Page 45 of The Scottish Bride
“Was it so difficult?” His smile was a wry twist.
“Aye. It is hard for me to say a falsehood. My grandda called it a truthy tongue, always saying what you think, what you know is true. But it can be a sort of curse.” She gave a flat little laugh.
He watched her, the rain shadowing his face. “Rhymer’s daughter,” he murmured. “If that did not come easy, then well done to you.”
“Truly, it was nice, pretending to be your wife. But I prefer truth.”
“I have to agree. But listen now.” He leaned down. “They believed it, and we needed it in the moment. So was it a mere lie, or a necessary one?”
She nodded thoughtfully. “You said once that truths can be more harmful than falsehoods. Yet Grandda said I must always be truthful. He could never speak falsely.”
“And you took it to heart. You are the least false person I know. Every bit of you.” Rain slipped through the planks above. He brushed drops off her shoulder. “But playing with truth can be protective. And what is most true is that you cannot go back to Dalrinnie as long as Comyn is there.”
She nodded. “Abbot Murdoch may tell me to go back there. He may feel obligated to support the king as well as the Church.”
“We will know what he thinks soon enough.” Liam’s height and solidity blocked the wind, his presence a shelter, his calmness a rock on what had been a chaotic day. “And before I leave here, my lady, I want to be sure that you will be safe.”
“Leave? Must you go?” she asked quickly.
“I have some obligations. I promised to see you through the forest to Selkirk, and I will,” he added. “But Sir Malise will not give up easily, so it may be better for you to stay in a convent for a while before you visit your friends or your kin.”
“I need to go there as soon as I can, and then find my family. If you must leave, I can find another way.” But the thought of him leaving felt wrong somehow. Dangerous. A thought nudged at her, as if she had forgotten something important.
“Scotswomen are not safe these days, and that is true. Wait for me to return, Tamsin,” he said, using her name intimately. “Can you do that? Have patience with me?”
She nodded. “I am so tired,” she said, as it washed over her. “Can we talk later?” Her head felt muzzy, dizzy for a moment, and paused.
“Tamsin?”
She shook her head. “I—I was surprised to learn that Gideon is your brother. He never mentioned brothers, but then he would not.” She stretched for something to say, to cover up the odd fatigue coming over her. “He and Gilchrist look like twins.”
“Aye. Younger than me by two years.”
“And kin to the abbot as well? No wonder you know this place.”
“Murdoch is my father’s brother. My father is gone seven years now,” he added. “Gideon came to Holyoak’s hospital three years ago, sorely wounded. He found peace here, and needed it after—well…” He gave a thin smile. “You look tired. Let me takeyou to the cottage.” He gestured toward the little building. “I will ride out with the others soon, but just for a little while. We want to be sure no one followed us here.”
“Do not leave,” she burst out, grabbing his arm, chain mail hard and cold. His hand slid to hers, fingers cool but enveloping. Fear went through her. She might never see him again, and knew so little of him, with no time to learn more. Something was about to change. Something felt wrong—
“Tamsin?” He gripped her hand.
“Do not ride out now.” Her heart pounded. She felt fear, fatigue, and yearning all at once. Her head spun, the strain of the day hitting her like a tidal wave. That was all. She shook her head.
“Lady, what is it?”
“I need to rest. Will I see you before you go?” She should thank him for his help, just that. But she felt off. Her fingers found his skin in the gap under the chain mail. He felt warm, real, honest to his bones.
He watched her. “Tell me what is wrong.”
Then the world spun. She stepped back, stumbling. He caught her arm, drew her close. Sleet tapped the wooden canopy overhead; rain blurred the yard. When the words tumbled out, she could not stop them.
“Fire,” she whispered. “The yard—the walls—”
“Fire? It is raining like the very devil.”
The bailey was awash in sleet and mud, the buildings a dull blur of stone and wood and thatch. Candlelight glimmered in the arched windows of the chapel.
Yet even as she saw the rainy yard, she saw flames dancing high, hot, and yellow across her innermost vision, like a waking dream.
