The Sutherland Devil Page 3

She kicked off her shoes and crouched in the shallows, not caring her stockings were getting wet. Nay, with the heat and the sweat drying under her linen shirt, she welcomed the way the cold water felt against her skin.

  In fact, before she could scoop up some of the water to drink, she gave up on propriety and just knelt in the water, sighing a bit in relief. Her small sword bumped against her heels, but she shifted it out of the way so she could cup a handful of water.

  It was cold and clear, everything she could’ve hoped for. She drank until she thought her stomach might burst. After surviving on berries and nuts and two stolen loaves, she was ready to do just about anything for a haunch of meat and a cup of ale. She’d even blunder her way through another lecture and practice session with Citrine!

  Thirst quenched, Saffy braced her palms against the rocky bottom and stared down at her reflection in the water. Ripples marred the surface, but the sun was bright enough for her to see the mess she’d made of herself. The scrapes and scratches across her forehead and cheeks came from traveling and hiding from sight in brambles, but most were hidden by the chopped locks of hair which half-obscured her vision.

  All of the Sinclair Jewels had the same dark blonde hair, and although Saffy was by far the most scholarly of her sisters, she’d always taken great pride in her hair. It seemed sad that now, not only was it cut as short as a lad’s, but she’d been the one to do it.

  When Munro had left her in Dornach and returned home, certain she was there for a visit and well-guarded, she’d stayed only long enough to change into lad’s clothing Citrine had acquired, and tuck her hair up under a chaperon hood. Then she’d snuck out, and once safe in the woods, grasped her hair in one fist, her knife in the other, closed her eyes, and done a poor job of chopping it all off.

  Still, it had felt…liberating somehow, to be dressed as a lad and traveling alone. Is this how Citrine felt all the time? She didn’t wear a disguise, of course, but she was always so intent on standing on her own feet and learning to protect herself. Her sister should be the one on this adventure, but Saffy knew her twin was needed at home, to watch over Da. It was scary to realize Citrine would have no way of contacting her, and Saffy wouldn’t be able to write home until this adventure was complete. They’d agreed that any attempt her twin made to contact the Sutherlands would only raise suspicion, so when they’d hugged goodbye that last time, it had felt frighteningly final.

  Citrine had been the one to fetch this disguise and give Saffy the small sword which now hung on her belt. She almost wished her sister could see their handiwork now.

  Saffy stared down at her reflection. Besides the wet stockings, she wore a set of braies, which were more comfortable than she’d suspected, and a lad’s belted surcoat over a linen shirt. It wasn’t a common costume here in the Highlands, where most of the Sinclair menfolk wore their kilts in the summer heat, but she hadn’t questioned Citrine’s choices. The surcoat was sleeveless, so not too warm, and hid her breasts. Of course, she’d tied them down the way her twin had shown her, and they’d both giggled at the thought that the precaution they used while training could be useful as a disguise.

  And although Saffy had never considered herself vain, as she stared at her reflection, she had to admit it was a little disconcerting how easy it was for her to turn into a lad.

  She sighed and pushed onto to her feet once more, glad she felt better. There was still several hours of daylight left, and she guessed she’d be close to the Sutherland stronghold soon.

  Over the last sennight, she’d discovered strength she hadn’t known she possessed. Her feet ached and her legs were tired, but she would push on. It was the lack of sleep—curled up on the hard ground, starting at every noise, waiting for dawn—which was wearing her down. If she didn’t reach the Sutherland keep soon, didn’t find a place to rest, she wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to travel like this.

  As she walked, she stripped berries from bushes and shoved tubers in her pouch for later. Who would’ve thought that treatises on the natural bounties of the land would come in handy this way? Definitely not Saffy, curled up safely in the window seat of Da’s solar all those years ago. That was also where she’d studied and memorized the maps which she now followed unerringly, and where she’d heard the stories of the Sutherland Devil.

  The laird had been friends with Da when they were both younger. A decade ago, the man had hanged a lad for thieving. Da had cut him down at the last moment, and Gregor, half-dead and grateful, had pledged himself to the Sinclairs, and become the Sinclair Hound. Although few people knew the whole story, Pearl had told her sisters after her wedding to Gregor.

  It was just one more example of Merrick Sutherland’s fierceness.

  Despite the sun beating down overhead, Saffy shivered at the thought of having to meet the man on his own land. Of course, God willing, she’d never have to set eyes on him. Her plan, carefully constructed with Citrine, was to infiltrate the Sutherland keep as a serving lad. Or mayhap find work in the stable—although she had no experience with horses, at least she’d be further away from the laird and possible detection. She’d prefer to find work with the clan’s priest or seneschal, anywhere she could serve as a scribe…but such a position would mean a greater likelihood of meeting the laird, which was not her goal.

  Back home, Citrine had vowed to do her best to cover for her absence. She’d been the one to talk Munro—one of Da’s warriors—into accompanying Saffy as far as the abbey Dornach. Hopefully, Da and Dougal would think Saffy was safely visiting the abbey, studying the scrolls and holy writs in the library there, which had happened twice before.

  Which meant she had a few weeks, at most, before someone would get suspicious about her lack of contact. In that time, she needed to search the Sutherland keep, find whatever evidence she could of the missing Sinclair jewels, and make her way back home.

  All without allowing the Sutherland Devil to know of her mission.

  If one—or all—of the missing stones were on Sutherland land, as the sisters suspected, then would the laird be considered culpable? Would that anger him, to know he’d harbored stolen jewels for so long? Or was he part of the plot against the Sinclairs, intent on keeping his old friend weak, knowing Duncan Sinclair’s line would fail?

  Nay, better to hide her intent from the Sutherlands. Better to hide herself from the laird.

  As the sun sank lower in the west, Saffy began to think about making camp. Although, with the way her nights had been going, it’d be better to push herself as far as possible, then make a small fire once the dark truly set in. The further she went today, the closer she’d be to her goal.

  But God forgive her, she was tired. Hours and hours and hours of fear and caution and tenseness had brought her to this point. All of her limbs felt heavier, and she caught herself stumbling once or twice.

  Mayhap she should halt her travels. If she was this tired, mayhap she’d finally sleep well?

  She pushed out of the woods, heading towards the distant sparkle of a loch below her. The path was easy, and she knew she wasn’t more than a few hours walk from her destination now. She could drink, make camp, sleep…then tomorrow, mayhap well-rested, she could set her mind toward finding a way into the good graces of whoever was in charge of hiring at the Sutherland keep.

  It wasn’t until the third time she stumbled over the rocks in the path that she realized how dull her mind really was. She was looking, but not seeing. She’d pushed out of the cover of the forest without even searching the landscape for danger.

  Which is why, when she finally heard the hoofbeats, there was no place to hide. Saffy stood, her mind dazed from exhaustion, as the men on horseback surrounded her. Dimly, she reached for her sword, but her hands fumbled on the simple steps required to remove it from the scabbard.

  “I’ll cut ye down where ye stand, brigand!”

  The man who yelled had leveled a heavy sword at her as his horse pranced in place. Saffy squinted, trying to make sense of what she was
seeing. He was little more than a lad, probably only a few years younger than herself. And he wore the Sutherland plaid. In fact, all the men wore it.

  “I—I am no brigand.” Her voice was rough, scratchy with exhaustion and fear, although part of her mind was pleased it disguised her sex even further.

  With the sword, the lad gestured to her clothing. “Ye’re a Lindsay, are ye no’?”

  A Lindsay? They were a Lowland clan, and her clothing marked her as an outsider. It would make sense to claim to be from a clan other than the Sinclairs…but if the Lindsays were met with this kind of welcome, mayhap not.

  Mutely, she shook her head.

  The lad laughed, his sword never wavering, even as his horse stepped impatiently. “Ye think me a clot-heid? John Lindsay and his men have been raiding for months, and were just sighted today. Obviously, they’ve led our laird on a chase away from the keep, while sending ye to infiltrate our home!”

  Enraged now, the lad slid from his horse and stalked toward her. Dimly, she noted he had fine features, russet hair in the same cropped style she now wore. But it was hard to be appreciative when he swung the sword so that it stopped above her shoulder, entirely too near her neck.

  When she flinched away, all she could manage in her current exhausted state, his lips curved cruelly. “What was your plan, lad? Ye think ye could get close to us, because ye’re so young?” He spat in disgust, then shook his head. “My laird left me in charge of guarding his family, and I’ll die before I allow you near them.”

  She shook her head once more, although the movement was stilted, with the sword so close. “I’m no’ a brigand,” she managed again.

  He leaned closer. “As far as I’m concerned, all Lindsays are brigands, for daring to support that bastard.”

  What bast—Oh, he must mean John Lindsay. Her normally quick mind was sluggish, trying to understand what he meant. When the sword twitched once more, she gave up trying to understand and focused on the very real chance she was about to be killed by a lad younger than her.

  From behind her, an elderly voice asked, “What will ye do, Andrew?”

  Andrew tensed, bringing the edge of the sword against her throat. She felt a sting, but dared not flinch, for fear of sending the blade deeper. Her eyes widened with fear as she felt blood trickle down her neck. Part of her noted this group of men must’ve been those left behind to guard the keep—the very old and a lad like Andrew—but it didn’t seem to matter right now.

  Should she reveal her identity? Would it help her or hurt her in this instance?

  Well, it would ruin everything, but it was—as Citrine would say—a hell of a lot better than dying. Especially being killed for being a Lindsay brigand.

  She’d opened her mouth to blurt out her secret, when suddenly, Andrew exhaled and stepped back.

  He was still glaring at her when he said, “The Sutherland would have my head if I didn’t allow him to question the lad. He’s young, but if he was sent to infiltrate our home, sent to cause God kens what kind of havoc, then he must ken something of that bastard’s plans.”

  She wasn’t going to die today?

  “The dungeon, then?” the unseen voice called out.

  Andrew’s nod was more of a jerk. “Aye. A few days without food and water, and the lad will be ready to spill all his secrets, even before the Sutherland starts his interrogation. Tie him up.”

  Interrogation.

  A cold spike of fear punched through Saffy’s daze at the thought of being at the Sutherland Devil’s mercy. What kind of interrogation techniques would he use? He was rumored to be ruthless. And God help her if he found out she was a woman! His dead wives and many mistresses would likely attest to the fact the laird would treat a woman no differently than a man he suspected of betrayal.

  The fear of being at his mercy had her heart pounding, and her breaths coming in pants. It was long moments before she realized her hands had been tied, her sword and knife taken, and she was being led behind Andrew’s horse.

  Her head hung as she stumbled along, pinned on all sides by horses and Sutherland men. She might’ve made a bid for freedom, trying to tug the rope out of Andrew’s hands, but he had it wrapped tightly in his hand. And being so tired, she braced herself against the animal’s haunches more than once to keep from falling.

  By the time she caught sight of the Sutherland keep, her stomach had long since given up growling. Large, gray, and imposing—like the Devil who commanded it, she was sure—it sat high and proud, with plenty of space beneath for the dungeons.

  Those dungeons—and the promised interrogation—so occupied her mind, she barely noticed the jeers from the gathered clan when Andrew announced they’d captured a Lindsay spy. Someone threw mud at her, but she was too dirty and tired—mentally and physically—to do more than duck her head.

  The chaos was so overwhelming, it was almost a relief to be thrown into a deep pit of stone below the kitchens.

  Almost.

  Her cell was large, and she was the only occupant. When Andrew slammed the door shut, she huddled on the pile of dirty straw where she’d fallen, and wished for the strength to beat on the door.

  It might be hopeless, to demand her release, but at least it’d be better than giving up.

  But instead, she sat there, her knees drawn up to her chin, staring at the heavy door, doing naught but breathing and shivering. Vaguely, she knew she was in shock, but it was long moments before she could control her panic enough to concentrate on her breathing, and even longer before she could relax into a cross-legged position.

  Even that movement wore her out.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to consider her advantages…

  A locked cell without food or water.

  No’ an advantage.

  A vengeful laird returning “in a few days”, according to Andrew.

  Definitely no’ an advantage.

  A bone-deep weariness, an aching thirst, and an empty belly.

  Her eyes flew open in irritation.

  Ye’re no’ verra good at this, Sapphire Sinclair.

  A few days in this cell, starving, dying of thirst—

  Stop!

  She shoved herself to her feet, stumbling so hard she had to thrust out a hand to stop herself from falling over again. Of course, that might be a blessing if she knocked her head and managed to stop thinking such horrible thoughts.

  She stood, panting, one palm flat against the stone beside her, forcing herself to concentrate on her surroundings to distract from her looming starvation. There were two windows high in the walls—well above her head—through which a dim twilight filtered.

  I suppose I should be thankful I’m no’ in the dark.

  That would be nice. She’d be able to see while she starved to death.

  “God’s wounds, Saf,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head, and peering around the cell. Mayhap it had been a storage cellar at some point, and there was something useful for her.

  In a depressingly short amount of time, she concluded her hope was in vain. Her cell was empty and bleak, complete with carvings from past prisoners.

  Well, at least I willnae be bored.

  It looked as if most of the carvings had been done by one hand, misspelled Latin phrases ranging from philosophical to lewd. But there was one…

  She stumbled to the far wall. There, right in the middle, at head-height, was a deep carving of a sunburst, and a Latin phrase: I shine, not burn. Her fingers shook as they traced the lines in the quickly fading light. The sun had been carved across several stones which made up the wall, there was something ominous about it. Had the same prisoner carved this? How many days had he spent laboring over such a piece of art, and why? The phrase was oddly hopeful for someone confined to a dungeon cell…unless he’d been expecting to be burned at the stake?

  Suddenly, she wanted nothing to do with such an image, hating it for reminding her of her doom. She would burn when the Sutherland returned.

  That’
s what the Devil did, after all. Burned souls in hell.

  Shivering once more—although from genuine cold now, rather than fear—she kicked the straw into a flimsy pile and sank down onto it. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she rested her head against the stone and stared at the carvings around her.

  Assets:

  Ye’re where ye wanted to be.

  She snorted, but couldn’t help the way her lips tugged upward. Aye, she was deep in the Sutherland holding, but not at all free to look for her family’s lost jewels.

  Ye might finally get a good night’s sleep.

  That was something to look forward to. If she was already in as much danger as she could possibly imagine, then mayhap her mind would finally let her rest?

  Ye willnae be bored.

  Oh, aye.

  Think of it this way: Ye might starve to death before the Sutherland returns to interrogate ye.

  As she closed her eyes in despair, tears of exhaustion leaking from under her lids, she had to admit the truth:

  Sometimes she really hated her mind.

  Chapter Three

  Merrick’s mood was dark enough that his men had avoided him for the last two days.

  Yesterday morning it had become clear they wouldn’t be able to hunt down Lindsay or his followers. Still, he pushed his men, especially Gavin, to find some sort of trace of the reivers.

  Murray’s croft had been burned and his livestock slaughtered. Lindsay’s insult was that he hadn’t even bothered to steal the cattle. Any Highlander worth his salt had done his share of reiving from neighboring clans and understood the benefit of leaving the farm profitable enough to rob again. Aye, driving off cattle for their own gain would’ve been logical, but killing them was pure evil.

  The crofter and his family were alive, thank God, and Merrick had left two of his men to help salvage what they could, then help Murphy’s family return to the keep for protection. If these raids kept up, Merrick might have to consider moving more families to the safety of the village, even if the planting season was high and they’d miss valuable time in the fields.