Beloved Stranger (34 page)

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Authors: Patricia Potter

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Scottish

BOOK: Beloved Stranger
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“
I
think of him as Mr. Howard.”
He would always be the Scot to Kimbra.
“He is a lord, Audra, and I imagine an important man. He is not ‘our’ Robert Howard.”
“But he will not leave us,” Audra said stubbornly.
“Aye, he has his own home and family.”
“Can we go with him?”
“Nay.”
“Why?”
“Because he is a noble, and we are not. He is Scottish, and we are English. He has his life, and we have ours.”
“Can I see him?”
“If the Charlton permits it. We should leave soon.” She truly needed to be gone this day. There was Bess and the chickens. Her garden. Her herbs. She had promised Jane some bay leaves.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. Though difficult, the cottage and her herbs had been
her
life and with Audra a satisfactory one. She had been caught up in a fantasy she knew would end.
“He was going to give me lessons on the lute,” Audra persisted.
“Mayhap he still will. I will have to fetch it from the cottage.” She grabbed at the chance to leave here, to return to the cottage, and do things she did every day. She would stop in at Jane’s. Now she could tell her friend more. Not everything. But more.
It would keep her thoughts from the Scot and how she felt yesterday when he’d made love to her. And then today . . .
Was it only yesterday?
“I will ask the Charlton if you can see—” She did not know which name to use. She was so accustomed to thinking of him as simply the Scot.
She left the room and went to the Charlton’s room and knocked, thought she’d heard something inside, and opened the door tentatively.
He was alone, and he motioned her in.
“May I have leave to tend the animals and fetch my daughter’s lute? She will stay here. I will return before nightfall.”
“I can send someone over to bring the animals in.”
“There are items I need.”
“Then I will send someone to accompany ye.”
“I would like to go alone,” she persisted. She could not explain why.
“It is not safe.”
“It is daylight, and I will be back before dark,” she persisted. She really wanted, needed, to be alone. “I have made the trip alone hundreds of times, and you know the raiders never strike during the day.”
“If ye are not back, I will send men for ye,” he finally relented.
She wasted no more time. She fetched her cloak, then went down to the stables. Magnus was already saddled. The Charlton must have sent word.
She was soon away from the walls, racing Magnus down the road. She wanted to flee from her thoughts. Had she made a terrible mistake? Her soul bled every time she recalled the Scot’s eyes, the plea in them. The plea that she believe in him.
She finally slowed Magnus down. She would fetch the lute, and the ruby ring. She did not know when the Charlton would allow her to return. She would feed the chickens and milk Bess, then take Bess to Jane’s. She would ask Jane to check the chickens the next day as well.
When she turned toward her cottage, she looked back and she saw a man on horseback. She recognized him.
So the Charlton had sent someone, after all. It unexpectedly warmed her. She realized it was because he cared about her. That had come as a surprise. She’d known he liked Will, but he had always seemed indifferent toward her.
She could live with her distant protector.
She knew now, however, how much she longed for a tall, blue-eyed Scot, instead.
UDRA did not have permission, but she went
A
boldly to where the Scot was kept and told the guard she did.
He looked at her suspiciously. “Ye are not carrying a pike, are ye?”
“Nay.”
“Did ye bring anything?”
She felt her face turn red. There was a sweet secreted in the sleeve of her gown. She pulled it out sheepishly.
He gave her a severe look. “There is no weapon in there?”
Not entirely sure whether he was serious or teasing, she shook her head.
“Well, then ye can go in,” he yielded with a grin.
He opened the door, then he stood aside and allowed her to go in, and shut the door behind her.
The man she’d known as Robert Howard had been looking out the window. She knew because he’d halfway turned to face her.
“Miss Audra,” he said in the soft voice he always used with her.
“Do you want to see me?” she asked forthrightly.
“Aye, always.”
“But not my mother?”
“Why do you say that?”
“She is very sad. I think she cried. She never cries,” Audra said solemnly.
He knelt on one knee. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Were you mean to her?”
“I did not intend to be.”
“She said you are going away.”
“Aye, I must.”
“Why?”
“Because Scots are not welcome here.”
“You are welcome at our cottage.”
“Unfortunately you are the exception in thinking so.”
“ ’ Xception? What does that mean?”
“Exception means that you think one way when everyone else thinks another.”
She thought about that. “Like Mother.”
He smiled. “Aye, like your mother.”
“She went to fetch my lute. Will you teach me another song?”
“Aye, but you do not need me now. You know your notes. You can learn on your own.”
“I want to read, too.”
“Do you remember what I taught you? The letters as well?”
“I say them every night, so I will not forget.”
“Can you tell me now?”
She did. She missed a
p,
but other than that was perfect.
He would send them books. Lots of them.
He didn’t want to send them. He wanted to be there when they opened them. He wanted to see the same delight on their faces that he felt at opening a book.
He wanted to hear Audra read out loud. He wanted to see Kimbra bent over a book, her face intent.
Blazes, he did not want to lose either one of them.
She is very sad. I think she cried. She never cries.
He had stood at the window and watched her ride away. He had known she rode away from him.
His heart was riding away as well.
“You say your mother went for your lute?”
She nodded.
He’d watched her ride off alone. What was she thinking? He saw the sudden concern in Audra’s eyes and knew his own apprehension must be obvious.
“She will be fine,” he assured her, even though his own heart was pounding. Cedric was out there. Armstrongs were raiding. God only knew what else. Damn the Charlton for letting her go.
He tried not to let his own worry show. “Would you like a story?” he asked. “One of a lad who went to sea?”
“I would like that very much,” she said primly.
“Then I will tell you of Dan, a boy not much older than you who was a cabin lad . . .”
And all the time he told the story, he kept thinking of Kimbra riding alone.
She was so sad.
How could he possibly let her go?
He couldn’t. He’d been a damned fool to let pride blind him to what should have been obvious. He’d obviously hurt her by his reaction to seeing the crest. And still she was trying to protect him. She feared who she was might turn his family against him. She didn’t realize that not having her would hurt far more.
Even as he told his tale to Audra, he prayed the Charlton would let him see her again, that he would not be too late.
 
 
T
HE cottage did not look as welcoming as it usually did. She had just ensured the Scot would want naught to do with her again. She saw little now to commend the future. She didn’t even have the crest. Not that she wanted it now. She wished she had never seen the infernal thing.
She took Magnus to the stable, unsaddled him, and gave him some oats. Bess mooed plaintively, and she milked the cow. Finished, Kimbra left them then and went to the cottage. Just as she was about to open the door, a tall man stepped in front of her. She whirled around, and another had appeared behind her.
Unease crawled up her spine. Armstrongs?
They could be. They looked like any borderer, but they were not Charltons. She would have recognized them.
“Mistress Charlton? Kimbra Charlton?”
The voice from the man in front of her was soft, courteous. It sounded much like the Scot’s when she first found him. It did not go with his rough clothing. It went with the fine plaid that the Scot had worn before she had cut it from his body.
“Aye,” she said cautiously.
“Is there a lad here?”
Surprised, she looked up. “Nay.” She thought about saying her husband and his very large older brother, who were out hunting, would be back momentarily. But if he knew her name, then he probably also knew she was a widow. She studied him. He had dark hair and gray eyes.
She turned around. The man behind her was almost as tall with red hair. He was uncommonly handsome.
“Mistress,” he acknowledged. “We are not here to harm you.” He spoke with a heavy brogue, one far greater than that of either her Scot or the dark-haired stranger.
She turned back to the dark-haired man.
He looked around. “You are alone?”
She did not answer.
“I understand the border is dangerous,” he added, obviously taking her silence as an answer.
Was he one of the dangers?
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Do you know a man named Lachlan?”
“Why should it matter to you?”
“He is my brother.”
She was stunned. This man looked nothing like Lachlan. But he must be the Maclean, chief of the Macleans. She’d heard at the tower that he had been searching for his brother.
He was risking much by coming to this side of the border.
She had no reason to lie. The Charlton now knew her Scot was a Maclean. She did not want this one to try to do something that might put Lachlan in danger.
“Aye, I know him,” she replied cautiously.
“I am Rory Maclean. This is Jamie Campbell.”
“Jamie Campbell?”
The redheaded stranger moved around to stand next to Rory Maclean. “I was with Lachlan at Flodden Field,” he said. “I was taken for ransom. Is that what happened here?”
“Nay.” ’Twasn’t the whole truth.
“Is he safe at the tower?” Rory Maclean broke in. “Is he well?”
“Aye. He is now, but he was badly wounded. He might have a limp.” She had lost her fear of them. What she wanted was more information.
“Thank God,” the Maclean muttered, and she realized that Lachlan meant much to these two men. The redheaded one had even risked recapture and death to find him.
“The Charlton has sent a messenger to the Armstrongs asking for ransom. He heard someone was looking for Lachlan.”
The Maclean stared hard at her. “I heard that King Henry was warning borderers about keeping Scots for ransom.”
“He is, but the Charlton had taken a liking to . . . to the Scot.”
She thought again about the man following them. How far behind had he been when she approached the cottage? Had the Charlton asked him to come all the way, or wait on the road?
“It is dangerous for you. A Charlton was following me.”
“Someone is watching down the road,” Rory Maclean said.
Fear curdled inside her. “I do not want a Charlton hurt on my behalf.”
The one named Jamie looked at the Maclean and abruptly left. The two men seemed to communicate without words, and that surprised her. Even on the English border she’d heard of the great feud between the Campbells and Macleans.
She turned back to the Maclean. “Come inside,” she said.
Once inside, he looked around the small cottage. It had been big to her, but it must seem very humble to him.
Rory Maclean was one of the most intimidating men she’d ever met. Those gray eyes gave nothing away. His lips were stern, unsmiling.
“You have the Maclean crest,” he said without preamble. “How did you get it?”
She was so startled she could not reply. Then she fought for time. “Why do you think . . . ?”
“A priest said a lad riding a black horse asked him to read the words.”
“There are many lads and many black horses.”
“No’ so many,” he replied. “It was you?”
She did not want to answer. She sought to divert him, instead. “Would you like some ale?”
“I would like some answers more,” the Maclean said. “What happened to Lachlan?”
“I found him in the woods,” she said, repeating the story she’d told everyone else. She did not want Lachlan’s brother to know she was little better than a grave robber. “He was wounded. I brought him here.”
“How badly?”
“He nearly died. He had many wounds. There was a blow to his head. His leg was badly hurt, the ribs had been damaged. He’d lost much blood.”
“And now?”
“He has a limp. I do not know whether it will last.”
The Maclean muttered something.
“You healed him?” he asked then.
“Nay, your brother healed himself. He was determined to live.”
“He fought with the Charltons. Why?”
She looked at him with surprise. “How did you know . . . ?”
“I fought him. I was staying with the Armstrongs. They asked me to come along. During the fighting I thought I recognized one of the . . . enemy but I was not sure because he was wearing a helmet. He raised his sword against me, then suddenly stopped as if . . . surprised, stunned.”
He paused, then continued, “But if it had been Lachlan, why would he not have said something? Why was he fighting for the English?”
“He lost his memories. He did not know who he was,” she said. “He would not have known who you were. There must have been a second when he realized something about you was familiar.”

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