Chapter 8
The fire crackled and spat, sparks spiraling upward into the velvet dark. Evan sat with his back against a wagon wheel, cloak wrapped about his shoulders, enjoying the warmth. Around him, the wagons loomed in a rough circle, shadowed hulks creaking quietly as they settled. Beyond, stretched the open wild, black and boundless, where only the low murmur of guards patrolling marked the line between safety and danger.
He’d eaten his fill of salted beef and bread, washed it down with a cup of thin ale, and though his belly was content, his mind was restless. Nights like these—company, warmth, food—were dangerous luxuries. They dulled the senses, made a man think he could ease his vigilance. And for someone like him, vigilance was all that kept him breathing.
Still, the chance to rest his bones was not unwelcome.
He rolled a twig between his fingers then tossed it into the flames. “So,” he said, turning to the merchant, Duncan Fraser, who was sitting on his left. “How have the roads been this season?”
The merchant shifted his weight. He was a thick-bodied man, barrel-chested and square-jawed, with a face lined by years of long roads and longer bargains. His hand rested on his cup, fingers short and powerful. For several heartbeats, he considered Evan, those shrewd eyes catching the interest beneath the idle question.
“Troubled,” he said at last, his voice low. “More troubled than I’ve seen in many a year.” He spat into the dirt as though the words left a foul taste. “These damned Articles of Union have stirred the country like a stick in a hornet’s nest. Every man ye meet is picking a side, and some think steel’s the better tongue than reason.”
A ripple of discontent ran around the circle. The guards shifted uneasily. One muttered something about selling Scotland’s soul for English coin, and another cursed him quiet, reminding Evan that arguments over politics had a way of drawing knives faster than anything else.
Evan considered. Trouble on the roads meant risk—but risk also meant opportunity. He could use unrest to slip past enemies, take advantage of chaos. But the mention of the Articles stirred unease in him, too. He had no love for politics and no wish to become embroiled in it.
He leaned forward. “And how are things in the capital? I’ve heard whispers.”
The merchant’s eyes flicked up sharply. Then he gave a grunt and leaned back, rubbing his jaw. “Aye, there’s been more than whispers. The Earl of Newborough himself rooted out a conspiracy a few months back. Men plotting to bring French troops into the country, to fight against the crown and keep the Articles from taking root.” He shook his head. “Madness, if ye ask me. It was crushed, but there’ll be others. There always are. Ye’d best keep yer wits about ye when ye reach the city. Edinburgh’s fair to bursting with sharp tongues and sharper blades just now.”
Evan dropped his gaze to the flames, jaw clenched, and exhaled slowly through his nose.
The Earl of Newborough. He hadn’t thought to hear that title out here, so far from civilization. It was a title he knew all too well, but one that belonged to part of his life he’d buried, a pastbetter left rotting in the ground. And yet, like a ghost, it rose again, whispering through the smoke and crackle of the fire.
When he risked a glance up, he found Ruby watching him, her eyes narrowed in that way that suggested she was piecing something together. He gave her nothing but a crooked smile, as if to saywhat of it?and then shrugged, pretending the words meant little.
The conversation moved on. One of the guards launched into a tale about a lass in Aberdeen and too much whisky, a bawdy yarn that drew laughter and ribald jests. Isla teased her father about his snoring, and the older man grumbled good-naturedly in response. The air lightened, voices rising with laughter, the earlier tension momentarily forgotten.
Evan leaned back against the wagon wheel. He was grateful for the shift in topic, grateful not to have to talk further of Edinburgh or conspiracies.
But his thoughts kept circling back.
The Earl of Newborough. Edinburgh. A life he’d thought long left behind.
He shifted, uncomfortable with the direction of his thoughts, and found his gaze drifting back to Ruby. She sat quietly, blanket pulled around her, listening to Isla with a faint smile tugging her lips. She looked tired, worn, yet more relaxed than he’d seen her so far.
He frowned. Who was she? And what would have brought her so far from home? Running from a husband, as he suspected? Or was it more than that? She’d said some very strange things. Words like “office,” and “video entry system” and “pepper spray”. Where had she learned such strange terms? Especially if she really was from Edinburgh as she claimed.
The fire popped, snapping him out of his thoughts. He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to relax. Duncan told another story, and the night rolled on.
To anyone watching, Evan knew he would appear at ease—a man enjoying the warmth of the fire, drinking in the company of fellow travelers.
But he was not.
And when the time came to run, he’d be ready.
THE FIRE HAD BURNEDlow, little more than a ring of glowing embers cradled in the bed of ash, yet Ruby found herself unwilling to move. The warmth of it clung to her skin, mingled with the faint tingle left behind by the whisky she’d sipped earlier. It had loosened her, softened the edges of the constant nervous tension she’d carried since arriving here.
The guards had dispersed, laughing among themselves as they went to their posts if they were on watch, or crawled into bedrolls if they weren’t. Duncan had muttered something about rising with the dawn and vanished into his tent. Isla had gone too, squeezing Ruby’s hand as she passed and whispering something about letting the fire burn out.
That left only her and Evan.
He shifted his weight, the shadows casting his face into sharp lines. She thought he might say something, but instead he leaned forward, snapped a twig in half, and tossed it into the coals. The fire gave a brief flare of light, reflected in his eyes, before settling again. He looked like a man with the weight of too many thoughts pressing on him, thoughts he’d rather not voice.
Ruby drew her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them, and studied him. Perhaps he thought she hadn’t noticed the way he’d startled when Duncan had mentioned the Earl of Newborough earlier. But she had. She always noticed. It was the risk manager in her, the part of her trained to look for cracks, to find the detail that didn’t fit.
“You know him,” she said softly.
