The Thief (4 page)

‘Laird Irvine, Ailsa knows your daughter.’

Lachlan turned as the steward approached with the maid who’d delivered the wine.

Lennox summoned his man closer and whispered in his ear, before the steward dashed off, yet again.

‘Where is she?’ Lennox demanded.

Ailsa flinched. ‘I do not know, laird.’

‘May I?’ Lachlan cut in.

Lennox eyed him and returned his earlier fake smile. ‘Of course.’

Lachlan turned to the lass. ‘Ailsa. I am Lachlan Elliot, Laird of Castle Redheugh.’ He kept his tone light, gentle. Ailsa bobbed another curtsey. ‘When did you last see the laird’s youngest daughter?’

‘I … we broke our fast in the kitchens yester morn, sir.’

‘Almost two days and a night have passed since then,’ Lachlan said, looking at Lennox.

‘Oh, but I saw her in the washhouse mid-morn, and then in the stables at noon,’ Ailsa went on, drawing Lachlan’s gaze.

‘You have a fine memory, Ailsa.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ The hint of a smile touched her lips.

‘Tell me, Ailsa, are you and Mistress Irvine of an age?’

‘Oh, nae sir. Kenzie is nineteen summers while I am only seventeen.’

The steward returned and took up his position at the far end of the table. Lachlan noticed the subtle shake of his head.

Lennox cleared his throat. ‘It seems my daughter Kenzie is amusing herself elsewhere.’

‘Kenzie often leaves the keep on errands,’ Ailsa said. The maid swallowed as all eyes turned to her. ‘I’m certain she will return soon.’

Lachlan cocked a brow, knowing she wouldn’t. ‘You’ve been most helpful, Ailsa,’ he said with a smile. ‘One more thing. Can you briefly describe Kenzie for me?’ He wanted to be sure there was no mistaking who he had safely locked away at Castle Redheugh.

‘Oh, aye.’ Ailsa returned his smile. ‘Kenzie has long dark hair and large brown eyes. She’s awful pretty.’

‘My thanks, Ailsa,’ Lachlan said, remembering with ease his little thief’s dark beauty.

Lennox waved the maid away.

‘I wonder what kind of amusements your daughter partakes in, Lennox.’

‘Whatever she does, I assure you there is nothing you should concern yourself over.’

‘Ah, Lennox,’ Lachlan said with a true smile, ‘I beg to differ.’

Chapter 3

Curse the mason for his skill.

Kenzie’s hand shook and her fingers ached as she gouged at the mortar with the handle of her bone spoon. She dearly wanted to saw away at the deepening groove, but her efforts to free the manacle from the wall had to be no louder than the sound of the logs crackling in the fire. While thankful the chains hadn’t been used on her, she knew the manacle would make a useful weapon. Not that she planned to use it on anyone.

Why not? You cut the Elliot laird’s arm this morn without a moment’s thought.
Just so! She hadn’t thought. She’d been trapped and had reacted. She hated violence, had seen the twisted scars marring a limb, a face. Flesh healed to an extent, but the terror lived on, oft times glimpsed in wide, tormented eyes.

She paused, fighting off the wave of dizziness at the memory of all the blood. All his blood. She hated having such a weakness, had suffered from it for as long as she could remember. She released an exasperated sigh at the undignified memory of her captor catching her as she’d crumpled. The lack of a lump on her head to mark her fall was proof he had.

She resumed gouging at the mortar. The flames in the hearth held the growing darkness at bay and warmed the room, but couldn’t erase the chill seeping inside her. She’d been caught stealing, a hanging offence, and was now a prisoner. She must escape. For her own sake and for those who depended on her.

She’d thought of setting the mattress alight, and then escaping in the smoky confusion. But the vision of charred human remains caught in a woodland blaze three summers past had leaped to mind. What if no one came? She hadn’t reached that level of desperation yet. There must be another way.

The room’s single chair had to be made of solid oak, for she couldn’t lift it any higher than her ankles. She’d never heard of anyone besting a rival by pushing a chair on to their toes.

She sighed, and looked down at the circular manacle dangling at the end of the thick, iron chain. Lachlan Elliot still had his horse. Perhaps he’d simply let her go.

She knew he wouldn’t. He’d expect to gain something in return for her freedom, just like her father would. No laird ever did anything for nothing. It was how men reached their positions of power. And they gave no thought to those they trampled over to get there.

Her tool caught. She pressed harder. A chunk of mortar broke away and clattered to the wooden floor. She gasped, and her heart leaped to her throat in hope. Picking up the hardened paste, she turned, glanced at the closed door of her prison and listened. Nothing. No sound of running feet. No scraping of the latch. Her heart resumed its steady beat.

Lifting the hunk of bread from the tray a maid had delivered at noon, she removed the brown, doughy centre and pushed the mortar inside. Falling to her knees, she swept up the handful of dust from the floor and poured it from her hand into the loaf. She then pressed the flesh of the bread back in place and returned it to the tray. She hated wasting good food when so many went hungry, but she had to hide all trace of her toiling somewhere.

Lifting the cold, iron links in both hands, she tugged on the chain. Nothing. Raising her linen shift above her knee, she braced one bare foot on the rough stone wall and wrapped her fingers around the manacle’s end. Drawing a huge breath, she pulled.

Was there movement? Had the stubborn wall relinquished its hold just a little?

She exhaled and stood glaring at the offending stonework, as if her annoyance could force the stones to give up their prize.

A boot scuffed, and the sound of rumbling voices slipped through the cracks around the door. She glanced at the oak panel and carefully lowered the chain back to its place before arranging the spoon on the tray, ensuring the worn handle butted up against the wooden trencher.

After checking that the high-backed chair was in its original position and no mortar dust littered the floor, she snatched the rough woollen blanket from the bed and threw it about her shoulders.

The heavy pounding on the door matched the swift thudding in her chest. Clutching the edges of the blanket to her throat, she scrambled onto the end of the pallet. The latch scraped. She blinked the grit from her eyes.

The door swung open and the Elliot laird filled the doorway, fully clothed this time, and wearing his seemingly permanent grin.

‘Good eve, little thief.’ His rich, deep voice filled her senses like the sweet taste of warm mead on a cold winter’s night. Dragging her awareness from the smile lighting his handsome face, she stared into the fire. Even the flickering flames failed to exude the same level of heat Lachlan Elliot did.

Lachlan Elliot is dangerous. Curse him. And damn me for noticing.

‘I see our time apart has done little to chase the chill from your manner.’ He strolled into the room and lowered his powerful body onto the chair. ‘Perhaps sharing my good news will warm you.’

She wasn’t interested in his good news. Escaping his presence and his castle were all that mattered.

‘I am to wed.’

I pity the poor woman.
She bit her tongue to keep from voicing her immediate thought, and willed her attention to remain fixed on the dancing flames.

‘Have you naught to say? Nae words of congratulations?’

She didn’t move. Didn’t reply.

‘If you refuse to speak,’ Lachlan Elliot continued, ‘perhaps we should establish another form of communication.’

She slid him a sideways glance. He was looking at her, smiling. He was a laird and a fortunate man. He had good reason to smile. There were many who did not.

‘Hand gestures. Facial expressions. I am a master at knowing people’s thoughts,’ he said. She rolled her eyes and looked back into the flaming hearth.

‘Ah! I see you are impressed by my ability.’

Merciful Heavens! Did he have a ready response for everything? Her lips threatened to twitch. She clenched her teeth, halting her ill-timed smile.

‘All I possess becomes my bride’s the day we wed. My home is a castle. The people of Clan Elliot are my family, and my garron, De Brus, is a sturdy mount and brave of heart.’

She stared into the fire, hard. Was talking his special form of torture?

‘Aren’t you curious to know who the lucky lass is?’

The only thing she was curious about was what he would do once she escaped.

‘I also have a talent for making the ladies sing.’

Before she knew it, she found herself looking at him, watching his brows waggle above his glittering blue eyes, brows a shade darker than his wheat-coloured shoulder-length hair.

She frowned. He should save listing his attributes for his unfortunate bride. A wave of pity swamped her for the woman destined to be his wife. Lachlan Elliot was charming and smiled often and with ease. A dangerous smile that could melt the stoutest of icicles clinging to winter trees. Whoever the woman was, she’d best have her wits about her at all times. She’d soon be lost within this man’s beauty, his confidence and his charm. A shade, as many women who wed became. Women like her mother had been—alive but adrift; known but forgotten. A shade instead of a whole.

‘I also have a large herd of prized cattle. But you are aware of that already.’

Her eyes met his before darting back to the fire. She swallowed. She’d been lulled by the sound of his voice and teasing banter. For a few moments, she’d forgotten why she was here. His next words ensured she’d never do so again.

‘Lifting a man’s cattle is punishable by death.’

The teasing tone had been stripped from his voice. A chill swept through her.

‘A fitting punishment, and one I’m certain you know of also.’

She forced her gaze to meet his, but refused to show him any fear.

‘My bride will take my name and have my protection,’ he said quietly.

He held her life in the palm of his hand, yet continued speaking of what his wife would gain when they wed. Just like her father, his thoughts only ever concerned himself.

‘What say you, Kenzie?’

Her senses scattered, torn from her mind like the last autumn leaves clinging for life to bare branches. Her fingers grasped the ticking beneath her. She forced her eyes to remain open and willed herself to breathe. It didn’t matter how he’d discovered her name, it only mattered what he planned to do now he knew who she was. Would he return her to her father? She shivered.

‘Aye. I know who you are. I also know I am the only one who can keep the noose from about your bonny neck.’

His soft-spoken words sent her world tilting again, but she refused to let him see. She returned his stare and despite the calm facade, she noticed the anxious gleam lighting his eyes. He wanted something from her. Just as she’d expected.

‘Marry me, Kenzie?’

Her heart seized, and then pounded in her ears. She fought for every breath and with each breath she won, her shock and fear subsided.

She swallowed and looked into his summer-sky eyes. ‘I’d rather hang.’

***

His little thief had finally spoken. She hadn’t said the words Lachlan wanted to hear, but the husky sound of her voice sent heat rippling across his shoulders. He took her harsh response for what it was: strong words spoken falsely. She couldn’t deny she’d done wrong, no matter how she tried. The colour flushing her cheeks and the slender column of her throat proved she knew it too. He peered into deep brown eyes blazing with fury.

‘Ah, Kenzie. You have a way with words, if your aim is to shrivel a man’s pride.’

‘Curse your pride.’

Lachlan cocked a brow and silently cursed her spirit. Given the circumstances, he’d assumed she’d give in to the inevitable and agree to be his wife. Obviously, he’d assumed wrong. But she would marry him. The future of Clan Elliot depended on him. And her.

He’d lost the opportunity to marry her sister, Jeanne, but he’d learned from his mistakes and now, given a second chance, he wouldn’t lose his final opportunity to ally his clan with the Irvine’s.

‘What’s it to be, lass?’ He grasped the oak chair’s armrests. ‘Do I set my men to building gallows or do I ride to Dumfries for a priest?’

She stared at him as if he hadn’t spoken. It seemed she had more fight in her than her father. Or perhaps she was simply more stubborn.

‘Your father was pleased by the prospect of a union between our clans.’

Her lips tightened. ‘How many cattle did my
father
demand in return for sacrificing his remaining daughter?’

Lachlan inwardly flinched at the question. She knew her father well.

‘How many cattle did you steal from me before you stole my horse?’ He didn’t know if she had stolen any of his cattle, but if she had, then he could lay the mystery of the worst reiver in the Borders to rest.

‘Why, do you plan on hanging me twice?’

Lachlan smiled, even as his fingers tightened their hold. ‘Though it would be morbid, it can be arranged.’

Her chin angled a notch higher. ‘Four. Two each time.’

Four. The precise number that had been lifted since the beginning of autumn. His fingers relaxed. Satisfaction slid through him at finally knowing who the thief was.

‘Why did you take them?’

Defiance danced in her eyes. ‘Because it was easy.’

She was doing her best to fuel his ire but he wasn’t done yet. He needed to erase a niggling suspicion. ‘Was your father involved?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She spoke with complete conviction, without delay. The shocked expression she now wore suggested she was insulted by the idea of stealing alongside her father.

‘Did you work alone?’

‘Aye.’

He believed her. He returned to his initial question, hoping this time she’d reveal more. ‘Why did you take them?’

Determination glittered in her eyes. She looked as if she could take on an army and single-handedly defeat them all. ‘I had my reasons.’

Her reply was far from a clear answer but he suspected it was all he’d get from her. For now. Some skirmishes weren’t worth the effort. He’d let this one go; he had a more important battle to win.