Page 11 of The Scottish Bride
“Scotswomen asking about King Edward is reason enough. You could be spies. This harper might be a spy too.”
“If we were spies, we would have done what we came for and be gone already.”
The harper laughed outright. Merton sent Tamsin a scathing look. “Take them away. Harper, you can find the steward below stairs.”
Turning, Tamsin and Kirsty followed in the guard’s wake. The harper came after, his limp rhythmic across the woodenfloor. When the guard crossed the threshold first, the stranger reached above Tamsin’s head to catch the door, letting Kirsty step out first.
Gliding beneath his outstretched arm, Tamsin felt her shoulder bump his chest, hard muscle through layered clothing. He smelled good—fresh air, leather, woodsmoke. Yearning plunged through her again. Why did the man affect her so? She glanced up.
“You are no harper, sir,” she whispered. “What are you about?”
He smiled, a quirk of the lip, a sparkle in the blue, blue eyes, but did not reply. Tamsin walked past him, climbing the spiral stairs with Kirsty after the sentry.
Kirsty leaned to whisper. “Can we trust him? We cannot stay here, and—”
“And he is our only hope of escape,” Tamsin agreed.
Chapter Four
In torchlight andshadow, Liam sat on a leather stool in the great hall near the hearth’s warmth. The notes of his harp were all but lost in the din. Plucking a final chord that went as unnoticed as his song, he set the harp on the low stool positioned in front of him, and when no one called for another tune, he took a moment to sip wine from a cup and survey the room.
The hall was a bustling, noisy, smoky place, the light of torches and candles flickering over faces he did not recognize. Garrison soldiers were seated at long trestle tables while servants carried platters of food around the room. Searching for old Lady Thomasina Keith, the woman the king had mentioned, he could not help but notice young Lady Tamsin again, seated not far away. For a moment he studied her delicate oval face, her hair like spun gold, her eyes the gray blue of a thundercloud.
She sat with her companion at a table with Merton, the women two beautiful butterflies; the blonde wore a blue-and-green plaid cloak and the white veil of a married woman half-covering a long golden braid that spilled over shoulder and breast to pool in her lap. The other wore a russet cloak and dark gown, her long dark hair loose and uncovered, apparently a young lady unmarried as yet. They leaned together, murmuring, glancing about, looking wary, though the dark-haired girl smiled, coaxing it from the other.
Bold to wear a Scots plaid amid English soldiers, Liam thought in admiration. Lady Tamsin wore it proudly. She stoodslender and straight, all grace and determination. She took a risk here, and he suspected she had the will and backbone for it. He had seen the snap of temper and intelligence in her eyes.
Then he noticed beside the dark-haired girl an older lady, bent and cloaked, head veiled, her mouth pursed like a beak. He could only hope this was Lady Thomasina.
He had heard enough earlier to glean that Lady Tamsin was sister to Sir Henry Keith, that Lady Kirsten was a cousin, that an older lady was with them. He knew too that they waited for Sir David Campbell, once his seneschal at Dalrinnie. So the man had stayed when the English took the place.
He frowned. Then Lady Tamsin must be the Scottish bride they said had come to Dalrinnie with Sir John Witton. He had heard the news; any mention of Dalrinnie whispered in alehouse or rumor had burned into his mind. But he felt bewildered. What tied Dalrinnie and these ladies to the old Rhymer’s daughter?
No matter. He only meant to get that damned book and give it to Robert Bruce. The new King of Scots had known Thomas the Rhymer well, working with him for the Scottish cause. Bruce deserved to have that book far more than Edward did.
Missing a note, thinking about other things, he recovered and played on. He had to take the book to Bruce, perhaps take the lady to him as well. If she could help Scotland, and if all this could regain Dalrinnie Castle, then he would follow the old woman and this mad mission to hell and back if necessary.
For now, he must find a way to escort the ladies safely out of Lochmaben and convince the old one to give up her book. Then he would be on his way.
The women sat apart from Merton, the table strewn with plates and goblets, with platters piled with chicken, cheese, cakes, and more. The constable held out a cup for the ale a servant boy poured from a jug while the women picked at their food, speaking quietly. Lady Tamsin seemed tense, pale. Nowonder. Merton’s decision to keep them here was a subtle threat at a time when all Scotswomen were imperiled.
Liam meant to get them out of here. He had volunteered as their escort, and would take that responsibility to heart.
He sipped wine, watching the soldiers, noting the room. Best to spirit the women away tonight and help them find their Dalrinnie escort, he thought. Taking up the harp again, he began another tune, his fingers plucking chords as he sang, his voice carrying through the hall. No one paid him much mind, though he saw Lady Tamsin glance his way.
Ending the song, he noticed Lady Tamsin standing, walking toward him now. She had an uncommon beauty, simple, with a glow like a soft light within, and a tensile, shining strength. She took his breath away.
Stop, he told himself. Nothing, not even a beautiful girl, could take his mind from what he must do. He had walled off his heart to such.
He rang on the metal strings again to begin another song. A chunk of gravy-soaked bread landed at his feet, and someone laughed. Liam played on.
Yet when the young Keith woman came closer, almost standing beside him, he missed a note with a sourplonk.One of the strings had gone off-tune, its ivory peg loosening. The plonk became an annoying twang.
He did his best with the song, aware that she was just there, her cloak tossed back from her slender shoulders. She moved like a queen, yet she had a certain vulnerability, as if she was fearful, somehow.
What sank through him then, crown to foot, was a strong and surprising urge to protect her. All the Scotswomen here, but especially her. He frowned against it as his fingers stumbled once more on the strings,plonk-twang.
She stood but an arm’s length away, listening, watching him. Her companions walked past, a sentry in their wake. The women were leaving. He should end the song and follow, or risk losing the old woman altogether.
