And there, sitting at her table, stirring in a steaming medicinal tincture, was Ismay. She was so surprised by our sudden appearance that she dropped the wooden spoon she was holding. It seemed infinitely strange to see her again, here, now. She was entirely aghast at my return and also by the shirtless, bloodied warrior who, despite being huge, rugged and outrageously masculine, clung to my hand as though it were the only thing that kept him from collapsing.
Ismay rushed over to me, sweeping me into a warm embrace. “Roses, I worried so. I feared for your life. ’Tis so wonderful to see you alive...” It was only then that she glanced at my muddied, very brief outfit, her eyes widening. “...and well.”
“Come, Roses,” said Ritchie, “We must hurry. We must escape and ride for safety.Now.”
But Ismay’s eyes were carrying out a quick survey of Wilkie’s many dirtied bruises and cuts. Then she circled him, and she gasped when she saw the deep lashes cut into his back.
“Ismay, this is Wilkie Mackenzie,” I said.
He nodded a curt greeting, too immersed in his own aches, fatigue and escape plans for niceties.
Always the healer, Ismay was too overcome by Wilkie’s injuries to take much notice of either his identity or his brusqueness. She touched the skin of his back. “Roses, we must treat these immediately. They’re deep and dirty. They need to be disinfected, or they’re likely to go septic.” Her eyes met Wilkie’s, then mine. “However did you—?”
“Ismay,” said Ritchie, becoming more and more impatient. “If you want to treat those wounds, do it on the way. We need to get outside the gates of the keep before the guards and soldiers are alerted to Ogilvie’s death.”
Ismay’s eyes grew wide. “Ogilvie is dead?”
I happened to know that Ismay had been called upon by Laird Ogilvie, as many of his staff were, to visit his mistresses’ chambers, upon more than one occasion, and unwillingly. She had acquiesced only because she felt it more important to keep her job as healer, one Ogilvie knew she valued.
“Well, hallelujah,” she said, to which the minister frowned.
Without further ado, Ismay grabbed a bag and began throwing jars of salves, bandages and other supplies into it, including a large bottle of whiskey, which I knew to be a potent disinfectant. “I’m coming with you,” she said.
I grabbed her arm. “Nay, Ismay. Our lives are at risk. Ogilvie and Mumford are dead, andweare responsible. We’re on the run, and I won’t have you put in danger.”
But Ismay wasn’t deterred. “I’ve been wanting to escape this keep for some time, Roses. I’ve no family lefthere, and it hasn’t been the same since you fled. And the laird’s nephew—heir apparent for the lairdship—is as shady as his uncle. Take me with you. Please. This man’s injuries are severe. I can keep him alive.”
We didn’t have time for me to stand there and talk her out of a life-threatening situation. She was already putting on her cloak and fastening her medicine bag. And secretly, I was glad she would be on hand to treat Wilkie. I had no medicines, and Kinloch—if we even made it that far—was a two-day ride.
And so our growing party of six exited through the back door of the kitchens. There were people about, and curious ones at that, but we did not engage stares nor questions and fled directly to the stables.
“Luckily for us,” said Ritchie, “most of the men are engaged with entertaining Campbell and his officers, and attempting to learn more about the commotion surrounding Roses’s return. But there’s little time to spare.”
Wilkie agreed. “’Tis only a matter of minutes before they’ll discover Ogilvie’s fate.”
And we weren’t to get away unnoticed. Three men were tending to three horses—horses we would need to steal, and now.
I noticed that two of the men were already armed. And one, seeing Wilkie, narrowed his eyes in an angry glare. He looked at me, then continued his hostile study of Wilkie. “’Tis true, then,” he said. “Wilkie Mackenzie is here, attempting to claim one of our servants as his own.”
A second man sounded equally riled. “Ritchie, Ronan, why have you not taken this man into custody? Was he not to be taken to the dungeons?”
Ritchie, who would once again prove himself to beinvaluable to our cause, addressed the men who stood between us and a precarious freedom. And while Ritchie was attempting to reason with them, Wilkie was already taking the reins of one of the horses, cinching up the saddle and beckoning me and Ismay with a hurried finger.
“Men,” said Ritchie, “I have been ordered by Ogilvie to escort these people to Kinloch. We’ll need to borrow your horses.”
It was an unlikely story and one which we could all see was faulty, the Ogilvie guards included. But Ritchie pressed on, and I could hear one of the guards asking, “What do they need your escort for? And why do you take the healer and the minister?”
“Ismay,” Wilkie was saying in low tones. “You’ll ride with Ritchie. You’ll need to hold on tight. All right?” Ismay nodded with wide eyes. “Luckily there’s not much to either of you, or to the minister for that matter. Our horses will be heavily weighed, but there’s naught to do about it.
“Roses, you’re riding with me. Come on, up you go.” He lifted me up onto a much taller horse than I was used to, but I was glad of its size: it would mean its stride was longer and hopefully swift enough to outrun whoever might pursue us.
Ronan had mounted another of the horses and Wilkie assisted the minister, who was thrust up behind Ronan and who looked as though he might dissolve into a dead faint at any moment; he still clutched his Bible with a white-knuckled grasp.
“We’ll need some sort of clearance before you can depart for Kinloch, Ritchie,” one of the guards was protesting. But Ritchie was already seated behind Ismay,taking control of the reins, and Wilkie was seated behind me, spurring our horses toward the gate with a swift kick.
“Wait!” shouted a guard.
“Halt! You’re not—”
