She turned away again. “But ye will likely be going back to London soon?”
“Maybe.”
“And ye will tell John MacNaughton about Dunmore?”
“Yes. I’ll make sure he knows everything I know. And you shouldn’t have any more trouble with Dunmore sheep going through Kinmarloch farms. The shepherds will be taking the flocks through the hills from now on.”
She couldn’t breathe.
“And if you do have trouble, you let me know. I’ll give you my address in London.”
One of her problems, solved, in an instant, by the man sitting beside her. She had said a few words to him on the matter several days ago and now, it had been done. He had taken care of it. And so, in a way, he had taken care of her. She was not accustomed to that. Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked.
She turned on the seat toward him, steeling herself to look at his perfect profile. “Thank ye. Yer a good man, Jack Pike.”
He shifted uncomfortably and played with the reins in his hands. Suddenly, his face broke out into a sly grin. “No, I’m a scoundrel, remember?”
She grinned back. “A rakehell, ye mean?”
“Yes. A rakehell. And don’t you forget it.”
It started to rain. At first, just a patter. Jack gave her his hat to wear. But then there were buckets of rain.
She put the hat back on his head. “Ye must see to drive the cart!” she shouted over the downpour. He nodded, understanding her argument.
And the rain went on and on and on. Even the strong horse from the Dunmore stables was having a hard time in the mud. And it was a chilling rain that cut through Helen’s coat and filled her with dread.
Finally, at long last, Kinmarloch and the keep. But there was no smoke from the chimney. Mags must be so cold. Helen jumped from the cart and pushed the door open.
“Mags!”
It was raining inside the keep. There were inches of water on the floor and big quarried stones and pieces of rotted beam. Helen splashed through the flood. “Mags!”
“Here, m-my lady.”
Mags was sitting on a stool, under the table, bent over, her feet in the water. Helen crouched down. Mags’ teeth were chattering and her lips looked blue. “The r-r-roof fell in, I think.”
“Are ye hurt, Mags?”
“Nae. The roof d-d-dinnnae fall on me.”
“Goddamn it.” Jack waded over. “Let’s get you out from under that table, brave Miss Mags.” He lifted up the table easily. He picked up Mags in his arms. “There you go. You’re safe now.”
“Be careful of her leg, Jack.”
“I am being careful. I’m being a hell of a lot more careful than you’ve been. Living in a leaking five-hundred-year-old hole. A deathtrap. Let’s go.”
He headed out of the keep, carrying Mags, and Helen followed behind him, fuming. Not careful? Her keep was a hole? And a deathtrap?
And then her anger turned to despair. Almost everything she and Mags owned had surely been ruined in the wet. They no longer had any shelter. Worst of all, Mags could have been killed. And this time, it was Helen’s fault the girl had been in danger.
Jack put Mags in the cart and took off his coat and wrapped it around her.
Helen put her mouth to Jack’s ear and spoke loudly. “Take us to the forge. To Duncan’s father’s house. They will give Mags and me a bed until the rain stops.”
“No. Get in.”
“The forge, Jack.”
