Chapter Five
Brodie was gathering his pack when his gaze drifted to the south-facing window as movement caught his attention. Riders approached. Squinting, he made out a wagon and a man on horseback beside it, but they were still some distance away.
Hell, it was Ross and Neil, although he’d done all he could to cover their tracks last night. His jaw started to tic, because these men had put their filthy hands on Skye. He dashed toward the hall to get Skye to safety before they found her.
Relieved to see she hadn’t gone far—she held a large basket in one hand and was laughing with the innkeeper—Brodie pulled out a handful of coins and tossed them to the man. Some clinked to the floor, missing the outstretched hand of their host, and the man stooped to retrieve them. “Men approach. Keep them busy and dinnae mention we were here,” he muttered to the innkeeper.
“Aye. I will stall them. We appreciate yer patronage,” the man reassured him.
He clamped onto Skye’s empty hand and pulled her toward the back. She must have recognized his urgency, because she didn’t argue or pull away.
The stables were thankfully on the north end of the property.
Mounting the horse quickly, they were off and probably out of sight before the blackguards had reached the inn. He kept looking over his shoulder, but there was no pursuit and no sign that the men realized how close they were to catching up to them.
“We should be going back to Stirling.” Skye protested only a few moments after they’d left the inn, and he was reminded how stubborn and strong-willed she could be. Her tenacity had seen him through some of the tougher times with his family during his youth.
“Ye ken that isnae a good idea.” Certainly, they could double back and head for Stirling instead of Kentillie, but there were three problems with that.
First, he’d never discover why Skye had left him or what hand her uncle played in taking her away right after her father’s death. Second, he didn’t fully understand the threat against her. If the MacLeans were after her, who else might be waiting to do her harm, and what did it have to do with the ongoing conflicts in the region?
Which brought him to third—he had a prearranged meeting today to discuss a recent spate of activity amongst the Covenanter crusaders in the area with the second in command of the Royalist Resistance—none other than Ross’s sister, Isobel MacLean. Maybe while he was there, he could discover what her brother was up to.
“This Neil called yer name. He kens who ye are, then?” she asked.
“Aye. He does.”
“Does he ken where ye live?”
She had a valid point, but back at home, he knew the terrain and could better protect her.
“He kens I live on Cameron lands, but no’ where. I am sure if he tries hard enough he will find it. But better to face Ross and Neil on familiar ground than somewhere I cannae properly defend ye. Anyway, when we get back, we can let Lachlan ken what is going on.”
He smiled as he thought of his cousin Lachlan and his new wife, Maggie Murray. She would love Skye and would welcome her with open arms, not to mention all the other lasses with whom she had been friends as a child. If the Cameron women made her feel welcome, she might never want to leave.
Knowing she’d have the protection of the entire Cameron clan, Brodie could return to days filled with delivering covert messages to dangerous people and nights hiding in the shadows, playing a game of politics that would one day destroy him and anyone he loved. Every day in this business, the risk his identity would be discovered grew, and if it were ever uncovered, Skye’s mere presence in the room with him put her life in danger.
An image of Donald MacKay’s battered and bloody wife swaying in the wind from a tree in the spy’s own yard reminded him of what was at stake.
Suddenly, it was Skye’s face he saw on the swinging figure, and bile rose from his gut. He would never risk exposing her to his secret life or chance letting Argyll get his hands on her.
…
Brodie eased up slightly on the steed but kept a steady pace. Skye began to relax, and her curves sank into him as she fell into a peaceful sleep. He inhaled her lavender scent and let his thoughts stray to a place he couldn’t afford.
The mystery of what had happened between them still eluded him. Surely she kenned how much her father had meant to him, and he’d been destroyed when he’d returned home to find them both gone. A last minute, urgent, covert mission in Inverness had kept him away longer than intended. Wanting to assure her he would take care of her, he’d rushed to her uncle’s castle, only to be turned away, beaten nearly to death, and told Skye never wanted to see him again.
Throwing himself into his work eased the sting of the rejection and kept him from going mad. He was now so deeply embedded in his secret world, there was no possibility of ever getting out with his life, much less exposing her to it.
He scanned the barren, dormant trees amongst the still green pines and frozen dirt as they made their way west instead of north. Hoping Skye wouldn’t be familiar enough with the roads to know they weren’t headed straight to Cameron lands, he debated what to do with her while he met with Isobel this evening.
Skye stirred in his arms. “’Tis so cold,” she said as she nuzzled into him. “Do ye remember that winter it was so cold, and Father was out late? Ye came over and we tried to start the fire in the hearth.” Her teeth chattered, but despite that he could hear the mirth in her voice.
He laughed. “Aye, I do. Ye threw all the cooking grease in the hearth. The flames were shooting up almost to the ceiling.”
“Then ye tossed the water on it.” Her lilting glee rolled over him, warming him like the summer sun.
“I ken better now.” Her laughter died, but she seemed more at ease.
“Aye, me as well.” He shook his head. “Yer father tanned my hide that night. He told me to never put ye in danger again. He said I was responsible for taking care of ye.”
After that evening, Skye’s wellbeing had become his priority. But he was young, and self-doubt, the feeling that he would never be good enough for her, had taken hold—until the Cameron laird had taken him into his confidence and given Brodie a position he thought would make him worthy of her. By then, it was too late.
He straightened his shoulders and tilted up his chin, urging the horse forward again.
The day Brodie overheard what her uncle said about him played in his head—that was the day he’d started his quest to uncover the truth about the MacDonald laird’s loyalties. The day he’d discovered what the Royalist Resistance was up to and how, despite their ruthlessness, they could be used as a source of information in order to protect the clan.
The skies had been clear and the weather unusually warm for an early June day when he’d made his way to Skye’s house to share the late day meal with her and her father. Raised voices reached his ears, drawing his attention to the open windows. As he continued to approach, the argument intensified, and he heard his name mentioned.
He flattened his body to the cool stone of the house next to the window, far enough away he wouldn’t be noticed.
“Ye cannae mean to let her marry that farmer.”
Brodie lurched at the raised, unfamiliar voice and the implications.
“Aye, I do. He will make her happy.” Skye’s father, Darach, defended Brodie, and he was able to take in a shallow breath.
“Like ye did for my sister. Ye never should have brought her here,” the imperious tone shot back, and it dawned on Brodie who the man was: the MacDonald. Skye’s uncle.
Silence dragged on.
“We had a good life, and she was happy.” The hitch in Darach’s voice called to his heart.
“Ye ken she could have married a laird and never wanted for anything. Instead, she ended up here, when she could have been cared for in a castle around family. Ye willnae do the same to her daughter.”
Nae. Skye had always been Brodie’s; they couldn’t take her away from him. His jaw clenched.
“She will marry who she wishes,” Darach insisted, still calm and controlled.
“Ye ken John Macnab would be a good match for her. He’ll be laird one day.”
“And what of the Macnabs? Do ye ken they havennae stood for the king and their religion? Seems to me the Macnab laird chooses the side that fits him.” A dry sarcastic tone stole into Darach’s words.
The life he’d always envisioned for Skye and him suddenly seemed in jeopardy. He fisted his hands in his plaid, ignoring the sweat that dripped and stung the back of his neck. Darach wouldn’t let his deceased wife’s brother tell him what to do, but the man was the MacDonald laird. Would he seek out the Cameron and force Skye’s father to acquiesce?
“Macnab is a sensible man,” came the dry reply.
“Nae, I willnae allow it. She loves Brodie. He’ll keep her safe and comfortable. ’Tis what she wants.”
“Aye, but sometimes what we want has to be given up for the good of all.”
“No’ in her case. Yer sister wouldnae have wanted it, and ye ken it.”
Movement caught his gaze and pulled his attention from the heated exchange as Skye approached along the trail from Kentillie, the Cameron stronghold. The conversation became a blur as his thoughts scattered.
The next words that registered shocked him to his core, “So, ye will send her away and side with the Covenanters, then?” Never having heard Darach speak in other than a contented tone, the venom in his voice stiffened Brodie’s spine.
Skye hadn’t noticed him yet, but she would soon. Knowing he couldn’t face the MacDonald laird at the dinner table, Brodie skirted around the cottage before she got closer and carried the news of the MacDonald’s possible sympathies with the Covenanters directly to the Cameron laird. After discussing the matter with his uncle, Brodie found himself at a local tavern. While there, for the first time in his life, he found himself drunk and spilling his guts about Skye’s uncle to the first listening ear.
It just happened to be to the one man who was interested—Alexander Gordon, who was mounting a resistance against the Covenanters currently terrorizing the Highlanders who wanted nothing more than to keep their own religion. In one evening, Brodie had become a spy for the Cameron clan and met the leader of the Royalist Resistance, who was the most valuable source of information in Scotland.
Now, as they trotted toward the tavern where he’d planned to meet Isobel, second in command of the Royalist Resistance, he thought about how far he’d come. No longer the simple farmer who had wanted a life filled with family and love, he was now a hardened Royalist whose only loyalty was to his God and his clan.