Page 45 of When the Laird Conquers

“Well, ye’re very welcome,” the baker urged. “Rest assured, none of us will let anythin’ happen to ye.”

A few others nodded and mumbled their agreement.

“About time we had a Lady Buchlann again.”

“Might bring folks back to the castle. Have us a gatherin’ again.”

“Och, wouldnae that be a fine thing!”

“There’s naught like a weddin’ and bairns to make folks forgive and forget. About time, I should say.”

Listening to the women talk, even though she didn’t quite understand everything, Agnes felt warmth in her chest, as if she had just sipped some good port.

These people had no reason to welcome her or even speak to her, considering she was essentially a foreigner, but they were kind and open and easy to be around.

“This one is certainly where she belongs, with hair like that,” one remarked, laughing. “What happened to her faither?”

“Ye cannae ask questions like that,” another woman scolded.

Agnes chuckled faintly. “It is quite all right. She is my niece. Her mother is… dead, and her father… wants nothing to do with her.”

“Och, the poor thing!” the baker crooned. “And ye poor thing, too.”

It was the strangest thing, to look around at a group of women she did not know and suddenly feel like she might actually have a future here. That she and Lizzy might be happy here. It was the unmistakable sensation that these were good people and this was a good place, far better and less judgmental than any she might find where she came from.

For one thing, if she had gone out and about in the town closest to her father’s home, everyone would have known the circumstances and turned their noses up. No one would have cooed over Lizzy like these women were.

Indeed, she was enjoying herself so much that she did not pay enough attention to the three men who had just approached the baker’s stall. Patrons, or so she thought, until one of them said in a clipped English accent, “Lady Agnes?”

Before she could stop herself, she turned at the sound of her name, an instinctual “Yes?” slipping past her lips.

She didn’t know them, didn’t recognize them, but she recognized her mistake well enough.

One of the men spotted Lizzy, now some distance from the safety of Agnes’s sling, being adored by two older ladies on the periphery of the group.

Both Agnes and the Englishman moved at the same time.

The man got there ahead of her, but the women holding Lizzy seemed to realize something was amiss, keeping the baby close, protecting her like she was one of their own.

“Get yer mitts away!” one of them snapped, while the other woman swatted at him.

Stricken, Agnes reached for her niece. She felt Lizzy in her hands, felt herself pull the baby closer, felt that everything was going to be all right, when the second man jumped in.

With one hand, he grabbed Lizzy by the back of her little dress, and with his other hand, he shoved Agnes with all of his might. Her grip on Lizzy slipped along with her balance, and she went tumbling to the ground, a sharp, winding pain shooting across her shoulders and through her chest.

As the air was knocked out of her lungs by the impact, it carried a single word, “Gordon!”

17

To their credit, the village women were not about to let Englishmen kidnap the child they had adopted as one of their own.

From her wounded, winded position on the ground, Agnes watched the women try to save Lizzy, grabbing and smacking at the men who sought to steal her.

But the men were brutes. They didn’t care who they hurt as long as their mission was complete. They shoved and punched and dragged the women as they struggled to find a way to escape with their prize.

Get up! Agnes, get up!

She tried, but in the chaos, she kept being knocked back. The women were too concerned with rescuing Lizzy and protecting themselves from harm to even notice her on the ground.