Page 13 of Tangled in a Highland Conspiracy
“Yes, Master John,” she replied, as she drew up beside him. They were still a few hundred yards away from the stream, but they turned their horses around and made their way towards it. It was a beautiful evening, and John could not have picked a more romantic setting, Ailsa thought.
The little burn was not as wide as the loch, and it made a pleasant tinkling sound as it flowed past, and they could see the twinkle of moonlight on its bubbling surface. As they arrived at the bank of the stream both of their horses put their heads down to drink.
They sat on their mounts at the edge of the water making desultory conversation, each one desperately trying to find something interesting to talk about besides the weather and their estates. It was a struggle to find something to say after they had exhausted that, each other’s welfare and that of their families. Ailsa, who could usually ‘talk the hind leg off a donkey,’ as her mother would say, was utterly at a loss for words, then she thought of something.
“Do you think we could do away with formality and call each other Ailsa and John?” she asked as she smiled at him.
John gave a short, nervous laugh. “If you wish, Ailsa.” He hesitated for a moment. “After all, we are to be husband and wife soon. Are you looking forward to the wedding?”
Ailsa had been expecting the question, but not quite so soon. “I suppose so,” she replied awkwardly, “but I do not know what to expect.”
He frowned. “In what way?” he asked.
“Well…after the wedding itself,” Ailsa replied, glad that he could not see her scarlet face. “I have never…never…” she came to a stuttering halt.
The truth suddenly hit John in the face. “Oh, I see,” he said. He reached across for her hand and squeezed it. “I will be gentle, I promise.”
That was hardly reassuring, Ailsa thought. She could not feel even a tiny spark of attraction for John, even though he was personable, courteous, and reasonably attractive. There was yet another awkward silence for a moment, then he said, “I was very flattered to receive your beautiful letter. I have never had such a letter from a lady before.”
Ailsa was baffled. “I sent no letter,” she answered, frowning. “But I received one from you.” She searched in the pocket of her cloak, pulled out the parchment, and held it up. She was now suspicious of him and a little afraid. If he had not written the letter, then who had done it? She was a little nervous about giving it to him, since she had no idea if he would want to tear it up, so she kept a tight hold of it.
However, he only stared at it in amazement for a moment. “That is just like the letter you sent to me,” he informed her. “Damn. I wish I had brought mine with me. I could have proved it to you without any doubt.” He was frowning deeply, and a moment later when he reached out to take the parchment from her she did not resist.
In the faint light of the setting sun and the rising moon, John could see that the writing on the parchment was exactly the same as that on his letter; big and bold with great loops and curlicues. The signature, although the name was different, had the same ostentatious flourish. It was obvious to him that the same person had written both letters.
They stared incredulously at the piece of parchment for a moment before Ailsa asked tentatively, “Could this perhaps have been done as a practical joke?”
“By whom?” John’s voice sounded both suspicious and angry.
“By Ramsay?” she suggested.
“No,” John roared. “It is not in his nature. My brother does not have an ounce of meanness in his body, and anyone who suggests otherwise will have to answer to me.”
“I-I am sorry,” Ailsa stuttered, “I meant no harm. Perhaps we should go, John. I am scared.” Her voice was trembling.
“A sensible idea,” John agreed. Then suddenly he had a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, and an ominous feeling that something disastrous was about to happen. His instinct had never failed him, and now he felt the presence of danger, as well as an overwhelming sense of evil.
“Come, Ailsa,” he yelled. “Ride! Ride as fast as you can!”
Ailsa needed no second bidding. She too had sensed that something was amiss, and she yanked on Maisie’s reins, causing her to rear up and neigh in protest. Then turned around in a tight circle and broke into a gallop, or as near as could be managed since the path was narrow and they had no time to navigate their way around the spruce branches that whipped their faces.
They had both managed to ride a fair distance away from the burn when a mounted figure appeared out of the woods beside them. It looked vast, and with an enormous cloak billowing around it, it resembled some supernatural creature, some monster from the dark fantasy of a nightmare.
It was heading straight for both of them, but John spurred his horse ahead of Ailsa and speeded up. He intended to collide with the other rider and nudge him sideways off the path since he was unarmed except for a small dagger.
However, he never got the chance. Just as Ailsa heard a man’s voice shouting, she heard the twang of a bow and the sound of a thud as John fell from his horse and hit the ground. His horse, Trojan, reared up and gave a frightened, panicked neigh, then dashed off into the woods.
Ailsa was too stunned to do anything for a moment. Maisie kept moving forward, propelled by her momentum, and almost stepped on the figure on the ground, while the hooded figure vanished into the woods.
At the same time, she heard another loud yell as a second horseman followed the strange figure into the trees, screaming for him to stop. However, it was clear that he would not.
Ailsa almost fell off Maisie in her haste to dismount and rushed over to John, horrified to see the huge arrow that was protruding from his chest. He was still alive. She could still see the faint rise and fall of his chest.
“John! John!” she cried, shaking him. “Stay with me. Don’t go. Don’t die, please,” Ailsa was begging, but even as she spoke she knew that nothing she said or did would help now. She lifted his head onto her lap and was instantly soaked with the blood that was pouring from the wound; there was nothing she could do apart from making sure that John did not die alone.
His eyes were still open, and they looked into hers as he drew in laboured breath; she was convinced that each one would be his last. However, John was not giving up without a fight, and he struggled weakly for a few moments before becoming still. Ailsa thought he was gone, and moved to close his eyes. She would have pulled him closer to her except for the arrow that was still sticking out of his flesh. It had embedded itself so deeply that even if she had pulled with all her strength she could not have hoped to loosen it.
It seemed incredible, but he was still alive, and she wondered frantically if there was some way she could save him, but she had to be realistic. Even if she had been a trained healer like her mother, there would have been nothing she could do. The breaths were so shallow as to be almost imperceptible; John’s will to survive seemed indomitable, but she reasoned that he must be in agony.
