That got Finley’s attention.
“Why would that be?” he asked.
“Well, ye’re his best friend, are ye nae? If anyone kens where tae find the lad it’s ye.”
“I havenae got a clue where he is,” Finley said, too quickly. His tongue seemed to have got thicker and lazier in the last couple of minutes. He washed his mouth out with whisky. Swallowed.
“Come now, ye must ken where he might be,” Mallory said, refilling his cup and patting his thigh. “Ye’re practically brothers.”
Finley knocked back his drink, spilling some of the liquor down his chin.
Where’s the harm in unburdenin’ yerself a little?
“Well, look here, lass, it’s nay business o’ mine or yers if young Marcus Malloch wants tae go off and rescue himself an Earl’s daughter, is it?”
Finley, through the pleasant haze of the whisky, wondered whether Mallory would be impressed with this juicy and tantalizing hint. He hoped she would.
Indeed, it seemed to capture her imagination greatly, for the young maid leaned further forward.
Pretty, in a sort o’ everyday, homely way, thought Finley as helped himself to another measure from the rapidly emptying jug.
“So, it’s true?” Mallory asked, green eyes wide. “He went off wi’ the Earl’s daughter?”
Finley made a positive-sounding grunt from the depths of the cup.
“How d’ye ken that he did?” Mallory asked, all eager interest to hear the tale.
“Well,” Finley slurred, tapping his noise conspiratorially, “I may have been there meself, but daenae tell anyone that, all right?”
He sat back heavily in his chair. The room had taken on an agreeable blurry state and he felt warm and sleepy.
“Ye saw it?” Mallory pressed.
“Oh, aye.”
“But, in that case, where’s Marcus gone now?”
“Ah,” Fin said, his head tipping back, his eyes trying to bring the maid into focus, “that’s a wee bit of a secret, ye see. Nae a soul kens where mine and Marcus’s hidden shack is.”
“I bet it’s somewhere right clever,” Mallory said, placing her hand on his knee again, as she refilled his cup to the brim.
Finley slurped at the whisky. He was quite enjoying this attention. He wondered whether he had been right in thinking that Mallory held him in some regard.
“Very clever, lass,” he said, managing to pat her hand on the second attempt. “Aye, a very safe and hidden nook tae be sure. Why, tis nae far from where we here sit—in that copse o’ Scots pine four valleys over, ye ken—but totally secret.”
Finley drained his cup and smacked his lips. His head nodded forward so that his chin rested upon his chest and he let loose a soft grunting snore.
Mallory looked thoughtfully at the slumbering man.
“I thought ye’d never get pished, ye silly dobber,” she said, softly.
If Finley had still had his faculties about him, he would have seen the young serving woman dab a tear from the corner of one green eye. Then he would have seen her stand, walk to one of the drawers and pull from it a large and wicked knife.
Even after all me hard work—after I looked out fer him these past five years, saw him grow into the man he is today, grew into a woman right a’side him, saw him and exchanged pleasantries wi’ him almost every day—even after all that, this fancy Earl’s daughter thinks she can come in and snatch him from me!
Tears blinded Mallory as she rode the horse, that she had stolen from the stables, out into the countryside. She would be missed from her post, but not for a while yet. Anyway, what good would her job as maid be if dear, sweet Marcus ended up with that useless harlot, Lady Delilah?
I ken him better than she ever will. I ken how much honey he likes in his porridge in the mornin’. I ken what vittles he likes tae take huntin’, what kilt he wears fer special occasions, where he likes his letters placed in his study…
“I will nae let her blind his eyes tae my love,” she whispered to herself, as she turned her horse inexpertly along a ridgeline that she thought would take her to the valley that Finley Henderson had told her about.
We have been meant tae be together ever since I first laid eyes on him, and I ken he’d feel the same if he could just see beyond that hussy.
The thought of Delilah and Marcus alone in a secret hunter’s cabin burned hot and acidic in Mallory’s heart. She patted the rough sack in which she had stowed a little food, some water, and the stolen knife.
Lady Delilah did not deserve Marcus Malloch, but Mallory knew what the Englishwoman did deserve.
Despite all Mallory had done with her hiding and doctoring of correspondence, Delilah had still gotten her hooks into Marcus. There was only one course of action that Mallory could see to take.
She found the grove of Scots pine trees in the fourth valley to the west of the MacConnair castle—just as Finley had told her she would. She had ridden through the late night and it was early morning. Mist hung about the knees of the pine trees and pooled in the bottom of the valleys. As she gazed about, three young fox cubs gamboled out of some tussock, rolling and playing as if with delight at the new day.
Mallory looked down at the copse from where she sat chewing a piece of dried venison. Her horse cropped the grass nearby. She had watched from cover as Marcus had ridden away at first light, a bow and quiver of arrows over his shoulder—no doubt gone to hunt for breakfast.
Somewhere down there sleeps that English wench. All alone.
Mallory picked her way carefully down the side of the valley and into the trees. She padded cautiously through the dimness of the little wood, where the night seemed to have be relinquishing its hold grudgingly.
It did not take long before she was peering around the trunk of a pine and into the clearing in which a rough, but quite serviceable hunting shack stood. The windows were shuttered, the door closed. A trickle of smoke wandered out of the little stone chimney and was quickly dispersed by the gentle breeze rustling through the branches.
Mallory reached into her bag and pulled out the knife that she had filched from the kitchens. It glinted dully in the dim light of the new day and weighed heavy in her hand. She thought of all the times that she had cut through game and beef and fowls with knives like this.
Will a person be so much different?
Her hand was slightly clammy as she reached for the simple latch that secured the door. The one that held the knife trembled only slightly.
She deserves it. She deserves this. The nobles get everythin’, live lives that us common folk can only dream of—and that’s fine, as far as it goes. But I will nae let her steal Marcus from me!
Her blood burned at the thought of the two of them together, and Mallory shoved the door open.
Inside, directly in front of her, was a bed piled high with woolen blankets. There was a gown hung on the back of a homemade chair—a gown that would have been worth more than all the money Mallory had ever earned—covered in grime and torn in places.
There was a small mound in the bed, someone curled in blissful sleep. Long blonde hair, golden as wheat under a summer sun, cascaded across the pillows.
Mallory closed the door with her foot, not taking her eyes off of the sleeping form of Lady Delilah. She latched it from the inside, wedged a chair against it. She placed her bag of provisions on the rickety table. The knife was held out in front of her, one side of the blade dark and flat, the other gleaming white in the light of the flickering fire.
Best just tae get it done. Avoid a struggle. Do what ye came tae do.
She approached the bed, her shoes scuffing across the uneven boards. When she was five paces from the sleeping woman she paused and took a deep breath.
Nae different than stickin’ a lamb, Mallory. ‘Cept maybe a lamb is more innocent than this doxy.
Her knuckles went white on the handle of the knife as she prepared to step forward.
Then the huddled mound stirred under the bed clothes—became
a person, rather than just a pile of blankets. There was a groan.
Lady Delilah rolled over with another little groaning sigh. The young woman was—though Mallory was loath to admit it—just as beautiful half-asleep as she was dressed in her usual finery. She propped herself up on her elbow, clad only in her shift, and said sleepily, “What have you brought me for breakfast, my love?”
My love!
Mallory’s heart clenched in anguish, the knife drooping in her hand.
The English noble rubbed the sleep out of her eyes with her fist, then opened them. The startling blue eyes, like a couple of bits of the purest ice, focused on the unfamiliar figure before her.
Mallory saw the young woman’s pale eyebrows contract into a frown. Saw her gaze instantly sharpen—a hunted animal that awakes in its burrow to find the wolf standing over it.
“Who are you?” she cried, pulling the blankets up around her as she sat up.
Mallory could not think of what to say. She had never really been at home with words, had never mustered the courage to say more than five at a time to Marcus.
She saw the sapphire eyes of the hated Lady Delilah drop from Mallory’s face to the knife in her hands. Saw the woman go rigid at the sight of the wedge of lethal metal that Mallory grasped.
“Wh-what do you want?” she asked. “Wh-wh-who are you? I haven’t any money, if that is what you’re after!”
Money? Money!
Mallory had worked hard for every copper she had ever earned. She had been happy to work. Had never begged or expected charity. And here was this rich Englishwoman asking her if she was here to rob her!
Mallory raised the knife determinately.
“I’m nae here fer yer money, Lady Delilah!” she spat. “I’m here fer the love that ye’re so bent on takin’ from me!”
Chapter 14
Finley woke early in the morning. Well, less woke than was woken. A forceful clout around the back of his head knocked him out of the chair that he had been so peacefully slumbering in and onto the hard flags of the floor.
“What in the name o’—” he started.
He looked up and saw the imposing figure of MacConnair Castle’s skilled and formidable cook, Mrs. Sweeney, looking down at him. Her meaty hand was raised and she looked more than ready to clobber him again.
“What in the world are ye doin’ down here, Finley Henderson?” she demanded in a voice that could have felled a tree.
“Eh? Mrs. Sweeney, it’s me!”
“I know it’s ye, yer delinquent. I want tae ken why I find ye in the servant’s quarters at this time in the mornin’.”
Finley’s eyes went wide, his incredible headache pushed to the back of his mind. “Mornin’?” he said.
The commanding cook lowered her hand and rolled her eyes. “Aye, it’s mornin’ right enough. The sun’s almost peakin’ her head over the edge o’ the world and that means it’s time fer me tae get me bread in the oven.”
Finley scrambled to his feet. The memories of the preceding evening were clamoring for his attention. He had a horrible feeling that he’d done something extremely foolish.
“Ah!” boomed Mrs. Sweeney, pointing a sausage-like finger at the empty jug and cup. “I see what drew ye here like a fly tae shite. Whisky!”
That word seemed to kick Finley’s sluggish brain into life. It gave a feeble shudder and a spat out a hazy recollection.
“Whisky,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.
The maid, ye great dobber!
“Mrs. Sweeney, where’s Mallory? The maid. Have ye seen her?”
The cook cast a disapproving eye over the disheveled young man.
“I daenae ken if I should tell ye, the state ye’re in,” she said in a voice loaded with as much threat as an incoming thunderstorm.
“Is she bloody well here or nae, woman?” Finley demanded. He had just recollected what he had said to the young maid.
She might get it into her head tae tell the Laird, tae get some sort o’ reward.
This outburst of his startled the cook. Everyone was used to seeing Marcus and the affable Finley strutting around the castle, as thick as thieves. It was rare, indeed, that Finley was ever seen in public in a black mood.
“I havenae seen her, lad,” the cook said, her stern demeanor evaporating under the scorching intensity of Finley’s look. “What d’ye—?”
But Finley was already dashing for the door.
He tore out of the keep, up the road, and into the stable. Before the stable boy could so much as rouse himself from the pile of fresh hay that served him as his bed, Finley had commandeered a mount, saddled it, and led it out into the predawn dark.
The hoof beats of his horse hammered away into the early morning, as the first touch of the sun caressed the line of the horizon.
He rode as only he or Marcus could ride in that country. To gallop over the moors, up and down the tors and through the fens was a fool’s errand, but Finley had been riding ever since he could walk. What’s more, he had been riding over this land.
C’mon, ye nag, show me the meanin’ o’ haste, why don’t ye!
He urged his horse on, flying over the Highland turf like a phantom.
Let them be safe, let them be safe, let them be safe.
The mantra repeated in his head over and over, drumming through his skull along with the rhythm of the horse’s gait.
On exiting the third valley he had to saw on his reins to stop his horse colliding with a young buck that he had startled out of a patch of heather.
“Easy! Easy!” Finley cried as his horse reared onto its hind legs.
The buck sprang away and was quickly lost among the rocks and hills.
Finley was just about to give his mount the heels when a cry made him turn in the saddle.
“Finley, ye madman! What in God’s name d’ye think ye’re playin’ at, man?”
It was Marcus. The burly Highlander came trotting out from behind a cluster of immense boulders, his bow and an arrow in his hand.
“Trust ye tae be ruinin’ the only shot I’ve had all mornin’,” his friend said. “I’ve been waitin’ fer that lad tae show himself from the heather fer a goodly while.”
“Marcus, quit yer jabberin’, man,” Finley said.
The smile that had adorned Marcus’s face on catching sight of his most trusted friend vanished in an instant.
“What is it?” he said.
“Where’s yer lass?” Finley asked.
“Back at the hideout. Why’s—?”
“We’ve got tae get back there. I let somethin’ slip last night, tae one o’ the maids at the castle. I’ve a queer feelin’ that the lass might take it in tae her head tae do somethin’ rash.”
Marcus did not ask Finley to elaborate. It was something that Finley had come to notice when the two of them had fought in the war: when action was needed Marcus wasted no time in asking pointless questions. Instead, he turned his horse and spurred it into a run.
Finley followed as closely as his tired horse was able. As the two men rode, he offered up a silent prayer that he had not made one of the gravest errors of his life.
Delilah sat huddled in the corner of the bed, pressed up against the wall of the cabin and stared at the knife in the hand of the other young woman.
“Love?” she said. “What do you mean, you’re here for love?”
Delilah had an inkling that she had met the young woman before.
But where? At a ball? At a gathering at home? At the Laird’s birthday? She cannot have been one of the ladies who came to visit me when I was down at my aunt’s house, not with that accent?
The young woman was pretty, with a voluptuous figure, neat brown hair, and big green eyes.
Delilah jumped as the woman let out a little barking laugh. It was a laugh of little humor and much bitterness, the laugh of a woman who had precious little sunshine to light her life, Delilah thought.
“Ye’ve no notion as tae who I am, dae ye?” the woman asked.
&n
bsp; Delilah swallowed. She must tread carefully here. She was discovering that there is very little in life that will clarify a woman’s thinking like staring into the face of someone holding a knife that they are considering sticking into you.
Delilah opted for the truth. All in all, she had always found the truth less dangerous than a lie.
“I know that we have met,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “But I fear I can’t recall precisely where at this exact moment.”
She wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to look away from people when she was in this sort of situation, in the same way that she wasn’t meant to look animals in the eye that she didn’t want to spook. However, her deeply ingrained manners would not let her break eye contact with the girl in front of her.
“That doesnae surprise me,” the woman said with another bitter laugh.
“Would you like to tell me?”
The woman shook her head. “It doesnae matter,” she said.
Delilah nodded. Terror had seized her tongue at this pronouncement.
Why doesn’t it matter? Oh God, does she really mean to kill me?
“Could you tell me what I’ve done?” she managed in a small voice.
“Done?”
“Why it is that you want to… Why is it that you are here?”
Instead of answering directly, the young woman suddenly burst out, “Why could ye nae have just left him alone? A lady the likes o’ ye could have yer pick o’ gentlemen from all across the country and ye had to pick Marcus!”
Delilah had squashed herself back into her corner at this sudden outpouring.
“M-Marcus?” she stuttered. “You’re here because I have stolen Marcus from you? Then you must be—are you Elspeth Ewan?”
The young woman gave a great racking sob, and it was then that Delilah realized how distraught the woman really was. She was walking a tightrope which spanned full-blown hysterics.
“Nay, I’m nae lady!” she screamed. “I’m a maid at the castle! Mallory Lynch is me name! I saw ye every day when ye came to visit.”
With a rush, realization poured through Delilah’s brain. The young woman had been at the Laird’s feast—she had served Delilah food, poured her wine. She remembered the quiet maid who had helped her with her hair in the evenings, who had fetched her breakfast when she wanted to eat in her rooms, who had sat sleeping behind Marcus when Delilah had woken from her fever.
Captured by his Highland Kiss Page 11
