The ferret climbed from between two burned out beams and held something shiny between her small paws.
“‘Tis shiny,” Isabe murmured. “Do ye no’ see it catching the light?”
Lachlan squinted, searching harder, and then he saw something glinting even covered in darkened ash. He went to see what it was, bending down and holding out his hand, but the ferret ran past him to Isabel.
Her index finger dipped into the center of a ring, thumb brushing the ash over the top, where an unfamiliar symbol had been etched into the gold.
Lachlan approached and together they studied it, neither one of them recognizing it. She plucked it from his palm and pressed it onto her thumb, where it dwarfed her. “A man’s ring from the size of it. Perhaps we can ask Alistair Comyn if he recognizes it when we arrive at the castle,” she said.
“Aye.”
She handed the ring back to him, and he tucked it safely into the sporran pouch at his waist. “We must make haste. These English are becoming more violent; there’s no telling what else we might come across.”
“Remount,” Lachlan ordered, hands on Dionysus’ pommel. He lifted his good leg, putting his foot into the stirrup, which put an immense amount of pressure on his bad leg. He grimaced, practically chewing off the inside of his cheek with the pain as he hauled himself up into the saddle. “James, Thomas, ride ahead to make sure there are no traps laid.”
They rode hard over the moors and through the woods, James and Thomas reporting on the safety of the road as they went.
He’d thought they were ahead of the English, but now he wasn’t so sure, as it seemed they had now come up behind them. In any case, they weren’t far in either direction, which worried him.
As they crossed a hill, they finally saw Inverlochy Castle in the distance—the stone walls, and massive turret, strong and sturdy. A stream of smoke swirled from the kitchen fires.
Signs of life.
Signs of safety.
For the first time since Falkirk, Lachlan started to feel perhaps a little relief. But he was not one to let such feelings betray his alertness. Especially now that he knew there was someone close to their cause who wanted to cause harm.
For them to become comfortable meant they could be betrayed—again.
13
As they approached the Inverlochy Castle walls, Lachlan counted the number of guards on the battlement walls between the towers where Comyn flags flew. At least a dozen walked back and forth atop the fortress, stopping to stare down at them with openly hostile faces and drawn weapons. Given the circumstances, their reaction was a comfort. If the Bruce suspected there was an enemy within, he wouldn’t send the niece he was trying to save straight into the lion’s den.
“Who are ye and what do ye want?” a guard, looking like he’d had one too many pots of his mother’s stew, called down from over the gate. A heavy iron portcullis below it guarded thick wooden doors, and the bridge that led to the doors was slightly raised over full moat. Another guard, hair standing on end, came to stand beside the first, bow drawn, arrow aimed right at Lachlan’s heart no doubt. The two of them together looked like some mad jest.
“The Bruce sends us,” Lachlan said. “Lachlan MacLeod.”
The men conferred briefly, and Lachlan wished like hell he could hear what they had to say. He didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them.
It was no secret that there was a political rivalry between the Bruce and Comyn’s clan, which was perhaps why the Bruce was attempting to marry his niece to Comyn in the first place. The alliance would not be the first political farce to help forge an alliance in blood. But that still didn’t mean it sat right with him.
Somehow Lachlan needed to remember that this was all a political game. That he and Lady Isabel were players, and if he wanted to win, he had to play by the rules. Except, someone else had bent those rules at Falkirk. Despite his orders, there was a tickle in the back of his brain that made his gut clench, and he vowed not to trust a single person beyond that gate.
Lachlan turned to Angus and said low enough the men on the walls couldn’t hear him, “Be cautious. We canna be sure Comyn was no’ behind the betrayal at Falkirk.”
Angus and his men nodded, and Lady Isabel looked at him sharply, her keen intelligent eyes relaying that she’d picked up on what he’d said.
There was only one positive in this particular moment. There were enough guards on the walls that they would not have to worry about the English banging down the door and threatening their lives. At least for tonight. He hoped.
Unless these men let them in.
He shook off the paranoid thought.
His men were exhausted, and so was he. The lady and her maid looked like they were going to fall off their horses. After the grueling ride, and a battle they’d barely had time to recover from, staying at Inverlochy meant shelter and food for the night. Such an occurrence could still happen. Slim a chance as it might be. If, in fact, Comyn was the enemy they were looking for—then that chance grew.
But as they entered the main gate, Alistair Comyn stood with a smile on his face and open arms. He greeted them confidently, with long black hair that flowed around his shoulders in a way too casual for a warrior. Lachlan and his men kept their hair tied back and away from their faces, so it did not obstruct their view.
“Ah, the Wolf of Skye, and the lovely Lady Isabel. I’m so glad that ye’re here.” He sauntered forward, and held up his hand for Isabel, and Lachlan bristled as he helped her from her mount, his greedy hands roving over her waist and hips. “The Bruce has sung your praises, my lady.”
