Cold, groggy, but fully aware of his tenuous position, Ian watched as the portcullis was finally lifted on the other end of the tunnel in front of him. Two men ducked under it and came toward him.
Ian’s heart slammed in his chest.
No.
It couldn’t be.
4
“Good day, Lady Màiri.”
It was a fine day indeed. Or would be soon.
“Good day, Boyd. Will you saddle Gil for me?”
He looked at her precisely as he should have given she was demanding such a thing when she appeared to be without an escort. But Màiri’s tone did not allow for questioning. She’d learned some things, after all, as the daughter of Alexander Kelbrue, laird of Clan Kelbrue, a man feared by all—including her, at times. But most of the time he was simply her father, and an indulgent one at that. He’d allowed her to refuse a proposal from the son of the laird of Clan Tavish, a match he’d quite liked, and when she’d asked to accompany her father to the Tournament of the North, he’d agreed despite the risks of traveling along the border.
For nigh on twenty-two years, he’d given her everything, and more.
But not this time. He refused to budge when it came to Ambrose’s suit.
“Are ye ready, my lady?” Boyd asked, his expression still doubious.
She was indeed. The snow had prevented her from riding this last sennight, and she was desperate to leave the castle. None gave her notice as she rode across the bridge and over the frozen moat below. Father would be wroth when he learned she’d gone alone, but Màiri knew this path better than most. Besides, the rebuilding of the sluice that had caused the moat to freeze had him more occupied than usual. It was possible he’d not learn of her ride at all.
But not likely.
Gil moved slowly in the snow, but her trustworthy steed knew the way. Reaching a gloved hand to her hood, Màiri tugged the fur closer around her cheeks. She despised the cold, but being trapped inside was an even worse fate.
According to Father, her mother had felt the same way. Being out of doors had filled her with happiness, the kind of happiness that, despite their arranged marriage, had made him fall in love. He’d told Màiri quite a bit about her mother, but the stories lacked the depth of actual memories. If only she could remember her mother’s smile, her voice.
“Good boy,” she said as Gil navigated his way toward the loch.
Since she did not expect to see anyone, not at this time of year, a movement instantly caught her eye. The loch Clan Kelbrue shared with their now enemies, Clan Dern, had for years stood between them. Now it served as a reminder of broken promises and shifting allegiances. Even so, she continued to favor the spot, which was even more beautiful wreathed with the freshly fallen snow. All the better that she sometimes saw Ambrose here.
The movement she’d noticed became more prominent. Oddly, it seemed to be coming from the west, where their land bordered Clan MacKinnish. Few visitors or travelers had come from that direction since her father had broken his short-lived alliance with Robert the Bruce, whom the MacKinnishes still faithfully served. Periodically a MacKinnish might attempt to sway her father, but that had happened less frequently over the past months.
None of the visitors had been dangerous, but Màiri nevertheless retrieved her knife from her saddlebag. Slipping the weapon into the folds of her mantle, Màiri continued riding toward the loch, grateful the sun had decided to accompany her this day. She filled her chest with the crisp air, cold but not unbearable.
When she arrived at the lakeside, Màiri tied Gil to a tree and took out the bit of bread Muir had forced on her this morn. Then she strained her neck to see over the ridge where she thought she’d seen a rider.
There!
He, or she, was alone. Like her. And definitely approaching from the west. How very strange. The MacKinnishes rarely rode this far onto their property, which suggested this visitor intended to make yet another attempt to sway her father.
But it would not help.
He was now as set against the Bruce as he’d once been supportive of him. If there was one thing her father hated, it was a man who acted alone. And Bruce had done just that when he’d attacked John Balliol, another potential heir to the throne, after the envoy for the Guardians of Scotland was sent to the English court. He’d made the attack without consulting any of his allies.
The final mark, her father had said.
And now Clan Kelbrue stood against Bruce. To some, they were traitors because of it.
So be it.
Popping the last bite of bread into her mouth, Màiri decided not to wait for the rider to approach. Her father’s warnings rang in her ears, and as much as she despised the idea of returning to the castle so soon, she turned around to do just that. Or at least she attempted it. She stumbled on an exposed root.
Her ankle.
