The Highlander’s Trust by Emilia Ferguson

Author:Emilia Ferguson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: 0
Published: 2018-07-23T16:00:00+00:00

THE MAN WHO LEADS THE TUNE

The dusk was full of swords, screams, and swirling, stampeding people. Richard, hiding in the arch of a door, watched the wildness and cursed inwardly.

What madness have I let myself in for now?

Armed with bagpipes and a small dagger looped through the belt of the thickly-wrapped kilt, Richard felt as vulnerable as a newborn must feel.

A newborn who'd just stolen a woman.

Arabella.

“Hush, lass,” he whispered. “We're not out of it yet.”

He had the vestiges of a plan. While chaos reigned in the alleyway, he'd double back behind them to the main courtyard, commandeer a horse and escape through the front gate, which was still open to admit late-arrival guests.

“Yah!” somebody shouted, wrenching his attention to his right. A man had seen them in the doorway and came at him with a claymore. Richard felt a sort of fear mixed with rage that impelled him forward without thought, the dagger in his hand.

He stabbed down, felt the dagger pierce something soft, and saw the man go down, grunting in pain. At least, he thought as he grabbed Arabella's arm and pulled her along the alleyway, he had not made a noise. They had a few seconds to make an escape.

Taking a blind turn to his right, he led Arabella along a cobbled alley that reeked of a tannery. They ran, and he noticed with some admiration that she ran as fast as he himself.

“Wait!” he whispered.

They both threw themselves flat against the wall. Breathing heavily with the exertion, it came to Richard they had found the tanner's yard – the stink was close and horrible.

A crowd ran past on the road.

Arabella gave a sob of panic. Richard, holding her hand tightly, winced as the running feet grew louder. He closed his eyes, knowing that the whiteness of the gown in the dark would be a beacon to anyone searching for them. He knew their only hope was that their pursuers were already drunk, or too enraged to do a proper job.

Both, or at least one, of those conditions must have held, for the group ran past and Richard considered venturing out of the close space. He paused.

Never rush out of a hiding place, his old mentor, Colonel Rochford, said in his head. Linger there a bit. Your enemy's not stupid and he'll like as not wait a little to see if you're in there or not.

Sure enough, another man walked past. They heard the steps, slower and more determined, passing by.

When he'd gone, feet crunching on cobblestones, Richard let out a shuddering breath.

“Right,” he said.

He looked at Arabella. Her eyes were paler than he remembered, big and scared.

“Richard,” she whispered. “Oh, Richard.”

She stifled a sob and he held her hand, squeezing it helplessly as she gasped and then was silent.

“Milady,” he said, unable to let go of her title, at least not now. He stared at her.

In the darkness of a tanner's yard, the stink of ammonia in the air, her hem in the dirt, she was nonetheless a princess from a tale.

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