’Tis far more comfortable!
A small grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he nodded and placed the pawn back on the board. “Ye’re sure ye ken the rules? We could play something simpler like Fox and Geese.”
She’d found a carved board for the strategy game, along with one for Nine Man Morris, while straightening his trunk a few days ago. While both were easier games, she’d always enjoyed chess.
She shrugged. “Or Naughts and Crosses, if ye think the wine will loosen yer focus, milord?” Her smile was innocent—she was sure of it.
He glared, likely offended by her insinuation he couldn’t handle the simplistic game. “Ye take the oak,” he growled.
His pieces were carved from a dark-colored wood, while hers were light. His were smooth in her hand when she took one of his knights—the small man sitting tall on his horse—and she didn’t bother hiding her smile of satisfaction.
Instead of moving one of his pieces, Merrick settled back in his chair and reached for his goblet. “Ye play well.”
Had he sacrificed his knight to discover that about her? Her smile faded. “Ye’ve been playing recklessly,” she shot.
His lips twitched again, but he lifted his wine. Once he’d finished swallowing, he shrugged. “With nothing at risk, ’tisnae as much fun.”
Her heart began to pound. “What would ye risk?”
“Secrets.”
The quickness of his reply made her wonder if he’d been planning this all along. Secrets? “One for every piece taken, I assume?”
He held her gaze as his chin dropped, and the promise in his eyes made her want to lick her lips.
Wagering secrets. It was a risk, indeed, especially because she had so much she couldn’t tell him. But there was much she wanted to know about him: the stories of his children, his dead wives, his brothers…where her family’s jewels were.
And ye are a verra, verra good chess player.
She grinned. “Aye, accepted.”
He shot forward and immediately moved one of the soldiers—a pawn—and she countered with one of her own. He was right; the play was more exhilarating knowing what was at stake.
The clouds were a brilliant red on the horizon when he took her next piece, a pawn. It had been a sacrifice to get his castle into position, but she still shifted uncomfortably at his wolfish, expectant look as he settled back against his chair.
“Hmm.” He rolled the pawn between his fingers. “A secret. What shall I ask…”
She swallowed and sat straighter, knowing what he would ask, and wondering how she could deflect the question.
“Who are yer people?” he asked directly. “Yer clan?”
She shook her head, then took a deep breath. “People who would nae like to ken I am here.”
“Ye came without their permission?”
Her father’s, at least. “Aye.”
“Lindsays?” he snapped shrewdly, obviously hoping to catch her.
“Nay, I’m…from the Highlands,” she said carefully.
He eyed her too-warm surcoat derisively. “Ye’ve told me no worthwhile secrets. Tell me of yer family.”
She could do that, at least, without naming herself as a Sinclair or a laird’s daughter.
“My father is doting, but understands duty. My older sister and younger sister have both been married. I have—I have a twin sister.”
She said the last part tightly, surprised at the wave of emotion which crashed over her at thinking of Citrine and this mission they’d vowed to undertake. She hadn’t sent word to her twin in over three sennights. Was Citrine worried? Was Da still ill?
“Citrine?” he asked quietly.
Her eyes snapped to his. “How—who told ye?”
He shrugged. “Ye speak in yer sleep sometimes, and ’tis a memorable name.”
Aye, and dangerous if he connected it to the Sinclair Jewels. “’Tis a worthwhile secret,” she said as she reached for her bishop.
As they took their turns, the tension slowly drained from her shoulders, and she found herself breathing easier and admiring his style of play. His hands were constantly occupied with the fallen pieces or the goblet, but he watched the board and her moves with a hawk-like glare. But rarely did he deliberate his own moves. Nay, it was as if he held a collection of options in his mind, and as soon as she made her own moves, he reacted with lightning speed.
He was swift and brutal and a worthy opponent, and there was only one way to play with someone like that: lure him into a position where each path required sacrifices.
She managed not to crow with glee when she eventually took his castle, but didn’t bother hiding her smile.
His chin dipped in concession. “One secret,” he said carelessly, his hand wrapped around the stem of the goblet.
And if she hadn’t seen how white his knuckles were, she might’ve believed he was unconcerned.
Lifting her own goblet to her lips, she sipped at the sweet, dark wine and contemplated.
She could ask why his children all looked so different. She could ask if he had more children spread throughout Sutherland territory. But that wouldn’t advance her mission here.
She could ask if he was aware his oldest daughter was in love with his youngest warrior. Knowing how Merrick felt about Mary, it would be sure to cause Andrew trouble, but as much as she wanted the lad to pay for his accusations, she knew that wouldn’t help her either.
She wanted to know about Merrick. Wanted to know why they call him Devil. And there was one rumor she needed confirmed.
“Did ye kill yer brother?”
He was silent for a long moment, eying her from under hooded lids. Finally, he dipped his chin. “Aye.”
“Why?”
Hooking his arm over the back of his chair, he shifted position slightly, and began to twist the goblet in his other hand. His attention drifted to the distant sunset, and he took a deep breath.
“My father and uncles had many children out of wedlock. Their father did as well. There are Sutherland bastards spread all over the Highlands, from what I’ve heard.”
“And the Lowlands?”
A smile flashed as he glanced back at her. “Aye, John Lindsay’s mother was the Lindsay laird’s wild sister. He’s older than me, so feels he should have a claim to my position.”
She knew most of this already from listening to him speak to his seneschal, but was pleased to hear it directly. “But he’s no’ legitimate,” she pointed out as she placed her goblet beside the chess board.
He shrugged. “He’s one of dozens. I suppose he feels he has the right to challenge, because his mother was a laird’s daughter.”
“Outside the bonds of marriage…” She frowned as she stood and crossed to the mantle, where she knew the flint was kept. “Ye’re no’ a bastard.”
“Nay, but unless Lindsay wins his campaign, Willie is my heir, and he’s a bastard.”
“Unless ye marry again.”
Her throat went dry as she considered the possibility. Why? Why did the thought of him marrying someone make her feel so uncomfortable?
Must be the wine.
Aye. That was it.
She concentrated on lighting the candle, then turned back to the table to find him frowning at her.
“Ye asked about Robbie,” he reminded her.
She let out a breath. Aye, the dead brother. So why was her mind still lingering on the thought of him marrying?
Marry again?
Why did the thought send a chill through him? He loved Willie, aye, but knew his son’s illegitimacy would cause problems for the clan in years to come. He’d always known it’d be easier if he had a legitimate son, which is why he’d married Elizabeth, then Katharine.
Which is why, when neither of them bore a living child, he’d tried to form a marriage contract with one of the Sinclair Jewels.
But now…the thought of remarrying soured the wine on his tongue and in his stomach. He hoped to draw her—and his—attention away from the thought.
“Ye asked about Robbie.”
When she eventually nodded and moved back to the board, the candle lit her face with a warm glow.
“Robbie was younger than me, but Da claimed him,” Merrick began. “His mother was one of the kitchen servants, so I grew up with him underfoot. He was…different.”
She placed the candle beside the board, then sat on the edge of her seat. “Different?”
“He lacked…” Merrick shook his head slightly, not sure how to describe it. “He would hurt animals sometimes, just to see what they would do. It wasnae bad when he was younger, but after Da died and I became laird, he was harder to control. He’d lash out and didnae seem to care he was hurting others.” There was one thing Merrick had never been able to forgive. “He lacked control.”
“So, ye killed him?” she asked, brows raised.
“More than once I’d wanted to, when his lack of understanding or care caused harm to one of my men in battle, and he always managed to explain his shortcomings…but nay.” He shook his head, then took a deep breath. “’Tis no’ why I killed him.”
She didn’t speak, just stared at him with those brilliant eyes with interest.
“I’d heard rumors about his lasses, how they hadnae always been willing. But nae one was eager to speak against him. Then one day…”
He swallowed and shook his head, the memory of that rainy afternoon creeping back into his mind, chilling him.
“One day I found him with Mary. She was barely twelve and was fighting him, but he had her skirts up already.”
He doubted Saf was aware of the way her hand rose to her throat, horror in her expression. It was a thoroughly feminine reaction, but he couldn’t appreciate it right now.
“His own niece?” she choked out.
It was a struggle to keep the memory of that failure, that disgust, from sweeping over him. “I didnae give him the chance to talk his way out of it. I slit his throat, then held Mary as she cried.”
He’d cried right along with her and begged her forgiveness, but had never told anyone that.
It was a long moment before he realized he was staring at the candle flame. He squeezed his eyes shut, then took a breath, and forced a nonchalant mien when he faced her once more.
Only to discover her watching him with a look he couldn’t identify.
Finally, she nodded firmly. “Good.”
Approval.
She approved of his actions? He’d cut his own brother down in cold blood, and she’d approved.
What a surprising lass.
Play began again, more subdued, but he was distracted. The wine held no more interest as he considered his opponent more carefully. She took the next few pieces, but it was as if his story had bothered her, because her questions were easier, less intrusive.
What were yer wives’ names?
Tell me about yer father.
Do ye remember yer grandmother?
What’s yer favorite dish?
He answered them quickly, carelessly, thankful they were simple, and responded in kind.
The stars were out when he realized she’s maneuvered him into a corner. He could take her queen—which he saw now she’d sacrificed—but her bishop would take his king. It was the only option, which meant his question would have to be a good one if he was going to have any hope winning secrets from her as Gavin had suggested at supper.
Slowly, he reached across the table and moved his piece to take her queen, leaving his king undefended. Deliberately taking his time, he propped his elbows on the table and rolled the queen between his palms, staring at her.
There was really only one question he needed to hear the answer to.
“Ye swear to me ye’re no’ a Lindsay? No’ here at his behest?”
She shifted forward and mirrored his pose.
“Merrick, I swear it on my mother’s grave. I’m no’ spying for him.”
It was the first time he’d heard her use his name. Sometimes she’d called him milord, but mostly it was Devil or Sutherland.
Hearing his name on her lips was strangely…intense.
What would she look like in a gown? Her cropped hair perfumed and pinned? If she smiled at him, not in triumph or teasing, but in encouragement? As if she wanted him.
He swallowed, feeling himself harden beneath his kilt.
Best remind himself of her purpose here. “Ye’re still a spy, though?”
She didn’t reply, but held his gaze.
Cursing himself, he brought the queen to his lips, sliding the smoother oak across the sensitive skin and staring at her mouth. Aye, it worked; her lips parted on a slight gasp and her eyes widened.
She might not know it, but she desired him as much as he desired her.
“Why are ye here, Saf?” he asked in a low voice, willing her to tell him.
Mayhap he’d pushed her too hard, because she straightened quickly and reached for her bishop.
She hadn’t answered his question!
His hand darted out and closed around her wrist, stopping her. Under his fingers, her pulse pounded, telling him her reaction to him—or his question—was nowhere near calm.
Slowly, he dragged her hand toward him, until he was holding her fingers in his. That warmth made his arm tingle, and he noted she made no move to pull away, even if she didn’t meet his eyes.
“Answer me, Saf. Why are ye here?”
With her other hand, she used her bishop to knock over his king. Then she looked up. “To find something,” she finally said softly.
And when he squeezed her hand, he could swear she squeezed his back.
Aye, she’d found something, and so had he.
Chapter Seven
Saffy had never been completely comfortable on horseback.
Oh, she could list diseases of the horse, and how to care for them, and what the best riding techniques were…but actually getting on one was a different story.
Still, when Merrick came to her the day after their chess match and told her she’d be going with him and his men on patrol to look for Lindsay, she didn’t argue. It was the first time since she’d been in the keep that Gavin had found evidence of Lindsay’s raiders, and she was excited to be part of it.
It wasn’t until she was mounted up and riding with the men—concentrating fully on not falling off—that she thought to wonder why.
Because of what she’d learned about Lindsay? She wanted to help defeat him?
Or because she wanted to prove to Merrick she wasn’t a spy for his brother?
Last night, he’d asked her why she was on Sutherland land. She hadn’t been able to tell him—she knew how dangerous it could be to her mission. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. She suspected he was a good man, and the rumors of him being a devil were mostly exaggerations. His story about his brother Robbie’s death was a good example.
But she didn’t trust him not to put the good of his own clan above her mission to find the jewels, and if his clan was implicated in a theft of some sort, she couldn’t guess what he’d do.
Nay, it was better to keep up her disguise, and keep her mission a secret.
She’d found no evidence of the jewels so far, nor any history or tales which would indicate their hiding place was known. So, for now, she’d keep looking, and do her best to make Merrick trust her.
Gavin led their little band unerringly. She rode behind Merrick and beside Andrew, who didn’t speak to her at all. There were ten others in their group, all warriors armed and ready.
She saw nothing suspicious. The day was beautiful, the sun was bright overhead, and her stomach was tight with anticipation. Or excitement. Or just happiness because he’d shared so much with her last night.
Her mind wandered, thinking back on the stories they’d shared, mostly innocuous…and the way his hand had felt in hers.
He’d held her hand! She was no fool; she knew men had close friendships, the same as women. But the way he’d touched her, the way he’d squeezed her hand…it had b
een hard to remember he thought her a lad.
He…he did still think of her as a lad, aye?
She was frowning—her thighs already aching from the effort it took to stay atop the horse—when Gavin led them across a small stream. They were several hours from the keep by that point, and the terrain was rockier. In fact, the path they were on would lead them directly between a rock overhang and a tremendous boulder.
It would be a perfect place for an ambush.
But what did she know? She was a scholar, not a warrior.
Still, the closer they got, the more uncomfortable she was. As Gavin led Merrick through the pass, she worked up the courage to say something.
“Andrew, should we—”
That was as far as she got before the attack came.
With blood-curdling cries, the warriors attacked from either side of the hidden pass. Gavin went down, and Merrick whirled, his sword appearing in his hand as he hacked his way toward his friend.
As Saffy froze, forgetting how to breathe, the rest of the Sutherland warriors let lose battle cries and joined the fray.
“Saf!”
It was Merrick yelling her name, which broke her trance. He was probably livid his squire wasn’t beside him, helping him fight.
She scrambled for the sword at her waist, cursing her sweat-dampened palms and wondering how in the world she was supposed to remember the few moves he and Citrine had taught her.
Her blade in her hand now, she kicked her horse into motion, and bless him, but he was obviously better trained for battle than she was. When one of their attackers—wearing a plaid she didn’t recognize—loomed over her, his sword raised, her horse swung out of his path, even as she ducked stupidly.
Sweet Virgin, ye’re going to die! Citrine is the warrior, no’ ye!
Her mind was not being helpful.
If Citrine could do this, she could. Merrick was counting on her.
Ahead, he was whirling and slicing, a blade in each hand as he controlled his horse with his powerful thighs.
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