Page 22 of Sutherland's Secret
Immediately he discerned the leader of the group. A haughty, thin man with a pinched look about his face and an air of nobility, who held himself apart from his men.
Brice approached him. “Welcome to Castle Dornach,” he said.
The leader looked down his nose at him, which was an interesting thing to see, considering Brice stood at least a head above him. The man’s nostrils flared as if he smelled something particularly nasty. Brice hoped they weren’t planning on staying long, because he would have no back teeth left from grinding them together.
“Apologies for our unexpected visit,” the man said, though he sounded less than apologetic. He glanced around the room. “Lord Henry Blackwell, colonel of the Second Footguards.”
It didn’t seem to matter to this man that Brice was an earl, technically above the colonel in class. Brice took the insult and absorbed it, thinking of the ship of Jacobites who had escaped this man and his leader, the Duke of Cumberland, known to the Scots as the Butcher.
He looked around the great hall for Eleanor. Few women were to be seen, much to his approval. The English “appetites” for women—especially Scottish women—were well known. He preferred to keep his female clansmen away from them if at all possible. When he didn’t see Eleanor, his relief was great.
A retinue of his men silently filed in and lined the walls, their eyes on Blackwood’s soldiers.
“Pardon our intrusion,” Blackwood was saying. “We’ve been on patrol for days and found that we prefer a roof over our head tonight, as well as a warm meal in our bellies.”
No request for such hospitality, just arrogant confidence that Brice would grant them whatever they wanted. And he would. Because he didn’t want undue attention from these men. Especially Blackwood, who served directly under the Butcher.
“Of course,” Brice said, swallowing his anger and hatred for the moment. “Now, if ye will excuse me, like ye, I’ve been sleeping under the stars for a few nights and wish to wash the soil off before we sup.”
Blackwood tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering in a way that put Brice on alert. “And why would you be sleeping outside, Sutherland?”
“My land is extensive, Colonel, and my people scattered. As ye are well aware, it is my duty to see to their safety and comfort.”
Blackwood’s lips thinned. He couldn’t deny Brice’s claim that he was the leader of his people, but he well caught the barb that Sutherland felt the need to protect his people.
Brice nodded to him and turned toward the steps.
“Sutherland,” Blackwood called.
Brice stopped and breathed deep before turning around. He hadn’t given Blackwood leave to address him so informally, and the man knew it.
“Yes, Blackwood?”
The man’s jaw worked and his eyes flashed. Apparently it was acceptable for him to address Brice informally but not for Brice to address him as such.
“We’re looking for a lady. An English lady. Blond hair, blue eyes. A slight little thing.”
Eleanor. They were looking for Eleanor. In the back of his mind, he’d suspected as much. He raised a brow. “Have you lost one of your women, Colonel?”
Blackwood didn’t answer for a few moments, and Brice feared he had stepped too far.
“She is Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale. She is my betrothed. We became separated when her horse bolted.” He looked away, and when he looked back, there was something in his eyes that Brice could have sworn was a plea for help. “I worry for her, all alone in the Scottish wilderness.”
Brice’s shock kept him silent for a space of a moment. Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale. Lady. Countess. Damnation. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he was. “And you think she may have wandered onto my lands?” he asked.
Blackwood’s eyes flashed. “I don’t know where she could have…wandered off to.”
“Does she do this often? Wander the Scottish countryside?”
Eleanor. Countess. Eleanor was a countess. It all fit. The gown. Her table manners.
Blackwood’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “Of course she doesn’t wander the countryside. I believe she may have been stunned, not thinking right, and wandered off.”
There was an undercurrent of desperation in him. Eleanor could very well be this man’s betrothed. Brice had suspected that she was English nobility, following a military husband. But something about Blackwood bothered Brice, and he was not about to give up Eleanor until he spoke to her. “I’ve not seen an English lass roaming about my lands, and neither have I heard any reports of one being seen wandering around.” His tone implied that no Scotsman would allow his woman to roam the countryside alone and unprotected.
After a moment Blackwood nodded, and Brice made his way up the steps, but instead of heading toward his chambers, he stopped at Eleanor’s door. He softly knocked, then tried the door when she didn’t answer. It was locked and most likely barred. He didn’t blame her. He would prefer to lock and bar his door if it meant not dealing with Blackwood.
He entered his own chambers, locked the door, and opened the little-used door that connected his chambers to his lady’s chambers. “Eleanor,” he whispered.
