by Fiona Faris
“She has run away,” Finlay answered.
“What do ye mean she has run away?” Malcolm demanded. He wanted nothing more than to pick his brother up and shake the look of satisfaction from his face.
“When she found out that she had been discovered, she ran,” Finlay replied.
“Where did ye see her?” Malcolm asked.
“She was in the forest when I returned. I told her what I had discovered and she ran,” Finlay answered.
“Ye left her out in the forest in this weather alone?” Malcolm shouted in disbelief.
“Aye, ‘tis nothin’ less than she deserves.” Finlay’s lip curled in disgust as if the woman he spoke about was more a diseased riddled cur than a lass.
“Where did she run to?” Malcolm’s patience was wearing thin.
“Last I saw her she was runnin’ towards the River Tilt. She will nae be able tae get across. That bridge is about tae give way,” Finlay informed him.
Malcolm felt all of the blood rush from his head. I cannae lose her. He turned and moved toward the door.
“Malcolm,” his mother’s voice called from the bed. “What are ye goin’ tae do?”
“I am goin’ tae find her,” Malcolm answered. Turning to Finlay, he growled, “Ye had best hope I find her alive and well or ye and I will be havin’ words, brother.”
With that he left the castle to saddle his highland pony and headed out into the rain in search of the woman he loved. How could she lie tae me? The question haunted him as he searched for Alana. He prayed that he would find her alive and unharmed. The longer he searched, the more worried he became. The wind had picked up speed and the rain was falling harder than had when he left the castle. He pulled his plaid up over his head and continued to search between the forest and the river, being careful not to get too close to the water’s roiling edge.
“Alana!” he called, but there was no answer. He called again and again, but nothing returned to him. He rode through the damp cold, water streaming down his face and into his eyes, blurring his vision. He could barely stand to open his eyes and yet his desperation to find her prodded him to move forward, searching earnestly for a sign as to where she might be. “Alana!” he yelled against the sounds of the rushing river.
When he reached the bridge, he found it broken and submerged. A piece of fabric flapped in the wind stuck to one of the bridges protruding pieces of wood. Dismounting, Malcolm edged closer to get a better look. ‘Tis the Murray plaid! That looks like Alana’s arisaid! He frantically searched the water’s edge, but did not find any further sign of her person. “Alana!” he roared in fear. “Where are ye, lass? Come back tae me.”
Not finding her anywhere near the bridge, Malcolm proceeded down river. Some distance from the bridge he came across another snagged bit of fabric on a bush at the river’s edge. Malcolm grabbed a branch and pulled the bush towards him, removing the cloth. It was Alana’s clothes. The image of her naked body floating dead upon the water sprung to his mind, causing bile to rise in his throat. No! His mind shouted against the horror of it. She is nae dead! She cannae be!
Malcolm once again searched the river’s edge, fear blurring his vision with unshed tears. He swiped at his eyes to clear them and continued searching. He continued walking down river until a flash of white against the raging muddy torrent caught his attention. At first he thought it might have been the frothy foam of the river’s churning or a dead fish beached upon a rock, but upon closer inspection he could make out the shape of a human hand twisted up the roots of a tree.
“Alana!” Malcolm shouted. His blood ran cold through his veins. He tied a rope around his middle and then tied the other end around his horse to ensure that he would not be swept under, then he descended the embankment to the tangle of roots. Water swept past him at great speed, attempting to knock him off of his feet, but he refused to go down and reached Alana’s side unscathed. The sight he found chilled him to the bone.
Alana lay naked, her cold pale body intertwined with the roots of the tree in such a grotesque fashion that she appeared to be more of a river sprite than a lass. Malcolm extracted her from the roots as gently as he could and wrapped her in his plaid. She was breathing, but just barely. “Och, lass! What have ye gone and done tae yerself?” he whispered against her dark wet tresses. “Stay with me, lass,” he commanded her unconscious form. “I’ll get ye home.”
Malcolm lifted Alana up onto the back of his horse, then mounted behind her. Her limp body bounced against the sides of the horse in spite of Malcolm’s best efforts to hold her steady against him. Malcolm loosened his plaid and tied it around her body to keep her warm and hold her securely as he urged his steed forward as fast as he could safely go. He did not wish to cause her any more harm than she had already endured.
The ride back to the castle felt like an eternity. Alana’s body warmed from his body heat and began to shake, causing her teeth to chatter. Had it been winter, she would not have survived long enough for him to find her. Malcolm thanked every saint he could think of that it was summer. “Why did ye run, ye foolish lass?” he asked the back of her bobbing wet head. He received no response.
As he approached the castle, Freya and Finlay came out to meet him. “Is she alive?” Freya asked, her eyes filled with tears and worry.
“Aye, she lives… just barely,” Malcolm answered, casting Finlay an angry glare. Turning to his mother, he said, “She will need a warm bath and some dry clothes.”
“I will have it ready straight away,” she promised and scurried off to the kitchen to order some hot water.
Malcolm dismounted and lifted Alana from the horse. He cradled her in his arms, making sure that his plaid covered her nakedness. To have Finlay see her exposed would have been the last of what Malcolm could endure. He carried her into the castle and up to her bed. His mother soon followed with a pitcher of hot water and together they bathed and clothed her in the warmest nightdress they could find. They wrapped her in one of Malcolm’s plaids and covered her with blankets.
“If ye crawl in tae bed with her, she will get warmer quicker,” Freya noted. Malcolm looked down at himself soaking wet and covered in mud and looked back up at his mother. “Go and wash yerself first,” she ordered. “I will stay here with her. I have the cook brewin’ one of Alana’s restorative teas as we speak.”
“Aye, if she can awaken enough tae drink,” Malcolm answered. She had not stirred once since he had found her except to shiver. Bending down over the bed, he kissed her forehead and whispered, “I will return.”
Malcolm walked to his room and stripped out of his wet dirty clothes. He bathed himself from his washstand and donned a clean shirt and plaid. Returning to Alana’s room, he took his mother’s advice and crawled beneath the blankets to hold her close. Her body was still cold to the touch and her breathing was raspy. He wrapped his arms around her, willing his heat into her body. “Come back tae me, Alana,” he whispered into the shell of her ear. “Dinnae leave me, my love.”
“We still cannae send for a healer,” Freya bemoaned the inclement weather. “Bloody rain.”
“Nae, we cannae. The water is still much tae high. I barely made it myself,” he admitted.
“It has been a long time since this family has experienced so much disturbance,” Freya noted.
“Aye,” Malcolm agreed.
“It has been a full day and a night indeed with yer faither takin’ a turn for the worse, the comin’ o’ Mary’s bairn, and now this,” Freya listed off their recent adventures.
And last night in this very bed… Malcolm noted to himself. Images of their night together flashed through his mind and his heart ached all the more for it. He was bone weary.
As if she had read his thoughts, Freya ordered, “Rest, my son. Sleep. I will watch o’er her and wake ye if there is a change. She needs time tae rest and recover from her ordeal, as do ye.”
Malcolm nodded his head in gratitude and closed his eyes slowly, drifting off to sleep calmed by the knowled
ge that she was home safe in his arms where she belonged. The night’s hurts were temporarily forgotten in the relief that he had felt upon finding her alive. He held her, cherishing the feel of her body against his, knowing just how close he had come to losing her forever. His heart physically ached at the idea. As he slept, he dreamt of Alana as a river sprite floating on the current, luring him to his doom.
* * *
I am dead… The thought floated through Alana’s mind like a feather in the breeze. Strangely, she did not seem to mind. I did nae ken purgatory would feel so warm and safe. Alana puzzled over the idea for a moment and decided to open her eyes to see where she was. She found herself staring into a forest of chest hair, linen, and Murray plaid. Tilting her head up, she groaned at the ache that coursed through her neck and down her back. The comfortable sensation she had felt upon waking quickly faded replaced by a sore stiffness. Pushing past the pain, she tilted her head up all the way to find the chiseled whiskery jaw line of Malcolm Murray. I’m either alive or God has a strange way o’ punishin’ me for my sins.
She attempted to free herself from his embrace without waking him, but failed. The moment she began to stir, Malcolm awoke. “Are ye well, lass?” he inquired. His ocean blue eyes were lipped tidal pools of concern.
Alana attempted to nod her head, but was stopped short by the pain that coursed through her neck. “A wee bit sore,” she admitted. Her voice sounded rough and her throat was scratchy like she had eaten bread with wee bits of the grinding stone still in the meal. In truth, she felt as if she had been beaten from her head to her toes.
“Aye, the river took ye quite a way afore ye became tangled in the roots o’ an auld tree. Were it nae for that tree, ye would surely be dead,” Malcolm informed her. Releasing her, he crawled out from beneath the blankets and walked over to stare out of the window. Alana followed him with her eyes and found Freya asleep in a chair in the corner. “Maither.” Malcolm laid a hand on Freya’s shoulder to awaken her.
“Malcolm?” Freya questioned looking up at her son.
“She is awake,” Malcolm answered.
Freya looked over at the bed and stood upon seeing Alana’s open eyes. “Ye gave us a fright, lass.”
“I am truly sorry,” Alana spoke softly, averting her eyes in shame.
“Well there is much to discuss, but for now, Malcolm, why don’t we give the lass a moment to gather herself. Yer faither should be present before any questions are asked or explanations given.”
“Aye,” Malcolm answered, nodding in agreement.
“We will just be in the next room if ye need anythin’,” Freya offered, then she and Malcolm exited.
Alana stared at the empty doorway for some time before she attempted to stand. Her legs were shaking and her entire body groaned with discomfort. Her first attempt to stand resulted in her falling back onto the bed, but the second time she managed to remain on her feet. She hobbled her way over to the armoire and dressed herself. She moaned as her muscles protested every movement she made.
Her thoughts turned to Malcolm and his family. They will hate me now. I have betrayed their trust, his trust, in a most terrible way and they will ne’er forgive me, nor should they.
The simple act of dressing herself exhausted her to the point that she was forced to lie back down. Try as she may, she could not stay awake and sleep soon reclaimed her. When she awoke again, she looked out through the window panes, but was unable to tell the time of day, but the light appeared to be quite dim. A voice from the corner drew her attention. “Ye have slept for a long time. We grew worried that ye had succumbed tae yer misadventure after all.”
Alana peered into the shadows and found Malcolm looking back at her. “Just how long did I sleep?” she asked.
“Ye have slept an entire day and a night,” he answered.
“Have ye been here all that time?” she inquired.
“Aye,” he confirmed. “I did nae wish for ye tae suffer alone.”
“I am sorry,” she whispered, tears clouding her vision.
“I see ye are dressed. Can ye stand?” he asked, not acknowledging her apology. She knew Finlay must have told the family what he had learned and that Malcolm would be hurt and confused by her deception.
“I can try,” she nodded.
Malcolm arose from the chair and came over to stand in front of her to offer her aid. He extended his hand and she took it carefully, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Every muscle in her body cried out to be left alone, but she planted her feet upon the floor and stood up, using Malcolm’s hand to keep her from falling backward again. When she felt secure that she would not fall, she released his hand and waited for him to step back.
His hand came up to caress the hair from her face and she leaned into it with her cheek. “I thought ye were dead,” he whispered in anguished tones.
“So did I,” she admitted quietly. She was afraid if she spoke too loudly or made any sudden movements that he would move away from her and once the truth was fully revealed, he would never return to touch or caress her again. “How did I get from the river tae the castle?” she asked.
“Finlay told me what direction ye ran in and I feared ye had been taken by the river. I found ye there and brought ye home,” he answered, his eyes clouded at the mention of his brother and he moved back away from Alana dropping his hand from her face. “We should go and speak with Faither. There is much that needs tae be understood.”
“Aye,” she murmured in agreement and followed him out of the room.
Malcolm and Alana made their way slowly down the corridor in silence, neither looking at the other. When they reached the laird’s bedchamber, Malcolm opened the door and ushered her inside. “Alana,” Andrew greeted, sitting up against the headboard of his bed. “Son.” The compassion in his eyes for his first born’s pain was clear for all to see. “Come sit beside me, lass,” he ordered, gesturing toward one of the red demask chairs near his bedside. Due to his invalid state, there were enough chairs around the bed to seat the entire Murray family.
Alana obeyed and Malcolm leaned his back against the door, folding his arms over his chest. The image of him taking her prisoner flashed through her mind and she swallowed hard. There would be no escaping this time. Andrew met her eyes and spoke, “I believe ye have a wee bit o’ explainin’ tae do, lass.”
Chapter Eleven
Alana’s heart sunk at the disappointed look in the laird’s eyes. “Aye, I do,” she answered Andrew honestly. Alana contemplated whether she could or should attempt to lie her way out of the situation, but she did not see more lying as being the way through it. They did not know everything, but they knew enough that she no longer had a choice but to tell the truth. “My name is indeed Alana Murray as I told ye it was, but I lied about bein’ an orphan. My maither is dead true enough as she died givin’ birth tae me and my brother Ross. My faither is Rory Murray, but I am sure that Finlay has already told ye this.”
“Aye, he did. Why did ye nae tell us, lass? There was nae reason tae lie. Did ye believe we would nae accept ye?” Andrew asked.
“Are ye runnin’ from that northern laird ye spoke o’ or was that a lie as well?” Freya asked.
“’Twas’ nae a lie. My faither has promised me tae Laird Sutherland.” Malcolm growled his displeasure from behind her, but otherwise remained silent.
“I have heard terrible tales o’ the man,” Andrew commiserated. “But that is nae the true reason ye have come tae be here with us, is it? It would nae have taken long for yer faither to find ye and reclaim ye were that the case. Ye have nae exactly been hiding yerself away tae avoid detection.”
“Nae,” Alana admitted. Freya had offered her the perfect opportunity to lie once more, but Alana did nae have it in her tae continue the deception. Malcolm’s family were nothing like her father had described and she had grown to care for them deeply; however, a lifetime of hatred and fear could not be erased completely and she wished for some explanations of her own. “I would ne�
�er have come here were it nae for my faither. I have spent my entire life hating and fearing ye in equal measure.”
“But why, lass? What have we done tae make ye feel that way?” Freya asked, tears in her eyes. “I dinnae understand.”
“My faither told me the stories o’ how the Murray men would take women from their clans against their will and force lass’ tae lie with them in order tae produce bairns for the clan. He said that ye killed any that did nae submit or were barren. How was I nae tae fear a clan of rapists and murderers?” Alana asked, defiantly daring them to argue. “Freya, ye yerself were a stolen bride.”
“Aye, I was, but it ‘twas Andrew who saved me. Donald Murray did all o’ those cruel things, nae my husband,” Freya explained.
“Faither told us that Andrew murdered Donald Murray and took the lairdship. A lairdship that rightfully belonged tae my faither,” Alana stated.