“She is safe,” Frederick said, his voice steady. “That is what matters now.”
Fergus nodded, though his composure had not yet returned.
Frederick hesitated only a fraction before drawing him into a brief, firm embrace. It was not a gesture he offered often, nor lightly, but in that moment it felt necessary.
Fergus returned it, just as briefly, his grip tightening once before he stepped back.
“Send word when the hounds return, Fergus,” Frederick said as he released him. “I am relieved that she has returned to ye. And the offer stands to move into the keep should she need… anytime.”
“Aye, me laird,” Fergus replied, his voice still rough but steadier now.
Frederick inclined his head once more, then turned, Lennox falling into step beside him as they made their way back toward the village entrance stable.
For a time, neither spoke.
The path wound gently upward, the ground still damp from the night before, the air carrying the faint scent of earth and smoke. Frederick’s thoughts remained with the girl, with the fragments she had offered and the gaps that lay between them.
“They wanted her to return,” Lennox said at last.
Frederick did not look at him. “Aye.”
“To show us they can come and go as they please.”
“Or to see what we will do next,” Frederick replied.
Lennox glanced toward him. “And what will we do?”
Frederick’s jaw tightened slightly. “We will wait for the hounds. And we will prepare in the meantime.”
Lennox gave a short nod. “I will speak with the men.”
“See that the northern watch is doubled,” Frederick said. “And that no one walks alone beyond the inner paths unchaperoned. Nae until we ken more.”
“Aye.”
Near the outer edge of the village, a small cluster of shops had begun to stir to life, their doors open to the morning air. Frederick’s gaze moved over them without much thought until something caught his attention.
A display of fine fabrics hung just outside one of the shops, their colors richer than most would carry in a place such as this. Silks and delicate weaves that spoke of distant trade, of hands more accustomed to finer work than what the Highlands often demanded.
Madame Estelle Marchand.
He had heard of her, though he had not yet had cause to visit her shop himself. A modiste from France, they said, who had chosen to make her living here of all places. An odd choice, perhaps, but one that had drawn more attention than she likely intended.
The door stood open, and for a brief moment, he caught sight of movement within. A figure passing behind the hanging fabrics, slight and quick.
Frederick’s gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary.
“She keeps fine work,” Lennox remarked, following his line of sight.
“Aye,” Frederick said.Mayhap for the lass…
“Do ye thinkshehas something to do with this?”
“Nay, nae at all, actually. I was thinkin’ of somethin’ else entirely,” Frederick admitted, and then turned away, toward the village stables where they had rested their horses.
19
“Can we go outside?”