There was a huge splash, and Margaret let out a shriek, as Rory plunged into the woodland pool from above, spraying her with water, as she sat at the edge by the waterfall.
“Rory, you are like the children, even they are old enough now not to leap into the pool in such a way,” she said, laughing, as he emerged, his hair streaked down around his ears, dripping wet as he climbed out onto the bank.
He shook himself, spraying her with water and causing her to shriek and run from the side of the pool as he chased her.
“Then ye must jump in too, Margaret. Tis’ a hot day, come now, ye need to cool off,” he cried, as she ran from his embrace.
“I have no desire to get any wetter than I already am,” she cried, but it was too late, and now he had her in his arms, carrying her back to the water’s edge.
“I shall dae it, I shall dae it,” he cried, holding her over the water, as she let out a scream.
“And I shall never speak to you again, you awful brute,” she cried, as he pulled her back and brought her into his embrace.
“Would I dae such a thing?” he asked, and she laughed.
“Not if you valued your life, you would not,” she said, and he kissed her.
“Another day, perhaps,” he said, smiling as he set her down carefully on the ground.
“How nice to be alone,” she said, laying back in the sun and smiling up at him.
“Just as we used to. Dae ye remember the walks we would take out here after we were married, the days we would spend here by the pool,” he said, and she nodded.
“Without care or worry to our name,” she replied, and he nodded.
“And we are still blessed with few worries to this day,” he said, coming to lie down in the sun next to her.
“Oh, you are still wet, Rory, I hope the sun will dry you before we walk back to Kirklinton,” she said, and rolled over and kissed him again.
“Well, now that ye are wet, why nae join me for a swim,” he said, looking at her mischievously.
“No, besides, we had best get home. Otherwise, Evie and Hamish shall be at Kirklinton before us,” Margaret said, rising to her feet and stretching out in the sun.
It was the height of summer, the sun casting dappled shadows through the canopy of trees above and the birds singing all around. Together, Margaret and Rory walked hand in hand through the forest, speaking of old times and remembering the past.
“I wonder what tales we shall hear from the children,” Rory said, and Margaret laughed.
“They are hardly children, Bryce and Hanna are grown up and are almost of age. They are growin’ up fast,” Margaret replied, as they came to a fork in the forest path.
“Perhaps we shall gather some mushrooms to take back with us. There was a dampness in the air last night, and now this heat from the sun. There are bound to be mushrooms aplenty beneath the shade,” Rory said, pointing along the path.
“Well, we must be quick, the sun is well past its midpoint, and we still have an hour or so to walk back to Kirklinton,” Margaret said.
“We shall look over here, come now and … oh,” Rory said, as they entered a little clearing, only to find a little old woman, bent double and picking mushrooms from beneath a tree.
She looked up as they approached and nodded to them.
“The Laird honors us with his presence, God bless ye, sir,” she said, bowing to him.
“Good woman, ye daenae need to bow to me. How did ye know I was the Laird, have I met with ye before?” he asked, and the old woman smiled.
“There is nay mistakin’ ye for the Laird and this yer fair and beautiful wife. May there be much blessin’ for ye to come in this life and the next,” she said.
“We had hoped to gather mushrooms to take back to Kirklinton, but ye need them more than we,” Rory said, nodding to her and smiling.
“There are plenty of mushrooms for us all, sir. The forests are yers, and ye have kept the peace here these many years past. The earth can spare mushrooms for us both, here take a few of mine,” she said, offering the ones she had picked.
“Good woman, nay, ye are too kind,” Rory said, but the old woman insisted, thrusting them into Margaret’s hands and fixing her with a smile.
“Aye, and ye have been the blessin’ that he sought, that which he knew nae,” she said, as though talking to herself.
“What dae ye mean?” Rory asked, but the old woman only smiled and tutted to herself.
“Only the words of an old woman who has seen much of life, sir. But I know that now yer life will be blessed, I am certain of that,” she said, and she waved them off, as she made her way from the forest clearing, waving to them as she went and beginning to sing.
“What a curious creature,” Margaret said, looking down at the mushrooms and back at Rory, who shrugged his shoulders.
“The woodlands are full of such strange people,” he replied, taking her by the hand as they walked together out onto the moorlands.
The afternoon sun had turned the heathers a rich and beautiful golden purple, the moorlands stretching out in front towards rolling hills in the north. Margaret breathed in the fresh scent of the breeze, which seemed sweet and invigorating after the closeness of the forest.
Together, they walked towards Kirklinton, eager to return and see Evie and Hamish. The sun was at its afternoon point, and tonight there would be a feast to celebrate their reunion, for it had been a month since last they had seen one another.
As they approached the turning to Lochrutton, they paused by the graves of Isla and Fraser, now buried together after Isla’s death some ten years previously. Margaret stopped and picked a posy of flowers from the wayside; the two of them entered the graveyard, laying the flowers and pausing for a moment to pay their respects.
“I often wonder what my father would make of these long years of peace,” Rory said, sighing and looking out across the moorlands.
“He would be proud of his son for all that ye have done to make that peace work,” Margaret said, slipping her arm through Rory’s.
“He would be astonished to think that the Musgraves have given us nay trouble in all these years,” Rory replied, shaking his head.
They set off along the track towards Kirklinton, the castle appearing particularly beautiful in the late afternoon sun with the banner of the Elliotts fluttering above.
“On days like this, I almost like the old place, though I should still prefer to reside in Armstrong castle,” Rory said, as they came to the gates.
“And you would be miserable there, for you would never receive a single visitor or hear anything from anyone,” Margaret said, smiling at Rory, who laughed.
“Aye, perhaps ye are right,” he said, as they came into the courtyard.
It seemed that their guests had beaten them, their horses just being stabled. A moment later, there came a call from the steps of the keep, and Evie and Hamish hurried down to greet them.
“We thought we were late in arrivin’, but it seems our hosts lingered in the forest,” Evie said, embracing Margaret and Rory in turn.
“Someone wanted me to swim with him,” Margaret said, shaking her head.
“Ah, well, we called in on Caitlin too, she is well,” Evie said, and Margaret smiled.
“She is always a good friend to us, we see her often with Hector as they drive their sheep upon the moorlands,” Rory said, as the four of them made their way inside.
“Tis’ good to be back at Kirklinton. I may nae have called it home these many years past, but it shall always be so,” Evie said, as they entered the great hall, with its long tables and the Elliott coat of arms hanging proudly upon the wall.
“The scene of much happiness and heartache, that is what I always say,” Rory said, settling himself down by the hearth.
Margaret sat next to him, and Evie and Hamish sat opposite.
“What of Grant and Ailsa, will we see them while we are here?” Evie asked, and Margaret smiled.
“Elsa is away visitin’ with Owen at Lanercost, she loves to see her uncle, or so she says,” Margaret replied, shaking her head.
“And Grant?” Hamish asked.
“Away down in Lochrutton today, though he shall be back by nightfall. Tis’ strange how they call upon him when someone is sick, he is just like our father,” Rory said, and Evie smiled.
“Those healin’ hands,” she said, and the others nodded.
“And what of your children? Though they can hardly be called children any longer, just like our own. How quickly they grow up. It is twenty years this month that we were married,” Margaret said, glancing at Rory, who smiled.
“Bryce is headstrong like his father, Hanna is a gentle creature, shy and timid. She spends most of her time upon the moorlands, it would dae her good to see her cousins, she and Elsa have always got on,” Evie said, and Margaret nodded.
“But enough of the youngsters, for now, we should drink a toast to these past twenty years,” Hamish said, and Evie nodded.
“Aye, a toast to the Laird of the Elliotts and to his wife, a true Elliott if ever there was one,” she said, as Rory called to the servants for whiskey to be brought.
“I have not felt like an English woman in many a year, I have not set foot below the border in twenty years, though my accent continues to betray me,” Margaret said, as glasses were handed around.
“An honorary Scot but a true Elliott,” Evie said, raising her glass.
“Then let the toast be to peace and prosperity, to thanksgiving and to good health and long life,” Hamish said.
“And for ye and yer clan too, Hamish,” Rory said, raising his glass.
“Two names and yet one true family and friendship. For twenty years, we have enjoyed that peace, and may it last another twenty years, for so long as we have breath, we shall make it so,” Hamish replied, and they clinked their glasses together and drank.
“And let us toast the happiness of marriage too,” Evie said, smiling at Margaret.
“And the strength of us women for putting up with these two for so long,” Margaret said, laughing as she turned to Rory and smiled.
“I shall remember that lass, and I shall remember to be less merciful the next time ye beg me nae to throw ye in the pool,” he said, and leaning forward he kissed her, as they toasted the happiness of marriage and the hope of a future yet to come.
If you want to know what lies ahead in our story, you may want to get the sequel…
Owen Elliott’s attempt to save Charlotte from danger results in despair and anguish. But when their paths cross again years later, neither knows who is standing in front of them. And yet love always comes unexpectedly and takes refuge in their hearts, ignoring that one should never fall for the enemy… At least if you don’t want to have your heart broken once again.
Rory Elliott was restless. He gazed out of the window across the moorlands towards Lochrutton, sighing as he did so.
“Tis’ nay use,” he said out loud, “I am like a prisoner in my own home.”
He got up and made his way from his chambers and down into the great hall. His mother was there, and she looked and smiled at him, as he scowled back.
“Now then, Rory, what is it that ails ye?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“I am tired of bein’ here in the castle. Why does father insist that I remain here while he is away?” Rory said.
His father had been visiting the Laird of Klinross, a two-day journey to the north. In his absence, Rory had been left in charge of the castle and the clan. A fitting test for one who would one day be Laird.
“Because yer father has given ye a responsibility, Rory. He trusts ye, does that nae mean anything to ye?” his mother asked.
Rory nodded. It meant a great deal to him, but still, it frustrated him. His brother Owen was in the monastery at Lanercost, living out his religious vocation and his sister Evie was happily married and living with her husband Hamish and her children at the castle of the McBryde’s, some miles to the east. Only he, Rory Elliott, was living precisely the same life as he had always lived.
It was a life devoid of interest unless one counted the archery and swordsmanship, which his father made him practice almost daily. He would ride out at his father’s side or visit tenants and crofters on the high moorlands. But Rory was always his father’s second. This was the first time any responsibility had been given him, and far from being excited by the prospect, he still found himself as though tethered to the Laird’s apron strings.
“It does. But … if I am to be Laird, I must have more trust placed in me. By ye and by my father,” he said, eyeing his mother for her reaction.
She smiled, shaking her head and beginning to work once more on her spinning wheel.
“Ye are headstrong, Rory. Just like yer father. But he was less impatient than ye. He dreaded the day yer grandfather died. The thought of that responsibility filled him with terror. If truth be told, I think it still does,” she said.
Rory found that hard to believe. His father was every bit the noble warrior, a man feared and respected in equal measure. The Elliotts were a proud clan and used to fighting battles against overwhelming odds. Was it not his father who had led them to victory over the Musgraves and who kept the uneasy peace upon the borders? Fraser Elliott took his responsibility seriously, and he had long impressed upon Rory the need to do the same.
“Father is nae afraid of anythin’, and neither am I. I would face a thousand Musgraves right now, but instead I am sat here mindin’ the affairs of peasants, while father is away on the true duties of a Laird,” Rory replied.
“And takin’ care of yer dear mother too. The true duties of a Laird are many, and ye would dae well to know that, Rory,” Isla replied, somewhat pointedly.
Rory sighed. He wanted an adventure, something to lift him from the monotony of life at Kirklinton.
“And I dae that gladly, mother. But I am tired of bein’ here right now. Owen has his life, Evie has hers. What is there for me?” he asked.
“Think of it this way, son. Owen’s life is decided for him at Lanercost, his vows of poverty and obedience mean he cannae leave, and Evie will live out her days with Hamish at the castle of the McBryde’s. They are happy, of course, but ye still have the future to look forward to. Who knows what adventures ye might have?” his mother replied.
Rory nodded. His mother was right, of course. To wish his place as Laird fulfilled was also to wish the sad death of his father. Fraser Elliott had been in ill health lately, a recent illness almost having taken him before his time. But he had rallied, as strong as an ox, as his sister Evie might say.
Rory did not wish his father dead, not for a moment. But he longed for something more, some excitement in his life to break from the normal drab and daily grind of peasant’s work and oversight. He was no farmer, he was a warrior, and right now, he longed for adventure.
“I suppose so,” was all he could reply, and his mother laughed.
“Oh, Rory. Ye always were so headstrong. If ye cannae tolerate bein’ here a moment longer then why daenae ye walk to Lanercost with yer uncle. He is leavin’ Kirklinton shortly, and ye can take my love to yer brother and tell him to visit us soon,” she said.
“But father said …” Rory began, and his mother raised her hand.
“Yer father is nae here. Go, Rory, I will be quite all right here. There are soldiers aplenty, and I have old Sweeney for company. I am just glad that ye shall have time to think a little. Be on yer way,” she said.
Rory did not need telling twice, and he hurried off to find his uncle and prepare for the journey. It may not have been the grand adventure he dreamt of. But right now, anything was better than sitting in the castle, listening to the complaints of crofters, and collecting taxes for his father. Rory was ready to stretch his legs, and he made his way to the courtyard, where he found his uncle preparing to depart.
“Ah, well now, my nephew,” his uncle said, smiling at him, as Rory entered the stable.
“Mother has told me that I am to escort ye to Lanercost,” Rory said, not wishing to reveal the precise reason why he was taking to the path.
“Did yer father nae give ye instructions to remain here while he was away. Unless trouble flared up along the borders?” his uncle asked.
Rory’s uncle had a way of seeing beyond words to the truth, and it was clear he considered his nephew to be lying. Rory blushed and nodded.
“Aye, uncle. But my mother has said differently,” he replied.
Duncan shrugged his shoulders and smiled. He had an elderly look about him, though he was younger than Rory’s father by several years. It was his long white beard, which made him look thus and his enormous eyebrows, which seemed to grow bushier with every visit.
“I shall be glad of the company along the path. Ye can protect me from brigands and outlaws,” his uncle said, laughing and shaking his head.
The path to Lanercost was a safe one, thanks to Rory’s father. There had been peace along the borders these past years, and Rory had not had cause to lift a sword in anger for months. The last time had been a simple dispute between crofters, one easily resolved when the Laird had threatened to banish both parties from the clan if they did not desist in their argument.
“I am sure that nay one would attack a monk of Lanercost,” Rory said, though he tied his sword belt to his waist just in case.
“A monk is as much a target as a Laird. More so, since any would-be thief knows that I would turn the other cheek,” his uncle said, laughing once more and shaking his head.
“The truth is, I will be glad of the journey, and I should like to see Owen,” Rory said, as Duncan led him across the courtyard.
“Ye miss yer brother?” his uncle said, as the gates of the castle were swung open for them.
“I … well, I envy him at times,” Rory replied.
“Ye used to call him ‘little monk’ and mock him for his piety,” his uncle said, walking next to Rory through the gates.
“Aye … that was only a joke, Uncle Duncan. I daenae mean I envy his life. Though I can see it makes him happy. But I … I envy that he has found his way and …” Rory began.
“Ye are still searchin’ for yers? It will come, nephew. Give it time. While yer father lives, ye shall always be in his shadow. Think of Hamish McBryde. He lived in his father’s shadow for years, and it was only upon his death that life changed for him. Daenae wish too hard though, or ye may get yer wish. God listens to the thoughts of our hearts, and he can read yers as though they were written in a book,” his uncle replied, shaking his head.
They walked on in silence for a while, crossing over the moorland path which led towards Lochrutton. It was a pleasant day, the clouds high in the sky, and a gentle breeze blowing across the sweet-smelling heathers. Rory watched as a hawk circled above, diving like an arrow to catch its unseen prey below. How he admired its freedom and the way it seemed to soar so majestically above them, monarch of all that it surveyed.
“Is Owen happy?” Rory asked as they took to the path west towards Lanercost.
“Aye, yer brother is happy. He is a monk,” Rory’s uncle said, laughing, as was his habit for he always seemed to have such peace about him, a peace which Rory envied at times.
“I didnae mean that. Is he happy that he has found his way?” Rory said, and his uncle paused.
“What is it that troubles ye, Rory? Ye are askin’ about others happiness, what of yer own. Are ye nae happy?” his uncle said.
Rory paused for a moment, uncertain of how to reply. Once again, his uncle seemed to have a way of seeing through his words to the truth, and he knew that a lie would never get past him.
“I … I daenae know. Sometimes I am, and sometimes I am nae,” he replied.
“Well, that is nay answer, lad. Ye may as well say that sometimes ye are hungry and sometimes ye are nay. It means nothin’ until tis’ one or the other,” his uncle replied.
Rory sighed. He wasn’t happy, not really. He had a burning desire inside him for something more than the everyday existence he was living. He longed for adventure or the chance to prove himself. Something to lift him from the drudgery of life and offer him the opportunity to show his father and others what he was made of. That, and he wanted a wife and not just any wife, the woman he had so long desired and who was forever out of his reach. He was restless and could only admit that he was not happy at all
“What have I achieved? I am nae the Laird, I have nay responsibility, and I have nay wife. Owen has found his vocation, and Evie is happy with Hamish and the children. What dae I have?” Rory said.
“Opportunity, lad,” his uncle replied, patting him on the shoulder.
“What?” Rory asked, surprised by his uncle’s words, which seemed almost meaningless.
“Why does everyone think they must have everything their heart desires in an instant? Tis’ nonsense, ye still have the chance to make somethin’ of yer life. Ye are twenty-five years old, Rory. Why dae ye want everythin’ now? Is life a journey or a destination? The destination for us all is heaven, so enjoy the journey and daenae worry about arrivin’ at somethin’ before ye are ready for it,” his uncle replied.
Rory nodded, his uncle was always so wise and knew just the thing to say. It made sense, of course, just like everything the monk said. He was the smartest person Rory knew, far more so than his headstrong father.
“Aye, uncle,” he replied as they set off together along the path west.
“I might nae know much of the ways of the world. I have been a monk these many years past, but I know about the soul, and I know that ye are restless, Rory. But have patience,” his uncle said.
“I know, tis’ hard, though, but …” Rory said, but he had no time to finish his words, as the sight of something ahead caused him to startle and turn to his uncle in alarm.
There, heading straight towards them, were three English soldiers, their swords drawn and angry looks upon their faces.
Chapter II
It was too late to run away, and he was no match for the men alone. His uncle bore no arms, but Rory drew his sword anyway, as the three men advanced towards them along the track.
Each bore the insignia of the Musgraves, and Rory knew from the stories told him by his father and the times he’d encountered them before, that the Musgraves were more likely to attack than listen to reason.
“You there, boy,” one of them called out, “what business do you have wandering along this path?”
“Our business is our own,” Rory replied, stepping forward between his uncle and the men.
“A Scot and a monk. What clan are you?” the lead soldier asked, advancing ahead of the others and drawing his sword.
He had a nasty look to him, a scar running down his cheek, and his sword was bloodied and sharp.
Rory wondered whether to make up a story and tell a lie. The Musgraves would not take kindly to discovering that he was an Elliott, for the Musgraves were bitter enemies of his father, as they had been of his grandfather before. But it was his uncle who stepped forward, holding up his hands in a sign of peace.
“Come now, lads, can ye nae see that I am a monk of Lanercost? I bear nay arms, and this lad here is accompanyin’ me to the monastery where his brother is a novice. Let us be about our business, and we shall let ye be about yers. I will pray for ye,” Rory’s uncle said.
But the lead soldier only shook his head and laughed.
“An old monk and a boy with a dagger in his hand, what nonsense. You say his brother is a novice at Lanercost? Is not the Elliott Laird’s son a novice? And would you be the Laird’s brother? I have had dealings with the Elliotts these many years past. I know an Elliott when I see one. This boy must be Rory, am I right?” the soldier said, turning to the others and laughing.
Rory wanted to rush forward and clash swords with them. But what good would it do? He would only be outnumbered, and no doubted injured or worse. He replaced his sword in its hilt and turned away.
“We have nay business fightin’ with ye,” his uncle said, “come now… Andrew, let us be on our way.”
“Andrew?” the soldier said, “do you really expect us to believe that? You are Rory Elliott, and you, old man, are Duncan Elliott. We are not fools, and we know our enemy when we see him. Come now, boy, let us see what you are made of. Fight me,” the soldier said, stepping in front of Rory and pointing his sword at him.
“I have nay desire to fight ye,” Rory said, though every instinct he possessed was saying different.
“So, you do not deny that you are Rory Elliott?” the soldier said.
“Careful,” Rory’s uncle whispered to him as Rory raised his sword.
“I will nae fight ye,” Rory said, shaking his head.
“And what if I wish to fight you? What then? Will you deny the challenge?” the soldier asked.
“He is a coward,” one of the others said, “they all are. These Scots are no better than dogs. You have heard the stories of how his father begged for mercy on the battlefield and then ran the noble Howard Musgrave through when his back was turned.”
At these lies, Rory’s face flushed with anger, and he raised his once again, ready to strike the man for his insults.
“Peace,” his uncle called out, but Rory’s sword had already clashed with that of the soldier, who laughed as he took up the challenge.
“You see, he is who we say he is. The fool has revealed himself,” he cried.
“I am nay fool,” Rory said, lunging forward and causing the soldier to stumble backward.
Quickly, he regained his footing, bringing his sword clashing against Rory’s, as the other soldiers urged him on.
“Strike the runt, see him dead,” they cried out, as Rory’s uncle watched in horror.
“Nay, peace,” he cried out, but, as he did so, an astonishing thing happened.
The English soldier had just raised his sword to strike Rory a vicious blow when a dagger whistled through the air. It hit the English soldier in the back, and he fell down with a cry, as the other two spun around in disbelief. They drew their swords, but Rory had rushed forward, striking one hard as he let out an anguished cry. The other turned tail and fled, leaving his fellow soldiers lying dead by the trail, as Rory and Duncan looked around in astonishment.
“What?” Duncan said, “where?”
“Over there,” Rory said, pointing through the trees.
There, standing tall and proud, was a beautiful woman. The sight of her quite took Rory’s breath away, and he was amazed that they had been rescued, not by any man, but by a woman with long auburn hair and a proud look on her face. Now, she stepped out of the trees and approached them, and with every step, she appeared more beautiful.
As she came to stand before them, she looked down at the English soldiers and up at Rory, who shook his head in disbelief. He had never seen such a woman before, her piercing green eyes locked with his, a look of satisfaction on her face.
“Who are ye?” his uncle asked, and she looked away, as though unwilling to reveal the truth.
“A friend it seems,” she said, in an English accent.
But, as she did so, she raised her hand to her forehead. She turned back to Rory, her cheeks suddenly growing pale before she sank to the ground with a sigh.
“Quickly, she is delirious,” Rory’s uncle said, rushing forward to catch her.
Rory stooped down, cradling the woman in his arms. She really was very beautiful, with pale soft skin and long hair trailing across her shoulders. She murmured something, but Rory could not understand what she was saying, and he looked up at his uncle in alarm.
“What is wrong with her, uncle?” he said, but Duncan shook his head.
“I daenae know, lad. But quickly, we must get her to Lanercost. We are too far from Kirklinton to turn back now. Besides, the apothecary will know better than we what to dae,” his uncle replied.
The woman was barely conscious, and it seemed that in the excitement of the fight, she had fainted, though she continued to mutter under her breath in words that Rory could not discern. He thought he heard the word “Musgrave” and perhaps ‘soldier,’ but that was all. Together, he and his uncle helped her stand and carried her between them along the path towards the monastery.
“What if more soldiers are on the road ahead?” Rory said, glancing warily around.
“I daenae think there will be. Those men had nay business on this path, though it worries me why they were here. The English are growin’ bolder of late, and we have heard reports of English soldiers as far north as Buccleuch, unheard of before,” his uncle replied.
Rory nodded. He felt nervous, but the need to get the woman to safety spurned him on. She had saved their lives, and they owed her that much, if not far more. He kept a close watch on the path either side, looking out for any further ambush. But it seemed the way was quiet, and they met no one until they came in sight of Lanercost.
The ancient monastery sat close to a river, surrounded by farmland and paddock. A motley collection of houses had grown up around it, inhabited by peasants who worked the land alongside the monks.
Rory was glad at the sight of the red sandstone walls, bathed in the late afternoon sun. He had always loved visiting his uncle at Lanercost, and he was looking forward to seeing Owen again too. But the presence of this mysterious woman was unsettling, and the sooner her identity was discovered, the better.
“What dae ye think can be done for her?” Rory asked as they came towards the monastery gates.
“We shall see, lad. I think she is simply in shock, there are herbs and remedies to help her. If only yer father were here, tis’ ailments like this that he was often called upon to assist with. His healin’ hands as they used to say,” Duncan replied.
“My father was well known for it, but of late he …” Rory began.
“Of late he has had other matters to attend to. Come now, let us get her inside,” Duncan said.
They helped the woman along the track, and, as they did so, several of the peasants peered curiously around their doors.
“Brother Duncan, what is this? Who is this woman? Is she hurt?” one of them asked, stepping forward.
“Tis’ all right, she will be fine. We came across her on our way here from Kirklinton. Tell the others to take refuge in the monastery walls this night. There are English soldiers on the path, and ye will be safer behind our gates,” Duncan replied.
The gates of the monastery were open, as they always were in the day, for the monks welcomed travelers and pilgrims. As they came to the threshold, an elderly monk stepped out from the gatehouse with a curious expression on his face, holding up his hands.
“Brother Duncan, the prior has been lookin’ for ye, but what is this?” he asked.
He was ancient, with a beard like Duncan’s almost down to his waist and with a keen eye and a look of wisdom about him.
“This lass saved our lives on the path. I would have been back far sooner, but we were set upon by three English soldiers, and if it were nae for her, we wouldnae have survived. My headstrong nephew here was ready to fight them, but this lass intervened, much to our benefit,” Duncan replied.
The monk appeared worried, glancing over Rory’s shoulder as though he expected to see an army of English soldiers charging up the track towards the monastery.
“We should sound the bells, call the peasants inside the walls,” he said, and Duncan nodded.
“I have already told the villagers to seek shelter here. Though I daenae think that even the English are bold enough to attack a place of peace and prayer,” Duncan said.
“Ye daenae know what the English are capable of, Duncan. They killed my parents long ago, and they will kill us all in our beds one day, ye mark my words,” the monk replied, shaking his head.
“Nay one will kill ye in yer bed, Seth. I promise ye that,” Duncan replied, “but now, we need to get this lass to the apothecary. Is there space in the infirmary for her?”
“Aye, the two who were sick have left us now. Take her there, and we shall pray for her recovery and the safety of us all,” the monk replied.
Rory and his uncle helped the woman through the gates and into the cloister. It was an ancient place and had stood for some five hundred years, its bell now tolling out from the great tower above. There was a sense of timelessness here, for it had been a place of constant prayer in good times and bad.
They made their way through the cloister’s arches towards a staircase that wound up to the monk’s refectory above, opposite, which was the infirmary. The woman was trying to say something, but still, her words were delirious and muddled.
“Tis all right,” Rory said, as they came to the great old oak door of the infirmary, “now ye shall have the help ye need.”
Duncan pushed open the door, revealing the infirmary beyond. It was a large hall, beamed in heavy oak, and with a row of neatly made beds along one side. The sun was streaming through the windows, and on the other wall were shelves lined with hundreds of dusty old bottles and books.
At the sound of the door opening, one of the monks looked up from his duties. He was young, no older than Rory, his hair tonsured in the same manner as Duncan’s, and was tending to a man lying in a bed at the far end.
“Brother Duncan, dae ye bring me another patient?” he asked, looking at the woman.
“Aye, Callum, we met this lass on the path between here and Kirklinton. She collapsed shortly after rescuin’ us from English soldiers who attacked us. She seems delirious, too,” Duncan replied.
“Then get her to bed, we shall to see to her,” he replied, hurrying over and calling out to another monk who sat at a table by the window writing in a large ledger book, “Brother Luke, bring lavender oil and we shall see if we might revive her.”
The other monk went to the shelves, pulling out a large bottle of purple liquid, as Rory and Duncan helped the woman onto one of the beds. Rory was pleased to see her settled there. It had been a long walk to Lanercost, and he was tired, as was his uncle, who sat down heavily on a chair at the side of the bed.
“What a thing, God bless the lass for helping us,” he said, mopping his brow.
Brother Callum poured some of the oil into a dish and held it carefully by the woman’s face. The scent of it seemed to revive her immediately, and she opened her eyes, blinking in the light, and trying to sit up.
“Tis’ all right,” Brother Callum said, “ye are amongst friends here.”
The woman looked nervously around her, but all of a sudden, she fell back onto the bed as the monks tried to catch her.
“Tis’ some illness of the mind,” Brother Luke said, “perhaps a stronger method of revival is needed?”
Brother Callum nodded, turning to the shelves and pondering the array of remedies before him.
“I think,” he said, turning back to Rory and Duncan, “that it would be best if ye left us to care for her. I will send for ye when she is revived. I daenae think she is permanently damaged. There is shock in her, and shock must be rested and allowed to subside. We will dae all we can for her in the meantime, I promise ye. It will soon be time for the evening office. Prayer is yer duty now.”
Duncan nodded and stood up wearily from his seat.
“Come now, Rory. We shall see yer brother after we have sung the evening office,” he said.
Rory nodded. He paused a moment, looking down at the woman laid peacefully on the bed before him. She really was very beautiful, despite her pale face. Her hair was thick, falling across the pillow on which she lay, and he could hardly take his eyes from her, her cheeks soft and supple, her eyes now closed as she breathed gently in the peace of sleep. He had never seen such a woman before, and she was surely no peasant. Who was she? Where had she come from? And why would an English woman attack English soldiers in defense of two Scots? It was a mystery and one he had every intention of solving.
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Julia and Calum walked together by the shore of the Sound, Julia’s arm in Calum’s. Uncle Andrew was gone now, and both Julia and Calum had settled into a comfortable life together, free from his poisonous presence.
Julia sighed with contentment and caught Calum’s eye. “I have never been happier, Calum. I hope you know that.”
Calum smiled. “Aye, lass, that I do, but I’m still glad tae hear it from ye now and again. Are ye sad that Charlotte will be leaving us soon?”
Julia nodded. “Yes, I will miss her terribly. She has been like a balm to help me heal from all those years under Uncle Andrew’s thumb. But I am glad she won’t be far. Of course, we must soon go to London for the trial.”
They had received word from the lawyers that their presence would be required in a few weeks. Calum said, “Aye, but we willnae be in London long, Julia. I think ‘twill be a quick and easy trial. There are many witnesses against yer Uncle, I am sure.”
Julia sighed. “Yes, you’re right. I just hate to leave Charlotte alone. She has been to Scotland before, but now it will be for a much longer time, and there will be hardly any other women at the barracks. Unless there is another General coming with his wife.”
Calum winked. “I’m sure Angus will take care of the lass. He’s had his hands full with her already.”
Julia turned to him, a smile on her face. “Yes, what is going on? I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about it, and she avoids the subject as well. He’s always telling her what to do or fighting against her ideas. It seems that stoic Angus is back. It’s quite entertaining. But, I thought they’d get on well, and they’re always arguing. Or Charlotte’s yelling at him, and he looks solemn and grim.”
Calum laughed. “Angus has said naught tae me except tae complain about her strong-headedness. He feels ‘tis his duty or something tae watch over her as a guest of yorn. But there is more than meets the eye. Of that, I am sure. I’ve not seen my brother get so angry about anything for years. I think she’s getting tae him.”
Julia put her arms about Calum’s neck and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I hope so. How lovely would it be if they were tae fall in love?”
Calum said, “I doubt that, but we shall see. I think other matters are on my mind at the moment if we could forget my brother and Charlotte.” He leaned down to kiss her, but Julia pulled away and pointed away towards the hill.
“Look! Angus and Charlotte on the hill together.” She laughed, “It appears she is once again giving him a piece of her mind.”
Calum sighed with disappointment at the interruption of his amorous thoughts. But he couldn’t help but chuckle at the verbal beating Angus was getting. “That cousin of yorn has quite the tongue.”
Julia smiled. “That she does. And I admire her for it. Keeps a man on his toes.” She looked at Calum with a lifted eyebrow.
“I have done naught. Dinnae turn her acid tongue ontae me!”
Julia laughed and kissed Calum once again, feeling like life could not get any better.
***
Charlotte Andrews was frustrated. She was used to getting her way, her father was like putty in her hands, and now someone kept fighting against her with his superior air and grim attitude: Angus MacLean. Ever since she had struggled to keep Uncle Andrew from the brink of death, he had fought her every suggestion and defied her instruction.
He was a man who did not like to be bossed around, but if she was the smarter one in certain areas, like medicine, then why would he not oblige? She was still frustrated about the time when Angus and Calum went without her to Fort William, not allowing her to take part in the plan to save Julia from harm.
It had been my idea, and they did it without me. Men, always thinking that they are better than women in every area. Who needs them?
Even though it had been explained that it was for the sake of her safety, she still couldn’t help be angry. But what annoyed her, even more, was the way that Angus looked at her whenever they were all together. He was stiff, stoic, and grim in his body language, but he always watched her, and his eyes told a different story.
It made Charlotte frustrated that she found him so handsome, the most handsome man she had ever met, and she had met quite a few at the balls in London. Most men were usually falling over themselves to speak to her.
But why should she even care about what he thought? It wasn’t as if she was going to marry him. Charlotte Andrews, a well-known lady in the high society of London, marry a Highlander? Albeit a ruggedly handsome, magnificently well-formed one?
She had stayed on the Isle of Mull to assist in Uncle Andrew’s health and would soon be returning to her father, who had just been transferred to Fort William to be General there. He helped in John Campbell’s case, and at her urging, and his conscience, he freed the man, wrote a judgment letter for General Whiteman, and packed Andrew away to London for his trial.
She wanted to savor every last minute of her time at Duart Castle before she had to go and live at the barracks. She hated to leave Julia just as they’d been so gloriously reunited, but it would be unseemly if she continued to stay there. She enjoyed the freshness of the beautiful isle, and the walk allowed her time to breathe and think all by herself, without someone getting in the way.
She decided to climb the nearby hills to get a better view of the water. “Bloody skirts,” she yelled to the air as she struggled to climb freely, attempting to avoid tripping. The wind was no help either, as the higher she climbed, the stronger it blew so that she felt like she was almost falling backward.
She took another step as she crested the hill, and cried out, “Oh!” as a giant gust of wind pushed her backward, and she began to fall. But then, strong hands grabbed her around the waist and held her steady.
“Ye all right, lass?” she heard over the gust of wind. The voice was all too familiar, and she looked down to see the workworn hands holding her waist tightly. The feeling gave her too much pleasure, and she hurriedly pushed them away and turned to face her rescuer.
“I am very well; thank you. I would have been just fine. ‘Tis simply the wind. I am perfectly able to climb a hill by myself. What are you doing here? Come to instruct me in the ways of climbing?”
Angus was looking up at her angry expression, red curls swirling about her face, their strands whipping across her pink lips.
Charlotte tried to stay angry and show it, but it was growing harder to do so, with Angus’ beautiful light brown eyes looking through her. She lifted her chin slightly, and Angus responded.
“‘Tis a fool’s errand tae climb in such a gale. Ye might fall tae yer death, lass.”
“There you go again, telling me what to do, and enjoying it tremendously, no doubt. There is no end to your admonishments.” She threw up her hands and nearly fell again, but Angus’s hand was there once more to catch her. She looked up and thought she saw a flicker of mirth in his eyes, but it went away just as quickly.
She huffed and began to walk down the hill, Angus following after. “I was only trying tae help the cousin of my sister-in-law from breaking her bloody neck,” he said once they reached the bottom, the noise of the strong wind softening.
Charlotte looked forward. “Your interventions are unnecessary, Mr. MacLean. I do not need any bloody assistance. I’m certain it bothers you very much to put yourself out in this way.”
“Does yer cousin know ye swear like an angry Highlander fighting a boar?”
Charlotte tried not to smile at such a line. She wouldn’t let him see that she thought him funny. “Yes, she knows very well. I care nothing about what society thinks of me. I shall do as I please.”
Angus walked faster and moved around so that he could face her. Seeing him in her way, Charlotte put her hands on her hips and stopped. He was so tall that she had to crane her neck to look into his eyes when standing on flat ground.
Angus continued, his jaw clenched. “Aye, I know ye will do as ye like. Ye often do. But dinnae get yerself killed in the process, or Lady MacLean will have my head.” He then turned his back to her and walked towards the castle.
Charlotte yelled back. “Are you no longer my protector then? Good riddance!”
She watched his back for a moment and then turned the opposite way. “Infuriating man! How dare he? No English gentleman would speak to a lady in such a way!”
Good thing she was leaving soon so that she could escape Angus MacLean as quickly as possible.
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Isle of Mull, Scotland, November 1717, Seat of Clan MacLean
Calum MacLean rode hard and fast, following the coastline of his beloved isle. He saw the beauty of the green hills and the gray of the rocks and the blue of the sea, but he didn’t really see. His teeth were set, and he breathed sharply and quickly as he rode. Riding was the only way he could escape the truth of what kept gnawing at his mind. He was losing his clan.
Everything he had dreamed and learned about since he was young would soon be gone. And it was all his fault. He could barely bring himself to look at the portraits of his ancestors that hung within his castle walls. Soon, if he did nothing to stop it, the Campbells would come for his land and his castle, either merging his clan with their own and making ties with the English, or pushing them off their land entirely, leaving them as homeless orphans, wandering the desert like Moses.
Calum’s horse, Fìor-Ghlainne, named for the supposed purity of his former wife, knew the land well, and she rode steadily, beating her hooves against the ground, hoping to bring her master some solace. Calum thought about his brother and second-in-command, Angus, and the words he’d just said that set Calum to riding.
“We need food, brother. We must hunt! Yer clansmen are starving around ye, and ye have nae eyes tae see it! Ye can only see yer own pain. We need tae work the land. We need tae establish trade. Brother, ye will lose yer people if ye dinnae stop it. The English are here! And they will spot yer weakness and exploit it. Whether ‘tis they’ or the Campbells, Clan MacLean will become nae more upon the Isle of Mull.”
Angus was younger than Calum by 5 years, but in many ways, he was so much wiser. He had been the smarter of the two of them in their studies with the tutors, but Calum had been the jollier one, the more sociable, until the event happened which broke Calum and made him the unpleasant man who was riding along the coastline today.
Once Angus had spoken the words, Calum had left, feeling the fury rise in his throat. How dare his brother, his own subject no less, speak to him in such a way? Surely, he, the laird, would know best what to do with his own clan. His father would never have tolerated such remonstrances from their uncle. Why must he?
But the more he rode, and the more he fell into a sullen reverie with each beat of the horse’s hooves, the more he realized his mistakes. Yes, he had made many and had let the clan, clan lands, and the castle fall into disrepair. As he stared across the isle as he rode, it was as if he was seeing it for the first time in a long time.
The ground was brittle and dry. Fishing boats were in need of new wood. Animals wandered without fences and were sickly. He knew they were often lost in high tide or from simply wandering too close to the Sound. And Duart Castle, which rose before him in the late morning light, still looked formidable, but also looked tired and weak.
He rode towards the old gray stone walls which looked solemnly out to sea as they had for hundreds of years, and he suddenly felt a pang of regret. He would have to do something to make up for his mistakes. And maybe apologize to his brother as well. Maybe.
***
Julia scrawled into an old leather notebook atop her uncle’s desk. “2,000 pounds, Uncle. Why that is double what you earned at the tables last week. You are improving, I see.” Her voice was flat and emotionless.
Julia’s Uncle Andrew grinned at her from the fireplace, sticking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. He had grown rather fat in the past fourteen years, despite being a decorated General, and Julia did not like to look at him long. His powdered wig sat untidily upon his head, and he spoke with great obsequiousness and condescension, as he always did with her.
“Well done, Julia, my dear, my beauty. You are so talented with numbers; your mind has been blessed by Pythagoras himself.” He winked at her, and Julia looked away quickly, a sharp pang of nausea filling her stomach. He came up behind her at the desk, placing his hands behind on her chair. Julia pretended not to notice, continuing to scrawl away in the notebook, preparing columns for the next round of gaming her uncle was sure to engage in.
“My dear, you are growing prettier every day, you know, and it has not gone…unnoticed.” Julia wished she could disappear, but she continued to appear as calm as she could. It was true. However much she would have wished to stay a child, free from men’s clutches and desires, Julia had grown into a woman. And her uncle was reminding her of it nearly every day. He painted that compliment under a guise of wanting her to get married and find a wealthy husband, but if ever a man showed too much interest at balls and gatherings, her uncle would shoo them away, saying they were unsuitable. No one seemed to be good enough for his niece, who had become like a daughter to him.
And while the thought was so disgusting and so unusual, Julia could not shake the feeling that underneath everything, there lay a desire for her from her very own uncle, and she feared what might happen if she lived alone with him for too much longer under his roof. It seemed impossible, but every time he mentioned what he was about to say, the idea came ever closer to reality.
“Your bright blue eyes, my dear, and your smooth, pale complexion against your dark, ebony hair.” Julia could feel her uncle’s fingertips slowly caressing the top of her head. “They are enough to tempt any man.”
“And yet, no one has proved suitable to you, Uncle.” Julia pushed the chair back into him, and he made an ‘oomph’ sound, bending over slightly with a grimace of pain. But he soon regained his composure. Julia stood by the hearth, farther away from him and crossed her arms. While it was the fashion for young ladies to have low necklines and tightened waists, Julia felt uncomfortable under her uncle’s gaze, and so she would cross her arms in an attempt to cover what she could.
He chuckled. “Your usual stance, I see. And yes, no one has quite come up to scratch, I’m afraid, but it is not true any longer.”
Julia’s heart stopped, but she simply lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes, dear niece. I have found a friend who I believe will be quite suitable for you. He is a military man and one of my contemporaries. We will travel to Scotland tomorrow to meet him.”
Julia’s arms fell to her side, and her eyes opened in surprise and anguish. “What? You have found…” She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words.
Uncle Andrew took her surprise and speech as her enjoyment of the news. “Yes! You will be a wife at long last. Is that not what all women aspire to?”
Julia grimaced. Not quite, she thought. Especially not when marriage was what it was so often evidenced to be: a prison for the woman who must do exactly as her husband says and live a life of lonely desolation. “But, he is your contemporary? He will be too…old.”
Not often was Uncle Andrew angry, but when he was, Julia would recoil in fear at the intensity of it and how quick he could flit from cheeriness to anger. He stepped ever so slightly closer to her, but she stood steady, only moving her face slightly back from his.
“You would do well to remember, Julia, who it is who controls the wealth of this estate, who controls to whom it goes, and who has taken care of you all these years. It is not in your best interest to disrespect me or those whom I call friends. You will marry this man because I wish it. You will live a life of ease in Scotland, and I will reside there as well.”
Julia was confused. “You will be there?”
He returned to his earlier cheery mood, smiling back at her. “Why yes.” He reached his hand out and lightly touched the side of her face. Julia stood still, hardly daring to breathe. “I have been transferred for the time being to work along with General Wade’s plan to improve that brutish, wild land and bring it to English standards. I also thought that you might be lonely without family about, my dear. General Whiteman is a very old friend of mine, and he has welcomed me to stay with you both. I hope you do not mind?”
Julia knew best not to argue at this moment. But she had to think of something. “No, Uncle. ‘Twill be good to have family about me when I embark on this new adventure.” Uncle Andrew did not notice the lightness and artificial cheer that filled her voice.
“Excellent. Send your maid to begin packing. We will leave tomorrow morning.”
Chapter II
Angus MacLean sometimes wished he could punch his brother in the face as hard as he could. Of course, being brothers, such a thing was possible, but he didn’t think it would solve anything. Laird Calum MacLean was about as stubborn as stubborn can get, especially since his loss. He had always been so merry and joking, full of happiness from day to day, the very opposite of the quiet, reserved, stoic Angus; but now, he was a changed man. Now it was Angus who appeared to be the jolly one. Calum had been cold and hard the past four years. Nothing seemed to lure him away from his bitterness and sorrow.
However, Angus was hopeful this morning. So many things had come to a head that it was time he told Calum the truth of what was going on. He hoped it would wake him out of his stupor. He had given his brother enough time to grieve. They needed to start building up the clan again, to bring it back to its former glory. But over the past years, Calum had not moved. He had seen nothing wrong, and so had let the clan fall into weakness and uselessness.
But after Angus had spoken this morning, Calum had hurriedly left in anger to ride away on the coast. Angus waited in the main hall, pacing, hoping with each second that passed that Calum would return, the old vigor in his eyes. Even if he did not, Angus had arranged a group of men to meet with the MacLeans on the coast of the mainland to hunt and trade wares.
Even if Calum did not agree, he would take them across the Sound. The clan would not survive the winter if he did not do something. As he paced, Calum burst into the room and surprised him. It was not unusual for Calum to be bursting, but Angus had been on edge ever since he’d left.
“Brother! Ye have returned from yer ride. I hope it aided ye?” Angus asked hopefully, a little too cheerily for Calum, and so Calum’s eyebrows furrowed in displeasure. He called for wine.
“Aye, I’ve returned, but I cannae say I’m in a better mood than when I left. Brother.”
Angus’s heart fell. He supposed it was too late to ever hope for a change. He would just need to take matters into his own hands, or the Campbells would take over and bring shame to the MacLeans, being traitors and dogs who were in league with the English.
The wine came, and Calum sat gruffly down on one of the chairs against the stone wall. His voice softened. “But, I ken yer right, lad. Go. Send the hunters. The MacLeans on the mainland will help us and let us use their land.”
After saying that, Calum drank his wine in one gulp and then put his face in his hands. It was as if the effort of trying to make changes took everything out of him. An excited Angus moved closer to his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder. He whispered, “She is not worth this, lad. She is not worth a lifetime of sorrow.”
From beneath his hands, Calum said, “But how could ye know what she is worth? How could ye know what she has cost me?” His voice was raspy with emotion.
“Be the laird our father always knew ye would be. Dinnae let clan MacLean suffer because of what she has done.” With that, Angus left, knowing there was nothing more to say. His heart ached for his brother, it really did, but it was time for action. And Calum was still young, not being yet 30 years of age. He had his whole life ahead of him, and he was wasting it on that bitch. What Calum needed was a swift punch to the face and to find a good woman. Angus yearned for that for himself as well, but he would never have said so, and he had never found any woman to be enough for him. But for Calum, it was time he married again.
But now, to the hunters. They would be assembled quickly and sent across this very afternoon. And perhaps, clan MacLean would have a new chance at survival.
***
Julia’s lady’s maid had packed her case with care, providing everything her young mistress would be in want of. Books and notebooks, of course, filled a great portion of it. She would not need too many ball gowns in Scotland, but they were necessary all the same. Julia sat across from her Uncle Andrew in the carriage as they said goodbye to her family home in the fashionable area of London and headed towards Scotland.
She barely had time to write to her cousin, Charlotte Andrews, about her departure. She and Charlotte had hardly seen each other since her Uncle came into his wealth, yet she was still the closest friend Julia had. There was no one else she really knew, aside from mere acquaintances she met at social gatherings. And so, with tears in her eyes, Julia had written to Charlotte to let her know her fate. It had finally come.
She knew it would, but she had hoped she would be married to someone in her beloved London and not someone who was stationed off in the wilderness. She did not know much about Scotland, other than what she had read. The English seemed to disdain the people there, especially the Highlanders, who were reputed to be fierce, uncivilized, and uneducated.
She was not one to enjoy geography as much as science and mathematics, and so she was terribly unsure as to the exact location of Fort William on a map. And she was, of course, unsure as to whom her bridegroom would be. She’d heard of General Whiteman, for his fierce reputation preceded him, but she’d never seen him or heard him described. But her heart told her that he would look just as Uncle Andrew looked: balding with white wisps of remaining hair, fat, old, and ugly. And he would probably be just as…uncomfortable as Uncle Andrew was.
Ever since her father died, and her uncle began taking over her day to day life, Julia’s experience with men had been mainly limited to him and the servants. She spoke occasionally to men at balls until their liaisons were swiftly interrupted and broken. In her heart, besides her father, she thought all of them vile creatures. Men, especially wealthy, greedy men, were of the worst kind, and she had no false illusions as to the happiness of her future wedded life.
Julia lay back against the carriage seat as it bumped along, allowing her mind to help her accept what was about to happen. Uncle Andrew was asleep, and his mouth opened and gurgled with each breath he took. She made a face of disgust and wished she could tear open the carriage doors and push him out into the road to be feasted upon by the wild animals. Julia looked out at the countryside that surrounded them.
They had long left London behind, and what was around them now was rolling hills, dotted with sheep. The sky was a beautiful bright blue, and Julia thought she was looking upon a storybook page. She had never been outside of the great city, and so this seemed like another world. Her father had always meant to take her on his occasional travels, but after his death, she was stuck endlessly in the same place.
Julia pulled away from the window, feeling the sting of impending tears behind her eyes. Father’s death changed my life for the worse. It’s as if I’ve lived two lives. One of happiness before and one of sorrow and tragedy after. I can honestly say, I have not felt happy for one day in these fourteen years.
Then escape. Julia sat upright in surprise. A voice not her own felt like it had spoken to her mind. She looked around, feeling unnerved by such a phenomenon.
She attempted to speak back. Escape to where? We are nowhere.
The time and opportunity will come. Take it.
Julia gripped the edges of the carriage seat and bit her lip. She felt oddly comforted by the voice. But surely it was just her own voice speaking to her. They must be her own thoughts. The time and opportunity will come, she repeated to herself.
She looked across at Uncle Andrew and felt hatred in her heart grow so strong; she thought she would nearly burst. He had been no father to her, but merely a benefactor who was making her more uneasy with each passing day. How could this man have been her lovely father’s brother? Julia squinted her eyes at him. The area around his eyes reminded her slightly of her father, but that was it. That was where the resemblance ended. What would her father say if he knew what was happening now?
Julia wanted to scream. She repeated in her head, the time and opportunity will come. But would she know when it came? And would she take it?
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Fin was off his horse before it even stopped running. He ran across the bailey, his boots thundering hard across the wooden bridge that connected the yard to the keep proper. He dashed into the entry hall and stopped, looking around. At one end of the building was a large hearth, the fire blazing inside of it, cutting the chill in the air.
A young man who served as Col’s squire approached him, his face ashen, his expression grave. He stopped, and Fin was sure he could see tears standing in the boy’s eyes.
“What has happened?” Fin asked.
“The… the Lady has been poisoned,” the young man said.
Fin’s eyes widened, and his belly churned. He had gotten word while out hunting that something had happened, and he needed to return to Westmarch Hall immediately. He had ridden with all haste to get back to the keep, fear and anxiety fueling his flight.
“And Baron Lennox?” Fin asked.
“Is fine,” he said. “He is with Lady Gillian now.”
“Take me.”
The page turned and led Fin down a corridor, their footsteps thumping hard on the stone. They turned into a passage that ended at the door to Col’s bedchamber. The page gave him a slight bow and peeled off, leaving Fin on his own. He headed for the door but was intercepted by a voice echoing off the walls behind him.
“Captain Begbie, please wait.”
Fin turned and found Col’s physician, an older man of wide girth named Dougal, approaching him. He waited for the physician to catch up to him. The older man stopped, his face flushed, his breath quickened.
“What happened?” Fin asked.
“Somebody slipped some poison intae the Lady’s wine,” Dougal said. “But we ken it was meant for the Baron.”
“Is she alright?”
Dougal nodded. “She will be,” he replied. “Thank God she didnae ingest much. Right now, she just needs some rest.”
“Thank God,” Fin said, a wave of relief washing through him. “I need tae see Col, and I need tae see him now.”
“He’s with the Lady right now, and she shouldnae be disturbed,” Dougal said. “I’ll tell him to find ye.”
Fin grumbled under his breath. As the Captain of Col’s personal guard, it would fall to him to find the poisoner. Which meant he needed to gather as many pertinent details as quickly as he could. For all they knew, the poisoner was on horseback and galloping away from Westmarch as they stood there dickering. Every moment they lost could be another mile the poisoner got further away.
“Tell him tae find me now, Dougal,” Fin ordered. “I need tae see him right away.”
“Aye, Captain Begbie.”
As the physician hustled for the door, Fin watched him go for a moment, disbelief over this turn of events washing through him. With a low growl, he turned and walked away down the corridor, his heavy footfalls echoing all around him. He found a pair of soldiers on duty and ordered them to stand watch outside Gillian’s door. Nobody in and nobody out, save for the physician.
Feeling helpless and powerless, Fin stalked the halls of the keep. After their reunion and reconciliation, Gillian’s father had a castle built for them on the border of the Western March – halfway between York and his home village. Col had told him it was meant as a symbolic gesture, a blending of their two people.
And shortly after they had moved in, Col had appointed him to head up his personal guard. At first, Fin had thought it was a joke. But Col assured him it was not. He’d told Fin that he believed in him and trusted him with not just his life, but the lives of his family as well. It had meant the world to Fin, and he liked to think that he had grown into his position. His men were loyal and would follow him to the gates of Hell if he asked. And Fin knew that every one of them would lay down their life to protect Col and his family.
Fin also knew there were some in the Highlands that resented Col for his alliance with the English, and saw Westmarch Hall as a symbol of betrayal. They saw it as a selling out of the Scottish people in favor of Col’s personal enrichment and argued their alliance came at the cost of their freedom. It wasn’t true as far as Fin was concerned. He was as sensitive to the Scottish independence as anybody, but Col made sure his people were well taken care of, and his people never went without. And yet, his alliance and bond with the Duke angered them.
Fin should have gone to check on the children. He’d been so worried about Gillian that he had not stopped to think. Col and Gillian had two children – James the firstborn, and their daughter Freya, who was two years old. But Fin knew they would be with Jane as they often were. Given the circumstances, it was probably the best and safest place for them. Jane cared for them like they were her own, and in Fin’s state, he would probably just scare them anyway.
Fin found his way up to the ramparts on the outer curtain wall of the castle. It was where he went when he needed to think and clear his head. The night was darker than pitch, and the torches flickered, casting eerie shadows that writhed upon the stone parapets. The clouds overhead were thick and dark, and a drizzle had started to fall over the land. It suited Fin’s mood perfectly.
Fin needed to find the person responsible for poisoning Gillian. But until he could talk to Col, he felt utterly powerless. Fin was a man who did not like feeling out of control of a situation. And this was a situation he had zero control over, which left him feeling awkward and frustrated. All he could do was keep pacing the ramparts, trying to calm himself down, and gather his wits about him. He knew he was going to need all of them.
Fin stopped and looked out into the vast sea of darkness before him – the Western March. As the Captain of Col’s household guard, it had been his job, his responsibility to keep Col, Gillian, and their children safe. It was his duty to protect them and make sure nothing happened to them. And he had failed in his duty. Gillian lay in bed, possibly dying of poison, while he’d been out hunting. His failure could have cost an old friend, and his Lady, their lives.
Fin let those thoughts trail away, knowing the rabbit hole they would inevitably lead down. It was a warren of self-doubt and personal recriminations. And right now, he needed to keep a clear head. He could not afford to pity himself. He needed to find out who tried to poison Gillian. And he needed to kill that person.
“Fin.”
He turned to see Col striding up to him. His expression was grim, and his face pinched, clouded with a whole host of dark, negative emotions. But more than anything, his cousin and oldest friend looked scared. Nothing scared Col and seeing the fear on his face, left Fin feeling rattled right down to his core.
“How is she?” Fin asked.
“Dougal says she’ll be fine,” he replied. “Says that with some rest, she’ll be right as rain soon.”
“That’s good. That’s real good,” Fin said. “Dae ye have a suspect yet?”
Col shook his head. “No. But there is no shortage of people who want me dead – Scottish and English alike.”
“Aye, that’s true.”
Col flashed him a wry grin. “Yer an arse.”
“Aye. But ye love me anyway.”
“Aye. I suppose I do,” Col said. “Now, what are we gonna dae about this?”
Fin sighed. He’d been pondering the answer to that question since he found out Gillian had fallen ill. But he was no closer to an answer now than he was then.
“I need ye tae look into this for me, Fin,” Col said.
“Of course I will,” Fin replied. “Dae ye even need tae ask?”
Col nodded. “Good. I want ye tae turn over every rock ye need tae turn over. But find the man who did this. The man who tried to murder me wife.
“Every rock. Aye,” he said. “I will nae let ye down.”
“I know ye won’t.”
Col clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a nod. He turned and walked away quickly, no doubt going back to Gillian’s bedside. Fin was left standing alone on the ramparts. His mind and heart churned wildly, and his entire body stirred with anger. That somebody came into the keep he was charged with protecting and nearly killed Gillian – tried to kill Col – filled him with a deep, abiding rage.
Fin vowed silently to himself that he would find the man responsible and would take his life. More than that, Fin knew he would enjoy it. It was merely a matter of finding the person who did this foul deed.
And when he did, they would spend the rest of their short life paying for it.
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