The Bard (Highland Heroes #5) - Maeve Greyson Page 0,80

proud nod. “Me and mam are more than a little grateful she wasna hurt like she couldha been. We be keeping her in our prayers for healing. There’s none better than Lady Sorcha. She’ll be sorely missed here at Greyloch.”

“Thank ye, Gibb. I’ll be certain to share yer kind words with her.” Sutherland didn’t slow, just kept heading for the wagon. Even young Gibb couldn’t be trusted. After all, who better than a stable boy to tamper with a saddle? But the only question would be why? He pushed away the thought as quickly as it came. If Gibb returned and turned out guilty, he’d figure out the motive then.

Circling the wagon, he made a show of checking the depth of the hay, the wheels, the rigging. He assumed a concerned look as he examined the tongue of the wagon, grabbing hold of a peg and giving it a stern wiggle. “I’ll make that bugger more secure before it causes any trouble,” he said loudly. As he went to the tool stall and fetched a hammer, he kept watch in case anyone entered. He hadn’t spotted Magnus, but he felt the man’s gaze on him just the same. Good. If he couldn’t see Magnus, neither could the scoundrel.

No one showed up, and Magnus didn’t sound the alarm, but he went through the motions of hammering the wooden peg anyway. There was no such thing as an unimportant detail when it came to a finely tuned trap. After one last look around, he took his post, perched on a keg of horseshoe nails, and hid himself beneath a length of tarp. With the way the wall was filled with knot holes and split boards, he could clearly see the rear, the right side, and a good bit of the front of the wagon. He could also watch for anyone attempting to do anything under the wagon. Magnus’s viewpoint from above would take care of everything else. Now, all they had to do was wait.

After a while, Gibb returned, punched down the layer of hay one more time, then decided to add more. The lad gave the wagon one last satisfied look, patted the wheel, then exited.

Sutherland wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or disappointed that Gibb appeared innocent. It would have ended their ploy quite nicely to have their trap so quickly sprung. Long minutes became even longer hours. Darkness came, and Gibb returned one last time to check on the stock, secure and light the lanterns, and close the wide double doors. With the dim lighting and the main entrance shut for the night, surely their blackguard would finally make his move. After all, the criminal would know that Lady Sorcha would be ready to leave at first light.

Every rustle in the hay, every groan and creak of the building, the slightest hint of any sound set Sutherland’s teeth on edge. Where the hell was the fool? Why hadn’t he shown?

He rubbed his eyes and allowed himself a tiny shifting of his cramped muscles. With his chin propped in one hand, he glared at the wagon. What if the bastard didn’t come? What if they had somehow tipped him off, and he had discovered their snare? But how? They had hardly spoken of what they’d plotted unless they were in the privacy of Sorcha’s chambers or completely alone. And once they had settled on all the details, the only way they had talked of traveling to Tor Ruadh was as though the situation was real, rather than a trap.

But if nothing happened, if no one attempted more wickedness, then what would he do? Sorcha was in no condition to travel no matter how deep the hay was in the back of the wagon. His dear one needed several more days of rest before attempting to move, much less endure a two-day ride across the Highlands.

An eye-watering yawn made him rub his eyes again. The longer he sat, the more he wondered how they would undo their snare when the sun rose, and nothing had happened. He and Magnus would have to find a way to slip out without anyone being the wiser. He finally relented to his cramped muscles and stood, rubbing his arse where the iron lip of the nail keg banding had left what felt like a permanent dent.

Hay rustled overhead. Apparently, Magnus had needed to move, too. Something creaked, then was followed by a quiet thud. Hinges, perhaps? Had it been the closing of the small man