The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(93)

“I thought I would go to the village. The tanner’s youngest bairn has fallen ill and the cook has prepared some poulet broth for me to take to him.” Seeing that he was dressed for the cold weather as well, she asked, “And what about you?”

“To the village as well.” He frowned. “Are you sure it is wise to leave the castle, my lady? The fever seems to be spreading. Perhaps it would be best if you waited for the chief to return; he’s due back any day.”

Her foolish heart jumped. “Have you heard from him then?”

He shook his head. “Nay, but given that he was supposed to be gone for only a few days—”

“Not a few days,” she said morosely, “two weeks.”

His eyes widened. “Oh, I see. Perhaps I misunderstood the seneschal.” Christina was not surprised; Rhuairi had seemed less than forthcoming of late. He’d been watching her with an odd look in his eye. When he did not forbid her from helping Brother John, she realized Tor had not spoken to him, but she wondered if he knew what she had done. Brother John was watching her intently. “I do not think the chief would wish for you to put yourself in danger.”

Christina pressed her lips together. Let “the chief” try to object. Attending to the villagers was her duty as Lady of the Castle. He’d reminded her of her place enough. “I appreciate your concern, but the risk is small. The fever seems to be mild.” She gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Besides, if I have to stay another day locked behind these walls, I believe I shall go mad.”

He returned her smile. “I understand completely. Perhaps you would not mind company? If you will wait a moment, there is something I forgot in the solar.”

“I would love the company. Why don’t I meet you by the gate; I have to fetch the pot of broth from the cook.”

She was glad for the company. If Brother John seemed oddly anxious at first, by the time he returned from his errand the anxiety was gone. He spent the rest of the day with her visiting not just the tanner’s son, but a few of the other stricken children as well. The cook had given her enough broth to feed an army, and it did not go to waste. She also slid the children the last of her cherished figs for when they were better.

A handful of her husband’s guardsmen insisted on accompanying her as well. At first she did not think it necessary, but later she was grateful for their protection. The moment she walked outside the castle gates, she felt her husband’s absence sharply. She hadn’t realized how safe he made her feel. Without the shield of his presence, the world suddenly seemed more ominous. Silly, she knew. She did not fear an attack—not during the day at least—but the memory of MacDougall’s visit was fresh in her mind.

Tor had taken precautions, however, and a permanent guard was positioned in the village.

In any event, the satisfaction of doing something useful more than made up for any apprehension she might feel. As she sat on the birlinn beside Brother John to return to the castle, she was glad she’d gone and vowed to do so again in the coming days.

The light was fading and the mist sinking as they neared the jetty to the sea-gate. It wasn’t until they were a few lengths away that she realized another boat was moored on the jetty.

The fearsome-looking hawk carved in the prow sent a shiver running down her spine. “Do you recognize the boat?” she asked the clerk.

He shook his head. “Nay, I’ve never seen it before.”

Tor’s guardsmen didn’t seem concerned.

The other boat appeared to be about ready to depart. Two men were standing on the dock. She recognized one as Rhuairi. She thought the other man handed him something before he quickly jumped in the boat and removed the rope moorings. Brother John had noticed it as well. “Perhaps it’s just a messenger,” he said.

She relaxed a little, realizing he was probably right. It wasn’t until the other boat had pulled away, however, that she heaved a sigh of relief.

Rhuairi greeted them as they disembarked, holding his hand out to help her from the boat. “Did you have a pleasant day, my lady?”

“Aye,” she said. “I did. Was that a messenger we saw leaving?”

His expression went blank. “Nay, my lady. Just some local clansmen wishing to see the chief.”

She exchanged a look with Brother John. Local clansmen? Those had been warriors.

She didn’t think much about the strange exchange until later.

Hours after he’d nearly slid off the mountain, Tor sat back against a low boulder, his legs stretched out toward the glowing embers of the fire, listening to the guardsmen argue. It was strangely relaxing. Comfortable in its predictability. Not unlike the squabbling he’d done with his siblings around the dais when they were young. As usual, the talk was of the looming war with England and when—and if—Bruce would make his move.

It had to be near midnight, and with the day he had planned for them tomorrow, he should be abed. But he was still too restless from what had happened earlier to sleep.

When the others had seen him and MacRuairi coming down the hill, they’d assumed that Tor had found him. MacRuairi—full of more surprises—made no effort to correct them, but Tor quickly explained what had happened. The men seemed just as surprised as he’d been—with the possible exception of Gordon. MacRuairi kept to himself, and for the most part the rest of them were happy to keep it that way. But Gordon, the gregarious young alchemist, seemed not to notice the menacing cloud surrounding MacRuairi, and the two had formed a friendship of sorts—if you called Gordon talking and MacRuairi listening a friendship.