Why couldn’t he shake the feeling that something was wrong?
He knew why. He was too damned happy, and he didn’t trust it. Happiness made him wary. And tentative. He didn’t want anything to screw it up.
By unspoken agreement, he and Bella had avoided talking about the future for the same reasons. She needed to ensure her daughter’s safety first, and he needed to ensure hers. There would be time when this was over. But the memories of what had happened the last time he’d mentioned a future still stung.
She was right. He was more conventional than he’d realized. He wanted her as his wife. But she loved him. It would have to be enough for now.
“It’s not getting you in that I’m worried about,” he replied. “It’s getting you out. What if one of the nuns notices something and decides to look a little closer? What if Comyn does something? I don’t trust him.”
His words seemed to finally have the desired chilling effect. She sobered. “It’s worth the risk, Lachlan. I have to try to do this.” She put his hand on his cheek. How quickly he’d become used to the tender touch. To crave it.
“My vows—Margaret’s vows—will protect me. And if not, I have you.”
God, he wanted to be deserving of that faith. “I’m only a man, Bella—not a magician. There are some barriers even I cannot get past. You better than anyone know that.”
She paled, the memories of her confinement too fresh.
He swore. “Ah hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want you to be cautious. Remember, you did promise to follow orders.”
Her mouth quirked. “All right. You win. I’ll stay close to the cottage.”
He smiled and dropped a kiss on her lips. “Now, there’s an agreeable lass.”
She made a face. “Go. Before I become very disagreeable.”
He smiled and gave her another kiss, this one much more fierce, before reluctantly taking his leave.
As the convent was only a couple of miles away, he traveled on foot. This way he would attract less notice in the event anyone was nearby. He picked up the pace as he went, moving quickly through the trees and brush.
On some missions the members of the Guard would run like this for hours, across uneven terrain, up and down hills, in snow, rain, and sun. In one of their first training exercises, that sadist MacLeod had demanded that each one of them run fully armed from his castle of Dunvegan along the coast to the northern point of the Waternish Peninsula—a distance of about fifteen miles—in two hours. He’d let them rest all of five minutes before ordering them to run back.
Raised on the sea, and used to the quick Viking style attack of his forebearers, running came about as naturally to Lachlan as riding did to MacKay. The blasted Highlander could run for days. Though Lachlan had hated every minute of the training, he had to admit the endurance and speed had proved useful more times than he’d like to remember.
Now he could run for hours without thinking about it. But he’d still sure as hell rather be in a boat.
He slowed as he neared the convent. St. Mary de Mount Carmel was situated in a small forested glen in a remote area on the outskirts of town. Though it was quiet, and nothing appeared out of the ordinary, he intended to be damned careful.
He told himself it was just like any other mission. But it wasn’t. He had Bella to worry about.
Emerging from the edge of the tree line, he scanned the area around the small walled enclosure. The moon was full, providing plenty of light. At least it did for Lachlan, who had unusually keen vision at night.
The convent consisted of three main buildings around a central cloister. To protect the nuns from the outside world, a ten-foot-high wall and a ditch had been built around the main buildings. But without guards and with only a locked gate to prevent entry, it was more for privacy than a defensive barrier. Hell, even an Englishman could breech these paltry defenses.
Lachlan figured his biggest problem was going to be staying hidden once he was inside. A man in a convent would stand out. The dark robe would help him blend into the darkness, but nothing could hide his size. And unlike other missions, he couldn’t use his blade to cover any mishaps or surprises.
There were few things he refused to do, but killing women—nuns, no less—was one of them.
He waited in the darkness, watching and listening. Finally, about a half-hour after he’d arrived, the bell rang.
It was what he was waiting for. The call to evening prayers. All the women would be in one place.
He waited about ten more minutes, making sure everyone would be inside the church, and then made his move. He picked the darkest area of the castle—in this case the east side, which was shaded by the trees and mountain behind—and came out into the open. He’d be visible for about a hundred yards after he left the safety of the trees.
Dashing across, he made it without incident to the wall. Using gaps in the stones and jagged edges of the rock as finger- and toeholds, he climbed up a few feet until he could grip the top edge. From there he lifted himself up—not an easy feat, loaded down with armor and weapons. But pulling yourself up from a dead hang was another one of MacLeod’s favorite training exercises.
Lying flat on the two-foot-wide platform, he stilled, getting his bearings. He was above what he suspected was the dormitory where the nuns slept. To his left in the center was the church, and opposite was the refectory.
He scanned the area for any sign of movement. Seeing nothing, he dropped down inside. As he wasn’t familiar with the duration of church liturgies—hired swords didn’t tend to spend a lot of time at church—he didn’t know how much time he had. Moving quickly, he crossed the cloister, passing through what had to be a garden for the kitchens, before ducking behind an arched column of the walkway connecting the church to the refectory.
From here, he took some time to find the best position from which to watch the nuns emerge from the building. He needed to find Margaret as quickly as he could and follow her, or find a way to draw her away to speak to her privately. If he had to, he would wait until they slept and then sneak in and wake her.
It was imperative that he find her tonight. Margaret, with her knowledge of the layout and schedule of the convent, would be able to provide the best time and place to make the temporary switch before the meeting with Comyn and Joan.
Unfortunately, hiding places were limited. But he settled on a gap between the steepled roof of the church and the flat roof of the walkway. From the high position, he would have a good view of the nuns coming out of the chapel door. It was good and dark, with little chance of anyone seeing him. It also provided him with multiple escape routes, by traversing the roofs and dropping down on either side.
Once he was in position, it was just a matter of waiting. About twenty minutes later he heard the door open and the nuns began to emerge.
Although there was a nice beam of light from a torch to illuminate their faces as they stepped from the church, the women had a tendency to bow their heads as they walked. Combined with the veils and wimples that covered most of their faces, identifying Margaret was going to be more difficult than he’d realized.
He’d begun to think he might have missed her, when he finally saw her. Luck was with him. Not only was she one of the last to leave, but she also walked alone. If he could find a way to get her attention—
His head snapped around at a faint rustling sound behind him. His blood ran cold. He stilled, senses honed on the dark, surrounding countryside. It was probably an animal, nothing to worry about.
But then he heard it again. More distinctly this time. Closer. Muffled footsteps and the soft slink of metal. Mail. A soft whinny. Horses.
He muttered an oath. Something had gone wrong all right.
It was a trap. They’d been waiting for him. Which meant …
Bella! They must know she was free.
How didn’t matter. Lachlan drew his swords out from under his cloak and crouched into position like a lion waiting to spring. He would get back
to her even if he had to get through the entire English army to do it.
Bella washed, ate a few bites of cheese and oatcake, fiddled with the fire, tried to lie down on the old straw bed she’d covered with a plaid, and, having exhausted her options, began to pace around the old wooden building. As it wasn’t much bigger than the ambry at Balvenie Castle, it didn’t take more than a few strides to cross from one end to the other. Every few minutes, she would take a short detour to the small shuttered window and peer through the opening to see if anyone approached.
But it was so dark outside, all she could make out were the dark and slightly sinister-looking shadows of the trees.
She threw up her hands in frustration. This was torture. Waiting was torture.
Ever since they’d reached Berwick she’d been unable to contain her excitement. After so many years, she would finally be able to see her daughter face-to-face, to hold her in her arms, to hear the sound of her voice.
Lachlan would make it happen. Not once did she doubt him. She knew she could count on him.
The past few days had been fraught with danger, uncomfortably cold, and filled with mind-numbing exhaustion. But through it all, she’d been happier than she could remember in years. Although there had been no more opportunities to make love, she’d slept a few hours in Lachlan’s arms in the saddle—he appeared to be able to go for days without sleep—and they’d talked whenever the pace allowed.
Despite the circumstances, their time alone had been wonderful. When her daughter was returned to her, her happiness would be complete.
She stopped before the window again and carefully lifted the wooden latch to open the shutter wide enough to peek outside. Shivering as the cold night air rushed into the room, she peered out into the darkness.
Nothing.
How long had it been? An hour, maybe longer?
She was about to close the shutter, when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. A branch swayed back and forth. It could have been the wind, but for a second she thought she saw the large shadow of a man.
Her heart jumped. Thank God, he was back!
She slammed the shutter closed, grabbed the oil lamp, and raced to the door. Tearing it open, she said, “Lachlan, I …”
Her voice died when a man stepped out of the shadows.
“Hello, Isabella.”
Her heart plummeted to the ground. There, standing before her, was her husband’s brother, William Comyn.
Instinctively, like a cornered hare, she looked around for a means of escape. But all thoughts of fleeing vanished, when roughly two dozen men emerged from the trees to encircle the lodge. One of them was the man whom she now recognized as Sir Hugh Despenser.
The happiness of the past few days, the excitement she’d been brimming with moments before, and all hope for the future died in the space of a cruel heartbeat, leaving nothing but despair and fear.
God in heaven, she’d die before she let them imprison her again!
It wasn’t the entire English army, but it seemed like a good part of it. From Lachlan’s perch hidden in the shadows of the church bell tower, he could see that the soldiers had surrounded him. Literally. There was a line of at least a hundred men all the way around the convent just beyond the ditch. He might be able to fight his way through, but without a horse, they would be on him like wolves.
A loud banging at the gate sent fissures of alarm running through the convent. He could hear the anxious shouts as the nuns retreated to the safety of the church. A few nuns with obvious authority—including undoubtedly the prioress—came to the gate. A moment later, soldiers flooded into the cloister.
He heard a commanding male voice. “Not harm you … looking for a rebel … search the premises …”
The nuns’ outraged protests were to no avail.
Lachlan knew he didn’t have much time. It wouldn’t take them long to find him here. He jumped from the bell tower to the roof of the church below, then scrambled along the adjoining roof to a place he’d noticed before. A small, dark refuse area behind the kitchen.
If this didn’t work, he’d have to take his chances fighting his way out. But without a horse, he would be at a disadvantage. The hundred yards of open land loomed large.
He was in luck. Two men emerged into the small space below him and not three. Three men would have given them a chance to sound the alarm—he had only two hands.
He used them well.
Dropping from the roof, he took one man in a chokehold and stabbed the other in the side of the neck with the special dirk Saint had fashioned to pierce through mail. The steel blade was unusually sharp and thin—more like a narrow pick than a blade.
It enabled them to kill silently, which in circumstances like this was imperative.
A fraction of a second later, he slid the same dirk into the mailed back of the man he’d been holding around the neck.
After tossing the smaller of the two soldiers behind the fence of refuse, Lachlan set about removing the other man’s armor, which bore arms he did not recognize—five lozenges in an azure fess.
He could hear other soldiers milling about in the kitchen and knew he didn’t have much time before they came out to investigate.
The cloak, tabard, mail shirt, shield, and helm were the most important, so he focused on those. It took a few minutes of struggle to get the mail shirt over the dead man’s head. Once removed, he had to get it over his own.
These bloody Englishmen were a short, small lot, but he managed to get the damned thing on. The helm, tabard, and cloak were much easier. Finally, his disguise was complete. After tossing the second man atop the first, he yelled into the darkness, “There, by the gate!”
As he’d hoped, the men went rushing out of the kitchen, and Lachlan followed behind them.
“Where is he?” he heard people yell. “I don’t see him.”
“Did you see him, Penington?”
He must be Penington. Lachlan shook his head and moved off, following a stream of men that were passing through the gate.
His luck held for a few more minutes. But Penington’s squire must have seen him emerge and brought him his horse. “Sir William!”
Lachlan turned. The lad’s face paled. “You’re not Sir William.”
Before the lad could react, Lachlan grabbed the reins and pushed the boy out of his way. He was on the horse and riding as the cry went out behind him.
It didn’t matter. He was nearly in the forest. It might take him some time to lose them, but he did not doubt that he would.
But the English would be scouring every inch of this forest. How long would it take them to find Bella? He had to get to her first.
Ice chilled every inch of her skin, penetrated her bones, and filled her veins, but Bella refused to cower or show them her fear. She met her brother-in-law’s gaze unflinchingly. “What do you want, William?”
“You always were a proud lass. I told my brother it was a mistake to marry you.” He shrugged indifferently. “But he saw I was right in the end.”
“How did you find me?”
William shrugged. “It wasn’t difficult. My men were watching the forest around the convent and alerted us when you arrived. We were expecting a larger party—it was nice of you to make it easy on us.” He gave her an appraising glance. “Still wearing lad’s clothing, are you? I must admit I never imagined it was you until one of my men said that MacRuairi had been traveling with a woman. When he described your mouth and eyes, I knew.” He shook his head, tisking. “That was really quite foolish of you, attempting to see your daughter like that. We might not have ever known of your deception.”
The ramifications tumbled through her mind. If they knew it was she, then the letter … it had all been a ploy—a trap. Her heart sank in despair. Joan. Where was her daughter?
“You’ve been a very naughty lady,” Sir Hugh added. “But in the end it will all work out for the best.”
“What are you talking about?”
He looked
surprised that she hadn’t realized it yet. “Why, MacRuairi. Surely, you’ve guessed why we’ve gone to all this trouble? We want the outlaw.”
Actually, she hadn’t. But her heart jumped to a hard thump. “I’m afraid you are to be disappointed. He’s not here. Last I heard he was out west.”
Her bravado was for nothing. Despenser’s face hardened. “Do not take me for a fool, Lady Isabella—and I use that term very loosely. Right now your lover is cornered in the convent, with my men surrounding him.”
Her heart jerked again, but she forced herself not to react, not to panic. Lachlan could take care of himself. He would find a way out. He always did.
Despenser must have guessed what she was thinking.
“And if he manages to slip through the net I have cast for him, you are all the bait I need to lure him into a second.”
She blanched. “You must be mad to think I would ever let you use me to capture him.”
“Even for freedom?” Despenser held out the bone. “For you and your daughter?”
Bella stilled. “You expect me to believe that?”
He shrugged. “You are not important to us, the brigand is. Sir William has graciously agreed to allow you to retire to his estates in Leicester with your daughter—at least until her marriage can be arranged. No one will know who you really are. Isabella MacDuff will be thought to be safely retired in a convent.”
Bella looked back and forth between the two men. Even if she could trust them—which was doubtful—she would never betray Lachlan like that.
She shook her head. Dread settled in her belly like a stone. But she realized she would face imprisonment rather than betray him. “You might as well take me back to Berwick right now; I won’t do it.”
Despenser smiled. “Such bold words. But I feared you might be difficult.”
Sir William appeared distressed. “For once in your life be reasonable, Isabella. The scourge isn’t worth it.”