Chapter Thirty-Five

Lillian laid her fingertips on her knight gently, her eyes scanning the board. Satisfied with what she saw, she slid the knight up and over to claim Sabine MacKay’s rook.

Sabine muttered a curse. “Another of my castles taken.” She lifted hazel eyes to Lillian, a wry smile curving her lips. “Mayhap I should cede now.”

Lillian smiled in return. “Nay, not just yet. There is still much to play out.” The edge of desperation rang in her ears, and she felt her cheeks heat. “That is, if you can spare the time.”

In the long, lonely sennight since Kirk had left her behind at the Bruce’s camp, playing chess had been the only relief Lillian had experienced from constant worry and fear.

She had been well-treated at the camp, of course. Colin had arranged a small tent for her and had introduced Lillian to his wife, Sabine, who had been kind enough to keep Lillian company on several occasions.

But like Colin, Sabine was apparently an important part of the Bruce’s war effort here in Lochmaben. With a soft smile, Sabine had explained that she had once worked for the English against the Scottish cause for independence, but after clashing—and eventually falling in love—with Colin, she’d ended up helping the Bruce run his messenger and intelligence gathering operations.

Lillian should have been fascinated. She should have had a hundred questions on the tip of her tongue for a fellow Englishwoman who’d joined the Scottish cause.

But instead she was distracted, consumed by thoughts of Kirk.

Did he still live? Had he succeeded in destroying the Order of the Shadow? Was Lillian finally safe from the threat of being kidnapped and tortured for nonexistent secrets?

Sabine’s hand settled on top of hers, pulling her from the maddeningly circular swirl of her thoughts. Lillian must have had all her fears and worries written on her face, for Sabine’s eyes were kind and concerned.

“Of course I have the time,” Sabine said. Lillian knew very well that urgent matters required Sabine’s attention, but her new friend was generous to offer to stay.

Sabine shifted her gaze back to the chess board, her dark brows drawing together as she contemplated her next move. It was a joy to play against Sabine, whose mind was much like Lillian’s, seeing moves and countermoves several steps ahead.

Yet even the invigorating challenge of such an opponent could not fully distract her. Lillian’s gaze slipped back to the knight she’d just moved. Where was Kirk? Was he lying dead somewhere in England right now? Was he screaming her name as one of Roland Gervais’s torturers plied his flesh?

The tent flap behind Lillian suddenly jerked back, and a blast of cold air shot in. She turned in her chair to find Colin MacKay standing in the tent’s opening, snow flurries eddying around his legs and scuttling into her little living space.

“Apologies for interrupting,” he said with a quick tilt of his head to Lillian, “but there is news from the western Borderlands that I must discuss with ye, Sabine.”

Sabine rose, smoothing her moss-green skirts. “Aye.” Her gaze dropped to Lillian. “Forgive me. May we resume this later?”

Lillian nodded and forced a smile to her lips. “Of course. Go.”

Sabine made her way around the table where the chess board sat and crossed the short length of the small tent in two strides. “I’ll remember where all my pieces are,” she said over her shoulder, flashing Lillian a grin. “Don’t even think about slipping something past me.”

A genuine chuckle rose in Lillian’s throat, but before it escaped, a sharp whistle cut through the air.

Sabine and Colin both froze in the tent’s opening, exchanging a laden look .

“What?” Lillian said, her heart leaping wildly against her ribs. “What is it?”

“Someone is approaching the camp,” Colin replied cautiously.

Before he could tell her to wait, Lillian bolted to her feet and dashed to the tent’s opening. Without pausing, she scooped up the thick wool cloak Sabine had lent her, for the arrival of November had turned the rains to snow. She pushed past both Colin and Sabine and nearly ran toward the edge of the camp where the whistle had originated.

Halfway there, Colin overtook her, striding at Lillian’s side as Sabine hurried to keep up behind her.

“Ye cannae just bolt out of camp like that,” he said firmly. “I am charged with protecting ye, and I cannae verra well—”

Now she actually did break into a run. This was the first time someone had approached the camp since Kirk had departed, leaving her behind.

Just as she reached the edge of the canvas tents, Colin snatched her back by the elbow, bringing her to a halt. Her gaze locked on a solitary man on horseback. He approached slowly, his shoulders slumped and his body swaying gently with the horse’s steps.

“Who is it?” Colin barked to the guards ringing the camp.

“I dinnae ken, milord,” one of the guards replied. “But he signaled us with one of our own whistles.”

Impossibly, Lillian’s heart hammered even harder. She squinted through the drifting snow at the dark figure approaching.

The figure raised his head slowly, and as if a beam of slanting sunlight had suddenly broken through the snow-laden clouds, she felt his gaze land directly on her.

Kirk .

All of a sudden she had wrenched free of Colin’s hold and was sprinting toward him. Distantly, she registered Colin’s angry shout, but she did not slow down. As she neared Kirk, he eased out of the saddle with a grunt.

At full speed, she plowed into him. The air left his lungs in another grunt, but his arms came around her, holding her tight against him.

“You’re here,” she mumbled into his chest, tears clogging her voice. “And you’re alive.”

“Aye,” he rasped, his chest rumbling with the low spoken word. “And I’m never leaving ye again, lass.”

“It is done, then?” she asked, lifting her head to gaze into his pale blue eyes.

“It is done.”

“What the bloody hell happened?” Colin said, skidding to a halt beside them. “Where is Logan Mackenzie? And what of the Order?”

“Logan is fine, though he is in the wind,” Kirk replied wearily. “I can explain aught, but I wouldnae mind a rest and a hot meal first.”

Lillian drew back and looked him over more closely. Lines of strain and fatigue framed his eyes, and his cloak was snow-coated and damp. Her gaze landed on his tunic beneath the cloak. A faded red stain darkened the material across the left side of his chest.

She gasped. “You’re hurt!”

Just then, Sabine appeared beside Colin, her breath puffing in frosty clouds from the run. “I’ll call for Jossalyn.”

“It isnae aught to fash over,” Kirk said.

“Let’s let Jossalyn decide.” With that, Sabine turned and jogged back to the sea of tents, calling for the camp’s healer to be brought.

“Ye have much to explain,” Colin said, his brows lowered. But then he stepped forward and extended his forearm to Kirk. “But I am glad to see ye alive, man.”

Lillian did not miss the flash of emotion that crossed Kirk’s eyes before he gave Colin a curt nod and took his arm in a firm shake. “So am I.”

“Let’s let Jossalyn have a look at ye, and then ye can describe what happened,” Colin said, taking the horse by the bridle.

“What of the Bruce?” Kirk asked, his brows lowering. “Has he returned from Berwick yet?”

A knot tightened in Lillian’s stomach at the mention of the Bruce and his absence. She was not privy to any updates on his progress in the siege against Berwick, but she feared what it meant that he had been gone so long.

“Nay,” Colin replied soberly. “He is still in the southeast, according to a missive we received a sennight ago.”

His frown deepening, Kirk opened his mouth to speak, but just then, another sharp, high whistle cut through the frigid air.

Unlike the whistle announcing Kirk’s arrival, this one was picked up by the guards surrounding the camp. Then to Lillian’s stunned confusion, more within the camp took up the signal, echoing it back and making the air sing with the strange, lilting trill.

“What is going on?” she asked, darting her gaze between Kirk and Colin. They exchanged a look, and unease crept up her spine.

“That is the King’s own signal,” Colin said a long moment later. “He has returned at last.”

Lillian’s mouth fell open, but before she could ask what that meant, Colin was hustling them back into the camp. He handed off Kirk’s weary roan to a lad, then took up position next to the guards at the edge of the camp.

Kirk followed, planting himself next to Colin even as he held Lillian tight to his side. The air around them seemed to fill with excitement as the entire camp prepared for the return of the King.

Through the heavy-falling snow, Lillian began to notice a dark mass moving over the hilltops in the distance. As the mass drew closer, she realized it was a sea of men—hundreds of soldiers marching back to the camp .

At the front rode several men on horseback, some carrying the Bruce’s coat of arms on flapping pennants.

The group of mounted men broke away from the marching soldiers and rode toward the camp. As the riders reined in their steeds right in front of Lillian, one of the men pulled off his helm, freeing his graying copper head. The man’s sharp brown eyes landed on Colin.

“We failed to take Berwick,” the man snapped bluntly, a stormy scowl on his weathered features. “ Again .”

Lillian gasped as realization struck her. The King of Scotland himself was directly before her, bare-headed, frowning, and clearly in a foul mood.

She ducked her head and dropped into a curtsy.

“Sire,” Colin began, “mayhap we should discuss—”

“What the bloody hell is this?” the King bit out. Lillian cringed, hearing the King’s harsh voice aimed in her direction.

“Kirk MacLeod,” the Bruce said. “What the hell are ye doing here, man? And—” He cut off with another curse, then dragged in a breath. When he continued to speak, his voice was calmer, but only by a hair’s breadth. “And is that no’ Lillian Fitzhugh, the widow who is supposed to be in the Highlands right now under the protection of my Bodyguard Corps?”

Kirk’s hand gently closed on Lillian’s elbow and he guided her out of her deep curtsy. When her eyes locked with the Bruce’s, she saw his anger, but also his confusion.

“Aye, Majesty,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

The Bruce’s brows knitted even tighter over his keen brown eyes. “Clearly ye all have some explaining to do.”