Page 49 of Sutherland's Secret
“That I was tucked all safe in my bed while ye made a fool of me?”
She stared at him, dumbfounded, until his words penetrated her swirling brain. “No. That’s not what I thought at—”
“Save it, my lady. We have work to do, and ye are holding us up.” He tied the reins of her mount to his saddle and wheeled his mount around.
Eleanor’s horse followed meekly. Eleanor tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter, because she was still headed toward the ship, but as she stared at Brice’s rigid shoulders, she couldn’t help wincing. He was awfully angry. Furious, actually.
His arm was in a sling to keep it immobile. She had to wonder why he’d decided to go out tonight, of all nights. Of all the bad luck. Well, he would just have to understand that her plan was solid and the safest one she could think of.
He stopped in front of a small thatched hut that was barely discernible in the dark. The door opened and a hunched-over man stepped out. Brice slid off his mount one-handed and spoke to the man for a moment, then disappeared around the back of the hut.
The other men suddenly materialized from the darkness.
Colin stopped his mount beside Eleanor. “What were ye thinking, lass?”
She kept her lips pressed together.
Colin shook his head. “I only hope ye weren’t thinking of running away from him.”
“I have no choice, Colin.”
Beside her, Colin sighed. “ ’Twas a mistake running from him like this. There’s only one other time I’ve seen him this angry.”
When he didn’t say more, Eleanor knew he was waiting for her to ask. She held off as long as possible, but curiosity got the best of her. “When was the other time he was this angry?”
Colin’s horse shifted. “When his wife ran away from him.”
Eleanor’s heart did a little tumble. Oh, dear. She understood what this looked like to Brice now, but that wasn’t what it was like at all. “I’m not running.”
“Aren’t ye?” He moved away before she could respond.
Brice reappeared from behind the hut. Behind him were two shadows that coalesced into people. A man and a woman. By the weak light of the moon, she could see fear in the lines of their bodies. The woman stayed close to the man and grabbed his hand as they looked up at the men on the large horses.
Brice signaled to the men. They broke off into pairs and disappeared again, leaving Brice, Colin, and Eleanor alone with the couple.
Brice approached Eleanor’s mount and looked up at her. “Get off,” he said, his voice clipped and so cold it made her shiver.
She slid off the horse, landing with an oomph because Brice didn’t catch her. Instead he turned his back to her and spoke to the man. “Ye’ll ride this mount. The woman will ride behind ye.”
The man nodded, helped the woman up, and mounted in front of her while Eleanor stood to the side. Brice turned to her and looked her up and down, starting at her worn borrowed boots. His icy gaze raked her breeches and the overlarge shirt. He curled his lip. “If we weren’t running behind schedule, I’d make ye walk. But since we are, ye’ll have to ride behind me.”
It took a few tries, but she managed to get up on the horse by herself while Brice stood back and watched, his expression stony. Even one-handed he seemed to almost jump up on the mount. He clicked his tongue, and the three horses and five people moved on.
Eleanor had no choice but to wrap her arms around his waist. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the hard stomach muscles under her hands. She tried not to feel the undulations of his back muscles as he swayed with the motion of the horse.
He smelled of honey.
They rode for a long while, until finally Eleanor couldn’t help but press her cheek against his back and close her eyes. He was so warm, so strong. So Brice. And he hated her because he thought she was running away from him, like his wife had.
They stopped and Brice slid off the horse, almost unseating Eleanor as he did so. They were at the edge of the ocean, the waves gently slapping against the sand. The men who had left them earlier were there with other people.
These must all be the fugitives, Eleanor thought, the men and women fleeing the persecution of the English. They were quiet, huddled together, the looks on their faces different forms of desperation and grief. They were leaving their homeland and probably their families. It hit Eleanor then, just what she was doing.
Scotland wasn’t her homeland. With the exception of her time at Castle Dornach, her experience in the country had been horrific. But her grief at having to leave hit her squarely in the stomach, making her want to double over with the pain.
She wasn’t leaving only Scotland. She was also leaving the possibility of returning to England and her own family. She was so much like the people standing in a tight circle in their ragged clothes. She was homeless, driven out of her home by the English, just as they were. She looked behind her, at the trees that stopped a few yards from the shore, and tears welled in her eyes.
Then another, more frightening thought hit her. She had nothing but the clothes on her back—borrowed breeches, a shirt, and old boots. No money. Nothing. She began to shake on the inside, and her breathing became harsh.
