Heart's Thief (Highland Bodyguards, Book 2) (7 page)

Fabian carefully slipped another folded missive into one of the many stacks covering his desk.

That particular pile was to be delivered to the Earl of Arundel. They contained quite lurid details about one of Arundel’s rival earls—something about a young male lover, as Fabian recalled overhearing.

Arundel would no doubt use the letters to blackmail his rival. Fabian smiled to himself. There was something pure about the transaction. Arundel paid Fabian. Fabian produced the missives. Then the Earl’s rival paid Arundel. It was almost quaint in its simplicity.

Of course, not all of Fabian’s dealings were quite so straightforward. This was the modern era, after all. Not everything could be solved by simply stealing a missive and selling its contents. Nay, these days, it was all so terribly complicated.

Fabian pinched the bridge of his nose. Now not only did he have to maintain his network of pickpockets and missive lifters, but he also had to juggle the ones who dealt purely in information. Not every situation could be solved by stealing a letter, which meant that he had to train his underlings to read, to open missives while making sure the seal was unbroken, and to be able to memorize and report back to him.

He looked across the sea of parchment before him. Even in these advanced times, he supposed he still fundamentally dealt in the simple reality of paper. He kept careful records of every favor owed him, every balance unmet, every promise whispered in gratitude or in fear.

Hopefully with Robert the Bruce stationed in Lochmaben for the foreseeable future, he wouldn’t have to leave this convenient base of operations not far outside of Carlisle. It was always such a terrible headache to move his meticulously stacked records.

A loud rap on the door yanked Fabian from his musings.

“It is Miles, milord.” The man’s voice was urgent through the thick wood.

“Enter.”

Mile’s enormous form nigh took up the entire doorframe as he entered.

Even a quick glance at the man told Fabian something was wrong. Miles’s boots and breeches were splattered with mud, his tunic and uncovered head damp. Though he was a strong, powerful man, he gasped for breath as if he’d just had to run for his life.

Miles dipped his dark head in a quick bow.

“Out with it,” Fabian said sharply.

“Sabine has discovered something…most worrisome, milord.”

Fabian’s gut coiled with apprehension. “What happened?”

“I gave her the description and location of the Bruce’s messenger and the brute riding with him yesterday afternoon. Then yestereve, she showed up at Devorgilla’s Bridge and whistled for me.”

Fabian rolled his wrist with impatience, urging Miles on.

“She said she had no trouble getting to the messenger, milord, but that once she opened the missive, it was blank.”

Cold comprehension washed through Fabian’s veins like ice water.

“She’s sure it was the Bruce’s missive?”

“She seemed sure, milord. She believes the Bruce is on to you, and perhaps even hoped to catch you in his trap with that blank missive.”

Fabian’s hand slid over his mouth to finger his neatly trimmed goatee. “Ah. And the messenger’s bodyguard—he was actually the King’s plant.”

Miles nodded. Though the giant of a man was kept on more for his brawn than his brains, it was obvious enough that even he had managed to piece it together. Fabian muttered a curse.

“And where is Sabine now?”

“I left her behind in Dumfries. I told her to find her way to you, but I believe…”

Fabian slapped his hand on his desk, sending several scraps of parchment fluttering. “Speak!”

Miles’s dark eyes turned flat. There was the obedient warrior Fabian needed. All it took was a show of anger.

“I believe the King’s brute caught up with her. When I realized she wasn’t behind me, I saw a rider approach her from behind.”

A new fear seized Fabian’s innards. “Do you think she has turned on me?”

“Nay, milord,” Miles answered quickly. “Her only thought when she told me of the blank missive was to get word to you as swiftly as possible. She is still loyal.”

Fabian waved his hand in annoyance. “Nay, you fool,” he snapped. “I didn’t believe she was working with the man already. I have her too well trained for that. I meant—do you think she
could
be turned against me? You’ve seen her in the field. If certain…pressures were applied, might she compromise me?”

Miles remained silent for a long moment. At last, he spoke. “I cannot be certain, milord. As you say, you have her well trained. But many things can happen in the field.”

Fabian stroked his goatee in thought. Though he had once been little more than a hungry pickpocket himself, it had been years since he’d actually worked in the field.

He’d grown up in a brothel, his mother and the other whores encouraging his light fingers to lift extra coins from the patrons. Once he’d become a man himself, he’d taken over the running of the brothel and found the manipulation of people’s hopes and fears much more satisfying—and lucrative—than simply picking pockets.

He’d built this network—nay,
empire
—of thieves and spies singlehandedly. The most powerful men in all of England sought him out. With his expansion into the Scottish Lowlands, his reach and his wealth were sure to double.

What was all that worth? What did Sabine know, and how much did her life cost?

Fabian exhaled slowly, disappointed at the decision he knew he had to make. He’d recruited her young—he found that children were easier to manipulate—and trained her personally. She’d been especially responsive to the idea that he cared for her, that she was special to him somehow. Many orphans were.

Sabine’s sharp mind had proven suited for lessons in reading and memorization, for which he was pleased. Finding street urchins with those predilections was rare.

He’d even saved her virginity all these years in the hopes that it could be used strategically for his gain someday. He’d fantasized about earning a King’s ransom if he sent her to be bedded by some powerful earl or other. The incident could be used as blackmail—or even payment, for she was a pretty young thing.

He clucked his tongue at his own hesitation. Aye, she was a sweet little pawn, but she wasn’t worth all that he’d built over the years.

Sighing again, he brought his attention back to Miles.

“Both the Bruce’s messenger and the bodyguard have seen her. As far as you know, she is in the thug’s hands, and the Bruce knows that his missives have been compromised.”

Miles nodded again mutely.

“I suppose there is only one course of action then.” He smoothed his silk vest, rolling his head on his neck. “Kill her.”

“Aye, milord.” Miles’s coarse features were impassive at the order. It wasn’t his first time with such a task, after all. In this line of work, secrecy was everything—and secrecy sometimes must be paid for in blood.

“Take a man or two with you. The twins, mayhap. Go back to Dumfries and see if you can track her or the Bruce’s thug down. Report back to me when the task is complete.”

“Aye, milord,” Miles repeated. With a quick bow, he ducked out of Fabian’s chamber.

Fabian returned his attention to his stacks of secrets and promises, tidbits of information and bills for satisfied clients. A flicker of disappointment once again slid through him at the loss of such a valuable tool as Sabine, but it vanished as he lifted a new slip of parchment.

By the time blue-gray dusk fell, Sabine’s shoulder pulsed with pain so great that she could feel it throbbing in her clenched teeth. With each of the horse’s steps, her arm jostled, shooting aching agony into her shoulder. The sling kept her from having to hold her arm up, but it did naught to alleviate the clopping of the large stallion’s hooves.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning.

“Are we going to stop soon?” she managed when she couldn’t stand the pain any longer.

“Aye, soon enough,” Colin said gruffly. But suddenly he stiffened behind her. “Ye are in pain.”

She was too exhausted to deny it. “Aye.”

“Ye should have said something earlier, lass,” he said, though there was no longer an edge to his voice.

He wrapped a hard arm around her chest, his hand closing over her injured shoulder.

She inhaled sharply, fearing a fresh wave of agony, but instead his hand supported her shoulder, smoothing the roughest of the jolts. He held her close against his chest so that her body rolled with his instead of jarring with each of the horse’s steps.

She couldn’t help the little whimper of relief that slipped from her lips as his fingers began to gently massage the aching joint.

How could he be so hard and so gentle at the same time? Before the pain in her shoulder had grown so overpowering, she’d been acutely aware of Colin’s warm, muscular form behind her—nay, not just behind her, but
around
her. His corded thighs encased hers, the large hand holding the reins dangerously close to brushing her stomach.

And now his steely forearm pressed against her breasts as that callused hand massaged her shoulder. Another moan of relief slipped past her lips as his fingers worked magic on her sore muscles.

The black outline of a little village against the twilit sky jerked her back to reality. How could she be mewling like a well-fed kitten, melting into Colin’s arms, when he was her enemy?

None of this made sense. Why hadn’t he tortured her yet? And if he was to be believed, he wasn’t going to torture her at all. The grudging gentleness of this Highland warrior didn’t fit with everything Fabian had told her of the world. Hell, she’d seen a bit of the world herself, and Colin’s kindness didn’t add up.

But never mind all that. He was still holding her against her will, keeping her from Fabian. They were traveling west rather than east, where she knew Robert the Bruce had stationed himself in Lochmaben. Mayhap Colin had something worse in store for her than turning her over to his King as a missive thief.

Whatever he was up to, she was still in trouble. With any luck, Miles had already reached Fabian and told him of the Bruce’s blank missive. Mayhap Fabian was already on the move again, hunkering down in some safe house or distant town where he could lie low for a while. He’d always made it clear that if she were ever compromised in the field, it would be too dangerous for him to retrieve her. She’d have to take care of herself.

She shifted a little in the saddle, accidentally shoving her bottom into the crux of his thighs. Colin exhaled sharply, his fingers stiffening on her shoulder for the briefest moment before resuming their careful massage.

Sabine cursed herself for a fool. She had to think, had to form a plan.

If Colin wasn’t going to torture information out of her, he just might be lax enough to allow her to escape. She could head back toward Carlisle and see if she could pick up a trace of Fabian. With a little luck and a lot of work, she might be able to find him again.

But first she had to free herself from Colin. This little village they were riding into might provide just the opportunity.

“Are we stopping here?” she asked, cursing herself again for the thinness of her voice.

“Aye,” Colin rasped, his hand dropping from her shoulder. “If ye behave yerself, ye may even get to sleep in a bed tonight instead of on the wet ground.”

He flicked the left side of her cloak over her slung shoulder, and the right side over where her wrist was bound to the saddle’s pommel. “Dinnae even think of causing trouble,” he murmured against her ear. “And dinnae say aught in that bloody English accent of yers.”

A shiver raised the hairs on the nape of her neck, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the dark warning in his voice or the way his lips had grazed her lobe when he’d spoken so softly into her ear.

She nodded curtly, not trusting her voice.

Colin guided his horse past the first row of buildings and down a narrower road into the heart of the village. A few of the huts and two-story shops glowed from the inside with candlelight, but most were dark.

An inn came into view ahead, the double doors of its common room thrown open to the mild evening air. Light and cheery noise spilled out into the muddy street as they approached.

Colin reined the stallion off to the right, where the inn’s dim stables sat.

“I willnae warn ye again,” he said in that low, velvety voice. He slid from the horse’s back and took the reins, walking the animal, Sabine still tied to his back, toward the stables.

As they reached the stables, a lad perhaps a year or two younger than Sabine emerged from the shadows.

“Can I help ye with yer horse, milord?” the lad asked.

“Nay, but thank ye,” Colin said, his voice light and friendly all of a sudden. “My wife and I would greatly appreciate it if ye’d see the innkeeper about a room for us, though.”

Sabine nigh jumped out of her skin at the word “wife,” so casually spoken in his lilting brogue—referring to
her
. She swallowed her surprise quickly. She needed to keep her wits sharp if an opportunity to escape presented itself.

Colin was clearly trying to rid himself of the stable lad. So, he thought the less others saw and interacted with them, the safer he’d be from curious eyes or the risk of Sabine acting up. An idea began to form at the realization, but it would mean she’d have to act fast before her window of opportunity vanished.

As Colin led her and the stallion into the stables, the sound of hooves sucking in mud drew up behind them.

“Evening,” the solitary man said cheerily, dismounting from his horse with a grunt. He landed with a splat in the mud.

Colin nodded in greeting, leading Sabine deeper into the stables.

“One room for ye inside, milord,” the lad said, appearing at the stable doors next to the newcomer. “And for ye, milord? May I assist ye with yer horse or secure a room at the inn?”

This was as good an opportunity as Sabine could hope for. Though the lad looked rather scrawny and she couldn’t see in the twilight dimness if the solitary rider bore a weapon, she was unlikely to have access to anyone else for the rest of the night.

She dragged in a deep breath.

“Help me!” she shrieked, startling not only the men in the stable but the horses as well. “This man has kidnapped me and holds me against my will!”

She flicked her right shoulder back, revealing her bound wrist.

If it was a commotion she wanted, she didn’t get one. Instead, the stable lad’s jaw dropped open and the rider’s eyes rounded in shock.

She’d been careful to use her Lowland accent, since she doubted these Scots would much care if one of their countrymen had stolen an Englishwoman. And they could see that she was tied to the saddle—couldn’t they? Why were they just staring at her?

“Foolish lass,” Colin growled, glaring up at her.

“Help me, please!” she tried again, turning a pleading gaze on the two at the door.

At last, they seemed to come to their senses.

“What’s all this about?” the newcomer asked cautiously, taking a step forward.

Colin casually tossed back one side of his cloak to reveal the jutting hilt of his longsword.

“Leave it, friend.” His voice was deceptively calm, for this close, Sabine could see that his whole body had tensed in preparation for a fight.

“He kidnapped me,” Sabine said again in a rush. “He took me from my home and I dinnae ken what he’ll—”

“Sabine, enough!”

“Calm down, man,” the lone rider said, taking another step forward. “There is no reason why we cannae sort this out.” Though his words were spoken judiciously, he too flicked back his cloak to reveal a sheathed sword.

The stable lad sidled behind the other man uncertainly, his eyes wide and shifting between Colin and Sabine.

“Bloody hell,” Colin muttered, sounding suddenly resigned to something unpleasant.

Abruptly, he yanked his sword from its scabbard. He moved like lighting across the stables. A startled cry rose in Sabine’s throat, but she swallowed it. This was exactly what she wanted.

Twisting in the saddle, she had to stifle another gasp of surprise. Colin’s blade flashed dully in the dim light, but he wielded the hilt end at the rider. The man ducked under the hilt, which had been aimed at his skull, just as the stable lad sent up a shout for help.

Sabine’s chance for escape was slipping away all too quickly. She twisted her wrist hard against the rope binding her to the pommel, but Colin’s knot held. Biting back a cry of pain as the coarse rope grated against her skin, she leaned forward, this time with the intent of snatching the horse’s reins with her left hand, which hung limply from its sling.

Her shoulder screamed in protest at the movement as she fumbled to reach the reins, which dangled from the horse’s mouth.

Colin threw his shoulder into the rider, knocking him off balance. He raised the heavy hilt of his sword once more and brought it down on the man’s head. The rider slumped to the ground with a moan, knocked out cold.

The stable lad scrambled backward, his hands raised to show that he was unarmed. With a muttered curse, Colin straightened from his fighting stance and began to re-sheathe his sword.

This was it—Sabine’s last chance. She gave up on the reins and instead dug her heels into the horse’s flanks, praying that she could control the enormous animal once he broke into a run. At least she was lashed to the saddle, she thought distantly.

To her horror, the horse grunted but didn’t budge. She spurred it again, squeezing both her heels and knees this time. Still, the cursed animal didn’t move.

“He’s too well trained for that.”

Her stomach dropped to the stable floor at Colin’s even voice as he approached her from behind. She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to believe that she’d failed so miserably.

“What’s going on?”

Sabine froze at the sound of several people hurrying toward the stable. The lad’s cry for help had brought reinforcements. She spun in the saddle to find half a dozen men crowding into the stable door.

Colin, too, had turned to find the men eyeing him where he stood not far from the rider’s unconscious form.

“The lass says she needs help—claims she’s been kidnapped,” the stable lad said from the safety of the back of the group.

Several blades hissed as they were drawn from their sheaths.

“Let’s no’ do this, lads,” Colin said wearily. The men only stepped farther into the stable.

Sabine forgot to urge the stallion into motion as several of the newly arrived men surged forward, swords and daggers drawn.

Colin moved like the lion she’d once idly compared him to in her mind—powerful, graceful, and most of all lethal. Yet as before, she was shocked to realize that he did not attempt to swing the sharp edge of his sword at his attackers.

He blocked a blow aimed at his sword arm, then pivoted half a heartbeat later to stop another blade from slicing his leg. Spinning, he slammed his hilt into his first attacker’s nose.

Blood suddenly flowed dark and fast down the man’s face. He stumbled backward, clutching his broken nose as blood dripped through his fingers.

Colin didn’t slow or falter as he turned to the next man. As he smoothly fended off two others’ blades, his boot shot out to deliver a powerful kick to a third’s chest. The man stumbled back, gasping for breath.

Now all four of the remaining inn patrons leapt at Colin, but the narrow walkway in the middle of the stables only allowed two of them to swing their blades at him.

Sabine looked on helplessly. Only if the inn patrons took Colin out would she be able to free her wrist from the saddle and find a new blasted horse who would take her orders. Something strange pinched in her chest at the thought of one of the men piercing Colin with a blade, however.

She shoved the errant thought aside as Colin blocked another attack, then leveled a third man with a crushing punch to the jaw.

One of the three remaining inn patrons still on his feet suddenly darted forward, sword raised. With a whir of steel, he slashed the blade across Colin’s chest.

Sabine shrieked with unchecked fright as the blade’s motion seemed to slow just before it sliced into Colin’s chest. Colin twisted and hunched his back, drawing his chest away from the line of the sword.

Nevertheless, the tip of the sword still made contact. The sound of rending fabric filled Sabine’s ears as the sword snagged on Colin’s tunic.

Colin stumbled backward, one hand coming to his chest, but no blood welled between his fingers.