Michael stood before the window of the tiny bedchamber he’d been assigned in Hay Manor, his meager bag flung in the corner by a guard. What a bowl of dog’s meat he’d made of things. He’d thought coming to Abby would help Undine, not make things worse. And now he’d gotten the three of them locked up in this set out of Dracula.
The window afforded him a sliver of a view into the dining hall across the bailey, where the gathering of the chieftains was taking place. As his room was on the upper floor, he could see only the backs of their chairs and their lower halves. There had to be at least twenty-five of them at the long table, not counting the servants, whose lower halves could also be seen, though in their case, theirs were running to and fro, undoubtedly trying to cater to the multitudinous needs of their two dozen imperious masters.
“This is the best way. You’ll have to trust me.”
Bah. Self-important women clan chiefs were no less annoying than self-important male army officers.
He wished he knew more Scottish history. Had there been a battle immediately before the vote on the Treaty of Union, a vote that had overwhelmingly favored the union? The odds were high. There’d been so many bloody battles fought in Scotland, especially along the border, you could barely toss a claymore without hitting a historical marker. His aunt had dragged him to most of them—Ancrum Moor, Bannockburn, Bothwell Bridge, Drumclog, Philiphaugh. And they all looked the same: majestic swaths of green with no hint of the unimaginable horror that had taken place on them.
He looked at the landscape beyond the curtain wall of Black Blade: an emerald valley as far as the eye could see.
Great news, mate. You may be standing on the exact site of a future historical marker.
There was no point in trying to pull up obscure battles from the cobwebbed corners of his brain. Even if he could have remembered their names, he’d never be able to find them in his internal map of Scotland. Hell, he couldn’t even find his own location there.
The only location that could help him at all was Undine’s, and he knew that one. She was ten miles from this delightful resort, sitting in close proximity to John Bridgewater. Michael had to get to her. He wondered if the guard at the end of the hall took a dinner break.
The doors to the great hall across the courtyard opened, and the clan chiefs streamed into the muddy bailey. Their faces were grim, and the little communication that occurred seemed to be limited to bracing shoulder thumps and terse farewells. His gut roiled. These were the faces of men—and at least one woman—who’d decided to take a stand against the English. He searched the crowd for Abby. How hard would it be to spot a woman in a sky-blue gown in this crowd of beards, plaids, and hairy knees?
He saw Duncan. The red hair was like a spot of hellfire in the pit of mud. Duncan saw him too. He put his hand to his brow and gave him a cheeky salute.
Eff off, my friend.
Michael scanned the line of windows along his floor. There was a large balcony outside of the room next door to his. He’d passed the room as he was being led here. No one was in it. He’d been able to see inside. And they’d put Gerard and Serafina together in a room in the other wing.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Servant, sor,” an Irish voice said. “I have your supper.”
“Come in,” he said without turning. The chiefs were calling for their horses and wagons. If he could make his way to the balcony via what looked like a fairly sturdy ledge, he could probably hitch a ride to the main road. He had good balance and had been capable of some pretty impressive acrobatic feats in his younger acting days.
“I keep hearing a wardrobe door bang,” he said, making up the first thing that popped into his head. “Would you mind letting the thoughtless gentleman next door know I’ll be going to bed soon.”
“Aye, sor. ’Tis rather early for bed, no? Especially with your bed warmer so far away?”
He frowned and turned.
Abby stood before him in the drab, gray dress of a servant, her hair hidden in a bonnet. She had a plaid and a black, knitted cap in her hand.
“I’m taking you to Undine,” she said, closing the door. “Take off your breeks.”