Beth made a tutting noise. “Ye gave me that brew for my throat yesterday … and asked for no payment. We won’t ask any of ye either.”
“Jump on board, lass,” Gordon said kindly. “It’s time to go.”
Relief swept over Hazel, turning her limbs weak. Flashing him a grateful smile, she did as bidden, climbing onto the back of the cart and settling herself next to a large iron cauldron they hadn’t been able to sell during their travels.
Casting Hazel a quizzical look, Beth climbed up onto the seat up front, alongside her husband. Mercifully, she didn’t ask any questions.
Moments later, the cart rumbled forward over the cobbles, heading toward where guards had drawn the gate open. The portcullis had already been raised, its iron teeth dark against the lightening sky.
Hazel glanced behind her. The barmkin was still deserted. Guilt constricted her chest then. She didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to Lady Liza, Rankin, and Lena, but it was less awkward this way. She’d be safe enough too, for now at least, as the men who’d hunted her languished in Moy’s oubliette. The guards on the walls weren’t showing them much interest either, which was a relief.
Just let me leave quietly.
The cart bumped down the rough causeway outside the walls before taking the road through the fields east of the fortress. And as they trundled along, leaving Lochbuie and Moy Castle’s fortified outline behind, Hazel’s throat started to ache.
She’d done it, yet her departure didn’t give her any solace. The opposite.
All she could think about was the man she was leaving behind, and Craeg’s anguish when he discovered her gone.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But one day, ye shall understand.”
24: ONE THING AT A TIME
“THAT’S HER,” HAMISH Macquarie said softly.
Next to him, one of his warriors shifted, his boots snapping on a twig. “How can ye tell?”
“My gut tells me.”
“But it’s not light enough to see her face properly.”
Hamish cut the man a disdainful look. Dug wasn’t the sharpest blade in the armory. “Two of them went into the castle yesterday,” he replied with exaggerated patience. “And three of them are leaving. One of them is a dark-haired woman. That’s good enough for me.”
“But that doesn’t—”
“Use what’s between yer ears, Dug,” Hamish cut him off, his patience fraying.
God’s troth, he was surrounded by half-wits.
Fortunately, though, Hamish wasn’t a fool.
He found himself missing Archie then. He, Ian, and Ross were his best. Sharp. Resourceful. But they’d clearly failed him and were most likely dead. The three warriors had never returned to the men waiting for them on the shore. And finally, those two remaining warriors sailed back to Ulva, bringing unwelcome news with them.
Irritated, Hamish focused once more on the wagon that bounced down the rutted road.
The sun was rising, a glow in the windy sky. A man and woman sat up front, their cloaks snapping and billowing, while two garrons plowed forward, their heads bowed against the gusts. But they didn’t interest Hamish.
It was the figure crouched in the cart behind them, a woman with braided black hair, who caught his eye. Dug was right. He couldn’t pick out her features from this distance or discern the color of her eyes. All the same, heknew.
His belly started to burn then, a familiar rage kindling.
When the missive arrived from Craeg Maclean, ending the betrothal, Hamish’s rage had been blistering. His wife and daughter had fled the solar as he hurled objects. His son had shrunk back from his wrath—a fury that had seen him bellow for his birlinn to be readied. However, on the journey down Mull’s western coast, he’d calmed down enough to think clearly.
And now, days later, he watched from the oakwood, east of Moy Castle, as a merchant trundled by.
“Why would she leave Moy?” Another voice intruded then. His son stepped up to his shoulder. Cameron’s brow was furrowed, his blue eyes narrowed as he watched the rattling wagon. “I thought Maclean was going to wed her.”
Hamish gave a soft snort. “Who cares?”
