“Race ye to the haying field!” she called back.
“What do I get if I win?” he shouted.
Makenna glanced back. “Ye willnae.”
She tossed her head back and laughed as she pushed her horse to its maximum speed. Julien watched her go, thinking he’d give her a few moments to take the lead and perhaps even look back, in search of him. He didn’t mind the view from behind, either, her torso leaning forward over her horse’s mane, her bottom lifted from the saddle and hovered above, her thighs gripping the animal as her body jounced in rhythm. He was half hard just imagining their grip, and what it might feel like to have those long legs wrapped around him. He was even tempted to let her win, if only to keep watching her ride. To keep imagining himself beneath her instead of that damnable lucky horse.
Makenna was nearly to the copse of trees when he saw it. The strange tilt of her body. He’d been watching her so intently, devouring her figure, that he noticed the slight shift almost immediately. Even with the wind in his ears and the pounding of his pulse, he heard her startled yelp. She went rigid, her easy, expert posture breaking form as she struggled to hold on to the reins. Her whole saddle was sliding away from underneath her, her left stirrup pushing underneath the horse’s rib cage.
“Makenna!” he shouted, driving his mount faster. Too far away. She’d be dragged under the horse if she couldn’t get her feet free of the stirrups. A current of panic iced through his veins as Makenna screamed again—and fell out of the loosened saddle.
She landed in a heap, her body tumbling and rolling. He leaped from his horse before it had even come to a full stop, and ran to where she lay, unmoving.
“No, no, no.” Julien crashed to his knees beside her. Gently, he brushed the spill of hair from her face. Her eyes were closed, red blooms of scraped flesh on her cheek and chin, speckled with dirt and grass. Time slowed as Julien set his fingers to the pulse in her neck. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think beyond the fear that she had broken her neck in the fall. He nearly went weak with relief when he felt the thump of her pulse, steady and strong.
“Mon Dieu, Makenna,” he breathed. “Open your eyes, chérie.”
He ran his hands over her shoulders and arms and legs, feeling for any obvious broken bones, but other than the scrapes along her face, she seemed uninjured.
A small moan crackled up her throat, and a moment later, her eyes fluttered open. She coughed and moaned again. “Julien?” she whispered. “What…what happened? My saddle…”
He cupped her cheeks, careful not to touch her scrapes. “Thank God, Makenna. You fell. Your saddle, it…”
For the first time, he considered the saddle. All he’d cared about was making sure Makenna hadn’t been trampled or broken, but now, he stopped to think. How the devil had it shifted like that? He’d tightened the girth and cinches of both horses—it was second nature for any capable horseman. Or horsewoman. Makenna would have checked it herself as well.
His worry and panic changed into a roiling anger as he helped her to sit up.
“It came loose,” she supplied, her attention falling on her horse, that had quit galloping and instead, circled back around toward them. The saddle lay on the ground nearby. She frowned. “I tightened the cinches. I always do, ye ken. It shouldnae have come loose.”
She tried to stand, but Julien kept his hands firmly on her shoulders. “Your head took a thrashing, Makenna. Stay here. I’ll go look. I’ll be right back.”
He reluctantly left her side and approached the fallen saddle, already seething to unloose a blistering volley of curses. Had the groom checked to see if the saddle was old? She could have been killed.
Julien crouched to pick up the saddle, and noticed the girth on one side of the saddle hanging free. He touched the leather strap. If well-oiled and maintained, leather should not stretch to the point of snapping. And as he looked closer, Julien noticed that the edges where the girth snapped apart were not wholly rough or pulled thin. Half the width of the leather strap had been neatly and bluntly cut.
By a blade.
Rage and disbelief poured through him.
“What is it, Julien?” Makenna asked, having stood up against his orders and followed him. She saw the girth in his hand, and her eyes went distant with alarm as they fastened to the split ends. She’d also taken in the intentional cut into the leather, likely done with a sharp knife.
“Someone did this on purpose,” she said, echoing his own thought. She swayed slightly, her voice hitching on other realizations. “It’s too much of a coincidence, ye ken. The saddle, the snake. Even if the rock and snake were accidents, a severed saddle would no’ be.”
He dropped the girth and stood to take her arm, peering around the field. They were alone, except for a few sheep.
“Let’s go back to the castle,” he said. He’d talk to the groom, but his anger toward him had tempered. Most likely the man was only to blame for not seeing the nick already there in the leather girth while saddling Makenna’s horse.
Someone else had done the cutting. Someone who knew Makenna’s saddle, and intended her harm. And Julien would have wagered every last coin in his vast fortune that it was someone connected to the Brodies. If he hadn’t believed Makenna had been in danger before, it was more than clear now.
Someone was out for blood.
Chapter Thirteen
Makenna’s backside was sore, and it would get much worse before it healed. The physician had come and gone, confirming that none of her bones were broken, though he’d recommended strict rest in case of a head injury.
Her entire body was bruised and battered. It felt like she’d rolled down the steepest hill in the glen, hitting every possible tree and rock with her person on the way down. It hadn’t been her first time taking a tumble from a mount, but she’d landed hard. Harder than usual because she hadn’t counted on the sudden shift of the saddle, not when her feet were braced in the stirrups in an upright racing position. As it was, once the saddle snapped, she’d kicked her feet free and curled her body into a ball, flinging her arms around her head in an attempt to protect her skull. Luckily, her rear end had taken most of the impact. If she hadn’t been riding astride, she would have fallen face first and cracked her head open.
As she waited for a hot bath to be filled, Makenna glanced up at the furious man pacing by the doorway and felt a stab of emotion at his protectiveness. Julien hadn’t left her side since they’d come back to the castle. A scandalized Tildy had nattered on about decorum and decency, but Makenna was a widow, after all. And the doors were open, with plenty of other people—Lady Haverille, the doctor, countless maids, and Tildy herself—parading in and out. For the moment, they were alone as Tildy had gone to the kitchens to mix up a soothing salve.
“Julien,” she said for the dozenth time. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” he growled. “And when I find the bastard—” He broke off, clenching his jaw and his fists.
“We dunnae ken who it is.”
Anyone could have cut the saddle strap. Anyone. Fear gripped her heart in a brutal squeeze at the thought of her unseen enemy. Makenna swallowed hard and winced as the pain in her neck intensified. She felt so powerless. Powerless and afraid. Lady Haverille had made her drink some willowbark tea earlier for the pain and it’d helped. But she couldn’t lie here forever, not while someone meant her harm, even with Julien standing guard.
When they had returned on his horse, he had been in a cold rage, lining up Alban, the rest of the grooms, and every stable hand on the estate, interrogating them while observing carefully. He had explained that she had taken an accidental fall, watching the men’s faces for guilt. They’d all been shocked, solicitous, and anxious for her safety. Julien had questioned them about strangers on the estate, but no one had seen anything. Makenna hadn’t expected them to. Schemes of this nature were done under cover of night and secrecy. She’d seen enough intrigues at Brodie to know.
The same afternoon, after a thoroug
h check of the stables, Alban had also discovered that her second saddle, a lady’s sidesaddle, had received the same treatment—a slight cut in the leather, deep enough that any pressure from a rider’s weight would cause the cinch to snap. Which made them both certain beyond any shadow of a doubt that foul play was at hand.
Ice sluiced through Makenna’s veins. She’d lived with fear for most of her adult life, but never had she felt such mindless, uncontrollable terror. The certainty that death could come at any moment…that someone was trying very hard to kill her, and had nearly succeeded on three separate occasions. First with the adder, then the rock—which Julien’s men had confirmed had been freshly dug off the battlements—and now the saddles.
Was it Colin? Had he found her? If he had, why not come and get her? And why would he want her dead? It made no sense. Makenna was sure that the man wanted her in his bed, not in the ground. Unless, this was some new twisted way of Colin’s to terrorize and break her, before he reclaimed her.
Makenna shivered, and froze at the piercing ache stretching through her body. Tildy entered, pausing with a glance toward Julien’s ferocious countenance, and coughed delicately, salve in hand. The maid would need to rub the ointment into her back and shoulders, and as grateful as Makenna was to the man, she would be unclothed.
A blush heated her cheeks. “Can ye give us a minute, my lord?”
Julien’s eyes met hers, and she half expected his usual smirk and some quip about him and female nudity just to rile Tildy up, but he simply nodded and left the room. She bit her lip. His solemnity unnerved her, but she supposed he was as preoccupied as she as to the identity of the assailant.
Pulling back the sheets, Tildy gently removed her night rail, and started to smooth in the ointment on her skin.
“Oh my,” Makenna cried out, flinching at the pain.
“I’m sorry, milady,” Tildy said, her fingers halting from rubbing in the salve along Makenna’s bruised spine.
“Nae, it’s no’ ye. It’s been some time since I’ve had a walloping this fierce. Continue.”
With halting movements, Tildy’s fingers resumed their massage, and Makenna winced as the maid kneaded a particularly sore spot on her lower spine. The pain wasn’t that bad. She’d endured much worse, and she would heal, but fresh bruises were always the most tender.
“We’ll get ye in the bath. The heat will help.”
“Thank ye, Tildy.”
Once the maid was finished, Makenna hobbled toward the hip bath with Tildy’s assistance and gently eased herself into the water. She grimaced at the first contact of the hot water against some of the open cuts on her skin and then sighed as the heat did exactly what it was supposed to.
“Did his lordship find any more on who did it?” Tildy whispered.
Makenna started, her eyes snapping to the maid’s. She and Julien had been careful to keep the foul play quiet. She hadn’t even confided in her maid, in case they were under attack from someone. “How did ye ken it was no’ an accident?”
The maid wrung her hands, her face distraught. “Douglas told me that the straps had snapped, and he said he thought he saw someone.”
Makenna sat straighter, her aching muscles going tight again. “Why didnae he say anything to Lord Leclerc earlier?”
“He was scared. He didnae ken the man.” She worried her lip, eyes full of worry. “He couldnae remember a thing, other than it was dark, and the man was bigger than any man he’d seen.”
Makenna inhaled a sharp breath. Colin was a large man. Her thoughts raced back to him. If he had found her, then why be so secretive about it? Forcing her to take a fall didn’t do anything. Unless he wanted to incapacitate her and keep her where she was. He couldn’t do anything to Lord Leclerc outright, so was this some kind of distraction? A sick game?
She hissed through her teeth in frustration. Lord, she had so many questions, and so little answers. Somehow, she had to find out what was going on. A wild idea filtered through her brain. An insane one, but one that could provide the answers she sought.
Julien would not approve.
Oh, he would be in a right rage if he had any inkling of what she was thinking of doing. But she had to know. And that meant going back to the source of all her nightmares. Makenna rested her head on the lip of the bath. She would let it simmer and think upon it.
By the next afternoon, her idea had not abated. It had evolved into a full-fledged plan that involved her sneaking in to the Brodie village and listening to chatter. The healer, Celia, had not dared risk sending her a message in writing or verbally through Brice. So, Makenna would go herself. It made the most sense, and it was better than sitting complacently, doing nothing, while waiting for another attack to happen. Her body ached, yes, but pain had never held her back before when she’d had to drag herself out of bed at Graeme’s whims. And she could not afford to waste more time. Her attacker could strike at any moment.
And she was already sick of Julien’s hovering. He was worse than Tildy! Earlier that morning, she’d attempted to get out of bed to go for a walk, and he had magically appeared as if he’d been summoned, only to scoop her up and deposit her back into her chamber.
“The doctor says you need rest.”
“I’m a grown woman,” she’d growled.
“With rocks for brains.”
“I ken my own brain, ye amadan. And I ken what I can do. Put me down.”
He had, right in the middle of her bed. “What does amadan mean? Love of your life?”
“It means idiot.”
She had made to move and he’d stopped her with a look. “Stay there.”
“Ye’re no’ my owner,” she’d snapped.
“No.” His smirk had made her want to kick him. “I’m your employer, and I need you hale and fit for all the work you’ve shirked.”
The cup she’d launched at him had missed by inches, and the pain ricocheting along her arm had been well worth it. But she’d borne his and Tildy’s soliciting all day, staying in bed and saving her strength for what she had planned. She would go that very night. Unable to sleep, she’d tossed and turned restlessly, until the hour had come. She faltered at the thought of what Julien would do and then shoved it away. She’d never let any man tell her what she couldn’t do, not even Graeme. Even if it meant inciting certain wrath.
Without making a sound, Makenna eased her legs over the side of the bed, stifling a groan at the soreness, though it was nothing she could not handle. It was a moonless night, and it was just before dawn. Nothing stirred in the castle. She dressed soundlessly in a pair of woolen trews, dress, tartan, and heavy cloak. After twisting her hair into a knot, she grabbed her boots, and slipped through her door and crept down the hallway. As expected, the keep was deserted. It was too early for the servants to be up, and it was the hour most of its residents were at their deepest rest.
Except for his lordship, whose hours still baffled her. There was no rhyme or reason to his sleep patterns, and Makenna had deduced that the man simply did not sleep. He was the only one who could throw a wrench in her studiously laid plans. She tiptoed past his room, her ear to his door, and heard nothing from within. She thanked her fortune that there were no lights that she could see shining beneath the study or library doors, either, but she remained cautious, well aware that the man was worse than an owl.
With any luck, she’d be at Brodie by midday meal, when the village tavern was the most crowded. Slipping from the keep, she drew her cloak closer around her shoulders to ward off the night air, and entered the stables. All was still quiet. She moved toward the stalls but stopped to stare at some clothing resting on hooks, and made a decision. Even hidden by a cloak, skirts would draw far too much attention. Quickly, she shimmied out of her dress and grabbed a shirt with the least amount of stains visible in the gloom, a ragged length of linen, and a nondescript brown tartan from one of the pegs. After dressing, she tugged a brown cap over her hair and stuffed her dress into her saddlebag.
The horses nick
ered at her presence, but made no other noises as she led a gray mare from her stall, hoisting a nearby saddle onto her back. Makenna didn’t stop to secure the saddle until she was well out of sight of the keep and near the tree line. She also made sure to meticulously check the straps and all buckles. With a groan at her complaining muscles, she climbed into the saddle and began the trek.
She was familiar with Duncraigh lands all the way to the borders, having ridden the boundaries over the past handful of days if only to reassure herself that they wouldn’t be raided by Colin’s men, and she took the least noticeable route to the forest. As far as Brodie lands, she’d ridden them often enough when Graeme had been in a good mood, though not much during the last hellish year. She knew where all the sentries were posted, and where the men liked to hie off for a quick tumble in the woods. Makenna avoided all those places now, though the likelihood of coming upon anyone in the thicker woods was slim.
By the time she came to the outskirts of Brodie lands, she was hot and sweaty and cursing the fact that for all her careful planning she had failed to think of food and or water. There was a crust of hard cheese she found in the saddlebag, and thankfully, she knew where to find a nearby stream, so her thirst was quenched. She also took some time to smudge dirt on her face and use the tattered linen she’d stolen to bind her breasts under the loose shirt. No need to call attention to those if she was pretending to be a man. The ratty old tartan that she tied around her waist and looped over her shoulder completed her disguise. She had no idea what clan it represented, but there were so many mixed clans due to the Clearances, and as long as it wasn’t Maclaren, it wouldn’t matter.
Makenna couldn’t see her image, but from the reflection in the river, she looked like a skinny, grubby lad. She’d have to keep her hair covered, as well, but the cap should do nicely. Her hair color would draw far too much attention. Loosening the knot, she braided it closely to her scalp and coated the edges with mud from the riverbank, giving the illusion of dirty, brown hair. With any luck, her disguise would hold long enough for her to get some information. She would not chance a visit to Celia’s cottage no matter how tempting it might be. It would put the older woman in too much danger if she were caught.
A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans) Page 17
