Page 65 of Sutherland's Secret
“Hurry, Brice,” Lachlan yelled. “We’re running late.”
Brice lifted his head and slid out of her as Eleanor lowered her feet to the ground. “Aye,” he called back. “I’m coming.”
His kilt fell over him as he stepped away, and for a moment Eleanor envied him the ease with which he recovered. She, on the other hand, was a sticky mess.
Brice wet a towel from the pitcher and bowl and handed it to her. “I’ll go down and get the men organized while you clean up. But hurry.” He gave her a pointed look. He was just about to open the door but paused, turned around, and strode back to her. He kissed her on her astonished lips and smiled down at her. “Please, hurry,mo ghràdh.”
She smiled up at him, loving him more and more every moment they were together, which just made their impending parting—now a sennight away—even more difficult to bear. “Go to your men. I’ll be down shortly.”
He nodded and left while Eleanor cleaned his seed from between her legs. Not for the first time, she wondered if she were with his child. It was far too soon to tell, but they had come together many times in the week since the night in the hut. She and Charles had been married ten months, and she had not conceived in that time. But then Charles came to her only once a week, not once a night.
What if she were with child? What would she do all alone in Canada, a mother with a babe? The thought was frightening. Far more frightening than just her alone in Canada. She had no idea how she was going to support herself. She supposed that eventually she could write to her family and ask for money, but until then, what?
But the thought of becoming big and round with Brice’s son or daughter sent chills up her spine. She would take something with her, something tangible, to remind her of Brice.
And yet how unfair was it that she would take Brice’s child from him?
Gah. What a mess she’d made of everything. And she wasn’t positive she was with child. She could very well not be, which would probably be the best for everyone involved.
She picked up her cap and set it on her head, tucking her hair underneath it. There were far more serious things to worry about right now. There was no need to be borrowing trouble.
When she entered the bailey, Brice had the men organized and waiting. He helped Eleanor onto her mount and grabbed her ankle to look up at her. “Ye stay close to me. Don’t go wandering away. Do what I say at all times.”
“I will,” she promised, as she’d promised at least a dozen times. She knew he was worried for her and for his men and for the people they were transporting. She would show him that she could do this.
They rode for a few hours. Eleanor still wasn’t used to riding astride for so long. Although Brice had shown her how to ride so her bum didn’t hurt as badly, her thighs and back still hurt, and she was a bit tender between the legs, where Brice’s seed lingered.
Brice called a halt a few hours later. As instructed, they all melted into the shadows and waited for Brice and another of his men to collect the family of refugees. This time it was a mother, a father, and a young son who looked terrified. The mother was round with child, and Eleanor’s heart twisted. Anger burned through her at Cumberland and his army of brutes, who thought nothing of rounding these people up and arresting them, of taking their homes from them and confiscating the land they’d lived on for centuries.
She was beginning to despise her fellow countrymen. Even if she could go back to England, she didn’t know how she would be able to live among them without screaming out the atrocities they were perpetrating against the Scottish.
The people she had once called friends probably knew nothing of this and wouldn’t care if she told them. To them, Scotland was a heathen land, a place that existed far outside their realm of understanding or compassion.
Her hands tightened on the reins, and her horse blew out a breath. The family was divided among the men, who carried an added person on their mount. Eleanor was given no one, but she kept her eye on the woman. Her face was pale and pinched, as if she were in pain, and she kept rubbing her extended belly.
Brice took the lead and they all filed behind him. Though Eleanor got separated from Brice, she was in the middle of the lineup and wasn’t too concerned.
They had been riding only a few minutes when Eleanor heard an owl hoot. Immediately Brice held up his fist and the entire line stopped. Silently the men pulled their broadswords from the scabbards, their bodies tense. An air of expectation and anticipation surrounded them.
Eleanor strained to hear something. The owl hoot had been their scout, one of Brice’s best men, who was riding ahead of them looking for English patrols. Apparently he had found one.
Brice made a slashing motion with his hand, the sign that they were to scatter. With near-silent curses, the men edged their mounts into the trees and disappeared. Eleanor did the same, looking over her shoulder at Brice, who was still sitting on Galad in the middle of the road.
Chapter 26
Fear pierced Eleanor’s heart and she prayed that Brice would hide before the soldiers discovered him. But then the forest swallowed her up and she could see him no more. She knew the best thing to do was to get as far into the forest as possible, so as not to be discovered.
Her chest was pounding in dread as she ducked beneath low tree branches. She looked around but could find no one; better yet, she couldn’t hear anyone. That was good.
She kept riding. Eventually the trees became so dense that she had to dismount and lead her horse through the brush. She stopped every now and then to listen and evaluate the surroundings. But everything looked the same, and she had no idea how long she’d been walking. Surely the English had passed by now.
Then she heard a noise. A low moan. She strained to hear. There it was again. To her right. As quietly as possible, she made her way in that direction to find one of Brice’s men, the one who had taken the mother with him. The woman was standing beside the horse, bent in half, her hand supporting her belly and her face contorted in pain. Brice’s man stood to the side, a look of raw terror on his pale face.
“What’s happening?” Eleanor whispered.
“I think the babe is coming,” he said, his voice strangled as he looked around wildly. Eleanor didn’t know if he was afraid of the English finding them or of being present during a birth. She wasn’t enamored of either situation herself.
She approached the woman and put a hand on her shoulder. The woman looked up at her. She was much younger than what she first appeared, probably a good five years younger than Eleanor’s twenty-three years.
