there. As she crossed the stone floor, her skirt whispering across it, she felt herself suddenly tense. Someone was there, watching her.

  She shivered, feeling the touch of someone's gaze drift down her spine. She turned.

  Gasped.

  “Lady Amabel.” Beiste McGormond said.

  “Beiste.”

  Taller than her by at least a head, with thick dark hair and a firm jawed, brooding appearance, Beiste McGormond had been her father's ward when she was young. Bullying, distant and sullen, Beiste had not been someone she had liked when they were both young, and thus had avoided him whenever possible.

  Now, looking up at him, she was not sure the years had improved him. That lean face had a hard appearance, and the dark eyes shone with things she could not understand.

  “Why are you here?” she asked, feeling her heart start to pound in her chest. She looked around, but the courtyard beyond the slender archway was empty. She was isolated here in the forest of columns, with him.

  “I had to come,” he said smoothly. “I heard of a...disturbance,” he explained. “I also have news.”

  “Oh?” Ambeal looked around again, wishing someone would appear and break the bonds of suspicious fear that held her fast. The news, she presumed, was of her.

  “I am interested in Bronley,” he explained calmly. Ambeal's brow lifted before she could stop.

  “You are interested,” she echoed. “Well, that is kind. But we have no need of your...interest here.” she added forcefully. She had no idea why, but wished he would simply go away. Where had he come from? Why here, now? In addition, why was he standing in the colonnade, talking alone with her, against all propriety, when he should be addressing her father with whatever news?

  “I beg to disagree,” he said smoothly. Ambeal felt her skin crawl as he reached out to take her hand. She stiffened, but did not move to withdraw it. This close, the threat of his physicality was undeniable. If she roused him to anger, what would he do? She went stiff.

  “We should go inside,” she said thinly. He laughed.

  “I will, in good time, milady,” he replied. “I must confess, though, that I hoped to find you here, alone.

  “Beiste,” she said harshly. “Leave. Now...”

  “I have thought often of you,” he murmured, reaching up to stroke her hair, ignoring how she flinched from him, or her trembling words. “I recall you as a most promising young woman. And I am proved right. You are...remarkable.”

  Ambeal tensed. She wanted to spit.

  “I am not a horse or a hound for purchase, Beiste,” she said smoothly. Her cheeks were hot with rage, though she kept her voice cool. “I am the lady of the house. And may I inform you of my marriage?” she added, subtly showing off the ring she wore, the clan ring of the McNeil household, Alf's ring.

  “I had word of something of this sort,” he said, voice hard. He took her wrists. “This marriage is not lawful. It will be...”

  Whatever he was about to say – presumably that it would be annulled – was interrupted.

  “Beiste McGormond,” a brittle voice said. “Welcome, son of Adair.”

  Ambeal glad at her father, taking a step back nonetheless to avoid any further contact with Beiste. She looked at her father. He was smiling. He held out a hand for Beiste to grip in welcome, and then placed it on his shoulder. He grinned. He looks pleased.

  He did not seem surprised, and Ambeal's nerves were instantly alerted thereto. Why wasn't he? Had he known of Beiste's coming?

  “Daughter,” he said, as if seeing her for the first time. His eyes were surprisingly tender. “Will you summon the cook? Tell her to put the dinner forward. Our guest excelled himself with his hurried arrival.”

  They both chuckled and Ambeal felt as if the bond between them closed up like a wall, shutting her out. Beiste could do no wrong in her father's eyes, clearly. Anything he had to proposition him with, her father would be sure to try and allow for it. That means that, if he wanted the marriage annulled, it might happen.

  Shivering, she headed down to the kitchens. In the kitchen, the fire was out, the place dimly lit in sharp contrast to its usual bright busyness.

  “Mrs. Hunter?”

  “Yes?” she called. Ambeal looked about in the thick gloom, worried for her. “There you are!”

  “Aye, I am, lass,” Mrs. Hunter said, appearing from round the side of a set of shelves. “Just having some trouble with the wood...the woodcutter's not brought us any for the day.”

&
nbsp; “Oh?” Ambeal felt surprised. “Why would he not? That's odd.”

  “He's mayhap poorly, milady,” the cook said, caring. “Don't have the hide off old Norrie for it.”

  “I won't,” Ambeal said. “But someone should be sent to inquire about it. We need the fires stoked. Soon. My father wishes you to make the dinner into a lunch. Our guest is early.”

  “Oh!” the cook suddenly threw up her hands in horror. “Oh, blimey...”

  Amabel frowned. “Use the coal from the storehouse,” she suggested.

  As the cook called out how grateful she was for delaying of the crisis, Ambeal walked up the hallway again, a frown on her face.

  Was it somehow linked, the missing wood load and the arrival of Beiste? She shook her head. It was two unexpected things on one day. That was all. They likely had as little connection as finding a missing handkerchief had to the stream overrunning its edges.

  “Well, then,” she said. “Luncheon is organized.”

  That was all she needed to do for the moment. Her next thought was to leave the castle as soon as possible. The thought of being trapped in here with Beiste over luncheon was too much for her, especially if she would have to speak to him after, probably spend long hours in the solar hearing about his estate in the north and how he was running it now his father was getting on.

  “I'm going out for a ride.”

  She walked back past the practice ground, past men-at-arms swinging at each other with blunted swords, practicing their strokes. The clang and block of the weapons against each other was a sound that had played out through her childhood, as familiar as the wheels of a cart on cobbles or the sound of a wren.

  It soothed her as she headed to the stables. There she found Ewan, tending to a stallion.

  “Poor thing,” he was saying. “I'd like to take the one as did that and break a fence pole on his head.”

  “Did what?” she asked. He inclined his head toward the horse, where a groom was rubbing the poor thing's legs with warm balm.

  “Ran it so hard in this cold morning,” he said. “Disgraceful. Should be shot.”

  Ambeal nodded, biting her lip. Beiste. Only he had reason to push so hard through the cold morning, riding to Bronley fortress.

  “I think so, too.”

  Ewan nodded, his eyes crinkling with his thin-lipped smile. “Right indeed.” He frowned. “What's so troubling, lass?”

  “Nothing, Ewan,” Ambeal said quickly, not wanting him to know how upset she was. “I just wanted to put our ride forward for today. I would leave at two hours after the midday meal.”

  He raised a brow. “Very good, lass.”

  “Thank you,” she said simply and hurried off.

  Inside the castle, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Forcing herself to calm. Beiste was here. Alf was endangered. Now things seemed to be going missing in the kitchens as well. How was she going to manage not to react to that?

  First things first. I need to get ready for luncheon.

  She looked down at the red dress with its white petticoat. She was tempted to change out of it – the design was new and quite revealing and she felt uncomfortable with Beiste's predatory gaze.

  I should wear the ocher dress with the green skirt. It's far more modest.

  She hurried up to her bedchamber, heart beating quickly in her chest.

  On the way up she met her father, coming down. She froze on the spot.

  “Daughter,” he said dryly. “There you are. If I can request your presence in the great hall?” His voice was arid and almost sarcastic.

  Ambeal closed her eyes a moment. “For a long time?” she asked. She should have guessed that her father's mood was dark. He glared at her.

  “Must you contradict me in everything?”

  Ambeal felt as if she were five and caught out in some transgression. Wordlessly, she followed him down to the hall.

  “We have a guest,” her father explained as they crossed the colonnade.

  I know. Ambeal wanted to say something, but somehow the words had all caught in her throat and she couldn't contradict him or even say anything more.

  “We have a guest who is interested in seeing you,” he continued briskly. “And I think you will be interested in seeing him.”

  Ambeal swallowed hard. The words to contradict him welled up in her throat, but she couldn't get them past her lips. Then they were in the great hall and she was looking across the empty room at Beiste.

  “Lady Ambeal,” he said. He bowed low. Ambeal felt herself go tense. He walked forward, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips. His lips were hard on her skin. His eyes mocked her. Then he was turning to her father, apparently losing interest in her.

  “My lord,” he said. “It is an honor to meet your daughter again. And yourself. My sire informed me of difficulties besetting you. I came to discover if it was true.”

  Ambeal noticed how Beiste's eyes narrowed when he said that, a shrewd look appearing in them that she, had she been her father, would have taken into consideration.

  Why does he want us to be in difficulty? What does he hope to gain in that?

  She shook her head, considering. Her father, however, didn't seem to notice.

  “Difficulty? Why, no, son,” he contradicted. “It's entirely opposite! We enjoy much peace here in Bronley.” Even so, Ambeal could not help but notice a happy expression on his face, as if he was pleased to see Beiste. Almost as if the man was truly his child.

  Ambeal tensed. In her mind, it would be a mistake to trust Beiste. However, there was no convincing her father of anything.

  “Well,” Beiste said, turning that brooding gaze to Ambeal, “I heard rumor of some unrest. Mayhap it is rumor only.”

  Ambeal swallowed dryly. He means me, she thought. He means he heard about my running away. Her heart pounded faster yet.

  Her father noticed where he was looking and shook his head. “No, Beiste. No trouble to speak of. Now come, sit! I think dinner has been put forward to a proper luncheon. Yes?” He raised a brow at Ambeal, inquiring.

  Ambeal felt her cheeks warm with affront. How dare he ask her about the luncheon, as if she were a servant here? She felt angry and wanted to say something, but again she could not make herself say it.

  She turned and walked out, heading for the kitchens.

  When she returned, she cleared her throat. “The luncheon will be served in half an hour,” she reported. Her father raised his brow. “Ah. Why the delay?”

  “We...had some difficulties in the kitchen,” Ambeal explained quickly. Her father frowned.

  “Difficulties. That is unlike you, Ambeal. I've always trusted you to manage the household affairs alone.”

  Ambeal stared at him as if he'd slapped her. It couldn't have shocked her more if he had. “Father, I...”

  How dare he? She had been overseeing the household affairs since she was fourteen years old! He had never thought to question her ability to check supplies, organize menus, make sure rooms were kept clean and any guests were adequately accommodated. Until now.

  “Your daughter is distracted,” Beiste said kindly. “It is unfair to place such responsibilities on the tender shoulders of a young woman.”

  Ambeal bristled. “Sir! I...”

  “Ambeal,” her father said tiredly, “go and organize things downstairs. I would speak with Beiste alone awhile. Return here for luncheon.”

  Ambeal was speechless. She looked at her father and Beiste. The former had taken Beiste by the arm and was discussing something with him in a low voice. She was, evidently, dismissed from this picture.

  She turned on her heel and walked out of the room.

  “I can't believe it!” she said aloud, walking along the colonnade. She was furious. Now Beiste was calling her sanity into question! With her father at that! The worst thing of all of it was the fact that he believed him!

  “My lady?” her maid was out in the colonnade too, walking along beside her.

  Ambeal turned on her, eyes blazing.
When the woman backed away, seeming scared, Ambeal let out her breath in a long sigh. “Sorry, Bronna.”

  “Not at all, my lady,” the maid said gently. “What troubles you?”

  Ambeal closed her eyes, feeling suddenly sad. “It's my father, and Beiste, and...everything.” She wanted to cry.

  “Beiste McGormond?” she asked. “He is here?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Her maid frowned. “Why, that's odd, milady.”

  “Why is it odd?” Ambeal asked. Of course, Beiste had not been to the castle for many years now, but that he visited in itself was not something odd.

  “Why, only because Terry in the wheelwright's saw him just earlier now,” she said. “He was there, so he said – he knew him because of his time here, of course, milady.”

  Ambeal frowned. “He was here earlier?”

  “Yes. At the wheelwright's shop. He was there with a cart. Needed it mended, or so he said.” She looked up at Ambeal with wide eyes, clearly confused also.

  Ambeal shook her head. “That's most odd. Why would he be?”

  “I don't know, mistress,” her maid said softly. “No idea at all.”

  Ambeal frowned. Beiste was from a wealthy landholding family, his father a minor laird himself. Why would he be here with a cart like a farmhand? It made no sense. She shook her head.

  “Well, thank you for telling me,” she said. “Maybe it means something...”

  Her maid frowned up at her as if she had just spoken French. She shook her head, smiling.

  “Don't mind me, Bronna. I'm just wondering.”

  “Well, it's a lot to think on, milady,” Bronna said. “His sudden appearance, I mean. He's not been here six years now!”

  “No,” Ambeal nodded slowly. “He hasn't.”Now, when it seemed that she was escaping his reach, here he was. That seemed very odd indeed. She frowned.

  It's probably all my imagination, she decided. She headed down to the kitchens.

  In half an hour, she was seated at dinner with her father and Beiste. They had decided to eschew the great hall and luncheon was served in the solar.

  “For it's much more quiet here,” her father said. “And we have matters to discuss that are better discussed among us three alone, eh, Beiste?”