The Enchantress (7 page)

“I told you before. I have none.”

Her frustration was all too obvious in the way she banged her head against his back. The thought of her organizing the piles of wool in the marketplace flickered through his mind, bringing a devious smile to the Highlander’s lips. What a perfect punishment for someone like her--to be left alone with
him
!

A dark line of bluffs had risen up just beyond the strand, and when they reached a notch in the low cliffs, William pushed Dread up the stony incline of the beach. Three tiny huts lay huddled against one another in the protection of the rocky ledge.

Even before plague had struck Inverness and Fearnoch and the surrounding areas a few years ago, wiping out whole villages and cutting down the numbers of people who lived here, these huts had always been empty at this time of year. When the harsh winters ravaged the coast, keeping even the hardiest fishermen from venturing out of the lochs and the more protected firths, those who lived here in the summers were tucked away snugly at Fearnoch or in the village beneath Rumster Castle, a few miles up the beach.

Unwilling to throw caution completely to the wind, though, William ordered her curtly to stay where she was. Then, drawing his sword as he dismounted from Dread, he approached each of the cottages in turn.

They were indeed uninhabited, and after inspecting them closely, the Highlander nodded toward one of them as he returned to his steed.

“This one is the only hut sturdy enough to house us all. I dare say ‘tis no English palace, but at least it has a bit of leather across the door to keep out some of the weather.”

His charge appeared to bristle, but then she checked her tongue. When he held out his hand to help her, she waved him off, swinging her leg over Dread’s back. She dropped to the snow-covered ground with a thud, slipping and landing on her hands and knees. Again ignoring his outstretched hand, she pushed herself upright and trudged wearily toward the hut. He followed her in.

For the next few minutes she was silent. But then, as soon as he started making a place in a corner for Dread and settling the animal for what was left of the night, she began with her questions again.

“How long do you plan to keep me here before we leave?”

He peered about in the darkness and then squatted before a small circle of ashes. Rubbing some between his thumb and forefinger, he smelled it. It was old.

“Who said I plan ever to leave?”

He glanced at her over one shoulder. Even in the darkness of the hut he could tell that she was watching him with weary eyes. She started toward him. He turned to face her fully.

“First show me you’ve nothing in your hands.”

She didn’t even pause as she advanced on him. “Have no fear. If I had a weapon, I’d give you a bruise worthy enough to match the others on your thick head.”

“Aye, I’ve no doubt of that. But you don’t have to stay here. You are free to sleep outside.”

She moved past him to the pile of wood. “True. But what chance would I have then of knocking you out in your sleep and taking your fine horse?”

“We hang horse thieves in the Highlands.”

“Well, I might just take the chance, considering the fact that you yourself have not been hung yet.”

He’d have liked nothing more than tossing her delicate butt out onto the beach right now, but the memory of Gilbert’s patient expression and his sincere plea to bring this woman safely back to St. Duthac’s halted him again. He watched her start carrying back pieces of the driftwood and stacking them for a fire beneath the smoke hole.

“And what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to make a fire.”

“And invite Sir Walter for dinner, I suppose.” He shook his head. “There will be no fire.”

“But--”

“No fire.”

She sank to her knees on the dirt floor, her hands making a weak attempt to rub warmth into her arms.

“You picked a fine place to bring us. Now we can just freeze.”

The Highlander turned his back on her and went to where she’d dropped the gray blanket on the dirt floor. Shaking it out, he tossed it to her.

He wasn’t going to let her get on his nerves. He wasn’t going to feel sorry for her. And most important, he wasn’t going to be charmed by her pretty face and violet-blue eyes. All he had to do was ignore her. Pretend she wasn’t there. And try to protect his head.

“I believe ‘tis time you began to worry.”

The provost responded to Father Francis with a vague nod as the two made their way back to the provost’s work room after their morning meal. Gilbert’s huge hound Willie trotted on ahead.

“Even the farmers made it back from Fearnoch before dark. And you know how recklessly William pushes a horse. By the saint, Gilbert, they should have been here by vespers last night at the latest. But still we’ve not heard a word.”

Gilbert paused to look out of the small slit of a window in the long corridor. He
was
becoming concerned about the whereabouts of his brother--and Laura Percy. Heavy snow had been falling through most of the night--a mix of snow and sleet continued to fall--and the bitter north wind was surely adding to the dangerous conditions for wet travelers.

And what if William had been injured in taking the woman? What if his horse had come up lame? Perhaps, he thought, it would be best to summon some of William’s men, perhaps just a couple of them to go out in search of their master.

But in the back of Gilbert’s head a nagging voice kept telling him to wait. Indeed, the busy little voice was saying,
if
the two had stopped somewhere along the way, this might be the best chance he’d ever have of getting his brother alone with an eligible and marriageable noblewoman--even if this one
was
half English. Hiding a grin, he sent a prayer heavenward to forgive him for his deviousness.

“You are not listening, Gilbert. Shall I send Father John to Blackfearn Castle?”

The young provost stepped over Willie, who had stretched himself comfortably in front of the door, and walked into the work room. “You said the farmers saw them leave Fearnoch during the fighting?”

“They did.”

“And we’ve had no word from the Sinclairs?”

“Nay, provost. Nothing yet.”

Gilbert shrugged and turned to the older priest. “Well, Father Francis, ‘tis just possible that--out of consideration for the Englishwoman--William is taking his time. I say we give them another day.”

*****

Before Laura was even awake, she was conscious of the wind whistling into the hut, and she pulled the blanket higher on her face. Gradually, her eyes focused on the small opening of a smoke hole in the thatched roof, and she watched snowflakes dancing in the dim light of dawn and falling to the dirt floor of the hut.

She shivered as a blast of wind shook the cold walls of the hovel.

Though it had been long dark by the time they reached the deserted hut, the coldness inside and the storm raging outside should have made for a sleepless night. But the last thing she remembered was moving to the farthest corner of the hut from the Highlander, who had simply pulled his tartan around him and sat against his saddle, long sword in hand.

Aside from his pigheadedness, William Ross had been a stunning vision of power and gallantry. And Laura had forced herself to close her eyes--and her mind--to the mixed images she had of him.

Not admitting it openly, she would always remember him as the fearless warrior taking on at least ten Sinclair men while holding her squirming body on one shoulder. She would also never forget the calmness he’d instilled in her when she’d just pressed her body against his chest in Guff’s hut. At that moment she had no idea what fate lay ahead.

She snuggled deeper into her blanket and smelled his scent. How strange that a day later, the memory lingered of the nearness they’d shared. She could still feel the strange warmth that spread through her whenever she looked at him--talked to him--even argued with him as if he were the veriest villain north of the Yorkshire.

But in many ways he was a rogue, and she would simply never be a woman to hold her tongue.

He was obstinate, and she could already tell that he scorned her for her sensible logic. Well, that was her nature. How could she ever change?

This meandering stream of thought carried some of the laird’s less than admirable qualities to Laura's mind. Despite his pleasing looks and undeniable courage, the man was a scoundrel. A reckless, unmanageable rogue with no sense of planning at all. He hadn’t answered any of the questions she’d asked of him. Nothing about the length of their stay, or even about how he would get them to St. Duthac’s.

Perhaps after all, Laura thought, she
might
have been better off fleeing with his horse when she’d knocked him on the head outside Fearnoch. If she had, she could right now be planning and proceeding without any interference from William Ross of Blackfearn.

Nay, that would never have done. She hadn’t the slightest idea about where she could find safety in this wild country. Her two sisters were far away to the south and to the west. This had been the result of their mother’s planning to send her children to three separate corners of Scotland. If danger was to find one of them, the other two had at least a chance of escaping it.

Still, Laura thought, if she set her mind to it, she could find her way to another convent. From what she’d learned from the sisters at the Convent of St. Agnes, there were a number of religious communities huddled along this coast.

A gust of wind swirled through the hut, and Laura shifted her position a little, letting her eyes drift toward the ill-fitting flap of leather that served as the door. It was doing nothing to keep out the weather. With a frown she turned her gaze to where the Highlander had spent the night.

He was gone.

Jolted into full consciousness, she hurled herself to a sitting position and looked nervously about her in the semidarkness. The shelter was empty of both man and horse.

He was gone.

She shuddered as all the images of his chivalry crumbled before her eyes and a sickening feeling of loss swept over her.
He
was the one who had up and decided to leave
her
behind. Throwing off the blanket, Laura came quickly to her feet.

A quick search told her that everything was gone. Horrified to think that he’d just waited until she was asleep and then left without a word, she clutched her cloak fiercely around her.

“The knave!” Laura pressed the heel of her hand against the sudden knot in her belly, a painful sensation that seemed to be gripping her midsection more and more at moments like this. “Of all the churlish, ill-bred...”

She glanced again in the direction of the partially open door. Snow was swirling in on the strengthening wind and coating the dirt floor of the hut. She had to do something. She was not about to sit here and freeze to death. But what?

Last night she had been too blinded with weariness and the weather to judge how close they were to Sir Walter’s castle. Though she’d never been there herself--she had yet to meet the aging warlord--she knew Rumster Castle lay to the north, along this rugged stretch of coastline. It couldn’t be far.

What other choice did she have? Laura quickly decided. She could stay here and freeze, or she could try to reach the Sinclair keep on foot. Not a difficult choice.

Having decided, Laura shed her cloak and quickly pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Donning the cloak again and pulling her hood forward over her face, she stepped out into the storm.

The blast of the wind nearly pushed her back into the wall of the hut as she turned toward the stony beach. The mix of icy snow and the whipped-up sea stung the exposed skin of her face with the sharpness of a fistful of needles. Drawing a sharp breath, she clutched the hood tightly to protect her face as well as she could, and squinted up the beach through the storm. She could hardly see fifty paces in front of her. No matter, she told herself, leaning into the wind. This was the time to travel--while she still had strength in her bones.

*****

This weather was far too foul for traveling, he decided, peering out of the protective grove of stunted pines by the creek. He’d wait out the storm and then take the woman to St. Duthac’s.

“Come now, Dread, you’ve had your water, and there’s not enough grass there to fill your belly, anyhow.”

William Ross tugged the horse’s head away from the tufts of yellowed grass and led the animal through the trees and away from the road. He mounted the steed and started along the edge of the creek again.

With the stormy weather and the night working against them, it was possible that the monk and his men might not have gotten too far from the convent.

William considered this for a moment. If he was foolish enough to head right now for St. Duthac’s, he would quite likely cross paths with the blackguards. Nay, it would be best to wait a few hours.

One thing he was certain of, though. His enemies had separated. In a wind-sheltered spot not far from where William had watered his horse, the Highlander had found the tracks of a band of warriors heading north. There were no horses, and he knew the group was headed toward Rumster Castle. It had to be the Sinclairs.

Suddenly, William found his thoughts lingering on the Englishwoman waiting for him, and he frowned. Though the storm was now roaring like an angry beast, it occurred to him that he might just prefer staying out in the weather to spending any more time than he needed to with Laura Percy.

She was a sea of contradictions. In her waking hours, annoying and arrogant. But in her sleep, as he’d watched her last night, she’d rested less comfortably than anyone he’d ever met in his life. Fretting, moving around, and then sobbing quietly in her sleep with such heart-wrenching sadness that he’d not been able to hold back. Moving to her, he’d stretched out beside her, smoothing her hair, brushing away her tears, whispering comforting nonsense in her ear. She’d slept through it all.

But for him the night had grown more torturous with every passing minute.