The Recruit Read Online Free PDF Page B

called them. Eyeglasses. Invented by an Italian monk more than two decades
     ago, they were still quite rare. She’d mentioned them once when she’d realized how
     much of a toll the long hours working by candlelight were taking on her eyesight.
     It was getting harder and harder to see the tiny stitches. “They are magnificent.”
     She carefully placed them in the box and threw her arms around him, giving him a big
     hug.
    “Thank you.”
    He blushed, chortling happily.
    Such displays of emotion weren’t normal for her—at least not since she was a girl—and
     she was surprised at the emotion welling in her chest. She realized she felt more
     affection for the old merchant than she had for her own father.
    Just for one moment, her arms tightened as if she would hold onto him for dear life.
    Then, suddenly embarrassed, she pulled away. What must he think of her? But her usual
     reserve seemed to have deserted her. “How much do I owe you?” she asked.
    He bristled, waving her off as if she’d offended him. “They are a gift.”
    She eyed him sharply. “Giving the merchandise away for free? You should be ashamed
     to call yourself a tradesman.”
    He chuckled at her attempt to sound like him. “It’s an investment in future returns.
     How can you sew if you cannot see? I intend to make quite a healthy profit off you,
     milady.”
    Mary’s eyes felt suspiciously damp. “Careful, old man, your reputation as a ruthless
     negotiator is in jeopardy.”
    His eyes seemed to be shining a little brighter than normal as well. “I shall deny
     every word. Now you’d best take yourself away from here, or mine isn’t the only secret
     that will be in jeopardy.”
    With one more hug, Mary did as he bade.
    Though she would have loved nothing better than to enjoy the bright sunshine by wandering
     around the fair for a while, she knew it was better if she did not. The instinct not
     to draw attention to herself went deep.
    If there was a slight wistfulness in her heart after the exchange with the children
     and the merchant, she knew it would pass. She had everything she needed. If at times
     she felt as if she were missing something, she reminded herself to be grateful for
     what she had.
    Finding the groomsman waiting for her where she’d left him, Mary mounted her horse
     and started on the long ride back to the castle.
    With the silver in her purse, the sun shining on her face, and no longer the need
     to look over her shoulder, she felt a sense of peace that she would have thought impossible
     three years ago. Against all odds, the frightened, sheltered, overlooked wife of a
     traitor had built a new life for herself. On her own.
    Mary’s hard-won contentment turned to barely restrained excitement when she saw who
     awaited her on her arrival. Sir Adam! Did he bring news of her son?
Please, let him be squired nearby …
    She burst into the room. “Sir Adam, what news of—”
    But the rest of the question fell abruptly from her lipswhen she realized he had not come alone. Her eyes widened. The Bishop of St. Andrews?
     What was William Lamberton doing here? The former Scottish patriot, who most thought
     responsible for Robert Bruce’s bid for the crown, had been imprisoned by the first
     Edward for over a year before making peace with the second last year and given partial
     freedom in the diocese of Durham. In her mind, Lamberton was inextricably connected
     to the war.
    Unease wormed its way through her excitement. She suspected, even before she heard
     what he had to say, that the day she’d feared had just arrived.
    After a quick exchange of greetings, it didn’t take the men long to tell her what
     they wanted. Her legs wobbled. She fell to the bench, which was fortunately behind
     her, in shock. Just like that, the walls of the life she’d built for herself came
     crashing down.
    Part of her had known this day would come. As the daughter of a Scottish earl and
     the widow of another—even one hanged for