They were all tall and strong with dark hair, but Murine found her eye returning to the one who appeared to be their leader. She couldn't have said why. They were all good-looking men, but for some reason she found him the most compelling. He was obviously angry and disgusted by her brother's proposition, but then all of the men appeared to be. However, when he'd looked toward the fire for her just now, there had been something else in his eyes. Not pity, but simple concern and perhaps sympathy.
"I can get you the coin by tonight. Tomorrow morn at the latest," Montrose repeated, drawing Murine's reluctant gaze away from the leader of the Scots and back to her brother as he added, "My neighbor and friend, Muller, has always had an eye for my sister. He'll give me the coin for the chance to spend time with her."
Murine actually had to cover her mouth to stifle the cry that wanted to slip out. Offering her up to these men for horses was bad enough, but offering her to Muller for coin? Her stomach turned over violently at the suggestion. The Scot had been kind and chivalrous enough to refuse the offer. Muller would not. He would jump at the chance and would not care whether she was even willing. She would be no better than a--
"I'll no' be a party to yer turning yer lady sister into a whore."
Murine winced as he said the word she was thinking.
"Coin or no coin, the horses are no longer fer sale to ye," the Scot added coldly.
When he then turned on his heel and walked out of the keep with his men hard on his heels, Murine almost wished she could give chase and go with them. Instead, she whirled and caught Beth's arm to rush her down the hall to her room. She had to get out of there, and quickly. Montrose would waste no time setting his plan into action and she needed to be far away from here when Muller arrived to claim his prize.
Once in her room, Murine paused and glanced around wildly before turning to Beth and ordering, "Fetch me an empty sack from the kitchens, please. But do no' let anyone see ye take it."
Beth nodded and was gone almost before the last word was spoken. Murine immediately hurried to the chests against the bedchamber wall to begin sorting through her belongings, trying to decide what she should take and what she could not. Traveling light seemed the smartest option. A spare gown, a spare shift, coins . . .
Her mouth tightened at that thought. All she had were the few coins she'd intended to give to the Scots for taking her message. She would be delivering that message herself now, and would need those coins.
By the time Beth returned, Murine had chosen the few things she would take with her. She'd even rolled her gown and shift in preparation of packing them away.
The maid handed over the sack she'd gone to fetch. Her gaze then slid over the few belongings on the bed and she frowned. "Ye're fleeing?"
"Aye," Murine said grimly.
Beth hesitated and then asked worriedly, "Are ye sure this is the right thing to do, m'lady?"
Murine's lips tightened and she merely nodded as she stuffed the rolled-up gown into the sack the woman had pinched from the kitchens.
"But 'tis dangerous to travel at the best o' times, e'en with a large party. A woman alone . . ." Beth shook her head at the very thought. "Could we no' send a message to Lady Joan, or Lady Saidh instead? I'm sure one o' them would send an escort fer ye."
"Montrose is probably down there writing up his offer to Muller as we speak," Murine said grimly. "If I do no' leave now, I shall no doubt be ruined by nightfall."
"But, m'lady," Beth said, tears in her eyes. "Ye can no' travel alone. Ye could be killed by bandits . . . or worse."
Murine stilled briefly at the words, thinking of her brothers Colin and Peter who had been killed on a trip two years earlier, but then shook her head and shoved a linen shift into the bag. "There are some things worse than death, Beth. And staying here where I will be sold off by me own brother . . ." She shook her head bitterly. "Thank ye, I think I'll take me chances on the road."
Beth was silent for a moment, her expression conflicted, and then raised her shoulders and said stolidly, "Then I'll come with ye."
Murine hesitated, briefly tempted by the offer, but shook her head on a sigh. "Nay, ye'll not. Ye'll stay here."
"But--"
"I need ye to stay here and help hide the fact I've left," Murine interrupted quickly.
Beth closed her mouth on her unfinished protest and asked uncertainly, "How am I to do that?"
"Stay here in me room. If Montrose comes looking for me, claim I am sleeping and send him away," Murine said as she finished packing and closed the bag. She didn't really think that ruse would work. Mostly she was using it as an excuse to keep from taking the maid with her. Murine had little hope of actually managing this escape attempt. She suspected she'd be hunted down and brought back ere the first night ended, but if she did manage to get away . . . well, as Beth had said, the road was dangerous. It was one thing to risk her own life to try to preserve her honor. It was another thing entirely to risk Beth's life as well.
"Where will ye go?" Beth asked worriedly, following her to the door.
"I'll slip down the back stairs to the kitchens and then sneak around to get Henry and--"
"Nay, I mean, where will ye go once ye leave Danvries?" Beth interrupted.
"Oh." Murine breathed and then shrugged helplessly. "To Saidh. Buchanan is closest, I think, and she did say if I ever needed assistance to not hesitate to call on her. I am in definite need of assistance now."
"Aye, ye are," Beth agreed solemnly, and then reached out quickly to hug her. "Be careful m'lady, and pray stay safe."
"I will," Murine whispered, then pulled back and forced a smile. "I'll send fer ye . . . if I can."
"Oh, do no' worry about me. I'll be fine. Ye just take good care o' yerself," she said bravely, dashing away a tear.
Murine squeezed her arm gently, then opened her bedchamber door and peered cautiously out. Finding the hall empty, she slid out and rushed for the stairs.
"I can't believe the bastard tried to sell his sister fer a couple horses."
Dougall grimaced and glanced at his brother Conran at those bewildered words. After the debacle at Danvries, they had ridden to the village inn for a meal ere starting the long trek home. The conversation there had been focused on who they might sell the mare and stallion to now, and to wonder how they would find things at home. Not wanting to shame the sister in her own village, no one had even got near the topic of Danvries and his offer . . . until now as they left Danvries's land.
"Aye," Dougall acknowledged quietly.
"Ye do no' seem surprised."
"People rarely surprise me anymore," Dougall said grimly, and then added in a lighter tone, "The only thing that surprises me is that ye were kind enough no' to discuss it in the village and waited so long to bring up the subject."
"'Twas no' kindness," Conran denied quickly. "I just did no' want to ruin me meal. Was like to give me indigestion."
"Oh, aye, o' course it was," Dougall agreed with amusement. He knew that wasn't true. Conran just didn't like to appear soft. Although, Dougall thought, talking about it now was making his own lunch roll in his stomach.
"Ye ken that now the idea's occurred to him, he's going to sell her off to his friend fer coin," Conran said heavily.
"Aye. He'll use her to make what money he can to make up fer his gambling," Dougall said with distaste, recalling the glowing woman.
"If she allows it," Conran said with a shrug. "Mayhap she'll refuse."
"Hmm." Dougall muttered, but thought she might not be given the choice. Danvries was obviously her guardian, although she was of marriageable age. "Why is she still unwed?"
Conran shrugged. "As I said, talk is he gambled away her dower."
"Aye, but how? It should have been protected," Dougall said with a frown. "And she should ha'e been betrothed as a child and collected long ere this."
"Mayhap her betrothed died," Conran suggested, and then added, "And I'm sure the king would have stepped in and no' allowed Danvries gambling a
way her dower . . . had he no' been the one who won the wager."
"So she'll ne'er marry," Dougall said thoughtfully.
"And be at the mercy of her brother all her days," Conran commented, shaking his own head.
"Dear God," Dougall breathed and almost felt bad that he'd turned down the man's offer. At least he would have been kind to her, and mayhap had things worked out . . . Well, he had grown quite wealthy through his horse breeding. The only reason he hadn't already purchased himself an estate was that their older brother, Aulay, had needed his aid raising their younger brothers and sister when their parents had died. A dower wasn't an absolute necessity in a wife for him. On the other hand, he didn't know the woman. She was pretty enough, but her brother was a weak man with a few bad habits, drinking and gambling among them. He also apparently had little in the way of moral fiber to him. For all Dougall knew, the same was true of her. But that gasp from her when her brother had offered her . . .
Dougall pushed away the memory. He had nothing to feel guilty about. He didn't even know the lass.
"'Tis a shame," Conran said quietly. "She's a lovely lass."
Dougall merely nodded. She was indeed lovely.
"She looked sweet and demure," Geordie commented from his other side when he remained silent.