From that night on, something changed between Dougall and Eleanor. Dougall thought it would fade after that one surprisingly intimate evening—the walnut evening, as he’d taken to calling it to himself. It didn’t. If anything, whatever had sparked that night only burned stronger as the days passed.
He knew what he was feeling was inappropriate. Wrong, even. He was meant to look after her, not spend his time daydreaming about…well, never mind what he was daydreaming about, he shouldn’t have been daydreaming about it.
When he was in her presence, his belly took on a life of its own. It was like wee faeries were dancing with their tiny feet in there. He’d never been unsure of himself around the lasses, but when he was with her, he found himself uncharacteristically tongue-tied.
In those first fragile days together, they went about the business of getting used to one another. Each morning, Dougall would escort Eleanor to the Thistle and Thorn. Her shifts began mid-morning, when the drunken men who had spent the whole night in an ale-induced stupor were being pushed out into the daylight, and a fresh batch of men were arriving to drink away the day before, come nightfall, they had to return to their wives and children. Sometimes, depending on how many daytime drinkers there were, she was let go in the afternoon to rest before being expected back to work the evening and into the wee hours. Sometimes she worked straight through, munching on bannock at intervals to sustain the hectic pace she was expected to keep up.
As much as it pained Dougall to witness, his admiration for the lady only grew deeper. She worked hard. Harder and longer than Roisin, and harder and longer than any of the other serving wenches or whores at Angus Beag’s establishment. She certainly worked harder and longer than any of her noble female predecessors.
“He’s taking advantage of ye,” Dougall declared after three days of watching her work herself into the ground. “I dinna like it.”
Eleanor gave him a peculiar look. “He’s no’ taking advantage. I’ve asked to work this much.”
“Ye’ve asked? Ye’ve asked him to run ye ragged?”
“Better to be run ragged than to sit at home, on my own, stewing over my own thoughts and on what’s to come.”
She looked sad. Heartwrenchingly sad. For the first time, Dougall detected a hint of trepidation in her. For all the courage she’d shown since he found her, for all that defiance and grit, there was a frightened little child beneath it all.
His arms ached to embrace her; his lips yearned to whisper into her hair that it would be all right. That he would never let anything happen to her, or to Lord Albermarle, or to her Douglas friends.
What’s to come, she’d said. What was to come, though? From what Dougall had seen thus far, one would never know the Douglases were planning anything. Normally that would be a good thing. It would suggest that they were working so covertly, and so secretly, that the castle would never know that anything was amiss. Except that wasn’t the case. Dougall was far too close to the center of the action that he should have at least seen or heard something. But for the night where the immediate members of Eleanor’s party met in the kitchen at the Thistle and Thorn to argue whether she would or would not be coming home, he’d neither seen nor heard a whisper about a plot or a plan or anything.
The Douglases were running out of time. Every day of inaction saw the possibility of a rescue slipping further away. Such an outcome would be for the best, wouldn’t it? It would mean that Eleanor would come back to Kildrummond with him, where she would then be shipped off to her mother, to safety, in England.
Why, then, was Dougall beginning to feel anxious about the Douglases losing their opportunity?
A sennight to the day after he first located Eleanor, he had his answer to the question of a Douglas plot.
“Nolie,” Angus Beag barked one crisp, windy morning as she and Dougall entered the tavern. “The kitchen needs provisions. Go to market, will ye?”
A look passed between them. It was fleeting, but Dougall saw it.
“Fine,” Eleanor responded breezily—a little too breezily. “What do ye need?”
“I’ll need ye to pay Murtagh for his last delivery. And then would ye fetch me a few loaves of bannock?”
“Bannock? Why, what’s wrong wi’ Cook that he canna make it himself?”
Angus Beag rolled his one good eye—the other remained in its leftward gaze.
“The bloody fool went and got himself too drunk to stand last night. Now he canna be roused. I should throw him out on his useless arse, I should. Anyway, Nell has said she’ll come in today to make some, but she canna get here until the afternoon, and then she’ll need an hour or two to make it. So.” He shrugged his massive shoulders.
“So,” Eleanor echoed.
Inclining her head to Dougall that he should follow, she met Angus Beag at the back of the tavern by the stairs. Together, the three of them slipped into a small chamber. Once inside, Dougall saw it was a storeroom for casks of whiskey and ale. From a panel in the wall, which was concealed by a loose board, Angus Beag removed a large leather sack that jingled with silver pieces. He counted out a few, then placed them in Eleanor’s outstretched hand.
“I’ll be having one more,” she told him, palm still up. “Last time, ye’d forgotten an order, and ye didna give me enough. I were made a right fool. Murtagh cursed me up and down in front of the whole city, he did.”
Angus Beag scowled, but gave her the requisite extra piece.
“I’d no’ trust any of the others wi’ this. Mind ye bring it back if the charge is what I think it should be.” He looked at Dougall. “If anyone thinks to steal my silver here, I’ll consider ye to be the culprit, and I’ll kill ye where ye stand. Are we clear?”
Dougall sized the man up. He was sure he could take him if blades were involved. But if it were a matter of hand-to-hand combat, the odds were grossly in Angus Beag’s favor.
“I dinna steal,” he insisted.
Appeased, Angus Beag grunted and then sent them on their way.
The wind whipped and swirled around them as they walked. Eleanor raised her shawl to cover her head, and clutched it tightly beneath her chin. Stray wisps of mud-brown hair danced about her face. She was adorable, he thought, as she tried to bat the hair out of her eyes while still holding on to her shawl.
“Here, let me,” he offered, and tucked her locks gently back under her shawl.
“Thank ye,” she said.
A shy smile touched her lips. It drew him in, held him captive.
He cleared his throat. “So, em, how far away is this Murtagh? Will we reach him before dark, d’ye think?”
“As long as ye dinna dawdle.”
“How long has Angus Beag been sending ye out to him?”
She tilted her head back and forth, thinking. “Pretty much since I arrived and took a position at the Thistle and Thorn. Why d’ye ask?”
“Only trying to prepare myself for anything that may come. I dinna ken this Murtagh, so I dinna ken if I can trust him where yer safety is concerned.”
She glanced sideways at him, twisting one side of her mouth into a wry grin. “My safety wi’ Murtagh were never in question before ye came to Stirling. But if it eases yer mind, ye’ve nothing to worry about. The man’s only got one arm. Ye’d take him wi’out breaking a sweat on yer worst day—wi’ yer eyes closed.”
“All right, I’ll trust yer word. Is this Murtagh the brewer of the ales and whiskeys that Angus Beag sells?”
“Just the ales. The whiskeys come from another man—Baxter. Ye’re lucky we’re no’ visiting him today, he’s much farther.”
“Off to Murtagh then. I’ll hold my tongue about the quality of his brew.”
Eleanor chuckled sheepishly. “’Tis no’ very good, is it?”
“I’ve had worse,” Dougall allowed. It was true, but it had only been once, and the ale then had been undrinkable swill.
“I do miss Glendalough’s ale, if I may say so. Master MacCormack is second to none at his craft.”
At the mention of home, Eleanor perked up. “Ah, yes, the famous Master MacCormack. Brandon and Edward went on about him so. D’ye ken, they tried to persuade Father to bargain wi’ him for Glen Craggan’s ale? Oh, but Father would have none of it. Said that we owed it to our own people to buy their goods.”
“He was right. Besides, I dinna think Master MacCormack could supply both Glendalough and Glen Craggan, and have enough left to stock his own stall at market.”
“Shame. Although, perhaps it were for the best. If Father had a problem keeping Brandon and Edward away from the ale before, imagine how much worse it could have been if he had to contend wi’ Master MacCormack’s ale.”
“Have ye ever tried it?”
Eleanor shook her head. “Nay.”
Dougall was about to say that he’d take her for some one day, but he stopped himself. That day would not come. If he got her out of Stirling safely, she would be immediately bound for England. The thought saddened him.
“It is everything they say it is, and more,” he said instead.
As they rounded the base of the castle, more and more open-stall markets began to dominate the packed laneways. Here, vendors flocked to the increased traffic along the main road into the castle. For his benefit, Eleanor took the time to point out some of the stalls she’d frequented during her time in Stirling.
“That man there,” she said, indicating a stall in the foreground, “is named MacDonnach. He makes the best honeyed cakes ye’ll ever taste.”
“Ye mean his wife makes them?”
Eleanor shook her head indulgently. “Nay, he makes them. He’s up wi’ the birds, baking away over his oven to sell his cakes at market while his wife feeds the sheep. He worked up at the castle for a while, he told me once. Commissioned by the queen herself because of how good his cakes were. She had quite the craving for them when she was expecting Princess Mary.”
“Sounds like a fine position. What happened, I wonder?”
“He left soon after he started. He were brought in to make his cakes, ye see. But sure the head cook couldna abide the idea of a man making the sweeties, so the fat old oaf put MacDonnach to work on the meats. There was quite the fallout when MacDonnach left, too. But here he is, back at market, selling his cakes and happy to do it. And of course the cook up at the castle, he couldn’t admit to the queen what he’d done, so he’s forced to buy them from MacDonnach’s stall. As far as anyone kens, her Highness still thinks MacDonnach works for the castle, and that she has the exclusive privilege of those cakes.”
“Serves him right,” Dougall declared, drawn in by her smile once more. “Can I buy ye a cake this fine morning?”
“Fine?” Eleanor scoffed. “The wind seems hell-bent on tearing the clothes from my body.”
Dougall’s heart stuttered in his chest as the unbidden image of the lady without her clothing assailed his brain.
Realizing what she’d said, Eleanor’s mouth made a little “O” and she looked away.
“Em, why dinna we go and see Murtagh first. We can enjoy our cakes afterward.”
Murtagh, Dougall discovered when they arrived, looked nothing like Master MacCormack of Glendalough. Having lived in Kildrummond all his life, and having known very few brewers, Dougall had for some reason expected the two men to be similar in appearance. Instead, they were diametric opposites. Where MacCormack was tall and lanky like a twig, and had the look of a man who would never hurt the beast that would be his supper, Murtagh was short, hard, and mean. The kind of man who lurked in laneways, sgian dubh drawn, ready to steal the purses of unsuspecting men and slit their throats for good measure.
He glared at Dougall throughout the whole exchange. Dougall had half a mind to draw his dirk in case the man should make a sudden, snarling leap at him.
Surprisingly, the man was soft as butter when it came to Eleanor—or soft compared to how he was otherwise. Eleanor, for her part, was syrupy sweet, undaunted by Murtagh’s sour, hard nature. It surprised Dougall to hear the man say at the end, “Ye take care, love. Stay well until we see ye next time.”
The sentiment was, of course, followed by a menacing glare in Dougall’s direction before he stalked back into his stall.
“I thought he wanted to rip my face off,” Dougall noted.
“Who, Murtagh? He’s an old softie. Ye just have to ken how to handle him. Persist in being nice if ye want to break through that armor of his.”
“I’m nay so sure I’d want to break through it.”
Eleanor bestowed another indulgent smile upon him. “Ah, Dougall. Ye’re lucky to have the skill of the sword. Most of us have only our words and our wits to get us through this life.”
Those eyes—he could drown in them and die a happy man. What was she doing to him, this woman? Where had this growing awe of her come from? His voice, when he spoke, was huskier than he meant for it to be.
“More words of wisdom from yer father?”
She did not seem to realize the effect she was having on him. She answered teasingly, “Believe it or no’, that particular piece of wisdom came from Angus Beag.”
“Angus Beag? I dinna believe it.”
“’Tis true. Oh, I ken he doesna look overly intelligent, but he’s shrewd and keen. That were one of the first things he taught me when I began to work for him. When ye have no other weapon but yer words, ’tis best to develop yer skill wi’ em as if they were yer sword. But surely ye ken that. Yer diplomacy as captain of Glendalough’s guard is legendary throughout Moray.”
“I suppose I am, but I’d never thought of it,” he allowed, inwardly pleased that she had heard of his diplomacy. “’Twas something that always came naturally to me.”
They were heading back to the tavern by now, and were walking at a leisurely pace. Dougall wondered if they shouldn’t hurry, for Angus Beag might expect her back, and they still had to purchase the bannock. But since it was Eleanor who was setting their pace, he was content with the gift of having her to himself. If she was unconcerned about being late, then so was he.
A crowd was gathered at MacDonnach’s stall when they reached it. They took their place in line to wait their turn. It was then that Dougall noticed Eleanor seemed anxious about something. She looked around casually, but often. Her nonchalance did not fool him.
“How about I go buy the bannock, and ye can wait here for the cakes,” she suggested.
The forced lightness of her tone set alarm bells ringing in his head.
“Ye’re no’ going off on yer own, lass.”
Eleanor straightened, offended. “For yer information, I’ve been ‘going off on my own’ for near a month now. But I ken ye’re determined to be my shadow, so it might appease ye to ken that I’m only going over there.”
She pointed to a stall not far away, where indeed a woman and a young lass were selling loaves of bread. It was not far. He could shout to her from where he stood.
“Fine,” he relented. “But mind ye dinna go anywhere else.”
Annoyed, she sauntered off to the bread stall.
There was a crowd gathered there, too. Dougall make sure to keep his eye on her as she took her place in line. With the ebb and flow of people in the area, he could easily lose track of her should any man think to carry her off. Or should she have a mind to take off on her own.
He was glad of the opportunity to admire her openly, though. He could drink his fill of her from a distance, and she’d only think he were keeping her in his line of sight.
My goodness, she was something to behold. Even in a place as crowded as Stirling, she was a beacon, a brilliant light that shone far above the squalor. Even with that unsightly hair. Who did those fools think they were kidding, trying to hide Lady Eleanor Douglas? She was the height of singularity, in not only the beauty of her face and body, but in the way she carried herself. The set of her chin and her shoulders; she was proud. She was born proud. Her smooth, confident expression would give away her nobility to any who were looking for it. She may have changed her hair, may have lowered herself to working in a tavern. She may even have managed to adopt the accent of the commoner. But she was noble to the center of her being.
Dougall hadn’t realized that he’d been smiling dumbly at her until he reached the front of the line for the honey cakes.
“A lass have yer fancy, sir?” grinned the wiry little man at the counter whom Dougall guessed was MacDonnach.
Adopting a no-nonsense air, he exchanged coins for cakes. When he escaped the throng of people waiting behind him, though, he did not see Eleanor at the bread stall.
His body tensed, muscles coiling to spring into action. But every ounce of his training as a fighter counteracted the urge. To create a scene would be to send an alert to whomever had snatched her—if indeed she’d been snatched.
Taking a casual gait despite the turmoil in his stomach, he strolled away from the cake stall. His sharp eyes scanned left and right, seeking out any sign of her.
He located her not far from the breadmaker’s stall. Leaning against the earthen wall of a peasant merchant’s building, she was speaking to a man. By the way their heads were bent toward one another, anyone could see they were not merely exchanging pleasantries.
The tension drained from his body, leaving him weak. In its wake, a sense of relief moved in, mingling with a sense of anger. Did the lass not know to stay put? Had he not told her she must not go far?
He approached the pair with exaggerated calm. The man was the first to spot him. His mouth snapped shut, and his fingers wrapped around the hilt of the blade at his waist. When Eleanor turned and saw the suppressed fury on his face, she smirked like she’d won some kind of game.
“Nolie,” he said, emphasizing the false name. “I thought I told ye no’ to wander off.”
“I hardly wandered off, Dougall. Didna I tell ye that Angus Beag had another reason for sending me out to run his errands?”
“Nay, lass, ye left that part out. Am I guessing then that ye didna really need the bannock?”
“Oh, I do. By the bye, I left the bread stall before I’d a chance to pick any up, so we’ll have to go back when I’m finished here.”
Dougall reined in the urge to throttle her. She’d frightened him something fierce and didn’t even seem to realize it.
“Who might ye be, sir?” His eyes raked the unknown man with contempt.
“Who I am isna important,” he answered, inexplicably amused. “Although I ken who ye are. Everyone’s been talking about ye, Dougall MacFadyen of Moray. How ye traveled far and wide in search of the Lady Eleanor Douglas, and ye didna even ken her when ye fell right into her. How is the nose? Still tender?”
“Leave him be,” Eleanor chastised.
The man gloated over Dougall’s humiliation a moment longer, then turned back to Eleanor.
“Ye’ll be there then?”
“Aye, and so will the others.”
“Right. I’ll see ye there.”
With a final, derisive smirk for Dougall, the man slipped away, disappearing into the crowd with little effort.
Eleanor looked at Dougall, a picture of innocence. “Off to buy that bannock?”
“Eh—no’ so fast.”
“I didna think it was that easy,” she sighed. “I assume ye want to ken what we were talking about. The when, where, and why?”
“I do,” he confirmed.
She breathed once. “All right. There is to be a secret meeting tonight, in a place called Cnò-Daraich. ’Tis a small vale outside of Stirling, where the Douglas supporters have gathered a few times whenever there is news.”
“Ye’re no’ going.”
Eleanor sighed and shook her head. “I am. Dougall, we both ken I am going. Yes, yes, I remember full well ye said I would have no part in this plot. But this is no’ a part. ’Tis only a meeting tonight, and I’ll only be observing. If I go tonight, I will continue to be the same level of traitor I am now as if I stay put. Ye canna deny me going. No’ when the news concerns my father.”
Dougall narrowed his eyes, but they both knew she’d won this battle of wills.
“So there is news?”
“There is, but I dinna ken what. Is it good, is it bad? I couldna say.”
She was worried. Beneath that show of bravado peeked the frightened lass once again. Dougall’s heart squeezed, and the anger in him dissolved.
“Dinna fret. If it were anything that bad, all of Stirling would ken of it.”
She nodded, not at all reassured. Dougall longed to touch her shoulder, to hold her, to take away her fears with sweet words and promises.
“The bannock,” he said instead with some difficulty. “And then we’ll go back and tell the others.”
“Aye,” she answered, staring absently out into the moving throngs of people. Then her honeyed eyes fixed on him. “Ye’ll want to be coming tonight, I suppose.”
“I’ll be coming.”
She studied his face for a long while.
“Dougall—”
“What is it?” he prompted when her words caught.
“I’ve only just realized it. If ye come wi’ me tonight, ye’ll be in this just as deep as I am. Ye’ll risk being found a traitor.”
“As ye will.”
“But I expected it. Welcomed it, even. Ye, though… The only reason ye’re doing any of this is because of me. This isna yer war to fight.”
Eleanor may only have just realized it, but it was something Dougall had known since the night he declared that he would not be leaving her side.
Besides, she was wrong: Going to this secret meeting tonight would not make him a traitor. He’d already rendered himself one the second he learned what Eleanor was doing in Stirling…and chosen not to report it to his king.