Page 33 of The Scottish Bride
“I am glad.” He truly was.
“Oh! There is the horn again! Are they coming this way?” She turned.
Liam glanced back, seeing nothing much. “It sounds distant. They may have headed in another direction. But we may have a parcel of trouble if we linger. Come on.”
After a while, they reached the wider road as the clouds brightened, still silvery and cold. Finley, slowing to come even with them, smiled.
“Look at us, three fine knights, a bonny lass, and a handsome wolfhound. Though it be autumn, we look like a May Day party. All we need is ribbons, bells—and a harper,” he added with a wink at Liam, who gave him a glower in return.
“No harper here,” Gilchrist drawled, as Finley laughed.
Riding behind the others, Liam shook his head. He was used to Finley teasing him about the Irish harp he played. Sadly, he had lost that handsome instrument the night Comyn had taken him down. Escaping, he had gone back to find it, but it was lost. He flexed his fingers as if to touch its strings.
“Lady, no ribbons or bells, no harp in your satchels?” Finley was in good spirits.
“The lady has books,” Liam said. Finley made a wry face and Gil laughed, but Liam still frowned. He needed to know if she brought with her the volume he sought. Eyeing the woolen bag slung from his saddle pommel, he gave it a poke. Aye, books.
Rescuing the lady might prove lucky after all, a welcome spark of hope in this grim travesty thrust upon him by King Edward.
“Harp!” She turned to look at him. “You are the harper!”
Chapter Ten
“Stop,” Tamsin said,tapping Sir Gilchrist’s shoulder. “Please, stop.”
“But lady, we could be pursued,” he answered.
“Just for a moment. I must talk to the harp—to Sir William.” She glanced at that knight, her heart pounding and temper rising.
“Liam?” Gilchrist Seton looked back at his brother.
Sir William—not Wat of Selkirk, and not dead in the least—reined in his horse, as did Gilchrist and Finley. Dismounting, Liam Seton came toward her to lift her down. His hands were sure at her waist. She slid to the ground, boots to earth, and stared at him.
“You are not dead!”
“Should I be? Come here,” he barked, taking her hand to lead her to the side of the road, while the others waited. Finley tossed a stick for the wolfhound to fetch. The dog watched it go with disdain.
Sir William turned to Tamsin. “What do you mean, ‘not dead’?”
“What do you mean by posing as a knight? Or were you posing as a harper?”
“Both.”
“I am confused—Sir Knight, Master Harper. Which is true?”
“Both,” he said. “So you thought me dead? You seem angry to find otherwise.”
“Nay!” She glared at him, then sighed, and shook her head. “Nay. I am just surprised. Relieved. We saw them attack you that night. Master Brewer, all of us, believed you were killed.” Tears stung as she looked at him, searching his face, his eyes, blue as a patch of winter sky, his expression grave as he listened. “But you are alive, thank the saints.”
“I do thank them,” he murmured. “And I am sorry you saw the ambush, my lady.”
“But what happened after? How is it you are here, a king’s knight instead of a harper? I do not understand.” She shook her head, strands of her night braid slipping loose. She pushed them back.
“I was injured, I admit. But I managed to get away and find friends. I recovered.”
“Good. But if you are a knight, why did you act the harper at Lochmaben?”
“I enjoy the harp.” He glanced at his waiting kinsmen. “Lady, we must ride.”
