Chapter Twenty-Four

Tamsin knocked on the shop door as Liam glanced around. She sensed his tension. When no one answered, he reached past her to try the latch. The door opened easily, and he gave her a push. "Inside, quickly," he murmured.

The tiny front room was empty. The closed shutter leaked a little sunlight but the interior was dark and silent. Looking about, she saw a slanted desk and shelves with locked boxes. A curtain concealed an opening to a back room. All was quiet.

"Halloo the shopkeeper," Liam called out.

After a few moments, a woman came out wiping her hands on a leather apron. "Oh! What do you want, sir?"

"My wife has business with Master Bisset. Is he here?"

"Master Bisset is having his midday meal."

"I am Lady Thomasina Keith. I left pages with him to be bound." Behind her, Tamsin saw Liam go to the shuttered panel to peer between the slats.

"Let me see what he says." The woman pushed through the curtain. A minute later, she poked her head through.

"He wants to know if it is one of the volumes from Holyoak."

"It is," Tamsin said. The woman disappeared.

Liam stood, watching the market square through the crack in the shutter. Again Tamsin sensed an alert tension in him. Pressing his hand to the wall, he rippled his fingers, watchful, on edge.

When he turned, his smile was distracted. Something still troubled him, she thought. "They seem to be gone for now," he said. "While we are here, is there aught else you need at the market? Shoes made with the souter, or candles from the chandler, we could visit the woolen merchant. We would come back to the town if the things need to be made."

She shook her head. "I need naught, but thank you."

"Sure? I am thinking you do not get to a market very often."

"Another time. For now, I have all I need." She went to the window to peer through another crack, seeing green grass and a portion of the stone cross; shops with shutters lowered for business; people milling about. No knights. No horses. She breathed out in relief.

"Is there nothing I can give you now? I want to." His gentle tone surprised her.

"There is no shop here for what I want most," she said. "A home."

He leaned toward her, his shoulder pressing hers, his voice deep and soft beside her ear, its resonance sinking like heat through her body. "You will have it, I swear. Do not worry that you will never have a home if you stay wed to me. I intend to win back my home. Our home."

She looked up. His eyes, in the light through the shutter, were bright, startling blue. "If I stay wed to you?" she repeated.

His gaze dipped to her mouth, rose to meet her eyes. Something thundered softly through her, passionate, breathless. "I do not want you to worry."

"What worries me," she murmured, "is that my husband will win back his property on pain of his life. What kind of a home would that be? I would rather live in the shade of an oak tree with a rock for a hob, a log for a chair, and a fleece for a bed."

"Would you?" he asked, his voice low.

"We shall see," she murmured, "once I see what you do with my book."

"Tamsin." He reached for her, but she whirled away just as the bookseller pushed through the curtain.

"Lady Thomasina! My goodness. I did not expect you! Pardon me, welcome, my lord," he added, bowing slightly toward Liam.

"This is my husband, Sir William Seton. We came for the book."

"I thought to bring it to Holyoak later with the books I repaired for them. But it is ready now." Bisset set a cloth-wrapped package on the slanted desk.

"Thank you," she said, going to the desk. Bisset untied the cord and folded down the cloth covering, then a second wrapping of parchment. He stepped back to reveal a leather-bound book.

"Oh, it is beautiful." Tamsin caught her breath as she reached out. The book was not large, its cover, a soft leather, was perhaps the span of her hand across. It was tooled with a design—laurel, she noticed, for Keith—at the corners, and the center was simply a tall initial "T," as elaborate as a scrolled initial in a manuscript, that was painted red and blue and engraved in the leather.

"The pages you copied, madam, were excellently done," Bisset explained. "We folded and pressed them into quires and stitched them together. Here—you can see them inside the spine of the book." He tipped the volume to show her. "The boards are wood, covered in leather, with parchment glued inside. The covers will hold for a very, very long time, if not forever. And here, you see," he said, opening the back board, "I have added a wee pocket where you can tuck free pages, if you have them. And a small brass latch, should you store it flat or chained."

She nodded, speechless as she turned the pages. The work she had done for two years was here, the margins straight, the rulings perfectly aligned. The parchment, verso and recto, was good vellum; she felt the soft smoothness of one side and the slightly rough texture of the other. The pages crackled a bit as she turned them carefully.

Each page was so familiar to her that she hardly needed to look closely. Her eyes blurred with tears. No one knew how much work she had put into this over the past few years, copying Thomas's notes and scribbles painstakingly, making his often untidy, blotted writings neat and legible. She had begun copying the pages at Kincraig, before she was married, continuing it through the years she was Dalrinnie, doing some of the work in Holyoak's little scriptorium. She had made more than one copy, adding greatly to the work. Now she noticed, as if she had not seen it before, how neat and beautiful her script was, how meticulous and masterful. Pride ran warm and lovely through her. She had made this. Her great-grandfather would be pleased, if only he knew. Perhaps on some level, in some more beautiful place than this, he did know.

Closing the book reverently, tucking the wrapping around it, she turned to the bookseller. "Master Bisset, it is truly beautiful. I cannot thank you enough."

"A pleasure and a privilege to work on it, my lady," he said. "But do you not want to show your husband before we wrap the parcel again? Sir," he said, stepping back.

With a cautious glance at Tamsin, Liam came forward.

She pulled back the parchment. "See," she said.

Liam reached out to smooth his fingers over the tooled leather cover. He opened the front board and began to turn the pages, reading a little here, there. He nodded, read more, nodded and smiled.

"I see," he murmured, with a knowing glance toward her. "Master Bisset, it is truly a fine volume. My lady's kinfolk will treasure it. Let me pay your fee, sir."

Tamsin gasped softly. "Nay, let me." But Liam held up a hand.

Bisset went to a shelf, then came back with a scrap of parchment with a number scribbled on it and handed it to Liam. "A book like that wee one, if we paid the scribe for the work as well as the binder, could cost a king's ransom, especially with illuminated decoration. But the lady herself did the work. I cannot tell you how much I admire that, sir. Your lady is worth her weight in gold, in that sense. All I did was fold, trim, stitch, make the covers and put it together. So the fee is not nearly as much, you see."

"I understand. And I too appreciate and admire my lady's work. I did not realize until now how capable and talented she is. I would pay a king's ransom for this book."

"But you are glad to not pay that," Bisset said with a laugh.

Liam chuckled. "Three pound Scots, seven shillings. Very reasonable," he murmured, and took a small leather purse from his belt, counting out silver coins. "Four pound Scots, ten shillings, will that do?"

"That is the greater sum, sir."

"The bargain is mine, Master Bisset. My lady is pleased, therefore, so am I."

Tamsin looked at him, wide-eyed, though she said little as Bisset wrapped the book, tied it with a green silk ribbon, and handed it to her.

"My lady, an honor."

"Thank you, sir. If I have more pages for another volume, would you be here to do the work? I believe you are sometimes in Edinburgh."

"I am here most of the year, though I spend winters in Edinburgh. My mother is there, you see. I would be happy to create another book for you, my lady."

She smiled and turned to leave, though Liam stepped outside first, putting out an arm in warning, so that Tamsin stayed in the shadows. "Clear," he said. "Come ahead."

She walked beside him, holding the package close to her heart like a precious thing. "Back to the inn?" she asked.

"I want you to go to the inn." He took her arm, glancing about as they walked. "I need to have a look around. This way—we can cross from this street to the alley beside the inn that leads to the stable. Hurry."

"Are they looking for us?"

"We do not want to be seen, either way. Come." He drew her along, leaving the market street to walk between a few vegetable gardens toward the inn.

"Hurry. Give me the package." He lifted the book from her hands even as he rushed her along. "Run, lass!"

Reaching the alley, she reached for the book, but he kept it, drawing her along with a hand on her arm. When they reached the stable yard, Tamsin could hear horse hooves clattering over cobblestones out on the road.

"Take the back entrance into the inn. Go to the room and lock the door. Do not open it until you hear my voice. Take this." He took the key from his belt pouch. "Go!"

"The book. Give me the book!"

He dropped it into her outstretched hands. "Did you think I would keep it?"

"You own it now. You paid the fee."

"We will talk about this later. Go!" He fair pushed her toward the inn.

"What will you do?" She held the book close.

"Lead them away from you," he said, striding into the stable.

Mounted and silentin the shade of the alley, Liam waited as the knights rode slowly past the inn, clearly searching for something or someone. When they reached the far end of the avenue, their backs still turned, he urged his stallion out onto the street and in the opposite direction. Moving casually until he reached the Kirk Wynd, he spurred the horse onward and set out away from the town.

All too soon, he heard the clatter and thud of hooves on cobbles and then earth behind him, as well as the shouts to stop. Bending along his horse's neck, he urged for more speed, and at the old stone kirk, he turned eastward rather than westward. He did not want to lead them back to Aikwood or farther west into the forest where friends might be wandering or watchful.

Eastward lay more forest and hills that were less familiar to him, but safer. Northeast lay Melrose, but he would not go that far. Far ahead, he saw a long, dark swath of tall pine trees, a crescent arm of the Ettrick Forest reaching toward other streams, other hills. He glanced back.

Four men pursued him now, shouting, pounding turf. Chances were, they knew this terrain better than he did, but he had a long view across rolling moorland toward forest to one side, hills farther on, and his horse had a good lead and a powerful gait on solid ground. Liam leaned in, head down.

He had felt uneasy in his very bones over the last few days, not willing to head to Selkirk, but Tamsin had wanted—needed—to go there. He knew that. And he meant to lead these men far from her, from the book, from Comyn's plans.

He rode on, the horse pounding relentlessly, faithfully as it carried him into the wind, then followed Liam's guidance toward the trees. The wind provided more aid than obstacle, and the sun was sinking, clouds gathering overhead. All in his favor.

The first arrow whizzed past him, past his horse's powerful neck. The second missed as well. Liam hunched, riding for the dense tree cover. He slung low over the horse, wishing now he wore chain mail under the hauberk, but glad he had grabbed the blue-painted shield at Holyoak, looped on the saddle now. Grabbing it, he tilted it best he could to cover his back and more of the horse too.

Just in time, for an arrow thunked into the shield. He swerved right, closer to the trees, the rough hem of the woodland soon surrounding him. The track was slower, littered with brush and rock. He pulled the stallion up for safety, though the animal forged onward. Behind him, he heard shouts as the knights veered in their pursuit.

The next arrow struck fast and unexpected. Liam felt the punch and sting just behind his shoulder, catching him where the leather gapped to expose his tunic beneath. Wincing, he stayed flat against the horse, urging his mount onward. The light sank further, daylight falling toward dusk. An advantage for him, but he was not yet clear of the pursuers.

A moment later, the stallion plunged between tall trees and wide sweeps of pine branches, entering a soaring cathedral of evergreens, the smell pungent, the thick layered pine needles underfoot quieting the hoof falls. The trees were tall and well-spaced and the way was clear. Too clear, for the knights came thundering in after him.

But the shadows were heavier here as he cut sideways off the wide natural path and urged the horse to clear a fallen log. He angled the stallion toward a depth of pine boughs ahead, glad when the animal pushed through the screen so that they could vanish into shadows and green.

He could feel the bite of the arrow stuck wavering in him, and tightened his left arm against his side in protection. He rode into the pine forest, lost in its powerful scent and eerie silence. Slowing to let the horse catch its breath, he led his mount down a slope at a long angle. He heard the creak of the wind through pines, heard the loose chuckle of a stream, felt its moisture in the air as he and the horse went further.

He knew how to hide in a forest, knew where to find the deepest shadows and thickets. He knew how to dance away from the fall of light, how to fit the shapes of horse and man to the match trees and boughs, knew to stay still once he found a place.

Where declining light and increasing shadow provided that spot, he eased himself from the saddle, then patted and soothed the sturdy horse. After a moment he let the animal begin to nuzzle grasses and sip from the lapping edge of the stream.

Above, where the slope met the higher ground of the pine forest, Liam heard hoofbeats, voices. The screen along the slope was dense enough to protect him from sight. He had a haven here, and sat to wait.

After a while, he reached back to grasp the arrow, cracking its shaft. Wincing, he left the arrowhead and part of the shaft in place. Removing it would cause too much bleeding; the arrow would plug the wound for now.

Seeing clusters of white-flowered yarrow stalks by the streambank, he moved carefully and pulled a fistful of the feathery leaves. Woundwort, some called it, for it could staunch bleeding and swelling. He pressed the leaves against his shoulder, layering them above the wound, then wet his linen shirt to keep it in place. For now it was all he could do until he could return to Tamsin.

She would be worried by now, he thought, as night fell. But if he left now they would follow him to find his wife—if he survived another pursuit. Resting against a tree trunk, he watched the stallion grazing, then he dozed, exhausted.

After a while, waking to silence, he climbed the slope. The men had gone. Dusk saturated the shadows. Liam moved cautiously outward to see empty moorland. With luck, the men had left the area, having lost him.

He frowned, realizing the knights had chased him deliberately, though Tamsin was not with him. Why? Then he knew. Malise.

The man wanted to capture Liam as much, perhaps more, than he wanted Tamsin. Comyn had a deep resentment of the Setons of Dalrinnie from years back—and Liam in particular. Did that old grudge still burn hot for Comyn, ignited recently by King Edward's orders and then the posting of the marriage banns?

Seven years ago, Malise Comyn's treatment of Agatha Seton had pitted her brothers against him. The fellow was lucky to be alive. Now, standing on the forest slope, he felt certain that Malise meant to strike back at him—and might try to do so through Tamsin. Liam had to get back to her.

Turning, he noticed three conical hills silhouetted against the dusky sky not far from the patch of pine forest. The Eildon Hills, they were called. Suddenly he knew Tamsin needed to see them. Thomas the Rhymer had lived near there, he recalled.

Despite knights and thugs, despite a treasure to be guarded and delivered, and a lady wife who needed no further danger, Liam knew he had to bring her there. It might be vital to her. He felt the urge like a turning in his soul.

Because he loved her. He knew that too, now.

Flexing his shoulder against the pain, he went to find his horse.

She was temptedto take the dappled gray and ride out to search for Liam. Listening anxiously for his step, she peered through the little window again, but the stables behind the inn were quiet. With every moment, she grew more anxious.

Earlier she had enjoyed a bath, and thinking he would return soon, ordered food too. Servants brought a tray with a hot meat pie large enough for two, along with cheese, bannocks, apples, ale, even a jug of wine. She nibbled at some of it and covered it. Two servants had carried in a wooden hip bath and toted buckets of steaming water back and forth from the kitchen, and then the innkeeper's wife had appeared to hand Tamsin a sticky ball of soap and some linen toweling. When the woman began to take the supper tray, Tamsin shook her head.

"My husband will return any moment," she said.

Now she sat, still hoping to hear his step, his voice. Unwrapping the book again, she paged through, reading, trying to savor its simple beauty, knowing how much her siblings would enjoy it. Yet the quiet, the worry, were too distracting.

As the room darkened, she was grateful for three bright candles. A glance told her the stable yard was still empty. Her stomach was in knots now. Liam would not leave her alone this long unless something dreadful had happened.

Testing the bath water, finding it still quite warm, she stripped down and slipped into the water, hoping that might ease her nervousness. The pine-scented soap ball was gooey but lathered well as she bathed, washed and rinsed her hair. She stood to towel off. Still the yard was empty. The candles, slender tallow sticks, were burning down.

She was glad to have brought the leather satchel, which held a clean shift, her dark blue gown, and a comb. She was even more glad for something to do as she sat to comb out her hair. Its curl resisted the ivory comb, and its length, nearly to her hips, could be a challenge. But it took up the time.

She prayed softly as she worked through her hair. In the silence, her whispers seemed loud, her heartbeat louder, thumping out the worry she tried to keep at bay. Turning to the brazier to coax her hair dry, she loosely braided its golden gleam.

Then she heard sounds in the yard, but when she went to the window, she saw only shadows. Moments later, she heard a soft rapping on the door.

"Tamsin," he murmured. "Tamsin, love, let me in."

She flew across the room, turned the latch, opened the door. He stood in the dark corridor, face pale, and she grabbed his leather hauberk to pull him into the room. Sobbing, she threw herself into his arms.