That letter sat sealed in the locked wall safe, the only key in his pocket. The moment word came, he would send a messenger with the letter and then it would all be over.
No longer would he be the servant. He’d be the master. Maybe even take Beth as his wife if she did make it back. She was pretty enough even if she did act too like a man for his liking. She’d have to stop all that master mason nonsense.
There’d be no time for taking a man’s job when she’d have babies to sire and then raise. That was what MacLeish women were supposed to do. How come no one else seemed to care?
He stared out of the window, ignoring the cold wind hitting his face. The torches on the walls being rebuilt made it impossible to see beyond. He couldn’t tell if anyone was heading for the castle. Hopefully word would come soon.
If it happened quickly enough, the MacLeishes would not need to attack at all. He could get the portcullis to stay open by cutting the ropes while the MacIntyres were still deciding what to do about an oncoming army. They could be taken without a siege and it would all be because of him.
He should be happy about it. Yet when he heard the sound of the portcullis being raised out in the courtyard he didn’t feel happy. He felt an odd sense of dread.
He ran down the stairs in time to find a horse riding in at full gallop. On its back was no messenger. Holding the reins was Beth and in front of her, slumped in her arms, was the unconscious and badly bleeding body of Andrew MacIntyre.
