The Enchantress (4 page)

Suddenly, everything made sense. As far as her two sisters knew, she had gone not to the Convent of St. Agnes, but to a little convent connected with the Shrine of St. Duthac, just to the south in the village of Tain.

South of Fearnoch Firth.

South...in Ross lands.

The revelation made her feel no better.

Laura quickly bent down and soaked the kerchief again in the cold, clear water. As she gently cleaned the wound, she chided herself for her error. It was only natural that her sisters would contact someone from the Ross clan. And it was also natural, given the animosity between the Ross clan and the Sinclairs, that this man would think she was being held against her will.

“Why couldn’t you explain this to me before?” She knelt over the unconscious warrior. “‘Twould serve you right if I just left you here to freeze...treating me as you did!”

But Laura knew she couldn’t do that. In all probability, no one would be passing through this thickly wooded glen until spring. And though the blood had stopped flowing from one of the two wounds and the man’s color was improving, she had no way of knowing how long he’d be unconscious. If the cold didn’t kill him, some wild animal would certainly drag him off.

Glancing over her shoulder, Laura saw his horse standing quietly and watching her curiously. “You won’t let me leave him here, will you?”

The handsome steed snorted and pawed the ground.

“Very well! Then come and help me.” Stretching one hand out toward the animal, she quietly waited until, after a moment of hesitation, the horse moved across the gravel and came right to her--rubbing his muzzle in her open hand. Taking hold of his reins, Laura got to her feet and, for assurance, tied the animal to a tree branch hanging down from the steep embankment above the rocky ledge. Two large leather bags hung across the steed’s flank, and she turned her attention to the bags’ contents.

“We can’t take him back to your own people,” she said, pulling a plain gray blanket from one of the bags. The horse tossed his head and snorted in response.

Laura frowned. “No matter what you say, we cannot do that. I have no knowledge of the roads leading to the south. I have no idea how far ‘tis to Tain. And besides, even if I left it to you to take us there--and we made the trip successfully--my life will be forfeit for certain for dealing such a blow to one of their kin.”

The animal flicked his ears at the woman and looked away.

“I am
not
going south,” she said adamantly, opening the blanket and putting it to the side. Next, she leaned down and again checked the man’s head. The bleeding had stopped.

“At the same time, it would probably not do to be found by the Sinclairs. Heaven knows what they’d do to your master after all he did to them back in Fearnoch. Then I’d never find out what he knows of my sisters.”

The horse’s next snort had an agreeable tone to it.

“Aye. The Convent of St. Agnes ‘tis, then. But I’ll need your help, my friend, to get him on your back.” She leaned over the Highlander again and rolled him onto his back. He groaned as his wound touched the stony streambed, and she paused to look at him.

By the Virgin, he
is
a handsome man, she thought self-consciously, kneeling down beside him. But then, she’d known that from the moment she’d first gazed into his deep blue eyes in the market square. Tall and lean with shoulder-length hair framing sunburned and strong features, he had a reckless air about him. Involuntarily, she touched the thin scar that ran along the left side of his jawline. Not just reckless. He’d looked dangerous. Very dangerous.

He groaned again, and she snatched her hand away and stood up.

“Leave it to my sisters to pick a man with looks this fine to come after me!” Moving between his legs, she reached down and took hold of both his hands. Pulling with all her might, she managed to get him to a sitting position. But the horse was still too far away, and she realized now that, at any rate, she simply could not lift the man’s dead weight onto the horse’s back. She was trapped. She let go of the man’s hands and winced at the sound of his head thumping on the frozen ground.

Deciding on an alternative method, Laura rummaged through the Highlander’s travel bag again and took out a coil of rawhide, leaving the man’s tam and an old, oft-mended shirt in the bag. Tying his hands and ankles were easy, but dragging him up onto the narrow rock ledge beside the stream bed was extremely difficult. It took far longer than she would have thought.

Totally out of breath, Laura hung the man’s legs down over the ledge and sat him up.

“Stay.” She propped the Ross warrior up carefully. Quickly, she climbed down and maneuvered the horse into a position where she could pull the man across the animal’s back. Standing in one stirrup, Laura pulled the man’s wrists, and--as she fell backward onto the stony streambed--he dropped heavily across the steed’s withers. She eyed the result with satisfaction and scrambled to her feet, wiping the sweat from her brow. The horse snorted and flicked his ears.

“It serves him right to ride in the same fashion as he forced me to ride. And no matter how sick he gets, we are not stopping until we get back to the convent.”

Using the remainder of the leather cord, Laura tied the sword to the saddle behind her. She picked up the warrior’s dirk and looked at the weapon thoughtfully. Then, cutting a small slit in the lining of her cloak, she slid the dagger into the opening. Next, she picked up the blanket off the ground and covered the Highlander’s large frame with it. Finally, she climbed up behind the man and, with one hand looped in the belt of her captive, clucked encouragingly to the horse.

With a quick look at the descending sun, Laura turned the horse’s head northward along the path next to the stream.

Even if he had lied when he’d shouted to his cronies, even if he’d headed west instead of south, Laura was confident she could find her way back to the convent. Loch Fleet, where the convent was located, stretched a few miles inland from the sea. She knew that she could not fail to find her way home.

But as she rode northward, the afternoon sun continued to fight its way through an encroaching patch of dark clouds and sink toward the western mountains, and the chill wind of the Highland winter began to bite into her skin. Her passenger had not stirred once since they began, and only the warmth of his body against her legs kept her anxiety at bay. Then, just as dusk began to descend in the forest, they broke out of a grove of trees, and Laura spotted the shimmering waters of the loch. The setting sun reflected warmly on the buildings of the small convent across the silvery body of water.

Luck was with her, she thought with a smile, for the Highlander had indeed taken them to the west of Fearnoch. Riding around the loch, past the ruins of the old castle on the western shore, would take no time at all.

It was nearly dark when they drew close to the convent, and Laura eyed the chimney above the chapter house with curiosity. The mother superior was extremely frugal with her fires, and yet the clouds of smoke billowing from the top of the chimney showed that she was still burning a fire there.

Knowing how little these nuns spent in terms of their comfort, she found that sign of extravagance somewhat alarming. But that was not the only thing that made her pause as she approached the convent’s low stone walls. As she peered through the small orchard past the outbuildings and the chapter house beyond, she could just make out the shadows of a number of horses tied by the convent gates.

Laura reined the steed to the left, off the path along the loch, spurring the animal along the wall toward the back gate, which led into the orchard and to a small stone hut just inside the walls.

The Convent of St. Agnes was not like so many other religious houses that entertained a steady stream of travelers. Though the nuns there were not cloistered, the meagerness of their existence was generally known, and better food and lodgings could be readily found nearby. As a result, with the exception of a weekly visit of a few Sinclair warriors coming to escort Laura and the other nuns to market, no one ever stopped here.

Climbing down from the horse to open the gate, Laura had a vague sense that these visitors were not the neighboring Sinclairs coming to report the news of her abduction at Fearnoch.

As she led her mount through the gate, Laura was delighted to see Guff, the convent’s laborer, come out of the hut and shuffle hastily toward her.

“We have visitors?”

“Aye, mistress. And a miserable lot, if ye ask me!” the farm hand grouched irritably.

As he took the reins from the young woman, he eyed the horse and the blanket covered body suspiciously.

“There’s not a man among ‘em, mistress, with as fine a steed as this ‘un. Did you commit murder to get ‘im?” he asked, hitching a grizzled chin at the unmoving body.

She smiled at the question and pulled the blanket off the Highlander.

“Haven’t the Sinclairs returned from Fearnoch?” Laura moved around to the other side of the horse to look at the wound on the Highlander’s head, and Guff followed her.

“Nay, not a soul has returned as yet! I was thinking you got ‘em tied up in one of your ideas. ‘Tis hardly a...”

Glancing at the farm hand, she frowned to see him standing beside her, his mouth hanging open in shock.

“He is not dead, Guff. I just laid a small rock against the side of his thick skull...for his own good.”

“The laird!”

Laura looked from the farmer’s shocked face to the Highlander and back. “What did you say?”

“The laird, mistress! The Ross himself! William...William Ross of Blackfearn. His brother’s the new head priest at St. Duthac’s. They are a mighty family to the south--a good one so long as ye’re not a Sinclair. But I do not think murdering their laird will set well with ‘em, mistress!”

Laura winced at the sudden knotting in her stomach, accompanied by the certain knowledge that something had indeed gone terribly wrong. Glancing back at the Highlander, she hesitantly pushed back the loose strands of hair from the man’s brow and looked into his face. Even in a dead faint, he suddenly looked murderous.

“Whist, Guff! He isn’t dead. Help me bring him into the chapter house.”

“Nay, mistress. Ye cannot take him there. I do not know who these Lowlanders be, but the rascals have been hanging about here for most of the day, and I do not like ‘em a bit.”

“Lowlanders?” Laura glanced at the direction of the chapter house. “Do you know what they want?”

“Aye. You!”

Laura tried to keep down the bile moving up in her throat. She could feel the fear burning in her face, and she tried desperately to fight off the panic. But then, the memory of her family being torn apart...of her father being taken from them by the English king’s soldiers...of learning later of his death in the Tower...nay, the memories were all too vivid. All too recent.

“The mother superior came out of there just once this afternoon. But the crabbed old monk with ‘em sent for her right off.” Guff pulled the laird from the horse, hoisting him onto his shoulder. “I’ll take him inside my hut. Ye’d best tie his horse behind those trees and out of sight, mistress. From the looks of things, I do not think it wise to have him found by these blackguards. I’ll tend to the horse later.”

She nodded quietly, and as soon as Guff disappeared through the low doorway, she led the charger to the grove of trees that the laborer had indicated.

Lowlanders! And a monk leading them! This could mean many things, none of which gave Laura any comfort. The visitors’ arrival could mean news from her mother, but somehow she didn’t think so.

After her father died in the Tower of London for defying the king and refusing to sign the Oath of Succession, Laura’s entire family had been forced to flee England for the land of her mother’s birth. Lady Nichola had arranged for each daughter to go into hiding in three remote corners of the Scottish Highlands while she herself would remain in hiding in the Borders.

From the first day of their initial flight, one thing had been clear. They were not to trust
anyone
. The danger threatening the Percy family originated not only from the English king and his hatred for the family. Laura, her sisters, and their mother were also being pursued by enemies far more ancient--and far more powerful--than any single king.

Tying the horse, Laura picked up a half-eaten apple from the ground, and after feeding the fruit to the mount, she started back for the hut.

Of the three daughters, Laura had always been the closest one, in every way, to their mother. While Catherine, the eldest, had always been the dreamer of the three, and Adrianne, the youngest, the most reckless and courageous, Laura had somehow ended up as the voice of reason among them.

And it was because of her likeness to her mother that a warning bell sounded in Laura’s head. If she was to be contacted, sending a group of men--who could easily be followed--would not have been Nichola’s way.

A chill running up her spine, Laura ran the last few steps and ducked inside the stiff leather door covering. Once inside, her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness of the single room, and she made out the form of Guff leaning over the Highlander in the farthest corner.

“He is coming around a wee bit, mistress. But I have to say, he is mighty--”

The head and broad shoulders of the Lowland warrior pushing into the hut behind Laura silenced the farmhand’s complaint. She whirled in surprise as the man, long sword in hand, stepped to the side, making room for a wiry little monk who entered behind him.

“Mistress Laura!” the monk growled menacingly in English. “Somewhat ungracious of you to keep us waiting so long.”

Clutching her cloak tightly about her, Laura jumped back a step as the cleric lurched across the hut toward her.

The bitter wind raced across the loch, whipping up the black waters into a boiling, heaving mass. Across the moor, over rock-studded braes, shrieking it came, slamming finally against the gray stone walls of Hoddom Castle, seeking entry.