“Nay, but—”
A pounding at the door halted her words. “The time to depart has come,” one of Baron Bellecote’s guards announced.
“One moment, please,” Deirdre called, rushing back to her wardrobe, pulling out another gown, and donning it in a blur. She was back in front of Maggie in moments, her frantic movements increasing Maggie’s own worry.
When she grabbed Maggie’s hand and squeezed it to offer reassurance, Maggie said, “Deirdre, we can nae allow that man to be killed or tortured for what I said.”
“I shall see if anything can be done,” Deirdre replied, not promising aid. She opened the door with a ramrod back and her chin tilted up. “We’re ready,” she said to the guards.
With a nod, the guards led them through the quiet corridors and out into the inner courtyard of Kinghorn Castle. Darkness was slipping away to allow the first rays of light into the sky. In the center of the courtyard, two of Baron Bellecote’s men grunted and heaved, laboring to erect a flogging pole, presumably for the stranger to be tethered to and beaten.
Maggie bit her lip with frustration and increasing concern. She turned to Deirdre, but she did not feel she could beg her case again with the guards so near. The door to the castle opened, and Baron Bellecote strode out, passing through the last patch of shadows cast from the night. Dawn was breaking fully, and the sky was brightening. Walking beside the baron was the head of the queen’s guard, a ruddy-faced, square-jawed man named Nigel. Maggie didn’t care for him, but she could not put her finger on why.
Baron Bellecote’s gaze fell on Maggie from across the courtyard, and a look of displeasure settled on his face before he focused his attention on Deirdre. “My lady, a moment of your time, if you please.”
Deirdre turned her head so that only Maggie could see her face. “Do nae move or say a word. The baron is obviously verra vexed with ye, but I’ll fix it.”
Maggie knew she should simply nod, especially as what Deirdre had said about risking all their futures was true, but she could not keep silent. “Deirdre, please—”
Deirdre pressed a finger to her lips to indicate there were always people listening, though the guards who had accompanied them to the courtyard were now standing closer to the baron than to them. “I’ll do what I can for the man,” Deirdre promised before she turned and walked across the courtyard to the baron.
Maggie stared at the two of them, watching the baron speak and then her sister, vexation making her thoughts tumble and collide and her body tremble. The idea of watching the stranger being thrashed—or worse, killed—made her ill, but the thought that her reckless actions could harm her siblings, who truly had raised her as if she were their child, made her want to weep.
There were only two choices: one was bad and the other was worse. It was either her family or a stranger, as Deirdre had pointed out. But could she bear it? Could she even maintain her silence while he was struck? And what if she told the truth? Would they take his hands? A flogging would heal, but cutting off his hands for touching her was permanent. It was all so ridiculous that a man should lose his hands for saving her life. Baron Bellecote was horrid.
Dread settled in her chest like the worst winter cough, spreading its spidery fingers to grip her heart and squeeze. She had felt no joy when she’d been told she was to wed the baron. Duty, yes, but certainly not joy. Not only was he much older than she was but the one time she’d met him, he’d been punishing a servant girl for spilling wine on him. Maggie would never forget that day. He’d poured the rest of the wine over the crying lass’s head while everyone sitting with him on the dais had laughed at her.
Now, as Deirdre walked away from him, the baron took the whip from one of his men, gleeful anticipation flitting across his face. Her lack of joy regarding her impending marriage turned to utter dread. The man had a cruel streak. Yet, she would do it. If she defied the king’s wishes, which the council and the queen meant to see done, she, Yearger, and Deirdre would all be punished. She could not allow that.
Maggie spoke low as Deirdre returned to her side. “Did he promise nae to kill him?”
Deirdre nodded, but the worry in her sister’s eyes made Maggie’s breath catch in her throat. Had she asked too much of Deirdre? She didn’t see how it could have been avoided. She bit her lip, the metallic taste of blood touching her tongue. Memories flooded her mind. Ever since her mother had died, all Maggie wanted was to become a healer. That desire seemed to concern Deirdre and Yearger greatly, and Maggie understood why. They needed her to dothis, to wed a man of means, as she had needed them to raise her, shield her, until she had grown old enough to do so on her own. Which brought her here—to her impending wedding.
Until four months ago, Maggie had naively hoped somehow she’d be able to pursue her dreams. Yearger and Deirdre had complained constantly, but they had not stopped her. Maggie had spent much time covered in dirt, her skirts tied up and hair a mess, as she searched the woods for healing herbs and worked in the healing room at Lochlavine to learn the healing arts. She had barely spent any time dressed in proper gowns and entertaining visitors to the castle. But then Maggie had been summoned to Edinburgh because her godfather had decided she should wed and he wanted her to meet some eligible men. Everything had changed that day.
Deirdre and Yearger had come to fetch her from Lochlavine and take her to Edinburgh, but they’d made a detour to the English court first, as Yearger had business there in the name of King Alexander which he had to see to before proceeding to Edinburgh. She’d met Bellecote there, and she’d thought no more of him once she left him in the great hall. Well, nothing pleasant, that was. So when Yearger and Deirdre had told her later that the king was commanding her to wed Bellecote, she’d hoped to plead with Deirdre to make a case to the queen so she would then persuade the king not to force Maggie’s hand. But then Deirdre had explained how the marriage could return all that was taken from their family.
“Maggie!” Deirdre snapped her fingers in her sister’s face. “Did ye hear me?”
“Nay, sorry.”
Deirdre frowned reproachfully. “I said to keep yer tongue and yer wits when they flog the prisoner. If ye interfere, it could make matters worse. Bellecote has assured me he only wishes the man renounce his ties to the Devil. Once he does, the baron will stop the flogging and the man will be sent to the dungeon for a sennight of penance.” She paused. “Did the man tell ye anything, Maggie?” Deirdre asked in a soft voice. “Like where he came from? What he is doing here? One of the baron’s guards mentioned that the man sounded foreign.”
“He came in search of Shona,” Maggie offered.
“Shona?” Deirdre repeated, her frown deepening. “What does he want with Shona?”
“His friend was to wed her, but as ye know, she disappeared.”
Deirdre bit her lip, looking contemplative, her fingers twisting together at her waist. “We should get word to Yearger since he’s leading the party to look for her.”
“’Tis a good idea,” Maggie agreed.
“What’s the friend’s name?” Deirdre asked, but before Maggie could answer, the castle door opened, drawing her and Deirdre’s attention to three of the baron’s guards who emerged. They were easily recognizable by their capes, which had the baron’s crest—a golden lion—emblazoned on the right shoulder. The first two guards each held an arm of the stranger, his hands tied in front of him, and the third guard had his sword pointed at the man’s back. That guard had a cut lip, and a quick glance at the other two guards showed they’d been in a scuffle, as well. One had a bloody nose, and the other had a cut and bleeding lip.
Maggie found her gaze drawn to the stranger in the middle, and she sucked in a sharp breath. He was an astonishing sight. He was a head taller than the guards around him. His dark, closely cropped hair gleamed like a raven’s feathers in the sun. An errant damp lock fell across his forehead, and she had the urge to brush it back. He had a ruggedly handsome face dusted with dark stubble and full lips that were pressed into a hard, angry line. But she could see touches of humor around his generous mouth that bespoke of a man who knew laughter. He had a strong jaw and the bones of his face appeared carefully carved to perfection.
She could not see his eyes, as his attention was focused on the flogging pole, but she wished to. Heaven, how she wished to. Her mother had always said one could tell the truth of a man’s heart by whether his eyes were like fire or ice. She trailed her attention over his broad shoulders, which were covered in the oddest clothing she’d ever seen. His attire appeared to be made of linen. Small buttons closed the front of his frock, the likes of which she could not place. His massive frame filled out his shirt so much that the material strained against his skin, and as she moved her gaze lower over his rounded biceps and thick forearms, she could see he was powerful and well muscled. She had never seen a man with such height or build.
