The men were a mostly unnecessary precaution. The English knew better than to venture into the “haunted” Ettrick Forest. It was said to be the lair of Bruce’s infamous Phantom warriors. The men were not phantoms, of course, but were extraordinary warriors. Their identities were cloaked in mystery, but as the sister of James Douglas, she had unique access to information. Listening at doors was definitely beneath her, but it did prove enlightening.
A second man at arms had been with her and Richard as well, but when they hadn’t caught up with Archie by the time they reached St. Boswell’s and the Newtun road, Elizabeth had sent him back to Blackhouse to inform Joanna of their plans to ride on to Roxburgh.
She frowned, thinking it odd that Archie had been able to evade them. At sixteen, her brother was more passion and impulse than skill and subterfuge. Richard had picked up his trail easily enough, but lost it at Selkirk. Assuming Archie would stop when it grew dark, they’d journeyed on until a few hours past nightfall. By that time they were more than halfway to Roxburgh, and she decided to bed down for the night and ride the rest of the way in the morning.
After handing off the reins to a stable lad, Elizabeth turned to Richard, who looked just as exhausted as she. “Find some food and get some rest. I’m sure Jamie will allow us a few days’ respite before we must return.”
She spoke with more confidence than she felt. She’d be lucky if her brother didn’t send her right back. Jamie would undoubtedly be furious with her for riding—anticipating his words—“halfway across Scotland” (which was an exaggeration as it was a quarter across at most) with one man for protection. But, as she intended to remind him, it was his own fault. She’d warned Jamie about Archie doing something foolish, and he was the one who’d left her in charge of their brothers while Lady Eleanor was visiting relatives in England. Besides, Jamie was the one who’d taught her how to ride, and he wasn’t the only Douglas who knew how to take advantage of the countryside.
She and Richard had stayed off the main roads, and except for the party of English they’d seen from a distance, they’d encountered nothing more dangerous than peddlers and pilgrims. The latter were all over these roads with the important abbeys of Melrose and Dryburgh so close.
Richard didn’t put up much of an argument. “If you are certain you don’t need anything else? I’d like to find my brother and hear all the details of the capture.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I missed it.”
Elizabeth grinned. “You sound like Archie, but aye, go find your brother while I go find mine—both of them.”
He gave her a rueful grin. Like Joanna, Richard was blond and took after the Vikings who were undoubtedly in his ancestry. “I must admit the laddie impressed me. He’s more skilled at riding and evasion than I thought.”
Her as well. She frowned again, as Richard hurried off in the direction of what she assumed were the barracks. The celebrating must not have gone on too long last night—ithadbeen a holy day, she supposed—because the yard was already bustling with activity.
The porter who had admitted them was finally coming out of his shock at her announcement of her identity. He offered to escort her to her brother, who was in the North Tower, but she’d declined. The fewer people who saw her brother lose his temper the better.
Elizabeth had seen many fine castles in her three and twenty years, but even including the magnificent palaces in France, Roxburgh was among the finest.
Situated on a hill between the Tweed and Teviot rivers, surrounded on three sides by a moat, it possessed a large dungeon and eight—she’d counted—towers. The curtain wall around the castle must be thirty feet high and eight feet thick. The castle was a walled city unto itself. The sheer magnitude of what her brother had accomplished became clear as she walked across the yard toward the impressive North Tower.
Dear Lord, how had he done it? She couldn’t believe her brother had taken this massive fortress with sixty men. Richard wasn’t the only one eager to hear the details.
A sound of banging grew louder as she approached the large circular tower. From the clouds of dust that greeted her as she entered, she realized Jamie wasn’t wasting any time. His men were already beginning the slighting of the castle.
Though she understood why it must be done, it was sad to think that an architectural masterpiece like this must be destroyed. It was one more sin to lay upon the feet of the English. It still hurt to think about her own home, Douglas Castle, which had been destroyed for the same reason—by its owner.
Three years earlier, Jamie had taken the castle back from the English and destroyed it to prevent it from being garrisoned by the enemy again. Losing her home in such a way had been horrible. She’d been hurt and furious with Jamie for weeks, but eventually she’d come to understand the reasoning behind it—even if she didn’t like it.
Standing in what must be a guardroom, Elizabeth looked around and saw nothing but men with shovels, hammers, and picks digging and tearing apart walls. Jamie certainly wasn’t meeting here with his men. She must have gone to the wrong tower.
She started to back away when something caught her eye. Or rathersomeonecaught her eye.
Good Lord! The blood seemed to drain from her body and then rushed back in a strange, fuzzy heat that made her skin prickle. One of the workers had taken his shirt off while he labored. He was a big man, and very—very—powerfully muscled. He had his back to her, and every time he swung the tool in his hand—a hammer, she realized, when she could tear her gaze away long enough to look—his heavy, thick muscles rippled all across his torso. All across his broad shoulders, his narrow waist, and his bulging arms. Her breath caught as her eyes remained fixated on his arms. They looked as strong as battering rams; she wondered that he needed the hammer at all.
A rush of warmth spread to her cheeks at the primal display of brute strength and raw physicality. Her reaction didn’t make sense. She had no cause for embarrassment. She’d seen other muscular men without their shirts. Albeit none so...so.
But it wasn’t embarrassment, she realized, it was something else. Embarrassment didn’t heat other parts of her and make her body feel too heavy for her legs. Embarrassment didn’t hold her breath and catch her pulse. Embarrassment didn’t make her shiver.
Suddenly, realizing that she was gaping, she looked away. But something on his arm caught her attention and made her glance back. It was a red scar about three inches in length and half an inch in width on his left forearm. It was a scar you might get from being burned by a hot piece of iron.
She frowned, taking in details she hadn’t noticed before. He was tall. About as tall as her brother at four or five inches over six feet, which was rare enough to be remarkable. His dark hair was cut too short to reveal any wave, but it was the right shade of almost black. The fluttery feeling in her stomach buzzed up her spine. It couldn’t be...
But indeed it could. He turned and an achingly familiar pair of piercing blue eyes pinned her to the ground.
Thommy! My God, itwashim! Except that he looked so...different. Rocked, she felt her legs buckling and put her hand out to catch herself on a nearby post.
That was a mistake.
Thom didn’t know what was worse. That James Douglas had added one more incredible story to his ever-increasing arsenal of incredible stories and having to watch him bask in the glory, or being forced to do all the backbreaking work to clean up after it.
It turned out that brute strength was worth something after all, particularly when it came to slighting castles. Over the past two years, as castle after castle had fallen to the man they all called “the Bruce,” Thom had been prized indeed.
If he thought to escape the hammer by being a soldier, he’d failed. Doubly. Not only was he swinging one to take down walls, he was taking odd jobs repairing weapons when he could to make enough coin to purchase one of the four-hoofed fiends.A warhorse.
