Chapter Twenty-Five

Time was running out.

Though her body screamed in exhausted protest as Kirk reined in their horse, Lillian’s mind churned feverishly.

Two long, punishing days had passed since their conversation in front of the crumbling hut. With each of the horse’s strides southward, Lillian became more and more sure that there was only one thing left for her to do.

Escape.

Her plan had failed, of that there was no doubt. It had been a gamble from the start, but reaching out to the honor buried somewhere in Kirk’s heart had been worth the chance.

He still held something back from her, she was sure. His coldness and cruelty by the loch had stung, but she knew what he was doing: pushing her away, and his conscience along with her. She had found something good within him.

But she could not let that glimmer of hope dissuade her from action any longer. Her heart ached with the knowledge that he hated what he was doing—hated himself—but it was clear now he would not be swayed from his course.

Mayhap if she’d had more time with him, she could have convinced him to let her go, but judging from the gently rolling hills and the increasing softness of the landscape through which they rode, they were approaching the English border.

Gone were the rugged, rocky mountains of the Highlands, and with them the dense forests and windswept moors of the North. The landscape now reminded her of Berwick, with its expanses of soft grasses, wide, slow-moving rivers, and clumps of alders and ash trees turned yellow and orange by autumn’s cool touch.

England was her home, yet the thought of returning sent icy fear gripping her gut. Will Sinclair had been right all along. Her own countrymen were her enemies. Never before had she dreaded setting foot on English soil as she did now.

Sometime in the three months she’d spent hiding away in the Highlands, her allegiances had shifted. She’d always grown up fearing the Scots, especially when she and Richard had moved to Berwick. Their relentless attempts to take the town and castle had only proven what she’d been brought up to believe about the Scottish—that they were wild, unruly, and dangerous.

But when she’d met Will and later the other men who’d protected her, she saw the honor in their struggle for freedom, and in their dedication to keeping her safe.

It was the English who had kidnapped and tortured Richard. And it was the English who’d hired Kirk to deliver her to the same fate. Now she was trapped in the hold of a Highlander, a good man forced to do bad things. She knew without question that Kirk was not her true enemy. His English overlords were.

Still, that didn’t change aught, as he’d so brutally reminded her. Good or not, Kirk refused to alter his course of action. And once they set foot on English soil, she feared that any hope of escaping the fate that awaited her would evaporate.

She could tell from the increasing strain around Kirk’s pale eyes and the hard tick in his jaw that they were drawing closer to the end of this perilous journey—and that time was growing short before she’d be handed over and forced to speak of secrets that didn’t even exist.

Lillian had tried to play this as if it were a chess match. Knowing she could never outmatch Kirk’s physical strength, she’d angled for the goodness she knew lay in his heart.

But this was no game of chess. Her subtle play had failed. The hard reality of pain and death awaited her. There was no more time for restrained tactics or elaborate strategy.

Despite the physical discomforts of the last two days in the saddle, her mind had not rested as she’d considered all this. She’d been building herself up, mustering courage for what she knew she must do. And now there was naught left but to act.

Kirk’s hands on her waist jerked her out of her thoughts. He lifted her down from the saddle, but once her feet were on the ground, he yanked his hands away.

It had been like that since he’d taken her to the heights of pleasure two days past. He hardly touched her except when necessity required it. Even underneath the cloak at night, he kept a cold strip of air between them.

That would make it easier to flee him, she reminded herself as she stretched her aching legs. She couldn’t give heed to the hollow voice in the back of her mind that cried out for his touch, his nearness. If he could be cold, if he could turn away from what they’d shared—what still bound her heart to his—then so could she.

As Kirk tethered the horse and began to remove the saddle, Lillian looked around the little glen in which they’d stopped for the night.

Dark clouds blocked out what meager evening light remained, but her gaze immediately locked on the ruins of an abbey just ahead.

Like the hut beside the loch, the abbey looked long-deserted. Its stone walls all stood, but half of the slate-tile roof had collapsed inward. Weeds sprang up through the open doorway.

“Come,” Kirk said, taking her by the elbow .

She started at his touch but let him guide her to the abbey.

He left her to stand outside while he poked his head through the doorway. He stepped inside, then a moment later reappeared.

“It looks sound enough,” he said, eyeing the remains of the sagging roof. His gaze went higher to the iron-dark clouds overhead. “At least we’ll remain dry.”

As if in response to his words, fat, cold raindrops began to pelt them.

Lillian ducked under the arched stone doorframe and into the abandoned abbey. Though the partially collapsed roof let in the gray-blue light of the stormy evening, it was dimmer inside.

Rubble lay in haphazard chunks around the simple rectangular interior. From what she knew of stonemasonry from Richard, this must be a very old structure, for most churches built in the last hundred years, even small country abbeys like this one, had transepts jutting out from the main nave to make the building the shape of a cross.

Besides the fallen bits of stone and roof tiles, the long, single room was empty. Grass and weeds pushed up between the slabs of stone on the floor. Not far from the door, a black ring of soot darkened the pale stones. Someone had used this ruined abbey for shelter before.

Kirk dropped his saddlebags from his shoulder under the cover of the remaining roof .

“Rest,” he said curtly. “I’ll make a fire.”

As Kirk set about gathering fallen branches just outside the abbey, Lillian discreetly opened the flap on one of the saddlebags and removed the dried meat and biscuits they’d been eating for the last fortnight. She slid one of the biscuits and a hunk of meat into the pocket in the folds of her skirt, then laid out the rest for their evening meal.

When Kirk returned, she drew in a ragged breath and stood.

“I need privacy,” she said, willing her voice to be steady. “It is…a woman’s issue.”

Kirk’s dark brows lowered, but after a moment, he lifted his chin toward the open doorframe.

“Dinnae be overly long. We ride at dawn tomorrow, and ye’ll need yer rest.”

For the briefest moment, her heart softened toward him. Despite his attempts at putting a cold, stony wall between them, he could not mask the concern that darkened his light blue eyes.

Lillian stiffened her spine against the emotion. She had to be strong now, and brave. Caring for Kirk not only put her heart in danger, but her life as well.

She nodded in response, then walked toward the abbey’s entrance. She studiously exaggerated her limp as she moved, making her way slowly to the open doorway.

In truth, she hadn’t even needed to wrap her ankle for several days. Though it was still faintly discolored with a bruise, it had all but completely healed now. But if she made herself appear slow and injured, Kirk was less likely to suspect that she would try to flee—and grant her more time to make her escape.

Just as she stepped through the door, she sensed Kirk moving in on her.

“Wait.”

She froze, her heart leaping to her throat. Turning slowly, she found him striding toward her.

“Take this.” He extended his cloak toward her with one hand. “To keep dry.”

So caught up in her plan had she been, she hadn’t noticed that the rain now came in steady, hard sheets.

“Th-thank you,” she said, cursing the tremble in her voice. She slung the cloak over her shoulders and raised the hood against the cold rain.

Kirk’s gaze swept her, lingering on her mouth for a heartbeat too long. As if realizing what he’d done, he grunted, his brows dropping in a scowl. “Dinnae take long,” he muttered.

She nodded again, not trusting her voice. As she slipped from the abbey, she dared not look over her shoulder to ensure that Kirk did not watch her. She forced herself to go slow, drawing out her limp, despite every instinct screaming at her to run.

Nay, she reminded herself over and over. She had to do this carefully—do it right. There was already too much stacked against her. She would only have a few minutes before Kirk would grow suspicious. And she had no doubt that even with her ankle mostly healed, he could move through the woods faster than she could.

She’d considered trying to steal the roan, but her lack of skill with horses had overruled that plan. The only advantage she had was this meager head start. She could not squander it by bolting while still in Kirk’s line of sight.

At least the forest was thick here, and the rapidly falling darkness would aid her. She plowed deeper into the underbrush until she’d counted off one hundred steps. Finally, she allowed herself to look back. The shadowy outlines of the trees blocked out the ruined abbey completely. Gray sheets of rain further obstructed her vision.

Thank God for the storm. It would muffle any sound she made in her flight and wash away her tracks. She blinked against the hammering drops. It would also slow her down, but so too would it slow down Kirk.

Lillian dragged in a deep breath. This was it. The time to flee.

Lifting her skirts away from her legs, she broke into a run.