Page 76 of Sutherland's Secret
“Bah!” Colin waved the hand with the apple in the air. His lips were pursed as if he’d bitten into a worm. “I do no’ like that man.”
Brice grinned. “Pray tell. I wasn’t aware.”
Eleanor burst out with a laugh and Colin grinned. “So when do ye leave, lass?” he asked her.
Brice’s smile disappeared and Eleanor stopped laughing. “I don’t know yet,” she said.
Brice said, “I have to contact Campbell and ask him for this favor. It’s probably best if I do that in person. I’ll invite him here. That way I don’t have to travel with Eleanor and risk the English finding her.”
“Sleep with one eye open, then,” Colin said. At Eleanor’s curious look, he explained, “A Campbell is known to offer ye sanctuary, then slit yer throat in the middle of the night while ye sleep under his roof.”
“That was his grandfather, and that was years ago,” Brice said.
“Like father, like son.” Colin pointed at Brice with his apple to accentuate his point.
“Do ye mean like father, like grandson?”
“The fruit does no’ fall far from the tree.” Colin took a big bite and nodded to Eleanor, who was listening with wide eyes.
“Campbell will no’ kill us in the middle of the night,” Brice said in exasperation. Now that they were making plans, he felt an impending sorrow that fell on his shoulders like a wet blanket. The end was far too near for his liking.
He looked at Eleanor to find that she was watching him with those big blue eyes, the shade of the Highland sky. Whenever he looked up on a beautiful day, he would think of her eyes.
He stood quickly. “I’ll write the invitation now and send it this afternoon.”
He walked away, his steps heavy, his heart heavier, and his stomach in knots. Their days together were numbered too few. Fewer than the fingers on one hand.
Chapter 30
“Riders approaching,” the guard yelled from the tower.
Blackwood ignored the cry. There were always riders approaching, and he had far too many things to worry about at the moment. He couldn’t stop thinking of the woman—Eleanor. It had been weeks and they hadn’t found her.
Bloody hell, but he should have killed her when he had the chance and made it look like she’d taken her own life from grief and despair over her husband’s most embarrassing demise. Now he had to find her and kill her and make it look like something else.
His men were all fools. He was beginning to wonder if they were even searching for her, like they said they were. He got the impression they weren’t. He supposed he’d have to go out riding himself. Maybe he would visit the Campbell, who was an English sympathizer. Maybe he’d heard of another chief harboring an Englishwoman.
Someone knocked on his door. “Enter,” he called without looking up from his paperwork. Endless paperwork. It was damn boring and tedious, and he was as tired of it as he was tired of this godforsaken country. He longed for London, where the true power lay. If he’d had Eleanor on his arm as his wife, he would have been accepted into every household and quite possibly would have a title of his own by now.
“Lord Thomas Stiles, Viscount Scarbrough, sir.”
Blackwood stood quickly. He had no idea who the man was, but he looked decidedly important. He stood just inside the door to Blackwood’s office, his hat in his hand, looking around with a pinched expression as if displeased with what he was seeing.
Blackwood bristled. “My lord.” He strode forward and smiled. Until he knew who this man was, he would treat him with respect despite Scarbrough’s apparent displeasure.
Scarbrough turned familiar blue eyes to him, though Blackwood could swear he’d never met the man.
“Blackwood.” He nodded and looked around again.
He was English. That was good, at least.
Blackwood stood before Scarbrough with what he felt was an idiotic smile, waiting for the man to say something. Scarbrough didn’t seem inclined to fill the uncomfortable silence any time soon. Finally he turned those blue eyes to Blackwood. “I’ve come from London,” he said.
Blackwood’s mood improved. Maybe Scarbrough was here to bestow the title he’d been promised for his performance at the Battle of Culloden. That would surely make his day much better. “You must be weary, my lord. Would you like me to have a room prepared for you?” He didn’t want to, but he knew he should offer accommodations.
“No,” Scarbrough said shortly. He peeled off his riding gloves and slapped them against his thigh. “I’m on urgent business, and I was told by someone in London that you might be able to help me.”
Blackwood straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest. People in London were mentioning him? That could only bode well. “Of course, my lord. How may I lend my assistance?”
