It was into the wee hours of the morning when Eleanor was finally able to leave the Thistle and Thorn. She’d been stuck hiding upstairs for the entire night until that blasted Highlander and his companion finally left.
Dougall Mac-bloody-Fadyen. Damn him to hell. She thought he looked familiar when he first walked in. Of course, she could not place him right away. She had not been to Glendalough since she was a girl, so it had been years since she’d laid eyes on Kildrummond’s captain of the guard. Also, he had not been captain then, he’d simply been one of many forgettable guardsmen.
Well, perhaps not forgettable. He’d been handsome then. He was even more so now. His captivating face was legendary amongst the female population of Moray.
Now, here he was in Stirling. Looking for her. How bloody perfect was that? The man lands on her bloody doorstep and doesn’t even know he’s found her.
Oh, but it was all so unfair! For nearly a month she’d worked at the tavern. She’d been groped and jostled, cussed at and leered at. She’d had ale and pottage and all manner of disgusting fluids spilled on her nearly every night. And every night she’d worked at transforming herself from the lady she’d been raised as into the basest of tavern wenches, just like the other tavern wenches in these parts of the city. In all that time, not one person had detected the fallacy. Not even the great Dougall MacFadyen.
And so, to be discovered like this? All her hard-won anonymity to be lost by coincidence?
Eleanor was so mad she could throw something.
Well, if she had anything to do with it, he would never get the chance to undo everything she’d worked for.
Slipping out the rear door of the tavern into a filthy side alley, she raised the hood of her tattered peasant’s cloak over her head. The smell of pigs and sheep hung heavy in the air from the surrounding holdings, but other than a gentle grunting and snuffling, and the laughter and merriment from within the taverns, the night was still.
Eleanor could think of one thing only: to get back to the room she shared with Roisin in a lane called Ruaimleachd, the street of mud—so named, because it was at the bottom of a hill, where the thick, wet earth collected after a good rain. She had to notify her Douglas friends of their inconvenient visitors from Kildrummond.
She’d only taken a few steps toward the laneway out front when a brute force shoved her into the masonry of the building beside the tavern. The impact stunned her briefly, and in that moment, her eyes locked on the face of none other than Dougall MacFadyen himself.
“Ye’ve been holding out on me, lass—”
She didn’t give him the chance to finish. Relying solely on instinct, she thrust her forehead into Dougall’s face. The sharp pain that accompanied the blow was offset by the satisfying, wet crunch of his nasal bone.
A muffled wail escaped his lips, and he pitched backward, his head snapping upward. She allowed him no time to recover. Just as swiftly, she thrust her knee straight up, the bone connecting with the vulnerable flesh of his groin. He doubled over.
But he didn’t fall. She’d hurt him but had not rendered him incapacitated. When she made to flee, his senses were still intact enough that he snatched for her cloak. She staggered and choked when the clasp was wrenched into her neck, but broke free and ran out into the laneway.
He was hot on her heels. She could hear his feet pounding the dirt behind her. Panic took over, and she cut down a passageway that dropped steeply after only a few feet.
“Oh no, ye wee devil,” Dougall snarled. He leapt at her, propelling them both down the muddy slope.
At the bottom was a low livestock wall. Eleanor saw only the round, blunt stones before her head struck them with a deafening crack.
Then all went black.
***
Dougall extricated himself from the tangle of arms and legs with little grace and considerable effort. A terrible ache stabbed at his side where he’d hit part of the wall, and his entire face throbbed, sending up white spots before his eyes. He’d never before broken his nose, but he was sure it was broken now, if the warm, wet blood that drenched the neck of his tunic was any indication.
And his groin! The wee she-devil, she’d kneed him so hard, he’d momentarily become insensate.
Staggering to his feet, he peered over her unmoving form. Nice try, lass, he thought. He would not be fooled by another surprise attack. Surely she was only pretending to be unconscious, and was preparing for a sudden jolt or a kick. Well, Dougall MacFadyen was not about to be bested twice in the span of two minutes. Gingerly, he nudged her with the toe of his boot.
Nothing.
Hmm…perhaps she wasn’t pretending. Cautiously, he prodded at her shoulder with his foot, turning the lass onto her back. He could not see much in the dark corner where they’d landed, but he could feel the blood that coated her temple when he stooped to cradle her head.
“Bloody hell,” he groaned.
Scooping the she-devil up, he slung her over his shoulder. Her limber body swayed from the movement, and when he placed a hand to her backside to steady her, he couldn’t help but notice her strong, supple musculature. A sudden, inappropriate image of what that backside would look like in the flesh popped into his head; Dougall nearly dropped the lass trying to find a more respectable place for his hand.
What dismal luck. Now he was stuck with the lass. He couldn’t very well leave her here, unconscious at the bottom of a livestock wall. And if he brought her back to the tavern, who knew what kind of reception he’d receive from the patrons—much less the tavern keeper—when he presented their injured serving wench.
There was no help for it. He’d bring her back to the room he, Davey, and Gregor had let. She would have to be questioned. That was a must. This tavern wench, this Nolie, knew something. He wasn’t sure what it might be, but she’d given herself away the minute Davey mentioned the name of Douglas.
The common, brown-haired lass might not be able to lead them to Lady Eleanor herself, but it was likely she’d be able to lead them to a Douglas clansman who could tell them something of the gentlewoman’s fate.
Of the few chances they’d had since leaving Kildrummond of finding Eleanor Douglas, this was the best one.
Dougall trudged through the slippery streets. They were quieter than when he arrived in Stirling, but by no means were they deserted. He was thankful it was too dark for anyone to see his battered face in detail. The unconscious lass slung over his shoulder garnered strange looks from a few passersby, but no comments, let alone attempts to intervene on her behalf.
He tried once or twice to offer an explanation anyway. “A bit too much at the tavern, my wife,” he lied with what he hoped was a sincere smile.
No one seemed to care.
What a difference between Stirling and Kildrummond, Dougall mused with regret. That a man could carry a woman who was clearly defenseless, and no one said a bloody word, was a sorry thing indeed. For all they knew he could be planning to do unspeakable things to her. Harm her. Even kill her. And no one was prepared to stop him. This would never happen in Kildrummond. His guardsmen would see to that.
The common room of the inn was empty when Dougall arrived, except for the innkeeper, who was asleep in a chair by the fire. An assortment of tallow candle nubs, stuck into well-used wooden holders, were lined up on the mantel for patrons who wished to pay for the privilege of light. With the landlord asleep at his post, Dougall could very well have taken one and not paid. He’d wager it would not be the first time the inn had missed out on the chance for profit. But he was far too honorable. Struggling to keep hold of the awkward sack slumped over his shoulder, he dug a coin from the leather pouch around his neck and tossed it onto the nearest table. Hopefully the innkeeper would see it when he woke—assuming it wasn’t stolen first. Then, dipping to reach the dying fire in the hearth, Dougall lit the candle.
As quietly as he could go (with the weight of a second body adding to the burden upon his boot heels), Dougall carried the lass up to the let chamber and laid her gently onto the bed. The room was dark, cold, and windowless, the candle the only source of light and heat.
His nose throbbed monstrously. He wanted to despise the woman who had managed to catch him by surprise. Even the best man couldn’t do that, for Dougall was always prepared for an attack. Perhaps the look of her had thrown him off. She was too elegant, too graceful. Or at least she appeared that way.
His folly had been to her advantage—and to his detriment, as his crushed nasal bone reminded him.
Gazing down at her now, though, he simply couldn’t hate her as he wanted to. She looked so frail, so vulnerable. His heart went out to her.
Damn ye, man! This kind of foolish thinking is what got ye into trouble wi’ her in the first place.
The gash on the lass’s forehead looked bad. He held the candle close, examining the wound. It was not deep, but it bled profusely as head wounds often did. She’d have a splitting headache when she woke, but at least she would wake.
His water skin was empty, but there was a water barrel outside. He wasn’t keen on the idea of leaving the lass here by herself. For one, she could regain consciousness and slip away before he had the chance to interrogate her. For another, the crack to her head might be more dangerous than he thought.
For a third…
In truth, Dougall couldn’t put words to his irrational desire to stay with her. She was a lovely lass, to be sure. But there had been lovely lasses in Kildrummond. From his brief conversation with her, he thought her witty. But there had been witty lasses at Glendalough. She was not singular in any of this.
And yet…she was entirely singular.
He was being ridiculous. “I dinna want to leave because she might wake and run,” he told himself aloud. To affirm the truth of the statement, he pulled a length of twine from his pack and proceeded to secure her hands to the smooth, timeworn bedpost. It took him three tries. The first time, he tied the twine too loose for fear that he would hurt the tender, creamy skin of her wrists. The second time was too tight, and her fingertips swiftly grew cold. The third time he felt confident that he’d struck the right balance. There was enough slack in the twine that she could sit up if she woke, or turn over, but the twine was wrapped snugly around her wrists so that she would not be able to pull free.
The lass could always chew through the twine. She had good, strong teeth, and from the force with which she had thrust her forehead into his nose, Dougall would not put such an animal act past this lovely hellion.
He checked her once more. She was breathing steadily, sweetly. He was safe to leave for a short while without fear she’d wake.
Dougall left the inn through the front door, and went around the corner of the building where the communal rain barrel stood. Despite the sennight’s worth of precipitation, the water was brackish. Nevertheless, he splashed some over his face, washing the blood from his nose and chin. Then, placing his hands on either side of the bridge, he cracked his nose back into place. The abused cartilage made a disgusting pop as the bone realigned itself.
A nearby sheep bleated a complaint at Dougall’s strangled cry.
Once the throbbing subsided and his vision was no longer swimming, Dougall refilled his water skin and returned to the chamber. Davey had gone off to find Gregor a long time before, and he had no idea when they’d be back. He hoped they would stay away for a while yet. Dougall could question the lass one-on-one better this way. He trusted neither Davey nor Gregor with the discretion and tact needed for this kind of mind work.
Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he retrieved a square of linen from his pack and dabbed it over the mouth of the sheepskin vessel. Then he pressed it tenderly to her forehead, gently patting the blood away. An acute sadness filled his belly for this lovely young woman. For the life she had, working in a wretched tavern like the Thistle and Thorn. What were her prospects for the future? If she was not whoring already, she likely would be soon. She was too beautiful for it, too innocent in her slumber.
A dull throb in his nose (and his groin, for that matter) soon remedied any ill-advised sentimentality. She was a tavern wench through and through, no matter how innocent she appeared. He must always remember that.
Still, he dabbed almost lovingly, feeling both guilty for and protective of the unconscious lass in his bed.
The unconscious lass tied to the frame. What a predicament indeed.
When he had cleaned her head wound, there was nothing else to do. Dougall unrolled his pallet and lay it down on the floor across the room. If Davey and Gregor came back before he’d had the opportunity to interrogate the lass, he was not sure how he would explain that she’d gotten the better of him.
Dougall had suffered no greater humiliation in all his years as a warrior.
***
When Eleanor came to early the next morning, a dull headache pounded at her temple. She lay still, alert to nothing but the slow, undulating pressure inside her head. There was very little light in the room, another bleak day yawning through the window, yet it was too much. She made to throw an arm over her eyes.
Her arm was stuck…
Stuck?
She opened her eyes and tugged her arms. Yes. Stuck. Something was wrapped tight around her wrists. She tilted her head to examine her hands; her head hammered from the slight movement. When she saw why she could not move, she nearly launched herself off the bed, headache be damned.
Her hands had been tied to the bedpost!
What bedpost? Her bedpost? No, this was not her bed. Not her room in Ruaimleachd. God’s bones, where was she?
Inching herself into a sitting position, Eleanor took in her surroundings frantically. She was in a room. Sparsely furnished. An inn, probably. If she screamed, would someone come to her rescue?
She was working up the strength to do just that when she spotted the sleeping form on the floor. His back was to her, but immediately the events of the night before rushed back to her.
Dougall MacFadyen. The captain of the guard at Glendalough castle had somehow found her. In the tavern when he’d first come upon her, he hadn’t seemed to remember her. But then, in the alley when she tried to leave, he was waiting for her. He’d figured it out, even with her changed hair.
Or had someone snitched? Was one of her new companions fixing to get rid of her?
The sense of immediate danger retreated. Dougall MacFadyen would not harm her. She did not remember the man overly well, but he was a man of Kildrummond and would not harm a daughter of Kinross.
Former daughter of Kinross.
She would have to find out what he knew. What had he been told, and what had he discovered on his own? And, most importantly, what did he intend to do with whatever knowledge he’d gleaned?
Leaning as comfortably as she could against the bedpost (with her hands inconveniently tied over her left shoulder as they were), she prepared to wait patiently for him to awaken. The pain in her head moved in behind her eyes. She closed them, willing the throbbing to recede.
It was not long before Dougall began to stir. He rolled over onto his pallet, stretching as carefree as if he were in his own bed. The first thing his eyes fell upon when they opened was his captive. When he realized she was awake, he shot upright.
“So ye’re up then, ye wee vixen,” he teased.
Eleanor fixed him with a neutral expression. She refused to give away anything that would play to his favor. Let him do the talking.
A neutral expression, though, was difficult to maintain when confronted with the state of his poor face. The blow she’d landed to his nose had done considerable damage. It was swollen, and blood crusted at the base of his nostrils. Two unsightly, dark bruises were smudged beneath his eyes.
“What, may I ask, do ye plan to do now that ye have me all tied up here?” she inquired lightly.
“I would like to have a wee talk wi’ ye.”
Talk. Talk? More like he meant to tell her why she must be brought to England like the good little poppet she was, and leave her father to his fate. Not bloody likely.
“I could scream,” she warned. “I could scream so long and so loud that everyone wi’in the town would come running to rescue me.”
“Aye, ye could. Ye very well might. But I’d ask ye the courtesy of a few minutes of yer time, given I’ve done nothing to hurt ye.”
“I’ve a crack on my head that says otherwise.”
“Eh, now. That were an accident. Unlike what ye did to me, may I remind ye? I’d say we’re even.”
Eleanor smiled sweetly at him. “Look at that. A strong, capable man like ye were beaten by a wee lass.”
“But ye’re hardly a ‘wee lass,’ are ye? Being a tavern wench has taught ye how to handle yerself, has it no’?”
She raised an eyebrow.
Dougall softened. “Look. All I want is to talk. Surely ye canna begrudge me that.”
Eleanor narrowed her eyes, but nodded once. “All right. I suppose I canna begrudge ye that, as ye say. So talk.”
Dougall shifted, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his forearms on top. “Actually, I were hoping ye might be the one to do the talking. Ye see, as I told ye last night, I’m looking for someone. A lass. A very special, very important lass. I believe she is in grave danger, and I suspect ye ken something of the Lady Eleanor Douglas.”
Eleanor felt the blood drain from her body. She could not be hearing this correctly.
He didn’t know who she was?
Breathe, Eleanor. Dinna give anything away.
“I’m thirsty, and half-starved besides,” she managed calmly. “Will ye be kind enough to fetch me something before I tell ye what I ken?”
“Of course.” Dougall leapt eagerly to his feet and headed to the door. He stopped in the entrance. “I have yer word ye’ll no’ scream and bring half of Stirling running?”
“If ye trust my word, sir, then ye have it.”
“I fear I have no choice but to trust ye.”
“No more than I have to trust ye.” She tugged at her bound hands to make her point.
A grin spread across his bruised face. “Fair enough.”
When he was gone, Eleanor slumped back against the bed frame. The pain in her head was starting to dim. It may have been a natural improvement upon waking; it may also be because she was simply too astonished by this revelation to be affected by it.
This couldn’t be possible. Could Dougall MacFadyen really have traveled all the way to Stirling in search of her and have no idea that he’d found her? She started running through possible ways the conversation might play out in her head. What might she learn from him, and how might she get rid of him so that he never found out who she truly was?
He returned quickly. Too quickly, for she was still trying to wrap her head around her good fortune. He carried a wooden goblet of ale that looked as though it had seen better days, and a wooden board, on top of which was a hollowed bread trencher with something steaming inside.
“I am sorry,” he said. “The mistress of this fine establishment said she’s got the best pottage in these parts.” He lowered the board for her to see, and shrugged.
Eleanor peeked over the top of the dish. “She’s right. That is the best pottage in these parts.”
Dougall looked down at the uninspiring soup with distaste. “Really? Well, in that case, slainte.”
Eleanor stared at him. “I canna very well eat it wi’ my hands bound, now can I? Ye’ll have to untie me.”
“No’ bloody likely.”
“I’ll no’ run.”
“And I’ll no’ be letting ye go until I’m done talking wi’ ye.”
Eleanor pursed her lips. “So are ye going to feed me then? Like a wee bairn?”
“Well, em…I suppose, aye.”
A slight blush crept across his cheek. His discomfort pleased her. It was sweet, in a way. Heartwarming. He was a rare gentleman. That much of Dougall MacFadyen she remembered.
Gingerly, he sat on the edge of the bed. After some indecision about what he was going to do first, he held out the ale for her to drink. He tipped the cup upward, holding it steady as she gulped.
Such an unprecedented thirst; a droplet spilled down her chin.
“Och, let me get that,” he offered, and dabbed at the rivulet with the sleeve of his tunic.
Now it was Eleanor’s turn to blush.
He scooped pottage for her with the eating knife he’d brought along, feeding her almost tenderly. For a long while, neither spoke. Eleanor became increasingly aware of the intimacy of the situation. She tried not to look at his face, or at least not to let him catch her looking.
Dougall was a good-looking man; that much had always been true. But the youthful face she remembered had changed, hardened. What had caused it? Kildrummond was a peaceful land, as Kinross had always been before Arkinholm. Dougall’s duties on the guard could not have been so terrible, not as terrible as they might have been in other places. Much to her mother’s displeasure, Eleanor’s father had enjoyed speaking of local politics, and Eleanor had enjoyed listening. She knew, from what Lord Albermarle told her, that the Douglases of Moray were never really at odds with any of the clans in the surrounding vicinity—save the Buchanans, who were fond of Kildrummond’s cattle. But Old Lord John and Lord Albermarle had ruled fairly in order to keep the peace. And the Earl of Douglas, a formidable figure, would often step in to put things to right when fair rule was not enough.
Could it have been the fallout from Arkinholm that hardened his face? Or perhaps other, more personal hardships?
Despite this, Dougall’s hazel eyes were still kind, his face still shapely. He had many good years ahead of him.
Ballocks! She’d stared too long. He’d caught her.
“I’m done,” she announced, looking away.
“Are ye sure? Ye’ve hardly eaten any of it.”
“I’ve eaten half. Besides, my head is sore. Chewing makes it worse.”
Dougall acquiesced. He put the board and the goblet onto the ground at his feet then straightened, remaining on the edge of the bed.
“So then. Are ye going to tell me what ye ken?”
“How about we start wi’ ye telling me why ye think I ken anything of this Lady Eleanor Douglas.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, displeased by her challenge. Or perhaps frustrated at her stubbornness.
“It were when I mentioned her name last night. Ye were all smiles and sunshine before then. But as soon as her name came up, I could see it in yer face. Ye kent the name. Then ye left and never came back.”
“What makes ye think that means I ken anything of her?”
“Ye do. I didna make captain of the guard because of my brute strength, lass. I’ve a good instinct. Ye ken something.”
Eleanor nearly snorted. A good instinct her eye! Not good enough, apparently.
She sighed noncommittally. “Perhaps I do ken something, and perhaps I dinna. But if I do—and that’s if, mind—ye can hardly expect me to give up her whereabouts until I’m sure ’tis in her best interest.”
“It is, I promise ye. If the lady is alive, it is of utmost importance that I find her. A matter of life and death.”
“Oh? How so?”
Dougall pressed his lips together. Yes, he was definitely frustrated.
“A noblewoman wandering around the wilds of Scotland? Penniless, friendless, vulnerable. And in imminent danger if indeed she has come to Stirling like I and my companions suspect. I had my doubts that she were alive at all until I came across ye and yer wee tavern. Surely ye must have a heart. The kindness I see in yer lovely face canna be entirely false. Think how frightened she must be, having seen her clansmen murdered around her, being torn from her mother’s bosom and all the comforts she’d kent in life.”
An inconvenient fluttering kicked off in her belly. He thought her lovely.
Stop it, woman, she hissed silently, then snorted at his comment.
“By the sounds of it, she’s a little old to be latched to her mother’s bosom, d’ye no’ think?”
“Ye ken well what I mean.”
“She sounds like quite the damsel in distress. Ye’ll want to watch that—’tis a very English thing.”
Her quip pulled an unwilling smile from Dougall’s lips. “Perhaps I may have exaggerated some. A wee bit. But she’s no’ like ye or any of yer companions. She’s noble. I’d wager that a lass like ye, a tavern wench, would survive just fine if it were ye that were chased from yer home by an army of men bent on slaughtering ye. But no’ Lady Eleanor. She is far too gentle of birth.”
“Ye talk as though ye ken her personally.”
“No,” he admitted. “I havena seen her since she were a lass on the brink of womanhood, in truth.”
“If that be so, then how do ye ken what she looks like? If ye havena seen her in so long, how d’ye ken ye’ve no’ found her already, but didna even realize it?”
She was pushing her luck. She should be careful—but heaven above, this was such fun!
“Oh, the Lady Eleanor’s a handsome lass. Tall and stately like her father, the Earl of Albermarle, and hair like a ribbon of gold. And her eyes are green—or black, depending on who ye ask.”
Eleanor barked a laugh. Her hair was no longer golden, and who had told him her eyes were green? Or black? They were neither. She had the amber eye color of her father. It really was true: Dougall MacFadyen had traveled from Kildrummond in Moray without any solid idea of what she looked like! He was either extremely loyal or extremely daft. Or both.
“What are ye so amused by?” he enquired.
“Oh, I only wondered what ye might do if ye learned she didna want to be found. What if she doesna want to be returned to her mother’s embrace?”
The suggestion stunned Dougall. A flicker of doubt touched his face, as though the thought had never crossed his mind. It probably hadn’t, by the way he was talking about her. Eleanor waited anxiously for his answer. If he discovered who she was, would he drag her back tied to the rump of his horse?
“But…but her mother has sent for her. The Countess of Albermarle has sent for her.”
“What if she has no desire to heed her mother’s command?”
From beyond the door, the tread of footsteps on the wooden stairs interrupted their conversation. Many booted footsteps. Heavy ones, accompanied by the sound of laughter. Eleanor looked away from Dougall’s confused face just in time to see a young man she did not know open the door. That young man was followed by…
Gregor Douglas.
Gregor halted in his tracks when he saw her. Behind him, Gabhan and Manus peered into the room. Their mouths dropped simultaneously as they caught sight of her.
“Lady Eleanor?” Gregor exclaimed.
“What the hell is she doing tied up?” Manus demanded.
Eleanor groaned. “Well bloody dog’s ballocks!”
Dougall’s eyes bulged. “Ye’re having me on, Gregor. Tell me ye’re having me on.”
“’Fraid no’, lad. What the bloody hell’s happened to yer face, by the bye?”
“But…but what—how?”
He did not have the chance to utter anything further, for at that moment, Will pushed roughly past the bodies in the doorway. Upon finding Eleanor with her hands tied to the bed and a wound to her forehead, his eyes flared with rage. Dougall had time only to stand before Will’s fist slammed into his face.
The pain when the cartilage in his nose crunched a second time was more excruciating than anything he’d suffered before. Dougall crashed to the floor, curling himself up on his elbows and knees, with his hands cradling his abused face. Blood poured down his chin and between his fingers. It was so bad that he didn’t even have the wherewithal to grab for his dirk or his sgian dubh.
Will descended upon him, fists flying. “What have ye done to her, ye rotten piece of shite? Have ye hurt her? I’ll kill ye if ye’ve hurt one inch of her.”
All four of the men behind Will leapt to tear him off Dougall, who had regained some of his wits and was now struggling desperately to get hold of his blade. When Will was pried off him, he staggered backward into Davey’s arms, who, rather stupefied by the whole unexpected situation, held on to him.
“Get off me,” Will spat, tearing himself loose.
Dougall found his feet and staggered into the warped wooden walls of the chamber. The front of his tunic was saturated with blood, and his nose was horrifically swollen.
“I think,” Gregor said in the heavy panting that followed, “someone has some explaining to do.”