“Captain.”
“My lord?”
“It seems Tristan MacPherson has been hired to kill me.”
“MacPherson?” the captain asked. Hell. This was serious. “What are the details? How long do we have to prepare?”
“According to this,” the earl said, dropping his dark eyes on the letter, “it could be any day now.”
Damnation! Of all the times for the earl to have sent the guards away! “I must go and make plans with the men. You should go below stairs. There are tunnels—”
The earl shook his head. “I will not run and hide. I will fight with you at my side.”
If Tristan MacPherson was truly on his way here and the earl was not hiding, MacPherson would surely kill him. “My lord, MacPherson does not usually engage in battle. When he does, he does not lose. He will not attack until he is upon you and can cut your throat from behind. That is how he does things. Go to the tunnels. Let us take him.”
“You know much about him,” the earl remarked, raising a gray brow.
The captain shifted his position. He had heard the stories. He’d listened to every one of them, learned all he could. But not because he was studying his enemy. MacPherson killed men who were accused of terrible crimes but did not hang for them. He was paid to kill. But the captain wondered if MacPherson would have killed them for free.
Harper agreed with what he was doing. The others did as well.
“’Tis best to know your enemy, my lord.”
He might know more, but every soldier in northern England knew of Tristan MacPherson. His reputation was perfect and without blemish. He always killed who he was paid to kill. He never missed, never backed down.
“Let me escort you below stairs,” he offered the earl.
“I thank God Rose is not here.”
“As do I, my lord, but come now.”
“Captain, get my sword. As I said, I will not hide. I want you to go find him if you can, kill him.”
Kill Tristan MacPherson. Strange how studying him for the past year made it feel as if Harper knew him, even admired him. But he owed the earl his life. He nodded his head. “I can,” he vowed and then left the solar.
Aye, this was more like it. Hunting a murderer. His heart beat faster, stronger as he thought about which of his blades to carry, how much food he would need, which of the three remaining guards should he put in charge? Jones, for certain. Of the three, he was the one practicing his swordplay every day.
After he saw to the men and to his needs on the road, the captain left Callanach’s gates and turned his horse north. He had about two hours of sunlight left. He would make camp outdoors and keep a watchful eye for any firelight in the darkness in case the killer moved at night.
He still cursed the earl’s decision to send off any of the other men to Hamilton with his daughter. But he wouldn’t waste his time dwelling on should-have-beens. He’d been given the chance to kill a fearsome executioner and he wouldn’t fail.
No matter what the captain thought of the killer.
Chapter Ten
Tristan opened his eyes from his sleep and stared at Rose’s face. Her eyes were closed, her breathing, finally slow and steady. It had been a difficult night for her, but he had been there with her, holding her through it.
He still couldn’t believe she was the earl’s daughter. Of all the women…why her? Why did it have to be her beautiful, warm, dark eyes that would haunt him for the rest of his days? Her sweet, sultry smiles that made him want to ask her permission before he tore off her clothes. He was lost. He was lost to his next target’s daughter.
He closed his eyes for a moment, to gather his wits and give himself respite from her maddening effect on him. Who was it that paid him four hundred pounds to kill the earl? He had to find out. They were wrong about the earl killing his daughter. Mayhap they were wrong about the earl killing his wife. Would he truly hold off on killing the earl for her sake?
As he said. Maddening. He hadn’t been paid to decide someone’s guilt or innocence. He’d been paid to kill. What if, after being paid, he decided his victims weren’t guilty and he didn’t kill them? Everyone would ask. His name would be ruined.
He opened his eyes and found her watching him. He thought of the only reason there was to smile, that she hadn’t pushed her way out of his arms. “Good morn,” he greeted, though the sun wouldn’t be fully up for another hour. “How are ye feelin’?”
“Better that I ask you how you are feeling. You look green.”
“’Tis the predawn light.”
“’Tis your thoughts, Tristan,” she insisted. “You are having second thoughts about your promise.”
He laughed, but it sounded empty to his ears. He pulled is arms free and sat up. “Nae. I am not. But I was thinkin’ of my promise to the man who paid me.”
She sat up next to him. “My father will pay you more.”
“I willna be bought, lass.”
She stared into his eyes for a moment and then rose to her feet. “I’m not hungry. I just want to go home.”
“We didna have any tea last
