Bride of Lochbarr. Margaret Moore
the dark hall. Although the central fire had been banked, she could see the huddled outlines of the slumbering men and dogs. The Scots were easy to distinguish—they’d simply wrapped themselves in the long lengths of cloth they wore as their main garment and lain down seemingly where they’d stood. She quickly and instinctively made a count of their number.
One of them was missing and as she scanned the huddled bodies, she realized who it was—the handsome, muscular one.
Had he been the one Polly was talking about? Probably.
Perhaps her words had been no more effective than the Reverend Mother’s, and Polly was expressing her “gratitude” this very moment.
As troubling as that thought was, she couldn’t let any concern for Polly’s welfare impede her plans. She had to get away, and she had to get away tonight. Keeping to the walls, she sidled toward the side door leading to the kitchen.
The kitchen was just as dark as the hall, and stifling. The lingering odors of smoke, grease, leeks and spices filled her nostrils, and she could feel the sweat dripping down her back as she studied the room illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the high, square windows. She made out the central worktable, and the barrels by the door. The stack of wood closer to the hearth. The spoons and bowls piled on the board at the side. The piscina, a basin built into the outer wall of the building.
The spit boy lay on the floor by the entrance to the buttery, as if he were guarding the ale and wine, which perhaps he was. He rolled onto his back and muttered something.
Fearful he was waking, she swiftly made her way around the worktable to the door, lifted the latch as quickly as she dared and slipped out into the chill air of the evening, which seemed blessedly cool.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Indeed, the moon was almost too brilliant, making it harder for her to hide. Nevertheless, she welcomed the illumination. She didn’t know the land, and she didn’t want to wander about a dark, unfamiliar countryside.
Most of the walls weren’t finished, so there was no wall walk for patrolling soldiers. The gatehouse was nearly complete, though, and Nicholas had set watchmen on the towers there. They would be the ones most likely to spot somebody running through the courtyard.
She watched the towers for what seemed like an age before she could be sure the guards were looking not into the courtyard, but out across the river valley. Then, summoning her resolve, she dashed to the alley between the mason’s hut and the storeroom where Nicholas had upbraided her that day.
No one called out. No alarm sounded. She’d managed the first part of her escape undetected.
Taking a deep breath, she leaned back against the small wattle-and-daub storehouse and said a silent prayer of thanks.
Suddenly a man—a broad-shouldered man in the outlandish skirted garment of a Scot and a sleeveless shirt—appeared at the other end of the alley.
Before she could recover from the shock and run or hide, he quietly addressed her in French. “Bit of an odd time for a stroll, isn’t it, my lady?”
She recognized that voice. Thank God it wasn’t Nicholas, or one of his men—but what was that Scot doing here? And where was Polly?
She froze as a guard called out a challenge.
Had they been seen? Had that lascivious Scot cost her the chance of escape?
Mercifully, another man’s voice answered, calm and steady. The guards hadn’t seen her, or the Scot.
Yet.
She spotted the open door to the mason’s hut to the right of the Scot. Hurrying forward, she shoved him inside, coming in after him.
He never made a sound as the wooden door hinged with leather strips swung shut behind them. The only light filtered through cracks in the wall and the shutters over the window.
The Scot seemed taller in the darkness. Silhouetted against the wall of the hut, his body appeared huge, with his long, bare, muscular legs and strong, equally bare arms.
Perhaps this was a mistake. But before she could leave, he spoke.
“Why, my lady, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he said, his deep voice low and slightly husky.
“Be quiet,” she commanded in a whisper. “Or do you want the guards to catch you here, where you have no right to be?”
“No, I don’t want the guards to find me here,” he answered quietly. “But unless they can see through walls and hear like dogs, I doubt they will. They’re too far away, and too busy looking for enemies beyond the walls.”
“Where’s Polly?”
“Who?”
“Polly. The maidservant who served the wine.”
The Scot strolled toward her. “Ah. The one with the mole on her breast?”
As if he could fool her with his bogus innocence. She knew full well the deceit men were capable of. “Yes. Where is she?”
“I have no idea.”
Giving him a cold stare, she backed away from him until her body collided with a workbench covered with masons’ tools—chisels and trowels, levels and measuring sticks. She set her bundle down, so that her hands were free. She could defend herself now, if she had to. “I don’t believe you. I’m sure you were with her.”
“I’m sure I wasn’t. I think I’d remember if I were.”
Splaying her hands behind her and leaning back, her fingers encountered a chisel. Thrilled that she had some kind of weapon, her hand closed around it. “Then what are you doing skulking about my brother’s castle?”
“Searching for the plans to this fortress.”
No spy would confess so quickly and so easily, to anyone. “You must think I’m a simpleton.”
He strolled closer. “Whatever I think of you, my lady, I don’t think you’re dim-witted.”
She swallowed hard.
Suddenly, his hand shot out and grabbed hers, tightening until she dropped the chisel.
“Were you really planning to attack me with that?” he asked as he let go of her.
She rubbed her sore hand and didn’t answer.
“You’re quite safe with me, my lady. My taste doesn’t run to Normans, even ones as beautiful as you.”
She’d never before felt simultaneously insulted and flattered.
Perhaps this was his way of trying to confuse her. “What are you doing outside the hall?” she demanded, although that in itself was no crime. “Answer me honestly, or I’ll call the guard.”
“You won’t do that.”
She’d heard some Scots had what they called the Sight, the ability to see things by supernatural means, things they couldn’t possibly know otherwise. Yet surely he didn’t have such a power. “Oh yes, I will.”
“No, you won’t,” he answered, reaching around her for the chisel, coming so close, she could feel his breath warm on her cheek.
Gripping the edge of the table with both hands, she froze until he retreated.
“You won’t because then you’d have to explain what you’re doing wandering about at this time of night and with a bundle in your hands,” he said as he toyed with the chisel. “I’m thinking you had a clandestine rendezvous planned, although sadly not with me.” He nodded at the bundle. “And you’ve thoughtfully brought a blanket to lie on and perhaps some wine to drink.”
“What a base suggestion!”
“I didn’t mean to be insulting,” he replied as he tossed the chisel back onto the table, close enough for her to reach. “I’m impressed you planned so well.”