Page 91 of The Scottish Bride
He dropped it into her outstretched hands. “Did you think I would keep it?”
“You own it now. You paid the fee.”
“We will talk about this later. Go!” He fair pushed her toward the inn.
“What will you do?” She held the book close.
“Lead them away from you,” he said, striding into the stable.
Mounted and silentin the shade of the alley, Liam waited as the knights rode slowly past the inn, clearly searching for somethingor someone. When they reached the far end of the avenue, their backs still turned, he urged his stallion out onto the street and in the opposite direction. Moving casually until he reached the Kirk Wynd, he spurred the horse onward and set out away from the town.
All too soon, he heard the clatter and thud of hooves on cobbles and then earth behind him, as well as the shouts to stop. Bending along his horse’s neck, he urged for more speed, and at the old stone kirk, he turned eastward rather than westward. He did not want to lead them back to Aikwood or farther west into the forest where friends might be wandering or watchful.
Eastward lay more forest and hills that were less familiar to him, but safer. Northeast lay Melrose, but he would not go that far. Far ahead, he saw a long, dark swath of tall pine trees, a crescent arm of the Ettrick Forest reaching toward other streams, other hills. He glanced back.
Four men pursued him now, shouting, pounding turf. Chances were, they knew this terrain better than he did, but he had a long view across rolling moorland toward forest to one side, hills farther on, and his horse had a good lead and a powerful gait on solid ground. Liam leaned in, head down.
He had felt uneasy in his very bones over the last few days, not willing to head to Selkirk, but Tamsin had wanted—needed—to go there. He knew that. And he meant to lead these men far from her, from the book, from Comyn’s plans.
He rode on, the horse pounding relentlessly, faithfully as it carried him into the wind, then followed Liam’s guidance toward the trees. The wind provided more aid than obstacle, and the sun was sinking, clouds gathering overhead. All in his favor.
The first arrow whizzed past him, past his horse’s powerful neck. The second missed as well. Liam hunched, riding for the dense tree cover. He slung low over the horse, wishing now he wore chain mail under the hauberk, but glad he had grabbedthe blue-painted shield at Holyoak, looped on the saddle now. Grabbing it, he tilted it best he could to cover his back and more of the horse too.
Just in time, for an arrow thunked into the shield. He swerved right, closer to the trees, the rough hem of the woodland soon surrounding him. The track was slower, littered with brush and rock. He pulled the stallion up for safety, though the animal forged onward. Behind him, he heard shouts as the knights veered in their pursuit.
The next arrow struck fast and unexpected. Liam felt the punch and sting just behind his shoulder, catching him where the leather gapped to expose his tunic beneath. Wincing, he stayed flat against the horse, urging his mount onward. The light sank further, daylight falling toward dusk. An advantage for him, but he was not yet clear of the pursuers.
A moment later, the stallion plunged between tall trees and wide sweeps of pine branches, entering a soaring cathedral of evergreens, the smell pungent, the thick layered pine needles underfoot quieting the hoof falls. The trees were tall and well-spaced and the way was clear. Too clear, for the knights came thundering in after him.
But the shadows were heavier here as he cut sideways off the wide natural path and urged the horse to clear a fallen log. He angled the stallion toward a depth of pine boughs ahead, glad when the animal pushed through the screen so that they could vanish into shadows and green.
He could feel the bite of the arrow stuck wavering in him, and tightened his left arm against his side in protection. He rode into the pine forest, lost in its powerful scent and eerie silence. Slowing to let the horse catch its breath, he led his mount down a slope at a long angle. He heard the creak of the wind through pines, heard the loose chuckle of a stream, felt its moisture in the air as he and the horse went further.
He knew how to hide in a forest, knew where to find the deepest shadows and thickets. He knew how to dance away from the fall of light, how to fit the shapes of horse and man to the match trees and boughs, knew to stay still once he found a place.
Where declining light and increasing shadow provided that spot, he eased himself from the saddle, then patted and soothed the sturdy horse. After a moment he let the animal begin to nuzzle grasses and sip from the lapping edge of the stream.
Above, where the slope met the higher ground of the pine forest, Liam heard hoofbeats, voices. The screen along the slope was dense enough to protect him from sight. He had a haven here, and sat to wait.
After a while, he reached back to grasp the arrow, cracking its shaft. Wincing, he left the arrowhead and part of the shaft in place. Removing it would cause too much bleeding; the arrow would plug the wound for now.
Seeing clusters of white-flowered yarrow stalks by the streambank, he moved carefully and pulled a fistful of the feathery leaves. Woundwort, some called it, for it could staunch bleeding and swelling. He pressed the leaves against his shoulder, layering them above the wound, then wet his linen shirt to keep it in place. For now it was all he could do until he could return to Tamsin.
She would be worried by now, he thought, as night fell. But if he left now they would follow him to find his wife—if he survived another pursuit. Resting against a tree trunk, he watched the stallion grazing, then he dozed, exhausted.
After a while, waking to silence, he climbed the slope. The men had gone. Dusk saturated the shadows. Liam moved cautiously outward to see empty moorland. With luck, the men had left the area, having lost him.
He frowned, realizing the knights had chased him deliberately, though Tamsin was not with him. Why? Then he knew. Malise.
The man wanted to capture Liam as much, perhaps more, than he wanted Tamsin. Comyn had a deep resentment of the Setons of Dalrinnie from years back—and Liam in particular. Did that old grudge still burn hot for Comyn, ignited recently by King Edward’s orders and then the posting of the marriage banns?
Seven years ago, Malise Comyn’s treatment of Agatha Seton had pitted her brothers against him. The fellow was lucky to be alive. Now, standing on the forest slope, he felt certain that Malise meant to strike back at him—and might try to do so through Tamsin. Liam had to get back to her.
Turning, he noticed three conical hills silhouetted against the dusky sky not far from the patch of pine forest. The Eildon Hills, they were called. Suddenly he knew Tamsin needed to see them. Thomas the Rhymer had lived near there, he recalled.
Despite knights and thugs, despite a treasure to be guarded and delivered, and a lady wife who needed no further danger, Liam knew he had to bring her there. It might be vital to her. He felt the urge like a turning in his soul.
Because he loved her. He knew that too, now.
