“Tis the only horse ye can safely ride, Miss, er, Miss, er…” Flustered by her disguise, MacLaren gestured to the pony.
“I was trained to ride before I could walk.” Incredulous, Sorcha circled the hairy little beast MacLaren had declared to be her mount on her flight from Monnmouth.
MacLaren’s eyes shifted off to the side. “It’s the only animal I can spare.”
Sorcha looked across the back of the pony. The sun rose behind her, illuminating MacLaren’s squat figure. He looked as if God had taken a man of normal height, lifted His mighty hammer, and with a single blow driven him down toward the earth, compressing him, widening him…driving the goodness out of him, and leaving only dull, damp clay.
Grandmamma would never allow herself to be placed on such a nasty little horse by such a nasty little man. He’d already loaded her saddlebags on the pony, but those could be moved. Straightening her shoulders, she asked coldly, “MacLaren, did Mother Brigette not tell you to mount me on a horse? A real horse?”
“I’m sending my best man to escort you to Hameldone. Ye should be grateful.”
Grateful she was not. Last night Mother Brigette had feared too much of a fuss would alert the enemy about Sorcha’s departure, so Sorcha had bidden a tearful farewell to Mother Brigette and Sister Margaret. The other nuns, the women with whom she’d spent so many years—they would wake soon and discover she was gone, and never would they see each other again. Sister Theresa, so small, so dear, so Scottish. Sister Mary Simon, Sister Mary Virtus, Sister Patricia—all gone from Sorcha’s life forever.
And Sorcha had suffered too much loss; this new blow brought into sharp relief her grief for her father, her worry about her sisters…even her distress that her grandmother had had to bear the burden of rule by herself.
Grateful? To MacLaren? No, she was not grateful.
“Who is your best man?” she asked.
“Sandie the blacksmith.” MacLaren gestured to the broad-shouldered, barrel-chested blond fellow who loaded his saddlebags for the long ride.
“A pleasure to meet you, Sandie.” She smiled.
Sandie did not. A dour lot, these Scots. Or was it only the people forced by birth and circumstances to live close to stingy and cheerless MacLaren?
“Sandie’s riding a pony, too.” MacLaren spoke as if that would sugar the pill.
Unfortunately, instead it made her realize she’d allowed MacLaren to distract her. In her best authoritative tone, she said, “You have real horses in your stable. I saw them. I’ll ride one.”
“I have two horses, Miss, er, Miss, er…” He squirmed as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. “One for me and one for me wifey. Which one would ye have me give ye?”
“Oh. Only two horses. I didn’t realize. I can’t take your wife’s. Of course not. I suppose this pony will do me very well as long as—” As long as she didn’t have to run away from a pursuing villain. “Well, the pony will do.” Despite the fact the pony’s belly hung loose and her ribs showed. “Thank you, MacLaren.”
He nodded. “Aye.”
“What’s her name?” she asked.
“Whose name?”
“The pony’s.”
“She doesn’t have a name!” He snorted and stumped his way down toward the harbor. “A name for a damned pony!”
Sorcha watched him go, then turned to face Sandie. “Well, I shall name her St. Donkey, for the animal that carried Mary to Bethlehem.”
“Think well of yerself, don’t ye?” Sandie asked sourly, and with a bump of his knees urged his pony up the road.
Hurriedly, she mounted and joined him. St. Donkey’s gait jarred her teeth almost loose and Sorcha suspected the poor dear had a limp, but she was determined to make the best of this journey. It was, after all, a real adventure.
At the top of the hill, she turned in the saddle and looked across the rambunctious ocean to the rocky island where the convent buildings lifted their arms to God. As she watched, a mist enveloped it, and it disappeared into the swirling depths like a dream she could never revisit.
“C’mon, then,” Sandie said roughly, “or I’ll ne’er get back before the Sabbath.”
Sorcha sniffed back her tears, pulled a white handkerchief from her sleeve, and blotted her cheeks, then rode toward Sandie.
He stared at her watery eyes.
“What?” she asked.
“Ye’ll ne’er convince anyone o’ yer disguise if ye keep on that way.” Shaking his head, he urged the pony down the narrow path.
She looked down at herself. She was dressed just like a man. It was the perfect disguise. So what did he mean?
“What way?” she called, and hurried after Sandie. “Why can’t I convince anyone of my disguise?”
He hunched his shoulders and kept riding. “Ye cry like a girl.”
“Only once! And not for very long!”
He didn’t answer.
“I won’t do it again.”
Still he didn’t answer.
“I’ll be as tough and coarse as any man!”
At last, one more gruff sentence issued from his mouth, impressing on her how unalterably easy it was to dupe her. “MacLaren’s na got a wife.”
“You can go in now.” Sister Theresa smiled at Arnou as she opened the door to Mother Brigette’s dim office.
He stared at her as he walked through the door. Never in the two days he’d been here had she smiled at him, and he found her civility almost spooky.
No outside light pierced the cavern of the chamber, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted from bright sunshine. A single candle flickered on the desk where Mother Brigette sat, her pen scratching across a paper.
He was on a mission, but he didn’t forget his disguise. So he shuffled forward to stand before her. He grinned. He pulled his forelock. He pretended to be a fool. “Mother Brigette, where is Miss Sorcha?”
Mother Brigette placed the quill in its stand, sanded the letter, and corked the ink. She looked up. “Why do you ask, Arnou?”
“I was supposed to row her to the mainland today and she’s nowhere to be found.” He bobbed his head, rearranged the rag over his eye, and did an absolutely smashing imitation of a fisherman who’d been smacked in the head by one too many cod.
“There’s a good reason you can’t find her.” With elaborate care, Mother Brigette folded her hands on the desk before her and examined him with all the charity of a rat dog examining a rodent.
The first pinpricks of danger crawled down his spine. “Why is that?”
“She left last night.”
Forgetting his disguise, he straightened. He bent a fierce glare on the commanding woman. “What?”
“She is beyond your reach.” Mother Brigette returned his glare—and in her cool gray eyes, he saw fierce intelligence.
The pinpricks became jolts of alarm.
“You’ve lied to us, Arnou. You’re not who you say you are.”
Her glacial voice cooled his wrath, made his sense of self-preservation kick in.
He glanced around. A nun lurked in each corner.
But what threat were they?
Mother Brigette continued, “And I know a man can force his feet into small boots if the reward is great enough.”
Damn! This woman with the perceptive gaze knew what he’d done.
He glanced up.
A fishing net hung from the ceiling. A rope dangled from it.
He looked back at Mother Brigette.
She held the end in her hand.
A trap.
“No!” he shouted.
“Yes.” Her voice was flat. She pulled.
He tried to run, but it was too late. As if he were a tiger marked for death, the net enveloped him.
This had happened before.
But he wouldn’t go back to prison. Not without a brawl.
Maddened by panic, by fury, by anguish, he fought, growing more and more tangled.
“Arnou, that’s enough.” Mother Brigette’s voice slapped at him. “Calm down. We’re not going to hurt you!”
Nothing she said could mitigate his terror. He would not be snared again.
A short, burly Scotsman stepped out from behind a screen. He flung a rope around Arnou’s chest. The bastard gave a jerk, tightening it.
Between the net, the rope, and the panic, Arnou choked. He tried to claw himself free.
“MacLaren, don’t kill him!” Mother Brigette warned.
“He’s crazed,” MacLaren rasped.
Arnou saw the gleam in MacLaren’s eyes. MacLaren liked trapping a man. Liked choking him. Forgetting the net, Arnou lunged at him.
Because MacLaren was right. Arnou was crazed.
He wouldn’t go back. He would not return to hell.
He tripped. He fell. He thrashed on the floor, intent on killing MacLaren.
He heard high, chirping cries of anguish.
But they didn’t come from his mouth.
Four nuns rushed forward from every corner of the room.
The net tore at his face, snagging the rag over his eye, ripping it away.
He froze, aware of what had been revealed.
Sister Theresa gasped. “His eye. He has an eye!”
“A perfectly good one.” Mother Brigette’s wrath pierced his fear, bringing him a moment of lucidity. “I was right. He’s lying.”
The nuns threw wool blankets over him.
Darkness enveloped him. Smothered him. Panic returned with renewed strength. Again he fought his bonds.
The heat built up. The air slipped away. He couldn’t breathe. And before he lost consciousness, Arnou grimly reminded himself—he’d lived in the dungeon in a cell the size of a coffin. For years, he’d survived without light, without warmth, without decent food. His spirit had taken blow after blow. Friends had died. He’d been beaten year after year with a whip, with a cane…finally, after an interminable time filled with blackness and depression, his spirit had broken, and nothing mattered anymore.
But somehow at that moment when all hope was gone, he’d discovered a tiny light within himself. Slowly, painfully, he’d come back from the brink.
He would come back again.
Because he was different now. Hardship had burned away his soft, privileged self, leaving nothing but steely resolve and a cool killing instinct.
He would have Sorcha. He would save his kingdom.
He was, after all, Prince Rainger.