Highland Protector (3 page)

“I was wondering if ye would share a wee bit of your food with me sister.”

“Your sister? Nay ye?”

His fair skin blushed so red she could see it beneath the dirt smeared on his thin face. “Weel, I wouldnae say nay to a wee bite, if ye would be so kind. But, ‘tis the bairn what needs it most.”

Judging by the boy’s height and the clarity with which he spoke, Ilsabeth wagered the lad was at least six, if not older. Lack of food could easily have halted his growth, however. That meant his sister probably was little more than a bairn.

She nearly cursed aloud. It was a poor time for her to stumble across a pair of foundlings. There was danger dogging her heels. Yet, she could not leave them starving at the edge of town as they had so obviously been doing. Sir Simon Innes was just going to have to understand that.

“Fetch the lass and come sit by the fire. I have enough for all of us,” she said.

The boy ran back to the trees and tugged a tiny girl out from behind one. As the pair walked toward Ilsabeth’s small fire, she studied them closely. It was clear to see where most of what little food the boy had found went. The little girl wore ragged clothes but there was only the faintest hint of hunger’s sharpness in her angelic face. Thick redgold curls and big brown eyes were enough to melt the hardest heart. Ilsabeth hoped Sir Simon did not prove her wrong about that for, unless the boy told her they both had kinsmen somewhere, these children were now hers.

“Your names?” she asked as she handed each of them some bread and cheese.

“I am Reid Burns and this is my sister Elen,” the boy said as he helped the little girl eat her food, breaking it into pieces small enough for her to handle.

“And why is it that ye are wandering about here in the wood, and ye have near starved, Reid?”

“Our mither died and the mon she lived with tossed us out of the wee cottage he had given us. He said that he only let us stay there because my mither was warming his bed, but now that she was gone, he needed the cottage for his new lady.”

There was a man who sorely needed a beating, Ilsabeth thought. “So neither of ye are his bairns?”

“Och, aye. Elen is his, but the mon has a wife and eight children so he didnae need Elen. I suspicion he didnae want his wife to learn that he was breeding with another woman.” He blushed and cast her a nervous look. “Pardon, Sister.”

Ilsabeth waved away his apology. “Ne’er apologize for the truth, nay matter how blunt and ugly it is. Who is this heartless swine who would toss aside his own bairn?”

“Donald Chisholm.”

If she survived the trouble she was in, Ilsabeth swore that she would see to it that Donald Chisholm got a hard lesson in how a man should behave. She also decided the man was a complete fool to toss aside such children as she watched them both eat with a delicacy that belied their terrible hunger and revealed that their mother had not been some poor shepherd’s daughter. The way Reid cared for his young sister brought tears so close to falling that her eyes stung and her nose filled so that she was forced to sniff a little.

“This was verra kind of ye, Sister,” said Reid, watching Ilsabeth warily, his dark eyes holding the panicked look that men always got when they thought a woman was close to tears.

“Hold old are ye, Reid?” Ilsabeth bit back a smile at how relieved the boy looked when she spoke calmly, indicating that her urge to cry had vanished.

“Seven. Weel, nearly seven. Elen marked two years but yestereve.”

“Greetings, Reid and Elen. I am Ilsabeth Armstrong.” She waited patiently while he considered her words and was not surprised when he frowned.

“ ‘Tis an odd name for a nun.” His eyes widened and he blushed. “But, ye ken, I havenae had much learning and all, so I wouldnae ken the way of it and all. I am certain ‘tis a good, holy name and all. I just havenae heard it before.”

Ilsabeth took a deep breath and decided the truth was the only path to follow now. “I am nay surprised for I am nay truly a nun. This is but a guise I wear to keep me safe as I travel to ask the aid of a mon. ‘Tis also a disguise to keep me safe from my enemies. My dagger was found buried in the heart of a king’s mon. I didnae put it there and I ken weel who did, but I was snared tight in his trap ere I even kenned it was set.”

“Ye have no kin to help ye?”

“They are already being confronted by men demanding that they surrender me to them so that I can be brought before the king for punishment. One of my cousins caught me fleeing to my home ere I ran straight into the arms of those men. He gave me this nun’s clothing, supplies, and this pony and told me to hie to Sir Simon Innes and ask for his aid in proving who really killed that mon. That is where I go now. In all truth, I am at the end of my journey and but sit here gathering the courage to go and rap upon the mon’s door.”

She could tell by the resigned look upon the boy’s face that he had cherished the hope that she could aid him and his sister. Her tale had clearly killed that hope. The voice of good sense reminded Ilsabeth yet again that she was running and hiding for her life, that it was a very poor time to take two foundlings under her wing. She ignored it. She let her heart lead her. Nothing could change her decision to care for these children.

“I but tell ye this, Reid, so that ye ken weel what trouble ye will face if ye decide to stay with me,” she said.

“Ye would take us with ye?”

“I cannae leave ye here, alone and struggling to find enough food to hold back starvation, now can I?” Ilsabeth bit back a smile when his child’s face tightened with a very stern look and he straightened up, stung pride stiffening his backbone.

“I can care for us,” he said in a surprisingly fierce voice.

“Aye, ye can, and ye have proven that, but wouldnae ye like a roof o’er your head, clean warm clothing, a wee bed, and food when ye need it?”

“Ye think Sir Innes will allow us all into his home? ‘Tis said that he is a mon with a cold heart, a mon who believes only in justice.”

“Is that what is said of him? Ye came from this village then, did ye?”

“Aye. I wasnae sure where else to go once we were shut out, so I stayed close to the village.”

Ilsabeth hoped part of the reason the boy lingered in the area was because there were some people kindhearted enough to give the children what scraps of food they could spare. “We shall go to Sir Simon’s home. If he is too cold of heart to help me and take us all in, then we shall go and find another who will. My Armstrong kin may have had to flee and hide, but I have other kin. The Murrays havenae all taken to the hills. I didnae want to bring my trouble to their doors, but I will bring ye to them. They willnae turn ye away.”

The boy stared at her for a moment and then smiled. Ilsabeth could see the beauty of the boy beneath the dirt and ravages of hunger. It was a smile she had to return and she vowed to herself that she would find these children a haven. If Simon Innes was too hard and callous to aid her, if only in helping the children, she would see them safely into the hands of her Murray kin.

A little voice warned her that she could be walking into danger if she tried to do that, but she silenced it. If Sir Simon refused to help her or even just the children, then she would have no other choice. Ilsabeth did not wish to face the danger seeking her out at home, however, so she silently prayed that Sir Simon Innes was not simply the cold seeker of justice that rumor named him. Unless, she thought with a faint smile, that included seeking a little justice on a certain swine named Donald Chisholm.

“Why are ye smiling?” asked Reid.

Noticing the way the boy eyed the bread and cheese she had left, Ilsabeth gave him some more to share with his sister. “I was just thinking what a surprise we shall all be for Sir Simon Innes.”

“Och, aye. I dinnae think it will be a good one.”

“We shall see.”

“Why do your kin think he will help ye?”

“Because he has already helped two of my kinsmen who were accused of murders they had not committed.”

Reid frowned. “Why do your kin keep getting into such trouble?”

Ilsabeth laughed and shook her head. “I dinnae ken, laddie. It does seem as if we are cursed sometimes.”

“Aye, a wee bit. Or ‘tis envy. My mither said envy can make people do mean things.”

“Your mother was a verra wise woman.”

“I miss her,” he said softly, blushing faintly as he made the admission.

“Of course ye do. There is no shame in that. Now, I am thinking I have sat here long enough trying to gather up the courage to go to Sir Simon’s house. If I dinnae have it now, I ne’er will. Best we clean up and finish the journey.”

“Are ye afraid?” Reid immediately began to help Ilsabeth pack up her supplies.

“A wee bit,” Ilsabeth answered as she dampened a cloth and gently wiped Elen’s face and hands. “I want to put my faith in the mon my family has sent me to, but I have ne’er met him. ‘Tis difficult to trust a stranger, especially when ye are dealing with matters of murder and treason. Aye, and he doesnae ken me, either, so why should he be believing a word I say?”

“But ye said he has helped your family before, aye?”

“Aye, he has helped the Murrays, cousins of mine. Dinnae ken them all that weel either so I cannae say I learned much of this Sir Simon from them. And, I am but half a Murray. The rest of me is Armstrong.”

“Is that bad?”

“ ‘Tis nay a good thing in many eyes, laddie. My wee clan and my father the laird are all good, honest people, but the ones that came before them werenae. They put a verra dark stain upon the name and some of his kinsmen still arenae too honest.” She winked. “There are a lot of reivers in the family, ye ken.” She grinned when he giggled and then helped the children up onto Goliath. “I will try to nay be too insulted if he favors my Murray blood, at least in the beginning.”

“If he doesnae help ye, then I will,” said Reid.

“Ye are a good, brave lad.” Ilsabeth grasped the reins and started to lead the pony into town. “Ye have your sister to watch o’er, however, so we must hope Sir Simon truly is the stalwart seeker of the truth all claim him to be.”

Especially since she had come up with no other plan herself, Ilsabeth mused. She continued to try and think of one as she walked but facing the end of her journey inspired her no more than all the rest of the hours she had traveled to reach her destination.

By the time she stood before the door to Sir Simon Innes’s home, she gave up all hope of coming up with something clever and started fervently praying that the man would help her.

Simon Innes sprawled in a chair before the fire, a goblet of fine wine in his hand, and frowned down at the cat in his lap. It had been a mistake to give in to that spark of charity and feed the huge black and white tom. The animal had finished off the scraps he had given it and then moved in. He glanced down at his dog Bonegnasher, spread out gracelessly at his feet, a fresh set of scratch marks on his nose. Who would have thought his large, fierce dog would turn coward when slapped on the nose by a cat?

He sighed and lightly stroked the cat, causing it to rumble with a deep, raspy purr. It was, at least, a more pleasant noise than the animal’s snoring. The beast also looked and smelled better since Old Bega had got her hands on it. The cat had endured her scrubbing, combing, and rubbing some oil on him to kill fleas with a quiet, injured dignity.

“Of course, for that small inconvenience, ye are now set in front of a warm fire, your belly full of chicken,” he drawled, and then sipped at his wine. “I cannae believe I have let ye sit on me. Men dinnae keep cats, ye ken.” The cat turned its head so that Simon could better scratch behind one of its tattered ears.

He was behaving like an old man, he thought crossly. Thirty years of living was just around the corner. Thirty was not old in his opinion, despite the fact that far too many people never reached that age. It was definitely too young to be spending nights sitting before the fire talking to his dog, or cat. Yet, it had been many months since he had done anything else. The only change in his new habit for far too long was the presence of an ugly cat. Simon winced. He was becoming a pathetic recluse.

It was time to get himself a wife, he mused, and fought to quell the curdling in his gut. Not every woman was faithless. Not every marriage was hell on earth. He had seen the good in such arrangements lately during his time helping the Murrays. The part of him that was still bitter and bruised from the past wanted to doubt, shuddered at the mere thought of marriage, but he told himself it was past time he overcame that dread. If Tormand Murray, a man who had seduced half the women in Scotland, could find a wife like Morainn, a loyal, loving woman with wit and spirit, Simon suspected there had to be one out there for him, too. Even James Drummond, a Murray foster son, a man accused of murdering his first wife, had found a good woman even as he fought to prove his innocence.

“So why am I sitting here stroking an ugly cat instead of a fulsome wife?” he muttered.

The cat briefly dug its claws into Simon’s thighs as if to protest the unflattering adjective.

Simon winced but resisted the urge to shove the cat off his lap. He would never admit it aloud but he found the warmth, the soft fur, and the raspy purr of the animal oddly comforting. It was probably why some women favored the beasts despite all the superstitions swirling around the creatures.

Just as Simon was wondering if he should simply accept his fate and name the cat there was a rap at the door. He sighed in resignation as his man MacBean walked in immediately after the knock sounded. The man stubbornly refused to wait until he was told to enter. It had taken far too long just to get the man to knock at all.

“So, that cursed beastie is still about, I see,” said MacBean, glaring at the cat. “Want me to toss it out?”

“I dinnae think it will stay out,” Simon replied.

MacBean grunted. “The old woman shouldnae have wasted food and water on it. Beast is more tattered than my old aunt’s blankets. Got more scars, too.”

Simon gently bit his tongue to stifle the urge to ask MacBean about his old aunt’s scars. Too much curiosity was one of his besetting sins. The craving he had for uncovering secrets and lies made it difficult to make and keep friends, although he could not fully regret that. He also admitted to himself that he had a few secrets of his own that he would prefer to keep buried deep in his past. Old Bega knew them for she had traveled with him from his boyhood home, but, despite how much she loved to talk, the woman held fast to them.