Chapter Three

The constable leaned toward the clerk. "How many are left to see? 'Tis late."

"Just one, sir, over there." The clerk pointed toward the doorway, where a man cloaked in gray stood beside a sentry.

Glancing there, Tamsin saw a tall, broad-shouldered man whose hood shadowed his features. Yet she felt his keen gaze as a shiver sank through her. Did she know him? Nay, she thought, turning back.

"Is that your servant?" Merton asked her.

"Nay—oh!" Tamsin felt Kirsty pinch her arm.

"Aye, our servant," Kirsty said. "Part of our escort come to take us home."

Tamsin looked at Kirsty in confusion. Her heart pounded. The smallest untruth could sometimes unnerve her, all part of the truth-telling urge she had inherited from Grandda Thomas. But Kirsty's quick thinking could help here.

Merton frowned, studying a parchment. "Dalrinnie is a contested area, being close to Ettrick Forest. Bruce's men have been sighted near there."

"We are not rebels if you imply that," Tamsin said.

"I said your man is not here," he barked. "We are done. Go."

"But if my brother is with King Edward, would he not be at Lanercost?"

"Your name again?"

"Lady Tamsin, wife to Sir John Witton of Dalrinnie." She omitted that he was dead, nor did the constable blink, perhaps unaware of Sir John's passing. Tamsin hoped he had not heard that she had inherited the estate, making her valuable as well as vulnerable.

"A risk to leave your stronghold and travel here, madam."

"Surely Sir John Witton's wife deserves your protection," Kirsty said.

Merton turned beefy red. "Henry Keith is not here, ladies. Go back to your castle and pray for safety."

Tamsin sighed. Where was Henry? He had joined King Edward's service to protect his family and his properties. But when Robert Bruce had killed Sir John Comyn to take the Scottish crown and Scotsmen began flocking to Bruce's side, Edward had raised the dragon banner—a declaration of ‘no mercy' where Scotland was concerned. Henry's sympathies leaned toward Scotland, but now especially, he had to seem wholly loyal to Edward.

She, too, must appear loyal. The safety of her two sisters still residing at Castle Kincraig, now their brother's property, could depend on the behavior of the rest of the family. Glancing at Kirsty, she saw her dark-haired cousin's cheeks pinken with frustration and temper. Meekness was not in her nature, but Kirsty had good common sense and knew Tamsin must find Henry before she lost all.

"My brother is devoted to King Edward," Tamsin said. "The Keiths have always supported the Crown."

"Any Scot bears careful watching these days," Merton said.

Though she pressed her lips together, her reply slipped out. "Most Scottish knights honor their oaths of fealty to the king. Yet Edward does not honor his promises to them."

"You, lady, would do best to keep your pretty mouth shut." The constable's narrowed eyes and a lick of his lips expressed something darker than concern.

"It is the truth and you know it."

Kirsty took her arm. "My lady, our escort is here. We must go."

Hearing footsteps, Tamsin looked to her left. The cloaked man approached to stand beside her, the protesting sentry hurrying after him.

Despite his limp, the tall stranger had the determined stride of a warrior. Though a man in shabby gear was a common sight in downtrodden Scotland, Tamsin stared at this one. Handsome, strong, compelling—with a rather stunning masculine beauty. Distracted, she tilted her head, regarding him.

He nodded toward her but did not tug at his hood. He was no subordinate, she realized. Was he wearing a disguise? A Scottish spy? She frowned. If he was working for the Scots, she wanted to help him, trust him.

Merton ignored the man, reading a parchment page. "Lady, you will stay here until I am satisfied that you are who you claim to be."

"I am the lady of Dalrinnie and you have no reason to detain us."

"But you will stay until—what the devil do you want, man?" he snapped, addressing the stranger. "You were not invited forward."

"Sir, he insisted," the guard said.

"I did," the man said calmly. "I am here to escort the ladies to Dalrinnie—in the spirit of king's peace, of course."

Tamsin gaped. Had he heard them talking—or was he genuinely their escort, sent inside by Sir David Campbell, Dalrinnie's seneschal?

"Is that so, lady?" Merton asked.

Her mouth went dry. Even a small falsehood was a challenge. "I, ah—"

"Campbell sent me to accompany the ladies," the stranger said, as if he had read her thoughts—or had indeed been sent by Sir Davey. "If they stay to supper, I also hoped to offer my music then. I am a harper." He inclined his head with the offer.

His voice, deep and warm, sent an unexpected wash of comfort through her. Confused, she wondered what to do. She looked at Kirsty, who shrugged.

Merton laughed. "A minstrel, escorting ladies? Rude damn Scots."

"A harper is no minstrel. They are highly regarded in Scotland," Tamsin said. Indignant, she wanted to help. "My grandda was a harper and was very well-respected."

"Huh. Lady, do you know this man?" the constable demanded.

Tamsin looked at the man again. He dropped his hood back to reveal brown hair in long, untidy waves, a lean, square jaw dusted in dark whiskers, and remarkably blue eyes. Fatigue or concern crinkled his eyes and etched creases from arched nose to firm lips. Life had set fine tracks in a face both beautiful and hard, though his lips had a tender curve.

The harper gave her a wary glance. Do not give me away, it said.

She frowned. His satchel was harp-shaped, but he seemed like a warrior, brawny, with a reserved and powerful presence. She sensed something more. The voice, the eyes…

The knight in her dream. But that could not be.

"I—I know him. At Dalrinnie," she stammered, letting the dream justify her words. But her knees went weak, untruth and uncertainty—fear too—tilting her off balance. She put out a hand, and instantly his forearm was under hers, a hard and courteous brace. That was the gesture of a knight, not a harper.

She caught her breath and let go of his arm. Whoever he was, she felt strongly that he had secrets, yet she felt oddly safe beside him. She sensed worth, strength, innate integrity—and danger. The very air seemed to spark like fire around him.

Meeting the harper's glance, she looked away, then glanced back. Flickering glimpses, rippling excitement—she felt a strong physical attraction, but it was only foolish fancy. She was a lonely widow coming out of an empty marriage, facing many long years in a convent, a young woman with a yearning heart and an uncertain future.

Here and now, she must think only of her brother and their two sisters, and of her promise to her late great-grandfather. The wellbeing of her kin was as important to her as her own.

"You, musician," Merton was saying. "Play for your supper and leave after that. These ladies will not be going with you."

"Constable, would you treat a harper with discourtesy?" Tamsin asked. "As I said, here in Scotland, bards and harpers are respected and lauded. By tradition, they would be seated at the right hand of lords and kings."

"Which is why Scotland is failing in this war," Merton snapped. "At a king's right hand should be his general, not his musician. Sergeant—take these ladies to the solar. They can wait there until they dine with me at supper."

"You have no cause to hold us," Tamsin said.

"Scotswomen asking about King Edward is reason enough. You could be spies. This harper might be a spy too."

"If we were spies, we would have done what we came for and be gone already."

The harper laughed outright. Merton sent Tamsin a scathing look. "Take them away. Harper, you can find the steward below stairs."

Turning, Tamsin and Kirsty followed in the guard's wake. The harper came after, his limp rhythmic across the wooden floor. When the guard crossed the threshold first, the stranger reached above Tamsin's head to catch the door, letting Kirsty step out first.

Gliding beneath his outstretched arm, Tamsin felt her shoulder bump his chest, hard muscle through layered clothing. He smelled good—fresh air, leather, woodsmoke. Yearning plunged through her again. Why did the man affect her so? She glanced up.

"You are no harper, sir," she whispered. "What are you about?"

He smiled, a quirk of the lip, a sparkle in the blue, blue eyes, but did not reply. Tamsin walked past him, climbing the spiral stairs with Kirsty after the sentry.

Kirsty leaned to whisper. "Can we trust him? We cannot stay here, and—"

"And he is our only hope of escape," Tamsin agreed.