He walked back to his horse and climbed up on the massive animal. Leaning over, he held out his hand to her.
‘Come. I will take you to Clara’s,’ he offered. ‘The children know their way and are probably there already.’
Sorcha looked up into his eyes and saw compassion and not pity or mocking. In the light of the sun, those eyes were a blend of blues and greens and greys and not the pale blue she’d thought. Much as some described the mixed colour of hers, too. Taking his hand, he guided her to step on his foot as he lifted her up and guided her behind him. He gave her a moment to settle and then touched his legs to the horse’s sides. Unused to riding this way, she grabbed at his plaid to keep from swaying too much and unbalancing both of them.
Still, this close, she was overwhelmed by him. His size. His nearness. His scent. Him.
‘You made only one bad turn,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘If not for going in the wrong direction right there...’ he pointed off to his left ‘...you would have circled right back around.’ When she leaned over to look past him, she began to slide off the horse. ‘Hold tight now.’ Without thinking, she reached around his waist and held on.
Because of his size, her hands barely made it around him. And the action forced her to rest her face against his back. His muscles rippled under her cheek as he controlled the horse. His long hair, pulled back and tied with a strip of leather, tickled her nose as she rested there. When she realised what she was doing, she eased her grip on him, sliding her hands back to rest on his hips.
‘I am sorry to take you from your own tasks,’ she said.
‘Since my destination is yours, you are not.’
Sorcha remembered his offer of help last night to James. What was the nephew of the Cameron chieftain doing working with the Mackintosh’s village blacksmith?
‘Have you known James a long time?’ she asked, trying to understand his connections to this place and these people.
From his place at the chieftain’s table and the call for him to speak with those closest to Brodie—a call delivered by the man known for his loyalty to the laird—he was well known and well regarded here. Was he to the Lady Arabella as Padruig was to her mother? One of her kin who stayed on for years as a faithful friend?
‘Aye, for years.’
Uncertain if his curt reply was due to the riding or not, she held any other questions she would have asked back. But her curiosity got the better of her as they rode through the centre of the village and many called out greetings to him. Especially the women.
‘Are you a blacksmith then?’ she asked when they slowed and he would be able to hear her words. The question she truly wanted answered involved personal details she would ask of Clara and not dare to speak to the man directly.
‘Och, nay!’ He laughed and it made her blood heat. The deep tones of his voice echoed through her. Again. ‘I am a tracker.’
‘Tracker?’ Her blood, heated just a moment before, ran cold then at the reminder of his skills. ‘What do you seek?’ How could she have forgotten such a critical part of him? His answer chilled her even more.
* * *
‘Whoever or whatever is lost.’
They arrived at Clara’s cottage and, just as he’d predicted, Wee Jamie and Wee Clara were there waiting. Relief poured through her as they discovered the children were well and not lost.
‘Your bairns gave Mistress MacPherson quite a scare, Clara,’ he called out as he reached back to help her down. With a strong grip on her arm, she slid over the side of the horse and stood as Clara came out, carrying the youngest one. Sorcha noticed the loss of the warmth of his body as soon as her feet landed on the ground there. ‘I found her over near the stream on the other side of the village.’
‘I lost them and feared they would find harm,’ she said. ‘One moment we were all enjoying a bit of warm bread and then next, they were gone.’
Clara laughed as she approached Sorcha. Throwing her arm around her shoulders, her cousin pulled her close. Alan climbed from his horse then and stood watching.
‘They are fast ones,’ Clara agreed. The woman released her when her husband came around the side of the cottage from the building where he worked. ‘Jamie, the wee uns gave Saraid quite a scare.’
James smiled at her and nodded. ‘You are not the first one to find them gone.’ He walked over and extended his arm to Alan in greeting. ‘But I see the Cameron tracker found you right quick. He is skilled at finding things and people, too.’
A wave of warning unlike anything she’d ever felt passed through her at those words. Another reminder that she could not let this attraction to him go any further than it had since she doubted she could stop the physical reaction of her body to his strength and his heat. But she needed to be circumspect and not give someone like Alan Cameron a reason to look more closely at her. She swallowed the ever-present fear and nodded at James.
‘Aye, I was lucky that he was travelling past when I found myself running in circles with no idea of how to get here.’ Sorcha smiled then as the others chuckled at her words. ‘Better for me was that he knew the children well enough to assure me that they would be safe.’
Alan took the sacks from where he’d tied them and held them out to her. Retrieving them, she walked to the cottage doorway. Clara guided the children to her and, as they went inside, Sorcha fought the urge to stand and gawp as he followed James back to the smithy. She did take one last look and was startled when that blue-green-grey gaze stared back at her.
* * *
Alan could not help staring back at Saraid.
He’d known he’d see her here, for she was living with Jamie and his wife now and he would be spending time here working with his friend. Seeing the panic and fear in her gaze when she ran out on the road tore him apart. Then, the hope in her voice when he spoke of the bairns’ habit of doing this gave him ease. He’d met her once and yet found himself with some sort of connection or affinity to her. Strange that.
The feel of her body leaning against him during the ride here had been a pleasurable torment. Her soft curves pressed against his back and her hands around his waist made him wish she would move just a bit closer. Tempted to grab her hands and guide them down, he fought the need and allowed her to find purchase by grabbing his plaid instead.
The purely physical reaction surprised him because he knew about her plans.
A convent. A nun. She was so full of life that he could not imagine her shut away from the world to face a future of sacrifice and prayer. He hoped the Almighty was not offended by his thought that the religious life would be a terrible waste. Or that the way his body reacted to her nearness and innocent touches counted as a sin against his soul.
Following Jamie past the cottage and to the smithy, Alan hoped that some hard work would drive this unusual fascination and fleshly need from him. And take his mind off the concerns over his uncle’s possible machinations.
When her laughter first drifted from the cottage’s open windows across to where they plied the fire and iron tools, he lost the battle. He forced his attention on the tasks he carried out once, then twice and then again before Jamie laughed aloud.
‘A bit distracted, are you then, Alan?’ Jamie said. He put down the plough blade he was cleaning and sharpening and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. ‘She is a fair one.’ Alan put down the large hammer he was using to pound out a new horseshoe and nodded.
‘Aye. What do you know of her, Jamie?’ he asked. ‘How long will she be visiting?’
‘Are you planning to be here more often or avoid us depending on the answer to that question?’
Alan answered with a rude gesture and shook his head.
‘Nay, neither. I am just curious.’ He wiped his own brow and shrugged. ‘There is something different about her. Something...interesting.’
‘You mean other than her beauty and her kindness to my wife and bairns?’ Jamie offered. ‘And that I never knew my wife had a widowed cousin?’
‘You did not know?’ At Jamie’s shake of his head, Alan continued, ‘When did you know she was coming to stay?’
‘When I returned to the cottage from working up at the keep with Dougal and found her here. But, she’s kin, aye? So she’s welcome here as long as she needs to be.’
‘That’s what kin does,’ he agreed as he picked up the hammer and turned back to his work.
They worked in silence for some time, but one thing yet bothered him. If it did not bother Jamie that his wife’s kin showed up, unknown and unannounced, at their door and planned to stay for some uncertain amount of time, then it was not for him to be bothered either. Yet, one thing did. It ate at him though he had no rights by kinship or claim to be concerned for a moment over it. Finally, it pushed its way out and he said it aloud.
‘Is she truly going to Skye to be a nun?’
‘So you heard? Did Clara tell you?’ Jamie laughed.
‘Nay. Arabella told me.’ Alan faced him and crossed his arms over his chest, now bare due to the heat of the fire pit. ‘She just does not seem to be the type of woman who would give up m...life and seek prayer and silence.’
Jamie looked as though he would argue or add to his assessment, but instead his friend just watched him through narrowed eyes for a few seconds before going back to work. It was just as well, since he had no standing about any of this. If anyone did, it would be the lass’s father or brothers or even her dead husband’s family.
* * *
By the time they finished for the day, Alan had come to some conclusions.
First, he knew he would not seek out problems that were not already his.
Then, he would make it a point to visit Achnacarry more often and keep watch for anything out of the ordinary for his uncle.
Finally and in spite of his body telling him otherwise, Alan accepted that he could not and would not interfere with Saraid MacPherson and her plans for her own life. He knew nothing about the young woman and had no right to think she could not choose her own path.
* * *
Returning to the keep that night, he was proud of his decisions and knew they would make the next months go much more smoothly for him. At least that was what he thought until he caught sight of Arabella and her women watching his every move. What forced him to worry was not words, but the lady’s expression as he bade her and her husband a good night later after the meal.
A smirk lay on her lips and a twinkle of mischief sparkled in her eyes—two things to be wary of and two things he’d learned, as had Brodie, to worry over. He’d always had sympathy for Brodie when he’d been the target of it, but now, now it seemed that Brodie had deserted him.
No matter that. He had his plan and had made his decisions.
Chapter Six
In the first few minutes each morning when she awoke, Sorcha wondered what new challenges she would face that day. So far, in the weeks since her disappearance into the night, she’d faced many of them.
She’d never had to prepare her own food.
She’d never had to ride for hours and days.
She’d never truly feared for her life. Oh, her father would make it miserable, but she served a purpose until she married.
But, and this was an alarming and enlightening revelation to her, she’d never been amongst people who cared.
These Mackintoshes cared about each other and that extended to their chieftain, too. For they did not seem to fear him as her kith and kin feared her father, rather they respected him and even liked him. Stranger still was that here in Glenlui village and in Drumlui Keep asking questions was not forbidden nor even discouraged. If anyone raised a voice or question to her father or his orders, their life and limbs were in peril.
Oh, she’d seen The Mackintosh stand his ground over a few things and, when he did that, everyone supported him. When she considered to whom he listened, she was confused even more.
The only other person of noble blood living here was Lady Eva. She was the daughter of a powerful nobleman in the north. Everyone else, all those who counselled this laird, were family and friends who had proven their loyalty and worth in the fight that nearly destroyed this clan.
And here she was, in the midst of people who took her as she was. Clara and James opened their home to her and, in doing that, the rest here welcomed her. The biggest challenge she faced was these people.
So many times each day, she was tempted to tell her story to one or another of them. Margaret, Clara’s sister by marriage, was the worst. The woman had a way of drawing Sorcha in and then asking her insightful questions. Sometimes, Sorcha wondered if she had a bit of the Sight and knew all her secrets already.
‘You are awake?’
Sorcha glanced over at the door to her cousin’s bedchamber and nodded. After stretching slowly, she pushed back the blankets and stood. The morning chill, even in late summer, made her wrap one of the woollen blankets around her shoulders.
‘I am.’ Glancing past her cousin, who carried the youngest on her hip, Sorcha saw no movement to indicate anyone else was awake. Yet.
‘I could almost hear you thinking,’ Clara said, walking to the bucket of water and dipping a cup for herself. She offered a few sips to the bairn before she held it out to Sorcha. ‘Are you still thinking about the porridge?’
Sorcha laughed and shook her head as she accepted the cup of water. Each day Clara had taught her, or tried to teach her, a new skill or task. Yesterday’s morn it had been to make porridge, something she’d eaten enough to know how to make it.
Porridge, good porridge, was harder to make than it seemed it should be. There were still burned bits on the bottom of the iron pot that she’d used to make it! Just as the children took advantage of a moment’s hesitation or inattention, so did the porridge for it burned, thick and black, when she’d turned away from stirring it.
‘Nay,’ she lied. ‘I have let the disaster of the porridge go now, Clara. On to other tasks!’
‘Worry not,’ Clara said, holding out Robbie to her so she could see to her personal needs. ‘We will find something for you today.’
Sorcha held the bairn close, rubbing his head as he grabbed as much of her hair as he could and shoved it in his ever-open mouth. Until the fire in the hearth was lit, the chill would remain so she lifted one end of the blanket and wrapped it around him. He leaned against her and she closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of him.
This was another thing she would give up by entering the convent.
The blessing of children.
Sorcha would not think on that right now. For the next weeks or month, she would allow Clara to teach her some basic tasks and help her cousin as she could. There was no way to adequately repay all that she’d done already, but Sorcha knew that some of the gold coins would help them.
Clara returned then, hair covered and dressed for the day, and held out her arms for her bairn. But her cousin studied Sorcha as she lifted Robbie away.
‘I have seen this expression in your eyes many times now,’ Clara said. Reaching up, she touched Sorcha’s cheek. ‘You have lost so much in such a short time. And you have faced some impossible choices. Worry not, Sorcha, it will all be for the best.’
‘Sorcha?’ James said, walking into the common room. He rubbed his face and pushed his hair back. He glanced at them, one at a time, then back to Sorcha. ‘Is her name not Saraid?’
Silence met his words and Sorcha wondered if it was time to tell him the truth. Clara had other ideas.
‘Her mother’s name is Sorcha, Jamie. She looks so much like her, may her soul rest in peace, that I called her it by mistake.’
‘Ah,’ he said, kissing Clara as he did each morning. ‘J
ust as I call the bairns by most any name I can think of when they jump on me.’ His acquiescence seemed too easy a thing given.
As though it was an invitation, Wee Jamie and Clara ran out of their bedchamber and jumped on their father. It would seem to be their morning ritual, for he would stumble around the cottage, with one grabbing each leg, until he fell to the floor and they climbed on top of him.
Such innocent fun. Somehow the tears had gathered without her realising it. Only when Clara used the corner of her apron to dab at them did Sorcha feel them. Clara mouthed some words to James, who nodded and met Sorcha’s stare with a sympathetic expression.
‘I will get water,’ she declared. Clearing her throat and wiping away the tears, she knew she must get out of here before the self-pity overwhelmed her. ‘And, aye, I know the way.’
She grabbed an empty bucket and left, even while trying to ignore the whispering behind her. Why the scene had bothered her, she knew not. She suspected that having seen the warmth that could be between father and bairns, it reminded her of the gaping lack of it in her own upbringing.
Sorcha’s upbringing had been like that of many noble women and based on the value she held. For her father, she was linked to the castle that they held for the MacDonalds. Her mother’s family were castellans and controlled the headlands, or had until her marriage to Hugh MacMillan. Now, an heir was the only way for him to retain control. So, either she had to marry someone strong enough to fight the Lord of the Isles or her father needed to get another heir.
Her mother’s death had given him an opportunity to seek another legitimate heir, the son he did not have yet. Her value as a female was tentative and only based on what it would bring him. Whether or not her father would have affection for a male heir, she knew not. Yet, watching these people, she knew it would never be like this for anyone born to Hugh MacMillan.
Sorcha reached the well and nodded to the others already there. Located in the centre of the village, it was a meeting place during the day. Even now, just past sunrise, there were villagers filling their buckets for their daily tasks. She nodded to the baker’s lad and the cooper and his helpers. A few of Clara’s neighbours stood whispering, as was their custom, sharing the latest bits of news and gossip. She knew from her time here that those bits of gossip would make their way all around the village and back by nightfall, enhanced and changed by each person who shared it.
Claiming His Highland Bride Page 6