Diana Cosby (15 page)

Lochlann crossed his arms over his chest. “You need the comfort of a bed and warmth of a hearth. Nae the chills of the cold ground.”

“Aye,” Rois agreed, “but ’tis too far for my father to journey to our home. The long trip could reopen wounds starting to heal and he could bleed to death.”

“A crofter’s hut lies but a short distance away,” her friend replied.

She frowned. “Why was he nae moved there immediately?”

Angus touched her hand. “There is no need. Once I am a wee bit better, I will ride home.”

Tears built in her throat at his bravado. “Oh, Da.” Rois brushed the hair from his brow slick with sweat. “You need the warmth of a fire in the hearth and the comfort of a bed. Stubborn you are, but I am taking you to the cottage.”

“Nay—”

“’Tis why I brought you, Rois,” Lochlann stated. “Lord Brom needs proper rest, but ignores our requests to help him.”

“Blast your interfering hide!” Her father began to cough.

Rois shook her head. “Do nae be angry at Lochlann. He but cares for you.”

Her father grunted, his expression far from convinced.

“He does,” she repeated, well aware of her father’s opinion of her friend. “Sir Lochlann risked upsetting you in bringing me here, but ’twas for you, because he knows I love you.” Lochlann’s hand lay upon her shoulder. She reached up with her own, placed it atop his.

Her father frowned. “I didna gave the blasted upstart permission to leave or to inform you of my wounds.”

“’Tis done,” Rois said softly.

“Aye, behind my back.” Wincing, her father started coughing again.

“Shhhh. You are doing naught but opening wounds fighting to heal.” Rois nodded to her friend. “My thanks.”

Her father raised his head as if to argue, than a pained look crossed his face.

“Da?”

“Rois . . . I . . .” Her father collapsed.

“Lochlann!”

Her friend knelt beside her father, leaned down, and met her gaze. “He has but passed out again.”

Again?
Panic filled her. “What should we do?” If only Griffin was here.

“He needs to be in a place where we can build a decent fire to keep him warm,” Lochlann said.

“I agree, but Da refuses.”

“And always will.” Her friend took her hand. “’Tis best if we move him while he is still unconscious.”

Rois stared at him unsure. “’Twould be wrong to move him without his consent.”

On an oath he released her hand. “Bedamned, Rois, I have tried to talk sense into him. God’s teeth, I even pleaded!”

She nodded. “When he sets his mind, he is stubborn as a badger.”

“Aye.” Lochlann winked. “A trait he passed to his daughter.”

“Do nae flatter me,” she said, but a smile tugged on her lips, one raw with memories of their youth. How easy life had been then. Through a child’s innocent eyes, she’d seen naught but challenges.

“Rois, listen to me. Your father’s thoughts are mulled by his pain, by his worry over you.” He swallowed hard. “And of his men, who he is too ill to check on. Though he is their lord, he, too, needs time to heal. The distance to the crofter’s hut is less than half a day’s ride. I believe it is the best choice.” He glanced toward the tent flap. “’Tis why I brought you. The guards will nae let me move him, but if you give the order, they will allow it.”

She hesitated. “Da will be upset.”

Lochlann reached out, lifted her chin. “Upset, aye, but alive.”

Tears burned her eyes. “I am afraid.”

“I know.” Lochlann softly swore. “Even protected in a crofter’s hut with a fire burning hot and proper treatment, I canna guarantee nothing. But, if we do nae try . . .”

He was right. Her father’s anger was a small price to pay to save his life. She stood. “I will speak with the guards.”

“You will nae regret your decision.”

“I know.” And prayed she was right. Her father would be furious, as would Griffin. “I must send word to Griffin where we are.”

Lochlann nodded. “I will take care of that while you are gone.”

A shiver whispered through her, and she hesitated. With the dissent between him and Griffin, would he? The guard’s troubled look when they’d arrived haunted her as well.

What was she thinking? The horror of this day infused her with doubts. Throughout her life, Lochlann had always been a friend she could trust.

“My thanks,” she said. “I know nae what I would have done without you.”

He took her hand, pressed a kiss upon the back of her hand. “I will always be here for you, Rois. That I swear.”

“I know, and for that I thank you.” Her mind spinning with the events to come, she turned toward the entry, and prayed her father indeed would live.

Hands clenched in frustration, Griffin stared at de Moray, who slept in the bed. Flickers of yellow candlelight scraped the aged stone of Cumbuskenneth Abbey with morbid glee, the odor of beeswax melding with the stench of illness. Two days of slow, monotonous travel, and with each sunrise he found himself thankful when his friend raised his eyes to meet his.

But for how long?

With the rebel leader’s face waxen, his breathing labored, ’twas a miracle he still lived. And, ’twould take another miracle to allow him to celebrate Beltane.

Terrified for the life of a great man and friend, Griffin knelt before the bed, folded his hands in prayer. A rough cough had him glancing up.

Eyes clouded by pain stared back.

“Mayhap,” Griffin said as he stood and crossed his arms, refusing to dishonor this proud man with any show of weakness, “I should follow my wife’s lead and tell you that you look like Hades.”

A smile trembled on de Moray’s mouth. “You should,” he replied, his voice thick with exhaustion. “A special lass she is. And with Rois never will you be bored.”

“An understatement.”

“Aye, that it is. Never have I known a woman whose emotions seem to burst from within and too often guide her.”

He grimaced. “That I can attest to.”

De Moray smiled, this time fully, then exhaled, the moment intense, but also filled with a sense of peace. As his smile fell away, the rebel leader reached beneath the covers and withdrew a leather-bound writ.

“When you depart Cumbuskenneth Abbey,” de Moray said, “deliver this to Lord Grey.”

At the seriousness of his words, angst crawled within Griffin like soured ale.

Shrewd eyes studied him. “’Tis my will.”

“Andrew—”

“Truth,” the Scot hissed. “Do you nae think I know the seriousness of my wounds? Or, the odds that I shall live?” He closed his eyes, drew several ragged breaths. After a long moment, he struggled to force them open. “Scotland’s freedom is too high a risk for me to do nae but plan for the worst. If I live, the writ shall be cast aside, forever forgotten. But”—he stared at the stream of light thick with dust shimmering within the twilight’s golden rays and then faced Griffin—“if I indeed die, these are instructions for Lord Grey to stand in my stead as Wallace’s advisor.”

De Moray had considered every critical venue. Why would he not? He was a strategist, a man who planned for success, and ’twould seem a man who planned for his death.

With a heavy heart, Griffin accepted the leather-bound writ, Lord Andrew’s seal impressed in the wax upon the rolled documents inside. His fingers shook as he secured the leather case beneath his shirt.

“Death awaits each of us,” Griffin said, his words solemn, “and I pray yours will be many years from now, long after your son grows strong.”

Warmth touched the rebel leader’s face. “Andrew will grow to be a fine man.”

“He will,” Griffin agreed. “As is his father.”

Mirth sparkled in his eyes. He reached over, lifted a goblet of wine, and took a long swallow. “I think your English king would deem your words traitorous.”

“Indeed.” Griffin lifted his own cup in a toast. “To Scotland, may she forever be free.”

His friend took a deep drink. With a grimace, he set it back, his lids starting to droop. “Go now. Much remains to be done. Until I am on my feet, Lord Grey must be aware of what I request.”

Griffin nodded, started for the door.

“Griffin?”

He turned. “Yes?”

“My regards to your sister.”

Warmth filled him. “Nichola holds great admiration for you, you know.”

“Aye,” Andrew replied, his voice growing thick with fatigue. “Married a Scot. Always a smart lass.”

“She is.” And on this Griffin agreed. Nichola’s husband, Alexander MacGruder, was a man to admire, even if their meeting had begun with his abducting Nichola. Griffin nodded. “Godspeed.”

“Godspeed,” de Moray returned.

Griffin exited the chamber, the slap of fresh air potent against the heavy scent of illness inside Andrew’s chamber. He cursed with frustration, and then grimaced as it echoed along the abbey walls. Yes, he would deliver the missive to Seathan MacGruder after he retrieved Rois, but he prayed Andrew would live and the instructions would rot from nonuse.

Rois. The thought of her with that bastard Lochlann cut through him as if a curse. Indeed, ’twas time to go. He wanted his wife within his arms.

 

Dust and sweat coated Griffin as he galloped across the battlefield of Stirling Bridge. The orange-red rays of the late afternoon sun coated the browned earth and clumps of leafless trees. Though days had passed, many bodies of the English remained strewn about.

Thank God the rain had washed away much of the blood and stench. ’Twould take many more months before the last sign and smell of the battle faded. Still, the land would never truly be cleansed.

Like many others, Griffin believed the memories of the horrors suffered lay embedded within the earth, a terrible angst that would forever exist and be sensed by those who walked upon the ground in the future.

As he crested the next hill, he drew to a halt. His mount’s hard breaths against the chilled air rolled out in puffs of white as he scanned the field below for Lord Brom’s tent.

Naught.

Where was Lord Brom’s camp? Had Angus’s condition improved and he now rode to Kincardan Castle? Or, had he worsened?

With his heart in his throat, Griffin kicked his mount forward. He galloped past the blackened remnants of the campfires and the disturbed earth, evidence of where Lord Brom’s tents had stood.

Griffin dismissed the Scottish noble’s return to Dunadd Castle. Lord Brom’s dire condition warranted not moving him for many a sennight. But someone had.

Someone?

No, Lochlann.

With a curse, he galloped toward a stand of trees outlining the river Forth as it wound its way along the sheath of land. He followed the thicket along the marshy banks. As he broke through a line of fir, he came upon an encampment of Scottish knights. He scanned the staggered tents for Lord Brom’s standard.

Naught.

And what of the bastard Scot? A quick search exposed no sign of Sir Lochlann, Rois, or their mounts. Mayhap they’d decided ’twas best to go elsewhere. No, the self-serving Scot’s departure would occur only if Angus had recovered and booted Lochlann’s arse out.

A fetid ball of anxiousness roiled in his gut as Griffin drew to a halt before a Scottish knight.

Recognition flashed in the man’s eyes, and he stiffened. “Lord Monceaux.”

Griffin nodded. “Do you know where Lord Brom is?”

The knight tensed. “Two days past Lord Brom’s men passed by on their way home. They shared the news that for his health, Sir Lochlann escorted Lady Rois and Lord Brom to a crofter’s hut they were told was nearby.”

“Why was he not moved to Dunadd Castle?”

“He was nae strong enough to travel that far,” the Scot replied.

Anger rose. “Then why was he moved at all?”

A frown dredged the Scot’s brow. “’Twas upon the orders of Lady Rois, my lord.”

No, upon the orders of Lochlann. Without Griffin there to watch the Scot’s every move, the bastard had manipulated her into the task. “How do I find the crofter’s hut?” After brief directions, Griffin whirled his mount and rode hard northwest, but leagues from Lord Grey’s home where he must deliver the missive penned by de Moray.

Mayhap the knight who’d given him directions was confused, and Rois was taking her father to Lochshire Castle? No, the knight had insisted they were headed to a crofter’s hut, which made no sense. With Seathan’s castle so near with the ability to provide immediate care for her father, why wouldn’t they travel to the powerful earl’s home?

With each league he traveled, Griffin’s fury grew. A man as sick as Angus needed not to travel this far, or over such rugged terrain. If the bastard valued his life, Lochlann had best pray Griffin found Lord Brom alive.

As the dregs of night clawed across the land, the leafless trees scraped the air like bony fingers. Beneath the wash of moonlight, the vague outline of the crofter’s hut came into view. Smoke chugged from the roof in a lazy swirl as if a night like any other. Except, this night he would learn the fate of a man for which he held great respect.

With his emotions caught in a dangerous roil, he sighted Sir Lochlann’s mount tethered to a tree. Nearby stood Rois’s horse. Beside the hut’s door a rough litter, similar to the one they’d used to carry de Moray, lay askew.

His blood pounding hot, Griffin halted and swung to the ground. Even at a slow pace Angus must have suffered. By God, what was Rois thinking? No, in her distraught state she’d sought guidance from a man whom she believed she could trust, a bastard under the guise of a friend. Griffin stormed forward, jerked the door open.

At the scrape of wood, Rois turned from her seat beside the bed. Caught within the candlelight, Griffin’s half-shadowed outline filled the entry. Stunned and thrilled, she scrambled to her feet.

“Griffin!” Desperation filled her voice, but she didn’t care. Until this moment she’d nae realized how much she’d missed him, had yearned for him to be at her side.

Hazel eyes hard with anger met hers, then scanned the room. At her father, they stilled. Amidst the anger on his face flashed relief. “Where is Sir Lochlann?”

Rois stilled. She’d expected Griffin’s anger, had struggled with the decision of bringing her father here. “Moving Da was for the best.”

Griffin strode over. “Was it? Can you not see that moving Angus has worsened his condition?”

“It has,” Rois agreed, “but Lochlann explained however much the move weakened my father’s condition, the effects will be temporary. That the warmth of a hearth and cover of the crofter’s hut will quickly nurture him back to health.”

“And you believed him?”

“Never would Lochlann do anything to hurt Da.”

“A fact however convinced you are, I disbelieve.” His eyes narrowed. “Where is he?”

“Here, English.”

Nerves wrapping around her throat like a hand squeezed, Rois turned. Lochlann stood at the entry, the gentleness of his expression earlier transformed into pure hatred.

“Quiet, the both of you,” Rois said, determined to diffuse the situation. “Da needs quiet to rest.”

Griffin’s furious gaze held Lochlann’s. “He needs a healer.”

“One is en route,” Rois rushed. “Lochlann sent for a healer when we departed the camp.”

Griffin snorted. “Had he sent for a healer, think you he or she should not have already arrived?”

Lochlann’s face shuttered to a mottled red. He stepped forward, his blade drawn. “Dare you call me a liar?”

Rois stepped between the two men, her entire body shaking. After their last brawl, this time Griffin would nae walk away and leave Lochlann alive. “Enough!”

“’Twas foolhardy to move Lord Brom,” Griffin said, his words ice, “more so to a pitiful crofter’s hut when Lochshire Castle is but leagues away.”

Stunned, Rois faced Lochlann, nae wanting to believe it true, but against his mask of outrage, she saw a wisp of guilt. Disbelief swarmed her, crumbled against the mountain of hurt. So caught up in her worry, she’d lost her bearings, had trusted her friend to ensure her father received the best care.

“You knew Lochshire Castle was near?” she whispered.

Guilt again flickered on Lochlann’s face.

Hurt couldn’t describe the pain inside her. “Why did we nae go there?”

Lochlann stepped toward her.

“Do not come near my wife ever again,” Griffin said as he stepped to her side.

Face drawn with anguish, Lochlann shook his head, his gaze never leaving hers. “Coming here ’twas for the best. With your father feverish and already too weak, traveling farther to Lochshire Castle might have invited death.”

“Why did
you
not ride to Lord Grey’s castle for a healer?” Griffin demanded.

Sir Lochlann rounded on him, the loathing in his gaze answer enough. “A healer was sent for.”

Griffin held the Scot’s glare, his own outrage burning hot. “Were they? I see no one.”

“Bloody Sassenach!” The Scot lunged forward.

Griffin caught the hand wielding the blade as his other fisted, connecting solidly against the Scot’s jaw. The dagger clattered to the floor, and Sir Lochlann stumbled back, fell to the floor.

“Go,” Griffin ordered. “Your presence is no longer wanted.”

The Scot’s hand edged toward his dagger.

“Draw your weapon,” Griffin warned, “and I will kill you.”

Sir Lochlann’s hand relaxed. With a glance toward Rois, he wiped his chin, and satisfaction filled Griffin as the Scot’s hand came away with the smear of blood. Hatred burned in Lochlann’s eyes.

Griffin nodded toward the entry. “I will not tell you to leave again.” As much as he wished to end it now, Lord Brom’s needs were most important. Once Angus was safe, the writ delivered, and his tasks complete, he would return to confront the Scot, alone.

For a long moment Sir Lochlann eyed him. As if he understood they would finish this in the future, he stepped back, his gaze softening as they settled on Rois. “I leave for Lord Brom’s sake and yours.”

Rois nodded, her face pale, her eyes unsure.

Good, Griffin wanted her to doubt the Scot. She believed him her friend, but she was wrong. He was a bastard on every level.

With one last glare at Griffin, Sir Lochlann strode into the night. The whinny of a horse sounded, then the thrum of hooves. Moments later, quiet echoed in the forest, broken by the errant hoot of an owl.

Griffin walked to the door and shoved it closed, shutting out the cold air pouring into the room, as bitter as the man who’d departed. He turned to find Rois watching him, her expression confused and hurt. Bloody hell, what a mess.