Magnus slipped behind the wide trunk of an ancient oak tree. Up ahead, through the thin winter brush, he could see the telltale dark brown coat of a hind. His mouth watered at the thought of eating venison, but Magnus did not lift his bow. Downing a deer would set the castle huntsman on his tail—deer were reserved for the nobles. In truth, all the animals of the forest belonged to the laird, but hiding the carcass of a dead rabbit was a great deal easier than hiding a deer.
A branch cracked to his right.
The hind took fright and bolted into the trees. Magnus flattened himself against the trunk of the oak and slowed his breaths to a silent draw of air. Deep and even. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of movement. A solitary man. Someone on foot, accompanied by a large hound.
Magnus stared as the stranger and his dog made their way through the forest. Quite possibly, it was someone from the castle. Not a huntsman—his trek through the brush was far too noisy and untrained for that. A noble, then.
A person who might recognize Magnus.
He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the bothy. This was an opportunity that carried little risk. He could easily overpower one man and a dog, if it came to that. And if the man could name him, he’d learn much about the life he’d led before he had awakened in Morag’s bed.
But it might also lead to trouble for Morag. Although she traded with the castle, selling her colorful weaves to the inhabitants on market day, she was an admitted outcast. The moment he explained where he had been living for the last three months, she would be subjected to unwelcome scrutiny. Possibly even sanctions. And after all she had done for him, he couldn’t allow that. Even if she drove him to the brink of madness with her refusal to tell him what she knew, he could never betray her.
Magnus stood silent and still and watched the man and his hound march out of sight.
* * *
“You found her in the cave?” Niall asked with a frown, as he accepted a tankard of ale from the alewife. Snowflakes drifted down from the open sky above their heads, but the walls of the ruin kept the winter breeze at bay. “Did she see the other tunnel?”
“I can’t be certain.” Aiden took a sip of ale, washing down the rather tasteless oatcake that accompanied his venison broth. At least the soup had been tasty. “But that’s hardly the point. The woman has gained a troubling knowledge of our encampment in a very short period of time. And at some point I’ll be forced to let her go.”
“If she shares the dismal state of our affairs with MacPherson, he’ll be even more inclined to root us out.”
“Indeed.”
His brother shrugged. “So, don’t let her go.”
“I’ve given her my word,” Aiden said. “If she tells me the names, she can leave.”
“Then you’ve no choice. You need to sway her to our cause.”
“Easier said than done,” Aiden said dryly. “She believes I murdered her brother, and she’s terrified of me.”
“Aye, well, youhaveacquired a rather angry mien of late.” Niall stood up as Ana Bisset joined them at the table. He gave her a slow smile that was easy to interpret. “Rightly so, of course. But sharing your ill humor with Lady Isabail will not gain you her trust.”
Aiden didn’t begrudge Niall his happiness—his brother’s trials had been near as difficult as his—but it underscored the emptiness of his own life, and at this moment it was more than he could endure. He grunted a noncommittal response and pushed away from the table.
His time was better spent charming the lady. Or at least attempting to. Pocketing an oatcake, he left the great hall in search of her. Not that her location was any great mystery—he’d confined her to her hut. And even if he hadn’t already known which house was hers, the flicker of candles and the sound of voices raised in lively discussion would have led him there unerringly.
He entered without knocking.
Inside, the cook, the friar, and Beathag had gathered around Isabail. She held court on a small wooden stool used for milking goats. Anyone else would have looked ridiculous seated a few inches from the floor. Isabail looked quite the opposite. Wearing only a multihued blanket atop her white chemise, her back straight and tall, she managed to look positively regal. The frothy white folds of her diaphanous shift floated about her feet, and a tiny hint of it peeked from beneath the heavy wool at her neck—just enough to draw his attention to the pale pink flesh beneath her chin. A tantalizing glimpse that for a brief moment sent his imagination spinning into inappropriate realms.
The group was discussing the menu for the next day’s meals. Cook was reciting the dishes he knew how to make, the friar was interspersing that list with an account of the ingredients they had available, while Beathag reminded everyone how many mouths they had to feed. A very needful conversation—but naught to do with the task he’d set for Isabail.
There was no effort being made to detail the visitors to Lochurkie. Time was passing, and he was no closer to finding the man in black. He’d given very explicit instructions and had left her alone to perform the task. He’d even renewed his promise to free her should she give him the names.
Aiden surged across the wooden planking. “Out,” he barked.
Her entourage took one look at his face and scattered into the night.
Isabail scrambled to her feet, knocking the three-legged stool to its side. “I did not seek them out; they sought me.”
“Why?”
She backed up several steps. “Th-they lack guidance.”
The tremble in her voice registered, and he bit back the snarled response that leapt to his lips. He had no idea what expression lay on his face, but clearly it frightened her. Mindful of his brother’s advice, he attempted to soften his features. Her gaze darted away, and he had the distinct impression his efforts hadn’t entirely been successful.
