The Thief (5 page)

‘Whatever you decide, I need to make the arrangements. The choice is yours, Kenzie.’

‘Choice?’ Disbelief infused the single word. ‘You give me nae choice at all.’

She was right. She had no choice. It was a relief she’d finally acknowledged the fact. He rose from the chair and strode to the door. Turning, he looked at his soon-to-be wife.

‘We will marry in the morn.’

‘Forced marriages are doomed from the start.’ A hint of desperation coloured her tone.

Lachlan ignored her dire prediction and scanned the sparse room. ‘I will send someone to move you to a more comfortable chamber.’

‘Nae!’

His gaze darted back to Kenzie.

‘I do not want to be moved,’ she said firmly. ‘I like this room. It reminds me of what I am.’

‘And that would be?’

‘A woman forced to do a man’s bidding.’

Lachlan gripped the latch and swallowed the insult. His life would never be dull married to the she-devil glaring up at him.

‘But first you were a thief caught stealing my horse.’ He left the chamber.

On the shadowed landing outside the room, Lachlan drew a deep, fortifying lungful of air to cool the anticipation simmering in his blood. Soon he’d take Kenzie as his wife. Soon he’d have accomplished the first part of what he needed to achieve. They’d do well enough as man and wife. He’d glimpsed the vulnerability buried under her defiance and he understood her reluctance to marry.

He too was being forced to wed. The only difference was the man pushing her toward the altar was alive, while Lachlan’s enforcer was dead. The promise he’d given his father to wed continued to haunt him day and night. Despite Kenzie’s aversion, but mostly because of it, she would marry him.

There’d be no chance for Lachlan to become a besotted fool and lose his heart to a woman who had openly admitted she’d rather hang than be his wife.

Chapter 4

The morn. One more rise and fall of the moon and her life as she’d known it would be altered forever.

Kenzie stared at the solid oak door, battling with the knowledge she was to marry tomorrow. How could she have been so careless? How could she have allowed the far too handsome Lachlan Elliot to capture her?

She was always careful, always unseen. Those she aided dubbed her Angel of Shadows. They would need to find something new to call her, something more fitting. Perhaps Fool on Show. How would they survive without her help? Her fist collided with the mattress, sending a puff of dust into the air. The smell of neglect wafted about her, fuelling her frustration.

Images of strained faces flashed through her mind. Little Kelsey’s despairing gaze. Tiny Seumas’s hungry eyes; eyes that brightened with hope when she visited and delivered her goods. Martha’s welcoming arms.

If only she’d delivered the sack of oats and flour to the third cottage as planned, then she’d know they had the necessary supplies to last another sennight. But the half-moon had lured her with its smile and she’d stashed the remaining goods in her secret hiding place in the woods and gone to relieve the neighbouring clan of a cow or two. She’d stolen a horse instead. She’d have gained double the goods for one strong mount compared to trading two cattle. But she’d been caught.

Now her punishment was to wed a man of power. A man who no doubt used those who brought him gain and ignored the rest.

It made no sense that he wanted to marry her. A man such as Lachlan Elliot could choose any woman he wanted. What did he hope to gain by wedding her, a neighbouring laird’s forgotten, thieving daughter? Surely he wouldn’t really go through with such a ridiculous plan. Surely the whole thing was a foolish threat to make her sorry for what she’d done.

She was only sorry she’d been caught.

She thumped the ticking again. Dust tickled her nose. Trust the far too handsome laird to threaten her with the one thing she feared: marriage.

Eyes watering, nose tingling, an image of her mother rose in her mind. Her fragile, miserable mother and the hushed words she’d spoken on panted breaths. The haunted, blue eyes that darted about in fear of her husband coming near. A shaking finger twisting through the end of a greying strand of golden hair. Stains on the furs from overturned goblets and splashes of wine. A grown woman too distraught, too frightened for herself to offer any guidance, support or love to her youngest daughter.

Her mother had been a shade. Kenzie had become a shadow, living in the wake of her mother’s despair, her older sister’s beauty and her father’s rejection. The difference was a shadow came alive with sun and light. A shadow was cast from something solid and real, something you could touch. A shade was a patch of nothing that hid in the shadows, avoiding the sun and light, avoiding life.

Never would she end up like her mother.

She wasn’t married yet. She still had one night before the wedding noose slipped over her head to choke the last of who she was right out of her. Sitting here allowing her fears to swell and grow was a waste of precious moments.

Scrambling off the pallet, she retrieved the bone spoon from the tray and slid in behind the chair to resume freeing the chain from the wall.

A brisk round of knocks thundered against the chamber door. Kenzie spun around and clutched the chair’s high back. The door flew inward and a flurry of people marched into the room. A short, solid man, with arms as thick as the trunk of an oak, strode to the pallet and hefted it over his shoulder. He gave her a swift glance, a farewell nod and left. Two reed-like men filled his place, lowering a thick mattress to the empty space. A line of women followed, carrying bed linens, bolsters and soft-looking furs.

They all graced her with a respectful nod before leaving the chamber, but with every nod her hopes plummeted. Lachlan Elliot’s plan to marry her wasn’t simply a threat. These people all knew she was to wed their laird.

She straightened and tilted her chin, telling herself their opinion of her did not matter. She was tempted to tell them their efforts to make the room more comfortable were wasted. She wasn’t staying. As soon as she found a means to escape, she’d be gone from this place.

Still they came. A man placed a box filled with logs on the other side of the hearth, plucked one from inside and added it to the dwindling fire. Another set a small table against the same wall while a third man lowered a chair beside it. Two women arranged fat candles and a pitcher and bowl on the table’s wide top.

The last two maids carried clothes. The youngest lay a garment at the end of the thick, inviting mattress, while the older woman carefully placed her goods over the back of the newly positioned chair. With a quick curtsey, the women left without closing the door.

Kenzie stared through the opening. Her heart thumped quick beats in her chest. Tilting her head, she listened to the sound of retreating footfalls, as the hum of murmuring voices from afar wafted into the room. A stone wall across the way was her only view. A corridor? Was her chamber set on the ground floor or did Castle Redheugh have higher levels? Was the open door an invitation to explore or were there others still to come?

She waited. Listened. Nothing but jumbled conversations filtered by distance. In order to make a successful escape, she needed to find out what lay beyond this room.

Setting the spoon down on the tray, she clutched the folds of the blanket tight about her and crept toward the opening on chilled toes.

The sound of a door closing somewhere beyond the room made her pause. Determined footsteps rang on the wooden floor outside. Sinking back on her heels, she waited. The footfalls stopped. No one filled the doorway, no one passed by. Still she waited, but the pounding of her heart was the only sound she heard.

Swallowing her relief, she licked her dry lips and pressed forward. As she neared the threshold, the cooler air from the corridor wrapped itself about her ankles and brushed her face. The scent of roasted meat sprinkled with herbs reached her. Her stomach rumbled, joining the chorus of what seemed a hundred voices conversing at once.

She grasped the doorframe with one hand and, leaning forward, looked out into the shadow-strewn hallway. A large body lounged against the wall to her left, waiting. She gasped. A rush of cold air stung her lungs as her upper body recoiled into the room. The smiling face she’d glimpsed in the poor light outside suddenly appeared in the opening.

Kenzie stared at the man with the dangerous smile while her heart did its best to thump right out of her chest. He wore a sword at his hip and a fur mantle tossed carelessly over one shoulder. He was dressed for travel, ready to fetch a priest from Dumfries. She dragged a full breath deep inside to fill the hollow of trepidation, while he lounged against the doorframe. His blue eyes studied her from head to toe before meeting her glare.

‘Searching for me?’

She heard the laughter in his voice, but failed to see any humour in the situation.

‘You jest!’

‘Come now, lass.’ He casually folded his arms across his wide chest. ‘We are soon to be husband and wife. It is natural for you to seek my—’

‘Is it your usual habit to hover outside a woman’s chamber?’

‘Nae,’ he said straightening. ‘I usually have to fight my way out of them.’

His swift reply and the calm delivery were heavy with truth. The wretch. ‘You will be pleased to know you will not suffer such hardship from me.’

‘Time will tell.’ The velvet sound of his voice skittered along her nape, all the way down to her toes. As if sensing his effect on her, his attention dipped to her feet, before edging past her to study the room. ‘Do you wish to take the evening meal below, or—’

‘I’m not hungry.’

His smile broadened. ‘I’ll have a tray delivered. You must keep up your strength for things to come.’

Kenzie withdrew further into the room. She didn’t want to show any weakness, but her feet had already moved. Clever feet. She reached for the door and, standing as tall as possible, she pushed it closed.

A large hand splayed on the timber surface, halting its closure. His eyes glinted with the usual humour, but now something else, something undefined, darkened the blue depths.

Her pulse leaped in response to his intense expression.

‘I’ll come for you in the morn. Be ready.’

He removed his hand. She slammed the door. Resting her forehead against the hard wood, she concentrated on breathing.

‘Sleep well, Kenzie.’ The words rumbled through the timber. She jerked away. The image of him resting against the same surface, breathing against the same wood, seemed far too intimate. How in Heaven’s name would she cope when they were wed and Lachlan Elliot was on the same side of a closed door?

She couldn’t marry him. She must escape.

***

Kenzie stared at the yellow-white beauty of the flame as it sank invisible teeth into the timber she held. Bursts of fiery red mingled with vibrant blue as the flame danced and crept along the kindling. So many pretty colours made up one beautiful, frightening flame.

She hated that it had come to this, but what choice did she have? For the second time this day, she was left with no choice at all. There was no other way.

Visions of a smoldering heap that had once been a home filled her mind. The sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh filled her nose. The horror of death three years past and the charred remains of someone she’d never known. Someone she’d never forgotten. A chilled sweat prickled her back and needled its way between her shoulder blades.

Fear of setting a fire caused her fingers to shake. Fear of marriage set her heart to tremble. She couldn’t marry Lachlan Elliot. She knew what would happen once she was wed. Forced marriages never worked. She couldn’t stay. She had to leave while the Elliot laird was away. Had to leave before he returned.

Her hand lowered. She swallowed, silencing a strangled sob. The flame hissed, flared with delight, devouring the coarse blanket where it lay piled atop the thick mattress.

The scent of burning linen permeated the air, coating her next breath. Her stomach clenched. The crackling fire quickly crawled its way across the mattress, sinking greedy claws deep into the ticking.

She looked away from the chaos on the bed, chaos she’d started. Her gaze fell on the basin of water sitting close by. For a moment, instinct had her reaching for it, but just for a moment. This was her only way out. Of the room. Of the misery of marriage.

Her heart battered the walls of her chest.

She threw the smoking kindling into the grate, snatched up the wooden cup from her tray and ran to the room’s only exit. She glanced at the flaming bed. She needed to attract someone’s attention. And fast.

She hit the timber door with the base of the cup, over and over. Smoke filled her lungs. She coughed, and pressed her ear to the solid oak, straining to hear, praying she’d hear the sound of running feet drawing near.

Nothing. No sound beyond the cheerful crackling of the growing fire behind her. She peered over her shoulder. Thick, dark smoke coiled high in the room, hiding the rafters from sight. Crouching low to one side of the door, she resumed battering the oak with her cup.

Someone would hear her. They must. Too many people relied upon her. People needed her. Someone would come.

Springing to her feet, she grabbed the basin and tossed the water onto the flames. The fire sizzled, laughing at her feeble efforts.

She rushed back to the door and struck the timber with the cup. Again she paused, listened. Silence.

She searched for the latch, despite knowing there wasn’t one on this side.

The flames crackled, licking higher, wider, reaching for her. She pressed close to the door, molded her body to the timber barring her way. Vicious heat pulsed and rushed toward her. Acrid smoke filled the space between the roof and partway down from the top of the door.

‘I will not die in this room.’ Her vow escaped through clenched teeth. She raised her cup and started battering the door once more. She pounded the door harder. Faster.

The door rattled with every blow. Each shallow inhalation she drew tasted of smoke and fury. Desperation. Even the sight of Lachlan Elliot’s smiling face would be welcome, if it meant a way out of this room.