Donald Fraser sat the fine black stallion with ease, despite his blacksmith’s build. Lady Anne had told him to ride like hell, but the English were everywhere.
He backed his horse further into the trees and waited for yet another patrol to pass. The soldiers were drunk, and he didn’t need to be in the army to know that was a hanging offence. Which meant military discipline had broken down, at least in some of the regiments. And it looked like he was right in the middle of one of those.
His stomach twisted as the tension gripped him. He wasn’t going to get to Glasgow before the man who’d murdered poor Frasier. He’d promised Lady Anne he would make it, but with every road patrolled by English cavalry, his progress was too slow.
Every road. He looked up at the snow-covered hills. The English wouldna ride over those. Too hard. Too cold. Too dangerous. He smiled. Aye, he might make it in time. But he would need to ride through the night.