Page 77 of Sutherland's Secret
“I’m searching for my sister. We lost contact with her at the beginning of the year, and all of our inquiries have met with silence, prompting me to travel here in person.”
Blackwood’s pride ebbed and a sick feeling overtook him. “Of course, my lord. Wh—” He had to clear his throat. “What is the lady’s name, may I ask?”
“Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale.”
Blackwood felt his bowels loosen, and he clenched his thighs together. His smile began to slip. He swallowed through a throat that was suddenly parched.
“She is the recent widow of Lord Charles Hirst,” Scarbrough was saying.
“I remember Lord Glendale. Terrible business, that.” Blackwood frowned while his mind raced, trying to think of some way to salvage the situation so it did not come back on him.
“We got word through his family that he was accused and hanged for treason.”
Blackwood nodded. “It was a horrible shock to all of us, I assure you. Charles—that is, Lord Glendale—was the last person any of us would have suspected of treason.”
Scarbrough tapped his gloves against his leg and regarded Blackwood with narrowed eyes. It took all of Blackwood’s control not to shift his feet and to keep a neutral expression on his face.
“Of course, we don’t believe the treason charges, but that’s neither here nor there. My parents are beside themselves with worry over Eleanor. They fear the worst, I’m afraid.”
“I understand. She was terribly distraught over her husband’s death. I do remember that. We met once or twice, the first time at a ball, I believe. She was a lovely lady.”
Scarbrough’s gaze sharpened. “Was?”
Blackwood feared his legs would give out on him. He’d met superiors who were less frightening than this Scarbrough. “What I meant to say was that at the time I made her acquaintance, she was a lovely lady.”
For the first time something more than disdain filled Scarbrough’s eyes: Blackwood glimpsed grief. “I’m here to find my sister and bring her home. I’m hoping you can help me.”
Blackwood rubbed his chin and pretended to think, when in fact his mind had gone numbingly blank. How far could he carry this charade? His men knew he’d been looking for Eleanor since she escaped. How in the bloody hell was he going to keep that fact from her brother?
“There is a clan chief. Iain Campbell, the Marquess of Kirr. He is sympathetic to the English cause. He might know something. His lands are not a far ride from here. A day or so at the most.”
Scarbrough seemed to consider that. “It’s a start, at least. You say this Campbell is on the side of England?”
“Yes, my lord. He behaves more English than Scottish. He can at least keep his ears open for rumors.” Blackwood hoped to God that Campbell had not heard anything, and he prayed that the English bitch had died a most horrible death after her escape from his prison.
“We’ll ride for Campbell land this afternoon, then,” Scarbrough said.
Blackwood bristled at the command in the man’s voice. He was not the officer here, Blackwood was, and he refused to take orders from Scarbrough whether he was a viscount or not.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’ll have to rearrange my schedule, and there are a few things I simply cannot put aside. We can ride out tonight if you don’t mind riding through the night.” Maybe Blackwood could take Scarbrough in a few circles to delay their arrival at Campbell’s estate.
“Very well,” Scarbrough said. “Tonight, then. In the meantime I would like a room readied for me.”
Blackwood’s back teeth came together, but he smiled anyway. “Of course, my lord.”
—
Eleanor had been on enough runs with Brice and his men that it didn’t seem odd to wear breeches or to congregate in the bailey in the middle of the night. Even better, she was not so sore after riding for hours. She was becoming a real smuggler, and that thought brought a smile to her lips. Her parents would be appalled. Her friends would be atwitter, and she would definitely be the talk of the ton if her secret were discovered.
She was sad that this would be one of her last nightly runs. The Campbell was probably on his way to Castle Dornach right now. She pushed that thought away. There was no room on a run for heavy thoughts. She needed all of her concentration for what lay ahead.
As they rode under the portcullis, Eleanor decided there were no words to describe the feeling she got when she helped the refugees. Their relief and appreciation touched her heart in ways that nothing else could. There was no work in England equivalent to what she was doing here. Certainly there were committees she could serve on that helped the orphaned children or the wounded soldiers. There were any number of causes, and if she didn’t find one that pleased her, she could easily create one. But sitting in a room, drinking tea and eating biscuits in fine gowns, was nothing compared to being outside in the dead of night with a group of people who were running for their lives and who would get you killed if they were found with you.
The excitement, the fear, it hummed in her blood and made her come alive. She knew Brice felt it, too, for after a run they always had the best, most intense coupling. In some ways she felt it was the only solution to burn off the aftereffects of a successful run.
She knew the routine by now. They followed each other in single file. She was usually a few men behind Brice. She’d learned to keep alert and to be wary of every sound, every movement in the trees. She was not allowed a weapon other than the dagger Brice had given her that first day, but she had never needed one. In the beginning they’d encountered soldiers periodically, but as time went on they encountered fewer. It was as if the soldiers were giving up.
She knew that not to be truth. She heard the reports that were given to Brice, and she heard the stories of the refugees. The horrors of being run out of their homes, of their wives molested and their children tormented. Of their crops burned, their homes torched.
