That he'd not yet recovered from the loss was obvious. Though on the surface he was friendly and charming, Lizzie sensed the sadness lingering underneath. And there was a hard bleakness in his gaze that came with pain and suffering.
After all he'd done for her, Lizzie wished there was something she could do to help him.
She'd hoped to have the opportunity for further conversation, but as they neared the castle they were forced to ride single file as they negotiated the treacherous narrow path that wound around the castle from the north, fording the Burn of Care on the east.
All too soon they rode under the shadow of the great Maiden's Tree—the old plane tree near the entrance that dominated the approach—and under the spiked iron yett of the castle.
She lost sight of him temporarily in the furor that followed their arrival, when the reason for their unexpected return became known. It seemed all at once thebarmkinfilled with people as efforts were quickly under way to rescue those they had been forced to leave behind after the attack. Only after additional men and a cart to bring home the wounded had been dispatched and she'd finished the difficult conversations with the families of the men killed did Lizzie have the opportunity to ensure that Patrick and his men had been taken care of.
She scanned the courtyard, still teeming with people. Though it was dark, torches lined the perimeter, providing just enough light to make out the faces of her clansmen flickering by. But there was no sign of Patrick and his men.
They seemed to have disappeared.
Her pulse started to pick up pace as her chest grew tight with increasing anxiousness. They couldn't have left already … could they?
She stood on her toes, trying to look over the heads of her clansmen. But when that didn't work, she stopped one of her guardsmen as he walked past her toward the hall. “Finlay …”
Finlay was one of her cousin's most trusted guardsmen. She didn't know him very well, but she sensed ambition in him. With Alys's Donnan—the captain of the guardsmen—injured, Finlay would probably be made interim captain. He was a rough, coarse man, and his features matched his disposition. The round dome of his bald head seemed to meld seamlessly into a very thick neck, reminiscent of the seals that roamed the waters of the Western Isles. His nose was flat and crooked from being pounded too many times by a fist. Though not a tall man, he made up in width what he lacked in height. He was built like an ox, his chest as wide and round as a cask of ale.
“My lady?” He smiled, a gaping grin of yellow flecked with brown.
Lizzie repressed the distaste that she knew was unwarranted and managed to return his smile. “Have you seen the men we rode in with?”
“The Murray men?”
She nodded, trying not to look too eager.
“The last I saw them, they were in the stables.”
Relieved that they had not yet left, she managed, “Thank you,” before hurrying off.
The door was opened and the earthy, pungent smells hit her as she swept through the doorway, the hay strewn on the floor clinging to the hem of her skirts.
“It's something to consider,” she heard one of her cousin's men say. “We could use the extra sword arms.” She didn't hear the reply because another man, seeing her, cleared his throat and the conversation came to a quick stop. An uncomfortably quick stop.
There was nothing worse than bringing a room to dead silence, unless it was a roomful of men who were then staring at you.
She fought a blush, feeling distinctly out of place. They were obviously surprised to see her. The lady of the keep— the role she'd assumed on the death of the countess—did not usually visit the stables to see to the comfort of guardsmen. But these weren't ordinary circumstances, she reminded herself.
Knowing that with all eyes upon her like this she would be prone to stammer, she paused and took a deep breath before she spoke. “Food and drink have been set out in the great hall.” She turned to Patrick. “And pallets are being readied for you and your men in the garret.”
“A meal is much appreciated, but we don't want to put you to any trouble. We should be on our way.”
Lizzie frowned, her eyes narrowing on his handsome face. Was it her imagination or did he look a little pale? “It's no trouble. After all you have done for us, the least I can do is see that your men have a good night's rest.” She smiled. “Surely there is no harm in waiting to continue your journey until morning?”
“No, but—”
“It's the least I can do,” she interrupted, not wanting to give him the opportunity to refuse. She had that sick feeling in her gut again, just as she had when she'd thought they'd already left. It was somehow vitally important that he not leave. Not yet, at least. She looked to the young, dark-haired man at his side for help. “I'm sure your men would welcome a dry night on a comfortable pallet, wouldn't you?”
Her encouraging smile succeeded only in further discomforting the younger man. He was probably just a handful of years younger than her own six and twenty, but compared with the broad-shouldered, heavily muscled Patrick, his long, lean build looked practically boyish.
“I …” He looked helplessly to his captain, caught in the impossible position of wanting to please her and not wanting to oppose his leader.
Patrick took pity on him. He bowed in mock surrender; a crooked smile played upon his mouth. “How can I argue with such a pretty request?”
Lizzie gave him an uncharacteristically impish grin. “You can't.”
“Then it seems we will be happy to accept your hospitality for the night.”
