Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

L eft alone in the room, Aihan listened to his receding footsteps and then sprang up from the chair, setting the tea aside, and opened the cupboard against the wall. She had been about to search it when he came back.

Her throat was raw, and her chest ached, but she felt a great deal better than she had last night, and she had hours at the most to escape and make her way back to the Shaolin before it sailed—if it hadn’t already. But she wouldn’t think of that.

Her boots were in the cupboard; she pounced on them and, discarding the socks he’d given her, put them on. Finding her cloak also hanging in the cupboard, she seized that too and turned her attention back to the window, grabbing the poker from the fireplace. She had already ascertained that he had nailed the window shut with a board. Her plan was to use the poker to prize the board up and escape—again—through the window. With any luck, she would get far enough away that he wouldn’t catch her. And her body wouldn’t betray her this time, she hoped.

With a fervent prayer to the ancestors and the Great Spirit for good measure, she applied the poker to the board and worked on levering it off. It took longer than she had hoped, but she finally got it free with one last heave and screech of the nails pulling free of the wood.

Discarding it and wheezing a bit with the effort, she gathered up her satchel, flung her cloak round her shoulders, and approached the window with the sheet. Mac wasn’t back yet, so she still had time. Pushing the window on the right-hand side wide, she tied the sheet to the central bar of the window, got a leg over the ledge, slid through the narrow opening and, twisting so that she could lower herself down on her arms, she clung to the sill a moment, legs dangling, then transferred her weight to the sheet, lowering herself hand over hand, until she got to the end, and then dropped. She rolled easily with the landing and rose to her feet in one movement, then took off across the grass, heading for the trees. She needed cover as soon as possible. She restrained herself from running flat out—her lungs weren’t up to that, and she didn’t want to pass out like before.

The morning was fine enough, if a bit misty and cool, but the clouds were high and scattered, with patches of blue between, and the sun shone, dispersing the mist and warming the air. It was not likely to rain imminently.

She made it to the trees and paused, grasping the rough-barked trunk of one to hold herself upright while she fought for breath. She coughed a bit, but it wasn’t as bad as before. When she had recovered sufficiently, she struck out through the trees in the direction—she hoped—of the water. She was fairly certain this bit of forest skirted the edge of the village, and from there, she could easily find the beach and one of the rowboats she had spotted on her first foray.

Col joined his sons, Fergus, and Willy for breakfast in the dining room, trailed by the dogs who had come in from their morning frolic.

Rory threw him a look of contempt as he pulled out his chair and sat down, but the lad didn’t say anything, and he chose to ignore the look and its silent message. He’d deal with Rory later. He helped himself to the parritch, adding cream, sugar and a sprinkle of salt to the bowl as well as a handful of dried blaeberries and dug in.

But Rory, it seemed, couldn’t keep it in. “Left yer whore alone, have ye?”

Col stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth. He put it back down carefully and stood up. Leaning on his fists, he said, “Ye think I’d dishonour yer mother so?”

Rory scrambled to his feet and, red as a firestorm, pushed his face into Col’s. “She’s in yer bed! What else d’ye call it!”

“The lass is ill, Rory. If ye think I’d take advantage of that, ye do not know me. And ye’ve nae sense of honour yerself to even consider it! Yer precious reivers might behave that way, but nae decent man would! If that’s what ye grandfather’s taught ye, I’m heartsick!”

With that, he sat down and resumed his breakfast, although Rory’s accusation had destroyed his appetite.

Rory huffed a bit and then sat down, red now from embarrassment rather than anger by the shamefaced expression he wore. Good! The notion that his father had filled the lads’ heads with such foul stuff made him truly sick to his stomach. He pushed the parritch away and rose, leaving the room without a word. He was conscious, though, of the boys’ eyes on him. Callum had sat dumbstruck through his exchange with Rory, his mouth agape.

The dogs followed him out to the hall. He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs; he should go and check on the lass. Keeping her under lock and key didn’t sit well with him. He climbed the stairs, the dogs’ nails clacking on the wood behind him. He unlocked his bedroom door and pushed it open, and was confronted by the sight of the open window, the curtains blowing in the breeze, and the plank of wood he’d used to nail it shut discarded on the bed with the poker. And of course, no sign of Aihan.

With a curse, he ran to the window, but there was no sign of her this time. She had managed to flee without passing out, at least in seeing distance from the window. He slammed his fist on the window ledge in frustration. Does the lass truly have a death wish?

He clattered downstairs and out to the stable, leaving the dogs in the house. They would be less help than might be thought in running the lass to earth. Gussie was a sighthound, trained to course deer by sight, bring them down and kill them. He didn’t want her spotting the lass and giving chase.

Saddling his horse, he headed out of the stable into the park and did a quick reconnoitre, looking for a fallen body. He was by no means sure she would make it very far without collapsing. Failing to find her, which was a mixed blessing, he set off to the village, for where else would she go? He headed for the Speckled Hen; if the lass had been seen in the village, Angus would know. And she was sufficiently unique in appearance to stick out like a sore thumb.

Giving his horse to a loitering lad to mind, he entered the pub and found Angus behind the bar.

“Yo Angus, any sighting of the Chinese lassie this morning?”

“Aye, she was headed towards the beach by all accounts.”

“Thank ye.” Col flipped him a coin, which the man caught deftly, went back to his horse, where he rewarded the lad with a coin likewise, and made for the beach.

The tide was halfway out, exposing a fair bit of wet, hard-packed sand, seaweed and pebbles, and the waves dumped themselves on the beach with hypnotic regularity, white-flecked, grey-green depths in the intermittent sunlight that emerged and hid behind the clouds overhead. The breeze had the sharpening edge of autumn; summer’s heat was but a memory now. A couple of gulls screeched overhead.

He looked up and down the beach, not seeing anyone immediately. Then he spotted a figure in a wind-rippled cloak, sitting on the sand. The bowed head and shoulders spoke of defeat, and his heart quickened. Has she collapsed again?

He dismounted and tied his horse to a convenient tree branch, heading towards her.

“Lass,” he said, approaching her.

She turned her head and stared at him from tear-soaked eyes. Was she hurt? He crouched before her. “Are ye trying to kill yerself, lass?” he said. “Are ye hurt?” He put out his hands to offer her a lift up. She took his hand reluctantly and rose. But she was unsteady on her feet, and he picked her up, turning and trudging back up the sandy beach to his horse. She subsided meekly enough in his arms, shuddering a little with cold, and no wonder. He could feel the sharp edge of the breeze through his jacket. Her flimsy garments and even her cloak were not sufficient protection, despite the intermittent sun.

He marvelled again at how slender and light she was. She was like a bird, fragile and quick, yet with the determination of a lioness.

He settled her on his horse and got up behind her, an arm round her waist to stop her toppling off. He was conscious of eyes on them. It would be all over the village that he had been seen with her. So much for keeping it quiet. He sighed inwardly. The conclusion his son had made would be made by the villagers as well.

She had curled into his chest in a way that made him look down at her. He couldn’t see her face, for her hair had come loose and fell like a straight, thick black curtain over her shoulders and obscured her face from his sight. He could feel the warmth of her still-rasping breath through his shirt, where her face pressed against him and her small hands wrapped around his middle. Her shoulders still shook, and her breathing was troubled.

He returned to the house and took her back upstairs to the bedroom. Of the boys and Fergus there was no sign, so he was spared the necessity to explain what he didn’t understand himself. Why chase after her? Why bring her back, when she obviously doesn’t want to be here? Perhaps for the self-evident fact that she had nowhere else to go, and she was too weak to make her own way yet. When she was stronger, he’d let her go, of course he would. But she needed him right now. The notion that he was needed gave him a warm feeling in his breast.

The boys needed him too, but he didn’t know how to be what they needed him to be. He seemed to be all wrong for them. Rory borderline hated him, and Callum wasn’t fond of him either. He suspected they would both be happier without him. But he was their father, and they were his responsibility. He would have to figure out how to do right by them.

For the umpteenth time, he wished for Merlow. He might be younger, but right now Col felt as if Merlow were the older and wiser of the two of them. His time in China had changed him.

He set the lass down on the bed, removed the poker and the plank with the nails still in it, took off her boots, fetched the socks and put them on her feet, removed her cloak, and tucked her under the covers. All the while, she sat passively, letting him. Her eyes contained a deep sorrow that cut him to the quick. What is wrong? This is more than just her desire to chase after Ming Liang, he would swear.

He sat on the bed and took her hand. “What ails ye, lass? What is wrong?” he asked helplessly.

She said something in her own language, but it was just sounds to him. Then she pointed over his shoulder at something. Turning, he followed the line of her finger. On the mantle over the fire was a miniature of a ship. He had made it as a lad and kept it.

She said something else, and he turned to look at her.

“Yer ship, yer ship has sailed without ye?” He made gestures to try to convey his words.

“ Shaolin ,” she said. “Ship! Gone!”

“They have gone back to China without ye?”

She nodded, tears brimming her eyes and slipping down her cheeks.

“That was why ye were so desperate to escape!” His face screwed into a grimace. “I’m sorry.”

She punched him in the chest then. Surprisingly, the short, sharp jab hurt.

He rubbed it absently. “I’m sorry, lass. Ye’ll be wanting to find Liang.”

She nodded.

“When ye’re well, lass. Ye stay here until ye’re better.” He tried gestures to convey his meaning.

He glanced at the bowl of parritch he had left her. It was untouched. His stomach rumbled then, reminding him he hadn’t eaten either.

“Food?” he asked making an eating gesture.

She nodded. “Aye, please.”

He smiled at her manners. “Ye stay here.” He pointed at the bed and then mimed. “I’ll bring ye food.”

She nodded, relaxing into the pillows. He left her with the dogs to guard her and went downstairs to raid the kitchen.

To his relief, she was where he’d left her, still in bed, when he came back with a laden tray.

After they had eaten, he left her to rest and went to make up a new mattress for the Daffodil Room. With a freshly stuffed mattress, clean sheets and pillows, blankets, and a plaid for good measure, the bed looked comfortable enough. He flung the window open to air the room, cleaned the furniture of dust, and made up the fire, ready to light later. Satisfied that the room was as comfortable as he could make it, he went back to check on her. She was sleeping, so he left her and went to his study, where he stared at nothing for an hour, trying to work out what had happened to his life in the past few days.

When she woke later that afternoon, he transferred her to the Daffodil Room. If she wanted to run, she could. He wasn’t going to lock her in anymore. But he rather fancied she wouldn’t. Not yet. He hoped not, anyway.