The Chase (10 page)

“Er... Helen...” Seonaid began, then paused. Two of the men had lurched to their feet and
stumbled from the fire. The distant sound of retching soon followed.

“Oh, dear.” Helen sounded shaky as a couple more men suddenly stumbled off into the woods.
“Cameron's men did not react this way. I think it may have been the other plant, after
all.”

Seonaid bit her lip to hold back the nervous laugh that wanted to escape. It didn't help
when she glanced at Aeldra and saw her goggling at the woman.

“Ye think?” her cousin asked with disbelief as several more men staggered off. “Yethink it
might have been the other plant? I'm thinkin' it's pretty certain.”

The camp emptied quickly. Seonaid could only be grateful Blake wasn't there to see his
earlier suspicions being confirmed. As it was, several glances had been sent their way as
the men headed out into the surrounding woods. The only ones not presently showing signs
of discomfort were the three Scots Seonaid's father had sent out. They had passed up the
stew in favor of their usual packet of oats, she noticed with concern. Damn. She hadn't
considered them in this plan. It was an oversight that could be a real problem, she
realized unhappily.

“Oh.” Helen stood suddenly. Her face was a mask of misery as she watched Lord Rolfe and
Bishop Wykeham join the burgeoning number of men in the bushes. The men were not quiet in
their agony, and the sounds were a torment to hear.

Aeldra stood too, trying to soothe her. "Now, now, Helen. 'Tis sure I am they'll be fine.
A little

discomfort is all they're sufferin'. They'll be right as rain on the morrow. Or the next
day," she added as the cacophony of sounds grew around them.

“If they do not die,” Helen moaned.

“Well, an' if they do, their sufferin' will end that much sooner,” Seonaid said
practically, drawing a gasp from the woman.

“Well?” Gavin asked.

Seonaid turned to the only men left seated by the fire. The three Scots were grinning
fiendishly.

Now that he had her attention, the Scot asked, “Are ye goin' to make guid yer escape while
ye can or no?”

Seonaid considered him briefly. “Are ye goin' to stop us?”

He merely shrugged. “The Dunbar didna say to stop ye, lass. Jest to keep Sherwell from
killin' himself.”

Seonaid felt herself relax somewhat. She hesitated, then told him, “We never meant to make
them ill.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the retching taking place in the
woods around them. “The stew was supposed to make them sleep.”

“But I picked the wrong plant,” Helen explained pitifully.

“I'll be sure to tell him,” Gavin assured them with amusement.

Grimacing, Seonaid urged Helen to the horses, aware Aeldra followed. She had some trouble
getting the Englishwoman to mount. Helen feared she had sentenced the men to death by her
poisoning. Seonaid assured her the men would be fine, pointing out that they were purging
the stew and whatever poison was in it. Helen didn't appear much relieved but did allow
herself to be urged up onto a mount.

Seonaid and Aeldra then conferred over what to do about the horses. Gavin watched them
closely and would no doubt raise a fuss did she try to free all of them. He'd not allow
her to scare off his or his men's mounts. In the end, they took three horses: Aeldra and
Seonaid's own as well as another horse to replace Helen's injured animal. Then they set
the rest loose... all but the three beasts belonging to her father's men. Seonaid knew she
couldn't get away with setting them free. Unfortunately, she also knew that the rest of
the horses probably wouldn't go far and would be easily rounded up with the horses she'd
had to leave behind. Which meant all this trouble had bought them very little time in the
end.

Blake stumbled back toward camp. His body trembled with weakness from an hour of retching
at the side of the river and still he didn't feel much better. At least the heaving had
stopped. Something in the stew obviously had not agreed with him, though he would not
mention it to Sister Helen. The woman had worked for hours over the meal, and it had been
quite tasty. Since the meat had been freshly caught, he suspected the culprit must be one
of the wild vegetables and herbs the men had scavenged for her. He hoped he was the only
one affected by it. The last thing he needed was three weak women on his hands. Blake
loved women, but he preferred them warm and willing to ailing and wailing. He reached the
camp and stumbled weakly to the log he had been seated on earlier. He dropped onto it
beside Rolfe, who sat, shoulders drooping, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand. The man looked rather pale and

unwell, Blake noted, then frowned at the sight of the bishop lying on the dirt behind
them, holding his stomach and moaning. It seemed he hadn't been the only one affected
after all, Blake realized, and glanced around at the rest of the men. A good half of them
were slumped around the fire, some clutching their bellies and rocking in silent misery,
while more were staggering back out of the bushes to join them. There was no sign of the
women.

“Were the women sickened too?” Blake asked with concern.

“The women?” Rolfe glanced around with bleary eyes. “I imagine they were. They must still
be in the woods. Women are much more delicate than men. They would require more time to
recover.”

Blake grunted something of an agreement as his gaze moved to the fire. He sat still for a
moment, loathe to move and stir up his stomach again, but the women shouldn't be off alone
in the woods. He knew he would have to check on them. After another moment had passed and
none of the women rejoined the sufferers around the fire, Blake heaved back to his feet
and forced himself to walk to the edge of the clearing. He paused there, really too weary
to do a proper search. Instead, he called out into the woods, his only answer the moans of
his men. He stood there, confused and shaky and wondering what to do next, when Little
George lumbered out of the woods directly before him. In all the years Blake had known the
giant of a man, he had never seen him unwell. It wasn't a pretty sight. Putting out a hand
in case he took the notion of toppling on him, Blake asked, “Are you all right?”

Disgust flared on the giant's flat face and he shook his head. “I had three portions of
the stew 'ere I started to feel poorly. I am paying for it.”

Blake nodded in sympathy. He'd gobbled down two portions himself and wished he hadn't been
so greedy. “Have you seen the women?”

Little George shook his head. “Have you asked the Scot?”

“The Scot?” Blake turned back to the fire, only then noting Gavin sitting, grinning like a
fool. The man obviously wasn't suffering like the rest of them. But more importantly, he
sat alone. The other two Scots were missing, and Blake didn't think for a minute they were
with the other men in the woods. The Scots had refused to eat the Englishwoman's stew.
Besides, the man looked terribly amused. He would hardly be so amused if his own men were
ailing. Growling under his breath, Blake moved back to the fire, aware Little George was
on his heels.

“Where are they?” Blake snapped without preamble and glared down at the Scot. “Me men?”
Gavin asked with a grin. “No. The women.” “Hmm.” Gavin shook his head. “Ye'd have more
luck askin' me where me men are.” Blake hesitated, then decided to play along, “All right,
where are your men?” “Followin' the women.”

He stood there for a moment, his face blank, his mind slow to process this news. Then his
gaze shot instinctively to where the horses should have been tied. He wasn't sure what he
had expected to see. All of the horses were gone, but for one. It seemed a good guess that
the one remaining horse was the Scot's

mount.

“Damn!” he cursed volubly. “Damn and double damn! They've flown again.”

“What?” Rolfe interjected weakly and stood to join him. “They could not if they were as
sick as we are. Did they not eat the stew?”

“Nay, theycooked it,” Blake spat out. “At least one of them did.” “But Sister Helen
cooked,” Bishop Wykeham protested, forcing himself to a seated position. "No bride

of God would poison me."

“Seonaid must have convinced her to put something in the stew. She probably told her it
would just make us sleep,” he reasoned, then shook his head with disbelief. “Damn, the
wench would rather kill me than marry me.”

The very idea so shocked him, he could hardly believe it. A sudden burst of laughter from
the Scot drew Blake from his thoughts.

“It was supposed to make ye all sleep, but the nun was unsure which weed would cause it.
She was most distressed that she had blundered so and caused such discomfort, horrified
even at the idea she might be responsible fer yer deaths.”

Blake had started to relax when the man added, “Seonaid soothed her by pointin' out that
should ye all die, ye'd be out o' yer misery.”

The Scot burst out laughing at the horrified expressions on their faces.

Blake recovered enough to scowl at him, then strode to the man's horse. He had just laid
his hand on the mount's tether when Gavin caught up and stopped him. “Horse thievin' is
frowned on here in Scotland.”

“I have to go after Seonaid,” Blake said grimly.

“Ye'll find her faster with me to lead the way. Ye'd no recognize the trail me men will
leave without me.”

“Why?” Rolfe asked with bewilderment as he joined them. “Why would you lead us to her? Why
did you not just stop her from leaving?”

“The Dunbar didna send me to stop her.” “Then why the hell did he send you?” Blake asked
irritably. “To keep ye from gettin' lost... or killed,” Gavin reminded him in a tone
filled with amusement. Before Blake could react to the slight. Rolfe intervened, saying,
“I suppose we had best hie after them.” “Hie after them?” Blake scowled. “On one horse?”

“Well, obviously we shall have to round up the others. They will not have gone far. Look,
there is one there. Is not that your mount?”

Following his pointing finger, Blake saw Rolfe was right. His mount stood not ten feet
away, munching on grass. He had owned the animal for several years, and it was a faithful
beast. Leaving the others, he walked to fetch the stallion, his mind working over the
problem. He had half a mind to let the wench go. Why chase after her? She would just run
again.

On the other hand, he would like to see the wench again. Very much so. He would like to
catch up to her, drag her off her mount, pull her over his knee, and...

Blake stopped his thoughts on a sigh. He felt sick and weary and thought he might be lucky
to stay on his horse long enough to catch up to the woman, let alone pull her off her
mount. But the idea of doing so was a lovely thing to contemplate. Pushing his fantasies
aside, he forced himself to straighten his posture and stride manfully toward his mount as
he ordered, “The rest of you follow as soon as you round up the other horses. I shall give
chase.”

“On your own?” Rolfe and Little George spoke the query at the same time, but in vastly
differing tones. Rolfe sounded dubious, as if he thought Blakecouldn't manage the task on
his own. Little George sounded disapproving, as if he thought Blakeshouldn't do it. The
bishop and the damned Scot, Gavin, were holding their tongues, but the laughter in the
Scot's eyes suggested he was sure Blakewouldn't manage the task.

Always having been a contrary sort, Blake took their reactions as a challenge. He mounted
his beast, then forced one of his wicked smiles to his pale face as he turned to salute
them. “Happy hunting.”

“And to you; you shall need it,” Blake thought he heard Lord Rolfe respond. He didn't
pause to answer the comment as he was having difficulty staying mounted. After his bout in
the bushes, his legs were as weak and trembling as a woman's, as were his arms. His whole
body ached and trembled and his stomach muscles were the worst. He had to consider the
irony of it all. He had survived countless battles yet been laid low by a rabbit. And a
Scottish witch.

It was well past dawn before Seonaid deemed it safe for them to stop. She wouldn't have
paused then except for the horses. The mounts had enjoyed little rest, riding a full day,
then a full night with naught but a couple of hours' break in between. Worried about
themand Helen, who was just as exhausted, but too stubborn to allow Seonaid or Aeldra to
take her up before them on their mountsSeonaid had waited only until they had reached the
relative safety of Comen's croft before stopping.

Comen was a friend to her brother. His home was always open to them on their travels, and
this time proved no exception. Comen's wife offered up the only bed in the small hut, but
they had chosen to sleep in the barn instead. Twice the size of the hut, it was filled
with hay and most likely just as comfortable, if not more so. Besides, Seonaid felt it
best to stay close to the horses in case the men caught them up. It was a very real
possibility. If they still lived.

Seonaid scowled at the thought and turned on her side in the pile of hay she had made for
herself. Aeldra and Helen were sleeping soundly, but Seonaid hadn't yet been able to find
that happy state. She needed sleep but felt tense and wound up inside. It had been a
tiresome task to ride through the night. Seonaid had constantly had to strain her eyes in
an effort to judge the ground they crossed in the moonlight. It wouldn't have done to have
another horse lamed on top of everything else.

Then there had been the tension of listening and watching for attack. It wasn't until they
were well away that Seonaid had realized they hadn't found and retrieved their weapons
before riding off. The three

women were traveling unarmed. It was then Seonaid had realized just how rattled she had
been by the men's reactions to the stew. She really hadn't wished them ill. Perhaps the
Sherwell deserved it, but Lord Rolfe... well, hewas trying to force her to marry Sherwell,
but the bishop certainly did not deserve to be made so ill. Even if he planned to perform
the ceremony binding her to the damned Sassenach.