The Sutherland Devil Read online

  Despite his earlier claims, Gavin had been unable to track Lindsay’s men beyond the valley cairn. Their tracks didn’t emerge anywhere the Sutherlands could find, which meant the wily bastard had escaped again.

  When he’d accepted the inevitable, Merrick led his band of warriors back toward the keep, and pushed them hard.

  Now, seeing his home looming above the village, he breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving Lindsay hadn’t manage to attack during his absence. The bairns were safe. His people were safe.

  And his mood was still foul.

  As they thundered into the courtyard, stable lads came running to take their animals. Some of his warriors had peeled off from the column on their way in, checking on their own homes and families. Those left either lived in the barracks or would make their way home on their own time.

  For Merrick’s part, he was already thinking about a hearty meal. He might’ve been livid at their failure, but he could no longer deny his hunger. The last meal had been oat cakes eaten on horseback, and he wondered what the cook, Corra, was preparing for supper.

  “Father!”

  Despite his mood, Merrick felt his heart lighten at the sight of Mary hurtling down the front steps toward him. Just as she’d done since she was a little girl, she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and burrowing her face into his chest.

  “I’m glad you’re safe,” she murmured.

  He was rank, and he knew it, but his daughter didn’t seem to mind the smell of horse, sweat, and irritation. So, he shifted his sword and wrapped one arm around her. “Aye, it’ll take more than a wee scourge like Lindsay to bring this auld man low.”

  “Ye’re no’ so auld!”

  Mary chuckled as she straightened to grin up at him, and the sight caused his voice to stick in his throat. She looked so much like her mother when she smiled, and the memory was always bittersweet. Anna had been gone for—what?—nigh fifteen years now. He remembered little of her, except her smile, her zest for life, and the way he’d loved her.

  But he had Mary and Willie, at least, to remind him of her.

  How had the lad grown so much in the last year? Willie was a bastard, like his sister, but as his oldest son, he had power. So when Lindsay’s raids had become more than a mere nuisance, Merrick had sent him to the MacDonnell to foster. And despite the danger, he missed the lad, just as he knew Mary and the rest of them missed him.

  “Da?” Mary poked him in the side. “Ye look lost.”

  He shook his head, but knew his scowl was exaggerated when he glared at her. “A laird has many things on his mind, wee one.”

  Under his arm, she shrugged. “I take it yer hunt did nae go well?”

  “Ye leave the warriors to worry about such things.” He turned them both toward the steps, ready for a wash and some food. “How did things fare here in our absence?” He meant How did Andrew do, but he wouldn’t ask his daughter’s opinion of the lad so openly.

  Apparently, he hadn’t needed to. Mary beamed up at him, even as she lifted her skirts in one hand to climb the steps. “Andrew protected us all! He’s such a fine warrior, Father, braw and smart and ever so handsome and—”

  He cut her off, not wanting to hear his daughter list the lad’s other features. “I’m glad ye’re all safe. Any new bairns?”

  Mary giggled as he pulled open the thick oak doors. “Nay, no’ this time.”

  He pretended to sigh. “Mayhap next time.”

  Her laughter brought a smile to his face as well. It had been a joke between them. It was no secret how irritated he’d been when little Isobel had shown up several years ago. Beck had been barely four, and already running wilder than Nell could manage. Mayhap that’s why Isobel’s mother had waited to deliver the babe until Merrick had been away from the keep.

  When he’d returned and been presented with a new daughter, his first words had been a snapped, “God’s wounds, another one?”

  But holding the wee cherub, staring down into serious brown eyes, he’d known the truth: he’d accept her, just as he’d accepted every other of his illegitimate children who’d made their way to him.

  Devil he may be, but he knew his duty.

  The tradition had risen then, of asking Mary about new bairns when he returned to the keep. It’d been right after Hogmany—his visit to the Sinclairs to arrange that failed marriage alliance, in fact—when he’d returned to the news of baby Emma’s arrival. The wee bairn’s mother had died soon after delivery, and Mary herself had named the tiny thing.

  His sarcasm had made Mary chuckle, and he basked in the sound.

  The great hall seemed no different than when he’d left. He released his hold on her shoulder and stepped back, peering into the corners. “Beck didnae burn anything down while I was gone?”

  “Nay, Father,” Mary giggled. “And Maggie only smuggled in one chicken to place under Adelaide’s bed. ’Tis a record, I think.”

  “And the little ones?”

  “Hale and hearty,” Mary said. “Emma will be crawling any day now.”

  “God help us,” he muttered. But he had to admit, there was something so hopeful in watching a babe learn her way in the world. “The lessons have been going well?”

  “Oh, aye!” As Mary launched into a description of her teachings, Merrick was content to just watch. He remembered her birth, when Anna had handed him the screaming infant. He’d been so unsure, and even his own father had urged him to set his bastard aside, as he himself had done many times. But when Mary had quieted and stared up at Merrick, he’d known. He’d known this child was his blood, his future.

  The last seventeen years had passed in a blink, but had also seemed to drag on. How was it possible she was already a woman grown? A lass with a talent for keeping the bairns in line, a talent for teaching them what they needed to know. She’d be married soon enough, and making him a grandfather, although the thought soured his mood.

  Irritated once more, he scrubbed his hands over his face and down his neck. Mary was seventeen. When had he gotten so old?

  “Where’s Andrew?” he asked gruffly.

  “He’s patrolling. He said that was what ye’d want him to do, to ensure our safety. I’ll fetch him.” She turned toward the door, then whirled back suddenly. “Oh! I forgot! He caught a spy!”

  His senses sharpened, and Merrick took a step toward her. “Explain,” he snapped.

  She bobbed her head eagerly. “Andrew was patrolling and caught a Lowlander! He’s in the dungeon right now!”

  Merrick’s hands tightened to fists by his side. “Gavin!” he roared. His second must’ve been standing out on the landing, because the man was at Mary’s side in moments. “Fetch Andrew,” Merrick commanded. “I want his report immediately.”

  Gavin slammed his fist into his chest and bowed before leaving. Mary hurried after him, probably intent on searching for her beau as well. Even the thought of his wee daughter interested in Andrew couldn’t detract from Merrick’s coiled anticipation.

  He was torn between stalking to the dungeons himself and hearing the lad’s report. He’d give Andrew a short time to appear, before taking the task himself. In the meantime, Merrick accepted the bread, cheese, and ale a servant offered.

  He hadn’t even finished the first flagon when Gavin returned, Andrew in tow. The lad was eager to tell of his success, and Merrick was impressed with his actions.

  “Ye’re sure this spy is a Lindsay?”

  Andrew nodded. “He’s dressed in Lowlander fashion, milord, and was on yer land, headed for the keep. Who else would he be?”

  It was hard to deny. Merrick was ready to meet this spy. “Gavin?”

  His second nodded and hurried for the kitchens, obviously intent on making up for his failure to track Lindsay’s men. He must’ve gathered men to search for Andrew, because more and more Sutherland warriors had trickled in during the lad’s story, as well as servants and workers. Now, Merrick listened to their murmurs and whispers as they waited for the spy to b
e brought in.

  And he shared their anticipation. A Lindsay! If Merrick really held a Lindsay, one of his bastard brother’s men, here in the keep, he held power. Not just to negotiate, but to learn what Lindsay’s plans were beyond “make life miserable for the Sutherlands and their laird.”

  He felt himself grinning, and didn’t bother to hide it.

  Gavin returned quickly, and Merrick almost thought him alone. But his second stepped through the stone doorway and pulled a figure behind him, and Merrick realized why he hadn’t seen the spy.

  It was a lad. A lad younger than Andrew, younger even than Willie.

  Merrick swallowed down a spike of anger at his brother for using a lad this young. John Lindsay had proven he wasn’t above such tactics, and Merrick couldn’t afford to let pity blind him. Instead, he studied the shrunken figure dispassionately.

  Gavin hadn’t bothered to do aught more than tying the lad’s hands, and it was clear why. Hunched as he was, small as he was, he offered no danger to the looming wall of Highlanders surrounding him.

  Andrew had been right; the lad was clearly dressed in Lowlander fashion. His breeches were torn, and the linen on his sleeves was filthy—from the dungeon or before? Although he wore no colors, it was likely he was a Lindsay, or at least allied with them.

  “What’s yer name?” Merrick barked.

  When the lad didn’t answer, Gavin gave him a shake by the upper arm, then pushed him forward. He stumbled closer to Merrick, and stood with his head bowed and his tied arms hanging limp before him.

  Merrick didn’t like being ignored. “I willnae ask again,” he growled.

  Finally, the lad lifted his head to stare dazedly at Merrick, who wondered if maybe he’d suffered a head injury to explain the confusion in his gaze. The lad looked half-dead with his gaunt cheeks and that light hair hanging lank around his face.

  Merrick spoke to Andrew without dropping his glare from the spy. “When was the last time he was fed?”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw his former squire shrug. “We captured him the day after ye left.”

  Three days the lad had been in the dungeons. Three days without food? Had he been given water? If not, that might explain why the lad was now eying the flagon of ale on the table behind Merrick.

  He might have the reputation of a Devil, but he’d learned long ago that justice should be a swift mercy. Torturing this spy would serve him poorly.

  So he did as he said he would not. “Lad?” he prompted again, trying to gentle his voice. “What is yer name?”

  The boy dragged his attention back to Merrick. God’s wounds, but he looked weak. His legs were wobbling, he was leaning too far forward, and his eyes were cloudy. Was the lad ill?

  Merrick took a step closer, intent only on catching him if he fell over, but the lad jerked as if he’d been struck. His tongue dragged out across his cracked lips.

  “S—Saf,” the lad croaked in a ragged whisper.

  Nodding, hoping to encourage the boy, Merrick stepped closer again. “And what are ye doing on Sutherland land, Saf?”

  “I…” The spy shook his head, a little too hard, as if trying to regain his wits. “Nay,” he croaked. He managed to pale even further, and looked in danger of collapsing. His confusion didn’t appear feigned.

  Either he was a brilliant actor, or he was genuinely close to fainting.

  “Saf,” Merrick barked again, hoping to gain the lad’s attention.

  The spy’s gaze jerked to his, and Merrick was surprised to see they were a brilliant blue under the haze of hunger and confusion and desperation. He began to reach for the lad.

  “Aye, milord?” came the ragged whisper, right before the lad folded over.

  Merrick was there before he made it halfway down, scooping the lad into his arms, and pulling him against his chest.

  He froze.

  Lad? Nay.

  Merrick cradled the still figure, and the chest binding was unmistakable. He patted the back of the surcoat, just to be sure. Aye, those were bindings, worn under the shirt.

  And pressed against his chest? Those were definitely breasts.

  This lad—Saf?—was a lass.

  He stared down at her face, visible now that her head had lolled back. Under the dirt she might be pretty. It was hard to tell. How old was she? Older than Willie, surely. Older than Mary?

  What was she doing spying for a bastard like Lindsay?

  And why should he keep her secret?

  From behind him, Gavin cleared his throat. “Laird?”

  He focused on the present situation. “This lad kens nothing of violence, ’tis obvious.” He’d decided to hide her sex. She must have a reason, and he had power over her if she didn’t think he knew her secret. She’d be more likely to reveal her reason for being here if she felt safe. Assuming she lived.

  “He needs food and water. He’ll tell us more if he feels safe.”

  It was impossible to miss the way Andrew scoffed. “He’ll tell ye everything ye wish to know, Laird.”

  “Aye, once he’s been fed.” Shifting her in his arms, he called out to one of the servants, “Have Corra send supper to my room. I’ll eat there and make sure the lad does as well.”

  “Is that safe, milord?”

  Merrick whirled on his former squire. “Ye’d question me?” he roared, disturbed to notice the lass in his arms didn’t even flinch at the sound. He took a breath, willing himself to adopt an instructive tone. “Have I no’ always told ye ’tis easier to win enemies with offers of peace?”

  Andrew’s response was swift. “Nay, Laird.”

  Hmm. “What have I taught ye, then?”

  Again, the reply was immediate, “To act swiftly.”

  “Aye,” Merrick agreed. “Because justice served swiftly is a mercy.”

  He’d learned that lesson over a decade ago. He’d been riding with Duncan Sinclair, and they’d caught another lad guilty of sheep-thieving. Merrick hadn’t been able to punish the rest of the band, but he’d strung the lad up.

  But he hadn’t died quickly, and the longer he watched the lad—only a bit older than Willie was now—struggle, the more uncomfortable he’d become. He hadn’t objected when, with a curse, Duncan Sinclair had cut the boy down. The former sheep thief had found a place at Duncan’s side as a bodyguard.

  Although the thief had grown into a loyal guard, he’d deserved the punishment Merrick had meted out all those years ago. And if Merrick had acted more swiftly, the Sinclair Hound would be dead now…but he wouldn’t have suffered.

  He shook himself, aware his men were watching. “A good leader kens when to take his time as well, lad,” he said gruffly. “This spy will tell us naught if he dies.”

  Gavin was nodding in support. “And he’s clearly no threat. Mayhap his loyalty could be bought.”

  “Aye.” Merrick grunted as he lifted the lass over his shoulder, so she hung down like a sack. He sent a small grin toward Andrew. “Besides, I have need of a new squire.”

  Andrew’s roar of disapproval followed Merrick up the steps to the laird’s chamber, and his grin grew. The lad had to learn when to question his laird, and when to keep his mouth shut. Threatening to give this Lindsay spy his highly-coveted position of squire was more than enough to irritate Andrew.

  Corra had anticipated his request; supper was already waiting for him as he pushed open the door to his chamber. And as much as he wanted that stew and ale, the lass needed it more. Nay, she needed water first.

  Gently, Merrick pulled the lass from his shoulder and tried to stand her upright, her head lolling against his chest. He reached for the ewer of water which always stood beside a basin on his father’s trunk. He cradled her in the crook of his arm and nudged her head forward. When she was positioned correctly, he used his other hand to dripple water past her lips.

  He found himself whispering a silent prayer for her survival.

  For the information she can give me, naught else.

  He almost believed himself
.

  He watched her swallow, then swallow again as he offered her more water. Finally, she started to breathe a little easier. Still, it was another age before she began to revive… her eyes opened and she snatched the ewer from his hands.

  “Easy, Saf,” he murmured as she guzzled the water. “Easy, la—lad.” He reminded himself of his earlier decision. If she didn’t know he was aware of her secret, she’d be more open with him. “Too much will—aye, that.”

  He held the basin while she vomited, then set her in a chair and poured her a smaller glass.

  “Slower,” he commanded, and saints be praised, she followed his commands.

  The act of drinking seemed to exhaust her, but it was more likely the culmination of her last days. She swallowed the last mouthful and rested her head against the wooden back of the chair with a soft exhalation.

  “Eat, Saf,” he urged gently.

  When she ignored his offering of bread, he frowned, worried she was in worse shape than he’d thought. He dipped the brown bread in the ale, then held it against her lips. To his relief, they parted, and after a long moment, she swallowed the soft food.

  It was slow process, but he continued to feed her, though the task was below a laird. She finished more bread and drank more water, but her eyes remained unfocused and closed most of the time. When they did open, she seemed not to understand where she was or what was happening.

  Who is she?

  The question was impossible to answer, not with her in this state. Eventually, there was a moment when she would eat no more, and Merrick realized she’d passed out again. Asleep or another faint? Or was there something more treacherous afoot here?

  When she began to tip forward, he caught her once more, and lifted her in his arms the way he might Adelaide or little hellion Eva. Saf was older, definitely, but felt just as small. He took the time to study her.

  She had high cheekbones and pale skin, although that might’ve been because of her imprisonment. And aye, her hair was a rat’s nest and she was filthy. He lifted one of her hands, turning it over to examine the broken nails. Again, evidence of a hard adventure, but her fingers weren’t callused. Only a rough spot between her thumb and forefinger, where one might hold a stylus, seemed permanent. The blisters and bruises were more recent.