Free Highland Angel by Hannah Howell Page A

nervous and afraid lately. O’erheard the mon and his bitch of a wife muttering about rumor and suspicion and needing to be verra careful for a wee while.”
    “Ah, good. The rumors are starting to work their magic.”
    Callum nodded. “Simon says the wife isnae happy about it, is whining about the money lost if they dinnae keep Sir Roderick happy.”
    “Jesu, ’tis times such as this that I wish I was a verra big, hairy mon so I could stomp in there and pound those wretched people into the mud.” She ignored Callum’s soft laugh, even though the sound of it made her heart soar. “Can the lad be of any help to us?”
    “Aye, he says he will do what he can. Told him we would come round each day we could at this time, for ’tis when he fetches the water for the evening gruel. He will nod his head as he works if he has something he needs to tell us. I didnae tell him where we were to be found, for I am nay sure he could stand firm if pressed for the truth.”
    “’Tis probably for the best,” she said as they began to creep away from the wall, slipping into the deep shadows of an alley a few houses away before they eased their stealthy progress a little. “We will follow your plan for now.”
    “He is a good lad, Simon is. He will do all he can to help. Ye see, he kens what Roderick is. His father told him. Nay too long afore he died.”
    “How did his father die?”
    “Stabbed in an alehouse. The mon went there every Saturday evening for a drink and a tumble with one of the maids. He had just returned from taking a few bolts of fine cloth to Sir Roderick and had a full purse. Told his son to nay get near the mon, went for his drink and tumble, and died.” Callum frowned. “The mon saw something, didnae he.”
    It was not a question, but Kirstie still replied, “I believe so. He was silenced. Roderick is verra good at silencing people, either wih a heavy purse or a knife in the back. Roderick must have kenned that the weaver was nay one to be silenced by coin. I think we should tell Strong Ian about it. He may be able to get some people to tell him about how the weaver died, mayhap e’en get enough information to lay the blame at Roderick’s door.”
    For a while they walked in silence, winding their way through the narrow, sheltered alleys of the town. It was time to return to Payton’s home, but they were always careful not to be seen coming or going. It was as they made their way carefully through a refuse-strewn alley that Kirstie heard an odd sound. She grasped Callum by the arm, halting him beside her, and then listened carefully.
    “Did ye hear that?” she asked Callum a moment later, speaking as softly as she could yet still be understood.
    “Sounds like someone is crying,” Callum whispered back, even as he searched thealley all around them.
    Kirstie bit back a protest when he moved toward a bundle of filthy rags near one damp, moss-covered wall. She carefully followed him as he bent down and, knife held at the ready, began to peel away the rags. Huddled beneath the filth was a small boy. Kirstie knelt down and, murmuring comforting words, gently turned the child’s face toward hers. As the dim shaft of light coming down into the alley from between the rooflines of the buildings hit the child’s face, Kirstie inhaled so quickly, she nearly choked. Filth, streaked and smudged by tears, and vibrant bruises marred the little face, but she still recognized it.
    “Robbie?” she asked, not daring to believe that the little boy could have survived for so long, injured and on his own.
    “M’lady Kirstie?” the boy mumbled.
    “’Tis Robbie, isnae it?”
    “Aye, m’lady. Moira?”
    “She is weel,” she replied as she took off her cloak and, as gently as she could, wrapped his bone-thin body in it. “We will take ye to her.”
    “She is safe?”
    “Aye. I got her away from that mon. Ye should have waited for me, lad. I came back.”
    “I needed to find Moira.”
    He gasped when she picked