The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(119)

He’d made his choice. There was no turning back.

”I apologize for the captain’s manners, Lady Christina. It appears he was a bit overzealous in his questioning.”

A bit? Christina stared at the richly outfitted and impeccably groomed English commander, seated opposite her in the luxuriously appointed solar of Dumfries Castle. His eyes told her that he was not at all sorry. But beating a woman—even a Scotswoman—was un knightly. Lord Seagrave, with his crisp white-and-gold embroidered tabard and gleaming mail, struck her as the type of man who didn’t like to sully himself with the more unpleasant aspects of his position, as the commander of the English garrison at Dumfries Castle in Galloway. At around fifty years of age, he was one of the king’s most experienced commanders in Scotland, having taken part in most of the major engagements for the past decade.

Though she wanted to throw his false apology back in his face and rail at him for attacking their ship for no reason and killing all those men, she knew that to protect her husband and family she had to continue playing the frightened, simpering girl as she’d done since her capture. The past two days had been the longest of her life. Horrified by the senseless killing of her husband’s men, she’d lived in a constant state of fear that they would change their minds. She had to survive long enough to let someone know what happened. Their deaths had to be avenged.

The English captain had broken the tedium of their long sea journey by questioning her about her father and husband’s activities. When he hadn’t liked her answer, he struck her. The captain’s arrogance, however, worked in her favor, as it was clear that he did not truly expect her to know anything. To most men, women were inferior creatures, and Englishmen with their haughty superiority were even worse.

She’d learned far more than she had revealed. The men talked freely around her—especially at night. She’d discovered that they’d just come from Inverlochy Castle, the Highland stronghold of the Lord of Badenoch, the Red Comyn. The Highland escort mostly consisted of Comyns and their MacDougall kinsmen.

When they’d arrived at the Galloway Castle, Christina had been brought to the English garrison at Dumfries while the Highlanders had gone to Dalswinton Castle to await the arrival of their lord.

She was almost certain something nefarious was afoot and that it involved the Earl of Carrick, Robert Bruce. One of Comyn’s guardsmen had made a stray mention of him in an English prison, but that was all she’d been able to discover. She hoped to learn more from Lord Seagrave.

She resisted the urge to put her hand on her swollen, bruised face and tell Lord Seagrave exactly what he could do with his sympathy. Her face would heal, and her chances of escape were better if they underestimated her. She would die before she would betray her husband. The past few months had given her strength and courage she didn’t know she possessed. She cowered now to play a part, not from fear. So instead of a rebuke, she bowed her head and said, “My father is a loyal subject of the king. What your man inferred”—she leaned over and whispered—”is treason.”

She hoped she had the proper amount of innocent shock in her voice.

He smiled indulgently, as if deferring to her simple womanly intellect. “Have you forgotten that your father was imprisoned for treason not so long ago?”

Her eyes widened. “Of course not, my lord. That is the reason I can assure you of his loyalty to the king. Though he said he was treated with every courtesy,” she lied, “he has no wish to return.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I think it’s because he missed his whisky and cook’s apple tarts.” She forced a wrinkle between her brows. “Do you have apples in England?”

He looked at her as if she was a half-wit and she hoped she hadn’t overdone it. “We do.”

“Then perhaps it was the plum. They are equally delicious. Do you have those as well?”

His veneer of politeness was wearing thin. Talk of food, furnishings, and music had permeated her two interrogations—much to his impatience.

“We’ve sent a message to your father, but he has yet to respond. Why is that?”

This was dangerous territory. Her value would diminish considerably if the English discovered that her father wouldn’t come for her.

“Perhaps he is away? Has your messenger returned from my husband?”

He frowned. “Not yet.”

There was another knock at the door, but Christina was used to the constant interruptions. In the hour he’d been trying to question her today, a steady stream of men had moved in and out.

A young soldier entered and handed him a missive without explanation. Lord Seagrave must have been expecting it because he opened it and read it quickly. The devious smile that turned his mouth piqued her curiosity.

“Have the men gone?” Lord Seagrave asked.

“Nay,” the young knight said. “Should I send them in?”

Christina stood, not hiding her eagerness. “I can return to my … chamber.” The small, windowless room in the tower hardly qualified.

He gave her a hard look. “We’re not finished. Stay here, I’ll be only a moment.” He left her alone, closing the door behind him.

Christina frowned until she saw the open parchment on the table. The hairs on her arms stood on end. She couldn’t believe it. He’d left the missive.

Heart pounding, she leaned over the table and turned the documents around to face her. She scanned the top page first, noting that it was written in French.