The Laird’s hand rested on his son’s back, that he patted twice. “Aye.”
Pulling away, Ethan nodded. “I suppose I’ll pack.”
The disquiet in her stomach doubled upon itself and she spoke, quietly, daringly, doubting herself even as the words slipped from her lips. “What if I went with ye?”
Three pairs of eyes spun to her and she stopped herself from squirming, her father had his brows at his receding hairline. “Pardon?”
Nervously, she stood and faced all three. “I just daenae ken it right for Ethan to be alone now. Worry and fear get worse when one is alone; I can keep him company, and between the two of us, I ken we can handle ourselves if danger comes around.”
“I agree,” Ethan said instantly, but the other two were not for it.
“Violet,” her father began, stepping forward. “I had only agreed to take this case so that ye would be near me, in this castle and safe. I cannae let ye go so far away, when I ken a killer is on the loose and I wouldnae ken if ye’re well. Even with all the shenanigans ye pulled in Sellek and Turren, I kent ye would be safe.”
“And I was with her all during both of those times,” Ethan’s logic filtered between the two. “As with then, I am sure I can protect her now. Besides, Violet is nay coward and with her senses, I’m sure we can make it through.” His eyes shifted between them and his father. “I’d die before I allowed anything to happen to her.”
“God forbid that does happen,” Laird MacFerson murmured. “What dae ye say, Mister O’Cain? I’m sure Ethan will live up to his word. I can bet me life about that.”
With her breath held in with hope and keeping still as her father visibly came to a decision, she prayed he would allow her to go. When his shoulders sagged and his fingers massaged at his creased forehead, her hope soared.
“All right, ye can go with him,” he replied. “But first, we need to make sure ye two arenae followed. Laird, dae ye have any man Ethan’s size and can ye find a girl close to Violet?”
“I’m sure we can find one.” The Laird squinted. “One of the women servant’s daughters will dae.”
“Good.” Her father then faced her and Ethan. “We’ll need to send them in the opposite direction of where ye are going, just in case someone sees ye. If ye send yer lookalikes off from the inner courtyard and ye take the back pass through the mountains, I ken we’ll be all right.”
Looking at Ethan, he nodded. “While ye get those two, we’ll hurry up and pack.”
“And I’ll send for the kitchen to scurry up some food for yer journey,” his father aimed for the door. The last thing Violet heard before she left the room was, “God help us if this goes wrong.”
18
With his home and father miles behind, the sinking feeling that had begun to grow in his stomach from the moment he had hugged his father was now like a lead ball in his gut. Guiding his horse through the mountain trail, he shot surreptitious looks at Violet who still had the cowl of her cloak over her head.
She had not said a word to him, but perhaps that was best. His mind was so scattered, he would not have been able to hold a conversation if tried. It was a good thing he had long-ago memorized the way to his father’s old hunting cabin—barely three miles north of the castle—or they would be lost.
This was unaccounted for; running away in the face of danger went against every rule he had learned those years while juggling his schooling and his education. He knew this was just for safety precautions but nothing good came from turning one's back to one’s enemy. He felt like he was giving in and giving up, allowing one man to take over his life.
I feel like a coward.
Every fiber of his being was thrumming with the urge to turn back, go home, be with his father, put their heads together and fetter out this murderer. But, one look at the woman riding beside him knew that he could not do it. The best it could do—even though it felt like salt rubbed into his wound—was to be far from the scope of this murderer and make sure Violet was out of harm’s way.
“In here,” he said, nodding to a line of forest that they were approaching. “The path is narrow so ye will have to follow behind me.”
Her head twisted and he noticed her nod, before he faced the overgrown dirt-path again. The hunting cabin was a childhood luxury. When he, Finley, and his father would come up here, once or twice in as many years, it was treated as a sanctuary from the troubles at home.
A memory flashed over his mind, that of his father showing him and his brother how to skin a rabbit, how to kill a deer and eventually, as they grew, how to tan a boar’s hide. The river nearby was their playground, one where he had caught fish in, swam in and nearly drowned in. The trees were always laden with abundant fruit and with the summer in high season, he could bet his name that they were ripened and sugary-sweet to the taste.
The slow plod of the horses’ hooves up the slight slope was rhythmic and steady. Only under a mile, they would arrive at the low wooden cottage, that might be hemmed in with bushes. Which might be in their favor as any passerby—or the man who was after him— might think it was abandoned.
His father had sent them off with food but in case they ran out before he sent word for them to come back, he could always buy what they needed from the coins he carried. Ethan’s mind was mostly back with his father at home, but he was still able to smile at a fox using her nose to nudge her sleepy pups awake.
I wonder what father is doing now, and if the diversion worked.
When Mister O’Cain had said the best thing for them to cover his and Violet’s movement was to send people who looked similar to them, in the opposite direction, it sunk in how dire the situation was. If they had to put others at risk for their safety, how determined was this murderer?
The sight of a gabled roof, made of simple thatched dried heather, had relief calming some of the turmoil inside him. They had arrived. As he neared, his suspicions about the cottage being hemmed in with bush were right. Thick bushes nearly covered the rough-cut stone walls but thankfully, the door was clear.
The path widened a little and Violet came to a stop beside him. While gazing at the old house, where a good portion of his best memories had come from, Violet tugged her cowl down and her eyes ran over the cabin, taking it all in with one look.
“Could do with some upkeep,” she mentioned.
“Aye,” he said while slipping from the saddle and walked forward. “And some de-bushing too.”
The two wide, flat stairs were made of stone so there was no fear of him or Violet crashing through rotten boards. He got to the door’s handle and fingered the heavy, rusted, cast-iron lock resting there, another English appropriation from his uncle. Tugging the key out from his pocket, he slid the key in and had to wrestle the thing to turn. With a tinny grate, and screech the lock popped open and he sighed in relief.
Pushing the door in, he took one step in to scan the room. The floor was board resting over tightly packed dirt and stone and the windows were shuttered. The room itself was bare, with a central firepit, a few chairs and stools, and a shelf where their old bedrolls were placed at the far end. He nearly dropped the key. Damnation! They had packed so quickly that they had not remembered to carry bedrolls, only sheets. Another reason he wished this murderer would just topple over dead. It would be nothing less than a miracle if those bedrolls were serviceable.
“It’s nay much,” he said, while moving to the open a window. “But we’ll have to make it work for the time being.”
Violet silently moved to the firepit, trailing her hands over the iron spokes fixed just so high that a pot holding food or water could dangle over the coals without touching them. “Did ye spend a lot of time here?”
“Aye,” he said, glancing at the backdoor where he had nearly tumbled through when was six. “These four walls hold a lot of fond memories…” his eyes shifted to a section of the wall where Finley had held him trapped because he had stolen the last piece of honey-cake and was forced to laugh, “…not much but th
ose I have, I’ll cherish to the day I die.”
“Some were from Finley, I suspect,” she said while tugging her cloak off and folding it over her arm. He did the same and hung it over.
“Most were,” he added. “See what ye can dae about…anything in here while I go get the horses set around the back. Up there are the bedrolls we used, but that was years ago. If, by any miracle, they’re nae infested with critters, we may be able to put them to use again with the sheets we carried.”
“I’ll see what can be done,” Violet nodded.
Striding out, he unpacked the horses first, dropping the bags on the tiny porch then grasped both horses by their leads and forging a trek through the bushes. He managed to lead them to the backyard where there were enough trees for cover and grass for food.
There was one oak tree in particular that had a lot of memories. Tying them on different sides of the tree he looked beyond to where the land dipped to a slope, where at the base, ran a river with enough water and fish for them to use in the next few days.
Taking the saddles was easy and he managed to rest both on low-lying but sturdy tree limbs. His hand then drifted to the trunk where the crude knife marks of his initials and Finley’s still were. His fingertip slid in the jagged groove where Finely’s ‘F’ was slanted, a product of a nine-year-old’s tenuous grasp on a knife’s handle.
“I’ll revenge ye, brother,” he whispered. “I swear it.”
Going back to the backdoor, he paused a moment before he knocked on it. Was Violet singing? He rapped on the door quickly and in a moment, he heard the latch slid back and the door swing in. She stepped away but on the floor near her, he saw the old pallets open and surprisingly intact.
“I suppose they have some use after all,” he murmured.
“Aye.” She pointed to a window. “I couldnae get that one open, can ye?”
It was then he realized the windows were open, the floor looked swept, the bags of clothes and food were nearly aligned and there was coal dumped into the firepit. Had she done all this in the short time he had been outside?
She did say she took over the household duties when her maither died…
“Ethan?”
He snapped out of his musing, “Oh, o’course.”
It took a little wiggling and tugging but the shutters were removed and the window open. The cabin looked marginally better, but it was still bare. He still needed to get water for them, so he went to search the cupboards and found some buckets. While he looked, Violet found two strike irons from a shelf and smiled.
“At least we won’t be cold,” she said.
“Or hungry,” he added. “I’ll get some water for us, and will be back soon. Ye did carry Shadow with ye, aye, use it without remorse if anyone but me comes in.”
“Aye,” her lips twitched.
Grabbing the buckets, he headed off to the river. With any luck, this asylum would be only temporary, Mister O’Cain and his father would find this man themselves and have him drawn and quartered. He would go back home, ask Mister O’Cain if Violet could stay a while longer and then…
Then what? What if she doesnae take to life up here at all?
Huffing out a breath, he placed the filled bucket on the riverbank and filled the other. There was not much assurance how his connection—relationship—with Violet was going to progress, but he knew he was not ready to give her up. With both buckets in hand, he went up the slope and rested them on the small porch to knock.
When she allowed him in, he rested the buckets near the far end where they would not be in the way of being tripped over. Violet went to a seat she had placed by the window and looked out with a solemn moue. “What’s on yer mind?”
“Probably the same thing that’s on yers,” she replied, slowly turning her head to him. “If they found out who is behind all this upset yet.”
“And what if they havenae,” he sagged on the nearest wall. “We might be in hiding for weeks, if nay months.”
Snickering, Violet slanted an amused look to him, “Is staying with me for all that time going to be so much of a hardship?”
Besides himself, he felt his lips twitch too. “Nay, I suppose it won’t.”
Casting a look out the window, he saw the bright haze of the afternoon begin to dim. Evening was soon coming and with that, they needed to eat and then figure out where to sleep. Shuffling to get the bag holding their food, he called over his shoulder, “What are ye in for?”
“Something warm,” she said. “Did we bring the skins of milk? I’d like to warm some.”
Fishing into the sack, he pulled out one of the skins and handed it to her, then went to find a pot so she could heat the contents in. Kneeling, he searched a trunk and pulled out a copper pot. His appetite was gone but Violet needed to eat after nearly two hours of continuous riding. Rinsing the pot out he handed it over but she bypassed it to rest a hand on his shoulder, tipped up and kissed his cheek.
His hand slipped around her back and kissed her, slow and sweet, once, a mere meeting of the lips, twice with a soft suck on her tongue and then, a deep, thorough kiss that earned him a dazed look and a tiny stumble from her when he pulled away.
“Let’s get ye that milk,” he said.
* * *
He did not know the hour but his best guess was that it was past midnight. Laying on his makeshift bed, with both hands tucked behind his head he stared blankly at the ceiling.
He couldn’t sleep, because raw worry was gnawing at his gut. His father…his brother…Mister O’Cain…the murderer. Had they found the man yet? Had the killer made the mistake of following the two decoys and was now captured? Or, had he stayed away and they were going to be here for a longer time?
With no word from his father, he felt his gut twist. Rubbing his face hard, he swore that he could not wait for this isolation to be over. Exhaling loudly, he shifted on his side to see Violet, her back turned to him as she slept.
At least she can rest.
There was just too much on his mind for him to sleep, or eat despite his burning eyes or protesting stomach. Turning back, a wry thought ran through his mind and he had to snort quietly. This place was so quiet that he realized that he missed the little, familiar noises of the castle.
The almost inaudible tread of a guard passing by his door, of the sounds of the pots and pans banging from the kitchens. The only constant thing from there to here, was the clear moonlight streaming through the windows and the shadows they evoked over the ceiling.
Dawn might find him there still worrying about what might or might not happen but he could not afford to show his worry to Violet. He had to be strong enough for both of them, even though he felt like he was in the middle of the bog, sinking slowly.
What if his father did die? Would he be launched into the Lairdship and have to flounder his way through it? No matter how his father told him that he had the affinity for it, he knew he needed his father’s decade-old years of wisdom to bolster him.
Forcing his eyes to close just in case he would slip off to the sleep he needed, he still ruminated over the upsetting issues. Unwittingly, fatigue dragged him into sleep, and he woke up with strong sunlight skimming over the back of his neck as he was laying on his stomach.
He blinked the sleep from his eyes and shifted to see Violet’s pallet empty and her sheets folded atop it. Then, his nose was filled was the smell of beef but sweeter. Sitting up, and rubbing his eyes, he saw Violet stirring something over the firepit with a placid look on her face.
“Mornin’,” he said, covering his yawning mouth.
Looking over her shoulder, she nodded, “How was your rest?”
“Fitful,” he shucked the sheet off and stood, stretching the kinks out of his back, bare shoulders and rolling his neck. “I dinnae fall off until sometime before dawn.”
Rubbing his face, he asked. “What are ye cooking?”
Not earning a reply from her, he looked and spotted her eyes tracing over his bare chest and soft pink blooming on h
er cheeks. His eyebrow ticked up and she jerked her head away. “Er…I found a way to stew down the beef we carried. I ken it would be better than eating it dry.”
“And did ye manage that?” He asked, going to the pot and looking in.
His proximity was so close that he felt her body heat and her eyes were latched onto his chest, deep chocolate orbs skimming over the tense slabs of corded muscles. Pretending to not see it or let the after-effects of her warm gaze show, he smiled at the meat now simmering in dark sauce.
Violet swallowed, but kept her tone light, “Trade secret.”
Chuckling, he pulled away and went to get two more buckets, “Of course it is. I’ll go wash and be back soon.”
“Where?” she asked.
The Highlander's Captured Bride (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance) Page 18
