Page 35 of Beloved Enemy
“Speaking Longshanks’ English, laird,” Angus reported.
This drew an immediate frown from Reid, and the hall fell into a tense silence, even the smallest of movements stilled.
Angus went on, “Dark cloaks, they wore, moving under the cover of night. Nae worries, but for the sounds spilling from their lips.” He cast a sideways glance at the hearth, where Charlotte stood, as invested in Angus’s report as everyone else was. “I ken a bit of the tongue from my time down south. I dinna catch the words themselves, but I’d know those English sounds anywhere. I’m nae saying it was the fresh-faced lass here, the one they’re all nattering about around here,” he added, scratching at his brow with dirty fingers. “Nae, these were clearly men’s voices—ye ken my eyesight is nae what it once was, but my ears dinna fail me.”
Reid’s jaw tightened as he absorbed the news. He didn’t like that Angus had mentioned Charlotte in his account, though it was an understandable leap; she was the only other English-accented person in Kingswood and had only recently arrived, just days before these mysterious figures had appeared. He was also somewhat irritated that Angus had chosen to present this information in the public forum of the court session, rather than bringing it to him privately.
Angus’s croft was the southernmost structure on Kingswood lands, and the woods nearby would be an ideal meeting place—secluded and easily accessed via the lane. “They were all speaking English?” Reid asked, keeping his tone even.
“Nae, Laird, nae all of them,” Angus replied. “But I clearly heard two distinct voices, men both of them, and English, I’m sure.”
“Did ye recognize anyone in the group?” Reid inquired, his tone sharp with intent.
“Canna say I did,” Angus replied with a shrug, but there was a hesitation in his eyes, a reluctance to reveal more. He clucked his tongue and grimaced, as if debating whether to share the rest.
“I need to ken everything, Angus,” Reid pressed, his voice firm, leaving no room for evasion.
Angus shifted uncomfortably before finally speaking. “Sure and I could’ve sworn I saw a Nicholson tartan,” he muttered. “Same as yers, same as yer soldiers wear.”
Though Reid’s expression remained stoic, a wave of alarm surged through him. The presence of Englishmen on Kingswood lands, especially during a tenuous truce, was troubling enough, but the secrecy of their meeting—held under the cover of night and in such a secluded spot—suggested something far more sinister. And now, the possibility that one of his own men—scarcely any but full-blooded Nicholsons and his army wore breacans with the blue and green tartan—might be involved in plans of treachery struck a deeper chord of unease.
His mind raced, calculating the implications of this potential threat. If there was a traitor among his ranks, someone with the ability to pass unnoticed in the night—and this threat was real—their daring to meet so close to the keep was indeed cause for concern. More than that, this wasn’t only a matter of an external threat, it was an internal danger that could prove far more critical and perilous.
But as Reid processed the information, a part of him hesitated. Angus was old and had just admitted that his eyesight was not as keen as it once had been. Could he have imagined the tartan in the shadows, his mind playing tricks on him in the dark? Reid didn’t want to call out the old man in front of the others, but he couldn’t ignore the possibility that Angus might have been mistaken.
“How many met in the woods?”
“Nae less than four, nae more than six, of that I’m certain.”
Reid nodded, his expression thoughtful. This would clearly require further investigation, but he had no wish to alarm the denizens of Kingswood with his concern. “Very well. Thank ye, Angus, for bringing this to my attention.”
As Angus stepped back, Reid’s mind continued to churn. He would need to verify the old man’s claim, quietly and thoroughly. Whether or not Angus had imagined what he saw, Reid couldn’t afford to take any chances.
Reid cast a pointed glance down the table toward Muirchertach, who quickly understood the unspoken command and rose to his feet, announcing the close of the court session.
Before the steward could make the announcement, one of the crofters, Kinnear, stepped forward.
“Och, and one more thing, Laird,” he called out, wringing his hat nervously in his hands. “Sure and I’ll be quick.”
Reid paused, giving the man a nod to continue.
After a quick glance toward where Charlotte stood, Kinnear began, “Speaking of Una's visitor—"
“Were we?” Reid interjected harshly, beyond annoyed that this, now, was the third time Charlotte’s name had come up in matters that had nothing to do with her.
Kinnear paled a bit but soldiered on. “Aye, laird,” he said and cleared his throat. “And so I was wondering...if she might be available—or even amenable—to a bit of courting. Nae onlyfor myself, ye ken, but I kent it best to ask.” He hesitated, then added quickly, “Of course, I’d seek her favor proper, with yer permission.”
Though caught off guard, Reid managed—he hoped—to hide his instant visceral reaction. Aye, his scowl darkened, and a flicker of raw irritation darted across his eyes, but he tamped it down swiftly enough, he was sure.
But why did he care so much? Or at all? It wasn't as though Charlotte belonged to him—she was a guest in his domain, not his property. Yet, he couldn't deny a surge of possessiveness that flickered within him, while some nagging inner voice shouted in his head,Charlotte is mine!
His nostrils flared at the preposterous idea. He reminded himself—assured himself—he was intrigued by her beauty, by her disturbing circumstance—if it be true—but that he wanted nothing to do with her. Nothing.
And yet, the thought of her being courted, especially by someone like dough-faced Kinnear, stirred an unexpected twitch of jealousy. Reid found the feeling perplexing and, if he was honest with himself, maddening.
“That will be her decision to make,” Reid allowed, his voice low and hoarse.
All eyes turned toward Charlotte, some with more hope than others.
