Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (28 page)

It was unsigned, as always.

Andrew sank back against the wall and sighed. The leather binding felt warm in his hand and already he itched to read the words chosen so carefully for him. Even so, he would like to know who it was who left these books for him, who answered his questions so neatly, who posed questions of his own not so easily answered.

His stomach growled. Even his endless curiosity was not a sufficient replacement for food.

He put the book back in its hiding place, to be read later. He replaced the stone, set the curtain straight and began stripping off his clothes. As he sank into the bath, he put his head back and breathed deeply. Delicious smells rose from the kitchens below and his stomach protested loudly once more.

Even so, he relaxed and listened, tried to feel the air for that … essence he usually felt after a book had been left – but there was no trace. He’d been gone two months. Perhaps that was too long.

Or perhaps he was just imagining that part of it. After all, if he wasn’t a sorcerer, how could he Sense anything?

*

The air was damp by the time Micah approached his home. For all the arguments and fights he’d had to endure from both Bella and Lawrence to him staying there, they had, in the end, allocated to him a woodcutter’s cottage, hidden in a narrow copse over which hung an ivy-strewn cliff. Now and then he would have dreams of the cliff falling down on him as he slept, but apart from that, the place was both comfortable and discreet, considering he shouldn’t even be here.

Of course, not all of his fellow rebels had been blessed with such a fate. Most of the men who had survived the Battle of Shan Moss had been forced to leave Lusara. So Micah was not unaware of the precious position he occupied. Neither Bella nor Lawrence had ever fully sanctioned his presence, despite the help he’d been over the years. They still believed that his being here, for whatever purpose, endangered Andrew as much as it protected him. Micah couldn’t help but agree with them.

But still he stayed.

As the ground began the gentle climb up to his cottage, he dismounted and completed the journey on foot. With his weary horse trailing behind him, he reached the small clearing, blinking in the darkness.

Something was different.

He dropped the reins and silently drew his sword. It was too
dark to see footprints in the snow. With his hand on the latch, he pulled in a breath, ready to sprint forward.

The latch turned without his help and the door swung inwards, revealing nothing but darkness—

And a scent sweet and unpredictable.

‘Sairead?’

The whisper barely breached the air when she emerged from the shadows, a flash of smile on her face and then she was in his arms, warm and close, delightful, burying her face in his shoulder as he held on.

It felt so damn good holding her again. He breathed her in deeply, letting her essence fill and sustain him, warm and complete him. Minutes drifted by uncounted and then she was clasping his face between her hands, her breath warming his skin.

‘I’ve been waiting for you for hours. I thought you’d never come home. Do you have to leave again tonight?’

‘No,’ he replied, a smile growing from inside him. Two long months and he still hadn’t seen her face. ‘You?’

‘No. I can stay until tomorrow.’

‘Good.’ He wasted no more words then, silencing further questions by kissing her deeply.

He didn’t notice when the sleet began hours later.

*

Andrew sipped gingerly on the spiced wine. The aroma alone was almost enough to make him sleepy. A week on horseback crossing the country, then a hot bath and a wonderful meal had all worked their toll on him. He wanted to slip under the table, curl up with the dogs and go to sleep.

Lawrence, however, had other ideas. He sat at the end of the table, talking in his quiet way, explaining all that had happened at Maitland while Andrew had been gone. No small detail was left out, no lost sheep forgotten, nor fallen branch unaccounted for. Lawrence had a good mind for such detail.

His uncle ate his meal in a methodical manner, sipping wine every three mouthfuls of food. This spring would see his fiftieth birthday and Andrew and Bella had planned a small
party in honour of it. Brown eyes watched everything Andrew did in silent judgement, his bald head making soft features seem harder than they were. For all his lack of humour, Lawrence was a gentle man. He did not, however, approve of Jenn, nor of Andrew’s continued involvement with anything to do with sorcery.

Bella also sat at the table, contributing only a little here and there. Seated opposite Andrew was the faithful Father John. He’d been Jenn’s chaplain at Ayr and had come here with Andrew after his father died. Though neither Bella nor Lawrence knew, John was Salti, a sorcerer of modest but determined power – though he exercised those abilities rarely.

John was his teacher, his tutor, his companion, but most of all, his friend; someone he could talk to about anything. Right now, however, John was watching him with a smile in his serious eyes, waiting for him to answer a question he hadn’t been listening to.

Andrew sat up straight and drew in a deep breath to wake himself up more. Turning to his uncle, he offered a smile of apology. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle, I’m afraid I was daydreaming. What were you saying?’

Lawrence raised his eyebrows. ‘I know you’re tired, son, but you really do need to know about this. The situation could deteriorate at any moment.’

That woke him up. ‘Situation?’

Lawrence drained his wine and pushed his plate away. ‘I don’t know how else to deal with it. I try to find work for them, but it’s never enough.’

‘Refugees?’ Andrew frowned and looked at Bella. ‘Has there been some trouble?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Lawrence replied. ‘A barn on the south ridge was burned down two weeks ago. We’ve had grain shipments attacked with stones, fishing nets emptied. I know there are sheep missing, but I can’t prove it until spring – and what would be the point anyway? I know our neighbours are in a worse predicament.’

‘That’s because they make no effort to help these people,’ Bella added, obviously annoyed. ‘But even helping them makes
no difference. I’m sorry, Andrew, but I think you need to speak to them again.’

‘Of course I will.’ Andrew turned back to Lawrence. ‘But are you sure it will help? I mean, the people may remember who my mother is, but they’ll also remember who my father is, won’t they? And they hated him. Why should
I
be able to talk to them when you can’t?’

Lawrence sat back. ‘You’re young. The sins of your father are forgiven in you. I don’t know that you’ll be able to do much good, but I doubt it will make the situation worse.’

‘I’ll ride out tomorrow afternoon.’ He opened his mouth to say something else, but was besieged by an enormous yawn.

Father John chuckled. ‘I fear His Grace needs some sleep before he can contemplate such weighty matters further. Come, my lord, I will take you up.’

Andrew looked to Lawrence for permission, his uncle waved him on. ‘Get your rest, son.’

‘Goodnight.’

John opened the door for him, a hand ready at his elbow in case he should stumble from tiredness. Andrew laughed a little and, speaking softly though they were out of earshot from his aunt and uncle, said, ‘You think I’m ready to fall over?’

‘I think you’d
like
to fall over, yes, my lord. Come, be careful up these steps.’

Andrew pulled himself together and made it to his bedroom without incident. Father John followed along behind him, shutting the door with a gentle hand before turning to face Andrew. ‘How is your mother?’

‘She’s well. Very well indeed. She gave me a letter for you. I’ll get it in a moment.’ Andrew perched on the edge of a chair and pulled off his boots. ‘Is the situation with the refugees really so bad?’

‘I wouldn’t call it a crisis at this point. These people come because they know your uncle will not turn them away. They stay as long as they can find work and food – and then they move on.’

‘I know. Micah and I saw more on the roads as we came
home.’ Barefoot now, Andrew crossed to his bed and pulled the sealed letter out from under his pillow, handing it to John.

As John turned the letter over in his hands, he said, ‘I should warn you, my lord. When you head off to Marsay, I shall be heading east.’

‘East?’ Andrew’s eyes widened. ‘To … Flan’har? You’re going to look for Bishop McCauly?’

‘That’s right.’ Something like pride flashed in John’s eyes then, making Andrew grin. ‘I just wanted to warn you, it may not be safe for me to come back for a while. It will depend on the situation, where he is, and how involved he is with Robert.’

Dumb with envy, Andrew sank back onto his bed. John was going off on his own adventure, following the trail of refugees across the border, without any idea what he might find. ‘Do you know where to start looking?’

‘I have a few ideas – but of course, I dare not go around asking without caution.’

Andrew stood once more. ‘Please be careful.’

‘Of course.’ John reached up and traced the trium on his forehead. ‘Now you get some sleep. We have a lot of work to do before I go. I can’t allow you to be the worst-educated Duke in the country, can I?’

Knowing he was far from that, Andrew chuckled. ‘We can’t?’

Father John growled. ‘Get some sleep, my lord. That’s an order.’

*

‘Has it stopped snowing?’

Micah shifted and lifted a corner of the curtain. Outside, the morning whiteness was dazzling against a sun only recently appeared. He could even see flashes of blue here and there amongst the barren tree tops, promising better weather to come. The ground was frozen with a thick layer of snow, burying both his trail and hers beneath it.

Satisfied, he laid down again, taking Sairead into his arms once more. She hadn’t opened her eyes yet, but kept her head on his shoulder, the blankets around them, only moving long enough to wave some encouragement at the fire.

Micah moved to look at her properly. Her golden hair was a mess – mostly his fault – and strewn half across the pillow, framing her face with an innocent halo. There was nothing innocent however, about the smile which played across her lips, nor the faintly tanned face. Her eyes, when she finally opened them, were a soft crystal blue that turned ice-green when she was angry.

She made no comment about his watching her. She did her own share now and then, her fingers dusting over his face as though touch were an equal part of memory, necessary to keep warm the long months when they had to be apart.

‘You travel more and more each year,’ she said eventually. There was no question involved, merely a statement of fact. They never asked each other such questions, for answers were forbidden them.

‘Yes,’ was his only reply.

‘I came by two weeks ago, but I missed you.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She smiled. ‘I know. I worked that out last night.’ She slipped her hands around his waist and tried to get beneath his shirt. He made no effort to stop her, but her fingers were cold enough to make him shiver. He’d risen early to stoke up the fireplace and feed the horses, then climbed back into bed with her. Now she wriggled against him, beautifully naked and tempting him all over again.

Who knew how long it would be before she could come back – and whether he would be here when she did?

A sudden wave of fear washed over him and he caught her hands, pulling her close. She easily read the tension in his body and fitted herself to him, stilling instantly.

‘I wish,’ he said.

‘So do I,’ she replied. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you.’

And then they were silent again, immersing themselves in what they had.

Micah started when a log fell in the fireplace, reminding him that the day had begun – and that he was desperately hungry. ‘You want something to eat?’

‘I brought bread and cheese with me, both fresh. There’s also some ale, but it’s not very good.’

‘Shall I bring it over?’

‘Not for me. I’ll have to get dressed.’

She said nothing about leaving soon, though he knew those words were inside her. He brushed his lips against her temple, then released her. Rolling out of bed, he pushed his feet into boots, tended to the fireplace and pulled out the bread and cheese from her bag. He would have to go into the village today to get his own supplies for the next few weeks. After that was the journey north with Andrew as he travelled to Marsay for Caslemas. Micah would wait outside the city and come back with him when he returned …

Andrew!

Micah dropped the knife, even as the sounds of footsteps crunching through snow reached him. Without a word to Sairead, he dashed to the door and pulled it open. Quickly he moved outside, closing the door firmly behind him. He was just in time.

Andrew was wading his way through the fresh snow, breath coming out in great clumps of steam. He wore a smile of triumph and lifted high a bag full of food.

‘Good morning! Thought you might like some breakfast.’

Micah had to stop him, had to get him away before he could notice.

‘What are you doing out here without a cloak?’ Andrew almost laughed at the silliness of the idea, but Micah could think of no reply, impending doom sitting about him almost as effectively, and certainly more heavily. ‘What’s wrong?’

Andrew came to a halt only feet away. His smile was gone, replaced by a frown – which progressively grew deeper.

It was already too late.

‘Micah?’

He could see all too clearly the progression. See the faint warnings Andrew would be feeling at the edges of his awareness, the vague unsettling something in the air he could not name – and yet it was undeniably there, and he couldn’t
ignore it. All a product of the Seal which protected all Salti, warned them of just such moments.

Micah gave it one try. ‘My lord, thank you for the food but I think you should …’

Andrew stiffened, his eyes widening. ‘You have … there’s a Malachi inside, isn’t there?’ His gaze turned to the house, remained fixed on the door until, slowly, it opened. Andrew took a step back, then halted, his gaze flickering from Sairead to Micah and back again.