The Highlander’s Awakening Lairds of Dunkeld Series)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Do you think...” Amice whispered. “Do you think they've captured Brodgar?”

  “I don't know what to think,” Ettie said softly. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest and despite the chill, she was sweating. She wiped damp hands down over her velvet skirts and fought for calm.

  She tried to reach out with her mind, with the part of her that was close to Brodgar. She couldn't see anything, but she fancied she could feel a sense of shelter.

  Be safe, Brodgar. Please be safe.

  Later on, Ettie found her thoughts running along the lines of the discussion. A plan was forming in the back of her mind, something wild, along the lines of the distraction Alina had mentioned. She went to find her and Alina and Amice – who was with her in the still-room, preparing a tea for her mother's headache – discussed the plan.

  “It's wild,” Alina said, though her eyes were considering.

  “It's risky,” Amice said softly.

  “It's possible,” Ettie said.

  “It might just work.” Alina nodded.

  Lady Amabel was called to join them, and together they filled in the details. Refined the plan. Ettie wondered if she was mad to risk it, but she knew in her heart it was the only way. They had to.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IN PERIL

  IN PERIL

  Brodgar, rolled up in a cave behind the ferns, tried to sleep. He was shivering and drew his cloak about him, shutting out the icy air.

  I need to get back home.

  He had been hiding in the forest for several days. His horse he had released, and was sure it must have reached the MacDonnell stronghold by now. He had tried to follow the road, but he was too conspicuous and the guards were everywhere. There was no way to disguise himself or change his clothes, and so he’d had to hide.

  I can't do this much longer. One good rainstorm and I'm dead. The forest was cold in a way that sapped the strength, leaving a person weak and shivering. A good soaking and, unable to light a fire lest he alert soldiers, Brodgar would catch a fever and likely die. He had to get back home.

  But how can I get out of here?

  He had followed the forest paths, narrowly avoiding detection by sentries or verderers, armed and waiting. The MacDonnell fortress must have been almost unmanned, he thought. Every able-bodied guardsman was on the road somewhere, in a tight net to trap him. Or Alf, or both.

  What can we do?

  At least the presence of so many soldiers meant Alf was still at large. If they had caught him, they likely wouldn't bother with the vigilance. He himself was only important to the MacDonnell as a bargaining tool: if he had discovered his daughter, he would likely call back the men.

  “Alf, brother mine,” he whispered under his breath. “You've got us into a right mess, you have.”

  Even as he thought it, he realized it wasn't true. If not for Alf and his heroic attempt to steal away his beloved from her father's iron rule, he would still be betrothed and have no hope of wedding Ettie. Alf's daring had given him that possibility.

  Ettie. He focused his mind on her, made himself imagine her smile, her eyes. Heard her voice, telling him she loved him, saying he was her dear.

  He must have slept, for he awoke to a cold dawn. He opened his eyes to gray light and the scent of rain and sat up, wincing as his head ached and throbbed.

  Through the blinding headache, gritting his teeth against the cold and pain in his limbs, he stood. Stamped his feet. Went to the opening and looked out. He could see the trackway. It was open.

  Has something happened? Maybe someone recalled troops? Maybe I can go.

  He shook his head, wishing he could clear it. Food. Something to eat, to help him think straight, since he’d had nothing except what he could forage and water since he’d gone into hiding. Then he should take his cloak and start walking. Keep to the bushes. See if the road was clear. Even if it was, it would take two days walking to reach the castle.

  I need to keep my strength.

  He knelt, foraging in the leaf-mold for the things he had collected the day before. Nuts. Mushrooms. Leaves. He ate slowly, wincing at the powdery taste of raw mushrooms. Even that meager fare brought warmth to his body. He realized with a shock how hungry he was. He could feel his head clearing, the headache pushed back momentarily. He knew it would return soon and stood, stamping his feet to get the blood flowing. Gathering his cloak about him, he headed onto the path.

  Which was empty.

  Something has changed.

  The possibilities were few. Alf must have been found. Why else had the men been moved on?

  He looked at the wet earth, seeing tracks there. Hoofprints. Whoever had been here as a sentry had been recalled recently – the tracks were still fresh, unmarred by the falling rain.

  I should go to Bronley. Give myself up. Parley for exchange.

  Thoughts of what might be happening to Alf warred with the resolute need to return home. He wished he could think straight! The cold and weariness and hunger were playing tricks on his mind. Making his thoughts fuzzy. It was all he could do to walk straight, keeping to the path. Everything wavered and he was cold. So cold.

  “Keep going,” he told himself. “Keep on the track. One footstep. Another. Up and on.”

  He walked stiff-legged along the track, glad for the recent rain that had churned it to a muddy mess, a clean stripe across the leaves. He could see it at least. Follow it.

  “Come on. One step at a time. Keep going. You can do it.”

  He walked on through the forest, hearing the sound of a waterfall as the day progressed. At noon – he judged it to be noon by the shifting patterns of light – he found a stream. Drank. The water was cold and it took him half an hour, rocking and shivering, to get the strength to move on.

  “Damn it,” he swore under his breath. At this rate, walking to Dunkeld was a mission. He might not even make it in two days. He breathed in, smelling smoke.

  A charcoal-burner or a woodsman. Maybe he has something he could share.

  He winced, wondering if he looked even remotely like a renegade lordling. He sighed. With his hair plastered flat, his clothes grimy, layers of dirt under nails, he looked less like a thane's son, more like an outlaw. He stripped the brooch from his shoulder, the one decorated with the insignia of Dunkeld.

  I could exchange this for food, he thought, stuffing it into the pouch at his belt. Silver was worthless to a starving man.

  The smoke was coming from a small fire beside a lean-to. Without it, he might have missed the place, so well-concealed it was. He breathed in, nervous to approach whoever was there. Waited.

  A man in a cloth bonnet and shapeless tunic came out. A verderer, Brodgar decided. He tensed, waiting. The man was alone, it seemed, and only lightly armed. Brodgar had his sword still strapped to his back.

  He crawled out of the brush, wiped the worst of the dirt off and knocked at the door once the man had gone inside. “Alms?” he asked hopefully. He was met with a fearful look.

  “On your way,” the man said nervously. “I've got naught to share.”

  “I could offer you something,” Brodgar said hopefully. He indicated his brass belt buckle. “This, mayhap.”

  “There's stew in the pot,” the man said in a desultory voice. “You're welcome to a measure. I'll not ask questions and not answer neither.”

  “Thank you.”

  The stew worked miracles. Composed of grain, stock and barley, warm and the best meal he'd had in two days, the fog in his head miraculously cleared and, with it, his eyesight. His sense of direction and logic started to return, albeit slowly. With it, he got back the feeling in his fingers and toes. He gasped as his whole inside seemed to light up, his heart starting to thud more powerfully.

  I hope I'm never so disoriented again.

  He listened to the man talk as they shared the meal. Mostly commentary about the forest – the rain and how it had eroded the tracks, the traces of deer. Someone setting fish-traps and how it was against the law. Al
ong with that, he threw in other talk.

  “There's sightings of the lass, I heard.”

  “Lass?” Brodgar stared at him.

  “The MacDonnell's daughter.”

  Brodgar dropped his spoon, stared at the verderer in horror. “There are? Where?”

  “In the woods. Lass seems to be taunting the guards. Staying out of reach. Leading them on.”

  “What?” Brodgar stared at him, forgetting all sense in that moment. Had Ambeal gone crazy? Why would she do that?

  “'Tis what I heard only,” the man sighed.

  “Well, it's none of my business, I suppose,” Brodgar said, suddenly remembering that he was a simple beggar, and so shouldn't have much interest in this talk. “When did it happen?”

  “When did the lass go missing? Four, five days,” he said, indicating with a turn of the head that he meant in the past.

  “No – I mean, when did the men see her return?”

  “Last night,” the verderer conveyed, pausing to sip the broth. “Mm. This is good. Bit thin. Could have done with thickening.”

  “It's good,” Brodgar said fervently.

  The woodsman chuckled. “By, you're an odd one. Half starved, you are. Been out long?”

  “Um...a while,” Brodgar said, wondering if the man would start putting information together.

  “Where you come from's no concern o' mine,” the man added loftily. “Couldnae care if you're an outlaw...if I don't know, helping you's no crime, see. So don't tell me anything,” he added with a whimsical smile.

  Brodgar grinned and nodded. “Not a word.”

  After the soup, Brodgar thanked the man and stood, reaching for something to carve off the buckle.

  “I'll take no payment,” the man said, waving a hand at the proffered buckle. “A good old chin-wag's good enough for me.”

  “I insist,” Brodgar said, wincing as he heard the phrase. He wasn't in his father's hall dispensing largesse – he was in a woodsman's cottage, pretending to be an outlaw.

  The man grinned. “I won't say no,” he added, taking the buckle. Brodgar sighed and tied his belt together as best he could, not wanting to lose his trews into the bargain. “And whoever you are, my lips are sealed.”

  “Thank you.”

  Brodgar took leave of the man, and, reveling in his clear eyesight, headed back to the trackway.

  Things had changed. Where the sentries had been, he found muddied hoof-tracks. Everyone had been recalled, it seemed. Sightings of Ambeal must have done that.

  Why is she doing this?

  Brodgar tried to fathom a reason, but nothing crossed his mind and in the end, as his vision started to cloud over, the sun sinking lower as the day headed to evening, he gave up. It was all he could do to remember where he was, who he was, what he did. Thinking about complicated problems like why the estranged daughter of the thane would taunt his guardsmen was too much.

  One foot in front of the other. One foot...

  He carried on walking. By the time the woods were slate blue and black-barred with shadow, the day settling into a damp, icy evening, he had covered, by his own judgement, perhaps ten miles. He looked around, trying to find a suitable cave or stand of trees.

  At that moment, he heard them. Horsemen. Riding hard and fast, a hunting-horn bellowing a clarion, urgent call.

  Hunters. In the woods. Hunting someone.

  Feeling his heart pound, his body tense with urgency and the need to conceal himself, Brodgar ran back into the trees. That was when the horses appeared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A SURPRISE

  A SURPRISE

  “Ride!” Ettie whispered it to her horse. She clung to the reins, heart thumping as she rode. The woods were dark, the ground slippery. She was riding Snow-soft and had little experience of her or what she might do. All she knew was that there were four men behind her, intent upon capture.

  They mustn't reach me. If they do, they'll realize that I'm not Ambeal.

  Holding her breath, heart thudding, Ettie clenched the reins in her fingers and rode.

  She could hear the hunting-call behind her, feeling her horse slip on the track beneath her. Hanging onto the reins like death.

  “There she is! Go! Get her!”

  As she heard the cries – baying like dogs for the blood of a quarry – she realized that Ambeal had ample reason for running away. A father who would send out huntsmen to bring his daughter back has little care for that daughter, other than for the power she could buy him.

  I'm glad Alf took her away.

  As she clung to the reins, doing her best to guide her cantering horse along the tracks away from branches, she found her heart reaching out for Ambeal.

  If the men see me too close, they'll know I'm not her.

  She had worn her red ocher riding habit, as close as possible to the red one Ambeal had worn. Her hair was concealed beneath the cape and hood, but if it dislodged from her head, a single shaft of light would betray her. She was almost as tall as Ambeal, and her skill on horseback almost as good. From a distance, she could fool them.

  Not if they catch me.

  “There she is! Up ahead! Ride!”

  She heard the men dangerously close now. As one of them reached for her, she felt his fingers brush her wrist. She screamed. “No!”

  She was too close. She could feel him reach out again, and this time his fingers closed around her arm. If he pulled now she would tumble backwards, likely being trampled to death before he could actually pull her toward him.

  At that moment, several things happened. Her horse stopped abruptly. She screamed as she was thrown. At the same time, she heard the men shouting, confusion raging in the clearing. There was the sound of hooves thudding in all directions.

  “Where did he go?”

  “The bastard!”

  “Find him.”

  Ettie lay where she had fallen, every part of her body bruised. Why had Snow-soft thrown her like that? What had happened? Thank Heaven she had, or she would now be dead, trampled by hoofs, or captive with the soldiers who would have known in moments she was not Ambeal.

  Where am I?

  Her head was pounding and she had to strain to focus. As she did, she found herself watching a crazy scene.

  In the clearing, three horsemen plunged about, clearly confused. A fourth man stood, his leg apparently broken, disoriented and nervous. Her horse was near him, standing still and shivering. Another horse crashed through the thicket, plunging and free.

  She listened. Along with the shouting and the conflicting orders from the men, she could hear someone whistling. It seemed to be the whistles that disoriented the horses, for they were fretful and questing, not listening to their riders. She lay where she was.

  Someone spooked the man's horse. Made Snow-soft throw me.

  An idea started to form in her mind. There was only one person who would have known the command to give Snow-soft to buck. The person who had been training the new horses at Dunkeld all summer. Brodgar.

  It can't be. It couldn't be.

  She lay where she was. She heard a sudden crash in the bushes.

  “There!” one of the men shouted. Another crash.

  “Bastard's running. After him!”

  “Off!”

  One of the men lifted the horn and blew it. Free from the conflicting whistles, the horses seemed to get purchase on reality. They followed the riders' instruction and crashed into the undergrowth, following the sounds, which settled.

  Once the men had gone, Ettie realized she was terrified. She was panting with fright, her body shaking, sweat down her skin. She lay where she was in a small ball, unable to move. Every part of her hurt. And she was tired. Too tired to move. Too tired to sit.

  She tensed. The tiredness was replaced by fresh urgency. Footsteps. Coming along the path. Coming to find her.

  She didn't know what else to do. She rolled into a ball, pulled up the cloak. Lay still and closed her eyes. It was dark and damp here. Perhaps
no one would see her. Blend with the leaf-mold, she told herself. That was her only option. She was too tired to run.

  “My lady?” a voice whispered.

  Something about that voice teased her senses. Soothed her jumbled thoughts. It reminded her of a rooftop, and the sky. Of the forest. Of the close space beside a fire, with tender hands on hers.

  No. It's not him. Stay where you are. Play dead.

  “My lady? Lady Ambeal?”

  It's one of them. A guard. Just sounds similar. It's a trick. Stay where you are.

  Ettie curled up tighter, drawing her cloak about herself. Lay still. Pretended to be a log.

  “My lady?”

  Whoever it was had seen her. There was no hiding. They walked over. She could hear the slow crunch of their feet over leaf-mold. She could almost feel the warmth of their presence, warming the frosty air. She lay still. Felt the person's gaze move over her. Heard them move closer.

  “My lady?”

  A hand touched her shoulder. She tensed, heart thudding in her chest. She was terrified. Relax. If you play dead, no one will touch you. He doesn't know who you are, remember? Play dead.

  Ettie stilled her racing heart, forced her breath to slow. If he turned her over, perhaps he would think the fall had killed her. Hopefully, he'd walk on.

  The hand moved, gripping her shoulder, gently drew back the hood. Fingers stroked her hair, gently. Fingers whose touch melted her body. Someone nudged her to her side.

  A voice from her gentlest dreams drew breath in utter disbelief.

  “Henriette?” Brodgar gasped. “Is that you?”

  Ettie moved then. Sat up, laughing and crying. Embraced him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MOVING FORWARD

  MOVING FORWARD

  Brodgar stared at her. It was Ettie! He had thought it was Ambeal. Known it was Ambeal. He had put his desperate plan into action, recognizing the horse she rode. It had worked, but he had thought with horror that he might have wounded her. Now he saw she was alive – if injured – but it was not Ambeal.