The Heiress Bride - Catherine Coulter [98]
“We’ll nae say a word. ’Tis a bloody Kinross wot kilt him. Away, then! Away!”
They left the third man there. Philip stood irresolute. Then he left Bracken tied to a yew bush and quietly made his way back to the road. The man was sprawled on his back, his arms and legs spread wide. There was a huge red stain covering his chest. His eyes were wide with surprise, his teeth still bared in a snarl. He was quite dead.
Philip threw up. Then he ran back to Bracken and sent him back onto the road.
He’d recognized the man. It was a bully whose name was Dingle, and he was one of the MacPhersons’ meanest fighters.
His father had pointed him out once to Philip on a visit to Culross Palace, telling him that the fellow was a cretin and an excellent example of the caliber of MacPherson’s men.
Philip rode until Bracken was winded and blowing hard. He fell asleep astride his mare. It was Bracken who nudged him awake. Philip, not knowing how much time had passed, panicked. But his pony couldn’t sustain a steady gallop and he was forced to slow. He saw more men and several peasant women. What they were doing up and about in the middle of the night would remain a mystery. He avoided them, though he heard one of the men shouting after him.
He was on the ferry to Edinburgh at four o’clock in the morning, paying the ferryman every shilling he had taken from his father’s strongbox save one. He nestled down between two bags of grain for warmth. He reached his father’s house in Abbotsford Crescent just past six o’clock in the morning. It had taken him a good hour to find the house, and he’d nearly been in tears when, finally, he’d spotted it.
Angus opened the door, yawning deeply as he did so, and stared down at the boy, mouth still agape.
“Oh och, ’tis ye, th’ young master! By gawd, bain’t this be a treat fer th’ laird. Who be wi’ ye, laddie?”
“Quickly, my father, Angus. I must see my father.” While Angus was gaping at him, trying to gather his wits together, Philip ducked around him and raced up the stairs. He didn’t stop running until he reached the laird’s bedchamber and flung open the doors, banging them loudly against the walls.
Colin came awake in an instant and bolted upright in bed. “Good God, Philip! What the devil are you doing here?”
“Papa, quickly, you must come home. It’s Sinjun; she’s very sick.”
“Sinjun,” Colin said blankly.
“Your wife, Papa, your wife. Quickly, come now.” Philip was pulling back the covers, so frightened and relieved that he’d found his father that he was shaking with it.
“Joan is ill?”
“Not Joan, Papa, Sinjun. Please hurry. Aunt Arleth will let her die, I know it.”
“Blessed hell, I don’t believe this! Who came with you? What the devil happened?” But even as he spoke, Colin flung off the covers and jumped off the bed, naked and cold in the gray light of dawn.
“Speak to me, Philip!”
Philip watched his father pull on clothes, watched him splash water on his face, watched him wave Angus away when the old man appeared in the doorway.
He told him about the Cowal Swamp and the rain on the ride back to the castle and how Sinjun had taken off her riding coat and made him wear it. He told him about the cold room and the open windows and the lies Aunt Arleth had told them. He stopped then, stared with frightened eyes at his father, and started to cry, low deep sobs that brought Colin to his son instantly. He enfolded him in his arms and hugged him close. “It will be all right, Philip, you’ll see. You’ve done very well indeed. We’ll be home soon and Joan will be all right.”
“Her name is Sinjun.”
Colin forced his exhausted son to eat some hastily prepared porridge. Within a half hour, they were on horseback and off. He’d suggested that his son remain here because he was so weary, but Philip wouldn’t hear of it. “I must see that she’s all right,” he said, and in that moment Colin saw the future man in the boy, and he was pleased.
Sinjun felt strangely peaceful. She was also incredibly tired, so very weary that she just wanted to sleep and sleep, perhaps forever. There was