watched the towers for what seemed like an age before she could be sure the guards were looking not into the courtyard, but out across the river valley. Then, summoning her resolve, she dashed to the alley between the mason’s hut and the storeroom where Nicholas had upbraided her that day.
No one called out. No alarm sounded. She’d managed the first part of her escape undetected.
Taking a deep breath, she leaned back against the small wattle-and-daub storehouse and said a silent prayer of thanks.
Suddenly a man—a broad-shouldered man in the outlandish skirted garment of a Scot and a sleeveless shirt—appeared at the other end of the alley.
Before she could recover from the shock and run or hide, he quietly addressed her in French. “Bit of an odd time for a stroll, isn’t it, my lady?”
She recognized that voice. Thank God it wasn’t Nicholas, or one of his men—but what was that Scot doing here? And where was Polly?
She froze as a guard called out a challenge.
Had they been seen? Had that lascivious Scot cost her the chance of escape?
Mercifully, another man’s voice answered, calm and steady. The guards hadn’t seen her, or the Scot.
Yet.
She spotted the open door to the mason’s hut to the right of the Scot. Hurrying forward, she shoved him inside, coming in after him.
He never made a sound as the wooden door hinged with leather strips swung shut behind them. The only light filtered through cracks in the wall and the shutters over the window.
The Scot seemed taller in the darkness. Silhouetted against the wall of the hut, his body appeared huge, with his long, bare, muscular legs and strong, equally bare arms.
Perhaps this was a mistake. But before she could leave, he spoke.
“Why, my lady, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he said, his deep voice low and slightly husky.
“Be quiet,” she commanded in a whisper. “Or do you want the guards to catch you here, where you have no right to be?”
“No, I don’t want the guards to find me here,” he answered quietly. “But unless they can see through walls and hear like dogs, I doubt they will. They’re too far away, and too busy looking for enemies beyond the walls.”
“Where’s Polly?”
“Who?”
“Polly. The maidservant who served the wine.”
The Scot strolled toward her. “Ah. The one with the mole on her breast?”
As if he could fool her with his bogus innocence. She knew full well the deceit men were capable of. “Yes. Where is she?”
“I have no idea.”
Giving him a cold stare, she backed away from him until her body collided with a workbench covered with masons’ tools—chisels and trowels, levels and measuring sticks. She set her bundle down, so that her hands were free. She could defend herself now, if she had to. “I don’t believe you. I’m sure you were with her.”
“I’m sure I wasn’t. I think I’d remember if I were.”
Splaying her hands behind her and leaning back, her fingers encountered a chisel. Thrilled that she had some kind of weapon, her hand closed around it. “Then what are you doing skulking about my brother’s castle?”
“Searching for the plans to this fortress.”
No spy would confess so quickly and so easily, to anyone. “You must think I’m a simpleton.”
He strolled closer. “Whatever I think of you, my lady, I don’t think you’re dim-witted.”
She swallowed hard.
Suddenly, his hand shot out and grabbed hers, tightening until she dropped the chisel.
“Were you really planning to attack me with that?” he asked as he let go of her.
She rubbed her sore hand and didn’t answer.
“You’re quite safe with me, my lady. My taste doesn’t run to Normans, even ones as beautiful as you.”
She’d never before felt simultaneously insulted and flattered.
Perhaps this was his way of trying to confuse her. “What are you doing outside the hall?” she demanded, although that in itself was no crime. “Answer me honestly, or I’ll call the guard.”
“You won’t do that.”
She’d heard some Scots had what they called the Sight, the ability to see things by supernatural means, things they couldn’t possibly know otherwise. Yet surely he didn’t have such a power. “Oh yes, I will.”
“No, you won’t,” he answered, reaching around her for the chisel, coming so close, she could feel his breath warm on her cheek.
Gripping the edge of the table with both hands, she froze until he retreated.
“You won’t because then you’d have to explain what you’re doing wandering about at this time of night and with a bundle in your hands,” he said as he toyed with the chisel. “I’m thinking you had a clandestine rendezvous planned, although sadly not with me.” He nodded at the bundle. “And you’ve thoughtfully brought a blanket to lie on and perhaps some wine to drink.”
“What a base suggestion!”
“I didn’t mean to be insulting,” he replied as he tossed the chisel back onto the table, close enough for her to reach. “I’m impressed you planned so well.”
Now she really was insulted. “I am not some hussy of the sort you’re obviously used to.”
The Scot strolled over to another table and workbench. “What else could lead a beautiful Norman lady to sneak around alone in her brother’s fortress in the middle of the night?” he mused aloud. “Perhaps it’s a sign that all is not well with the lady.” He turned to regard her steadily. “I could be mistaken, of course. I’d be glad to think I was, and that nothing is amiss with you.”
He sounded completely sincere. Yet she’d heard enough stories in the convent to know better than to take any man’s words at face value, no matter how sincere he sounded.
So she lied, easily and without compunction. “I couldn’t sleep and decided to take some linen to the kitchen to be washed in the morning. I heard noises and thought it was a cat. I wanted to chase it outside, lest it make a mess of the masons’ things.”
“Really?” the Scot answered. He lazily picked up some other tools one at a time and examined them. “You didn’t think it might be somebody up to no good? You weren’t bravely coming to confront an enemy?”
“I wouldn’t be so foolish as to confront an armed man when I have only a bundle of laundry. And I don’t think any intelligent man would attack the sister of Sir Nicholas
