Page 10 of The Scottish Bride
“It is the truth and you know it.”
Kirsty took her arm. “My lady, our escort is here. We must go.”
Hearing footsteps, Tamsin looked to her left. The cloaked man approached to stand beside her, the protesting sentry hurrying after him.
Despite his limp, the tall stranger had the determined stride of a warrior. Though a man in shabby gear was a common sight in downtrodden Scotland, Tamsin stared at this one. Handsome, strong, compelling—with a rather stunning masculine beauty. Distracted, she tilted her head, regarding him.
He nodded toward her but did not tug at his hood. He was no subordinate, she realized. Was he wearing a disguise? A Scottish spy? She frowned. If he was working for the Scots, she wanted to help him, trust him.
Merton ignored the man, reading a parchment page. “Lady, you will stay here until I am satisfied that you are who you claim to be.”
“I am the lady of Dalrinnie and you have no reason to detain us.”
“But you will stay until—what the devil do you want, man?” he snapped, addressing the stranger. “You were not invited forward.”
“Sir, he insisted,” the guard said.
“I did,” the man said calmly. “I am here to escort the ladies to Dalrinnie—in the spirit of king’s peace, of course.”
Tamsin gaped. Had he heard them talking—or was he genuinely their escort, sent inside by Sir David Campbell, Dalrinnie’s seneschal?
“Is that so, lady?” Merton asked.
Her mouth went dry. Even a small falsehood was a challenge. “I, ah—”
“Campbell sent me to accompany the ladies,” the stranger said, as if he had read her thoughts—or had indeed been sent by Sir Davey. “If they stay to supper, I also hoped to offer my music then. I am a harper.” He inclined his head with the offer.
His voice, deep and warm, sent an unexpected wash of comfort through her. Confused, she wondered what to do. She looked at Kirsty, who shrugged.
Merton laughed. “A minstrel, escorting ladies? Rude damn Scots.”
“A harper is no minstrel. They are highly regarded in Scotland,” Tamsin said. Indignant, she wanted to help. “My grandda was a harper and was very well-respected.”
“Huh. Lady, do you know this man?” the constable demanded.
Tamsin looked at the man again. He dropped his hood back to reveal brown hair in long, untidy waves, a lean, square jaw dusted in dark whiskers, and remarkably blue eyes. Fatigue or concern crinkled his eyes and etched creases from arched nose to firm lips. Life had set fine tracks in a face both beautiful and hard, though his lips had a tender curve.
The harper gave her a wary glance.Do not give me away, it said.
She frowned. His satchel was harp-shaped, but he seemed like a warrior, brawny, with a reserved and powerful presence. She sensed something more. The voice, the eyes…
The knight in her dream. But that could not be.
“I—I know him. At Dalrinnie,” she stammered, letting the dream justify her words. But her knees went weak, untruth and uncertainty—fear too—tilting her off balance. She put out a hand, and instantly his forearm was under hers, a hard and courteous brace. That was the gesture of a knight, not a harper.
She caught her breath and let go of his arm. Whoever he was, she felt strongly that he had secrets, yet she felt oddly safe beside him. She sensed worth, strength, innate integrity—and danger. The very air seemed to spark like fire around him.
Meeting the harper’s glance, she looked away, then glanced back. Flickering glimpses, rippling excitement—she felt a strong physical attraction, but it was only foolish fancy. She was a lonely widow coming out of an empty marriage, facing many long years in a convent, a young woman with a yearning heart and an uncertain future.
Here and now, she must think only of her brother and their two sisters, and of her promise to her late great-grandfather. The wellbeing of her kin was as important to her as her own.
“You, musician,” Merton was saying. “Play for your supper and leave after that. These ladies will not be going with you.”
“Constable, would you treat a harper with discourtesy?” Tamsin asked. “As I said, here in Scotland, bards and harpers are respected and lauded. By tradition, they would be seated at the right hand of lords and kings.”
“Which is why Scotland is failing in this war,” Merton snapped. “At a king’s right hand should be his general, not his musician. Sergeant—take these ladies to the solar. They can wait there until they dine with me at supper.”
“You have no cause to hold us,” Tamsin said.
