With the help of a tall, strong young man, she’d just filled the bucket and turned towards the path when she saw James standing there studying her with a dark expression. Sorcha tried to smile but could not. From that gaze, she suspected he knew the truth...her truth.
‘Here,’ he said, approaching with an outstretched hand. ‘Let me take that.’ With his height and strength, his hands were double the size of hers and he took the full bucket as though it weighed nothing more than a bird’s feather. ‘Clara worried over you so I said I would fetch you back.’
‘I did not mean to worry her, James,’ she said, following him down the path. It was not the one she would have chosen if left on her own. ‘I just...I...’
He stopped then and motioned for her to come off the path and into the shadows there. When she saw the fierceness in his expression as he put the bucket down at his feet, she feared his words. James lifted a hand and ran it through his reddish-brown hair, pushing it out of his face. Then, stepping closer, she saw not ferocity but compassion in his forest-coloured gaze.
‘First, my name is Jamie,’ he said. ‘My father was James and so was my granda. So, call me Jamie as everyone does.’
He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for her to agree. Although familiarity such as this had always been discouraged by her father, it warmed her that her cousin’s husband attempted to put her at ease. Sorcha nodded. ‘Jamie it is, then.’
‘I know who you are.’ He said it in a calm voice but it struck terror into the deepest part of her. ‘Clara and I have no secrets from each other, so I have known since you arrived on my door that there was more to you than you let on.’
‘But she said...’ Clara had promised her. She’d promised not to share her truth.
‘She did not want you to worry,’ he said, shrugging. ‘She did not break any confidence or word given to you.’ He stepped closer and lowered his voice though they seemed alone. ‘I did not press her for the details that would have done that. I trust her and her judgement. She said you are her cousin and you need a refuge while you sort out things. That was and is enough for me to ken.’
His kindness overwhelmed her and the trust he placed in his wife awed her. Sorcha did not know whether to smile or cry or fall to her knees and thank him. So she offered him the only thing she had.
‘My name is Sorcha,’ she whispered.
‘I suspected that much,’ he said. ‘I have reminded Clara to have a care around the wee ones. They repeat all sorts of things that they shouldna when you least expect it.’ From the mischievous glint in his eyes, she had no doubt that they had repeated the worst things at the worst possible time. ‘So, shall we return home before Clara sends out Wee Jamie to find us?’
Her heart lighter, she nodded and walked beside him the rest of the way back to the cottage. This path brought them in from a different direction, to the smithy first and then around to their croft. She took the bucket from him when he stopped there.
‘Are you serious about seeking a life in the convent?’
Of all the things he could have said or asked, she’d never thought he would ask about that.
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘If I must remain hidden, ’tis the perfect place.’
‘I go to the keep this morn,’ Jamie said. ‘If you wish to go to the chapel and speak to our priest, I can take you there.’
She’d heard about their priest, Father Diarmid, from Clara and Lady Arabella, but had not met him yet. Though he lived at Drumlui Keep, he travelled to other villages to minister to the spiritual needs of the Mackintoshes. He’d been away for several weeks when Sorcha had arrived. ‘He is returned?’
‘Aye. If you wish to seek his guidance, I have always found him a fair man, one who will listen and not judge too harshly.’
‘I would like that, Jamie. Tell me when you are ready and I will go with you.’
He walked away, glancing past her for a moment before he made his way to his work. Sorcha heard the footsteps and knew Clara had been watching and waiting for her. Facing her, Sorcha recognised the guilt in her cousin’s eyes and understood the reason for it. She walked to Clara, put the bucket down on the ground there and took Clara’s hand in hers.
‘With only my mother and father to judge marriages by, I had no idea of the faith and trust that could exist,’ she said softly.
‘Puir lass,’ Clara whispered back.
‘I am glad I have witnessed what marriage could be at its best.’ She patted Clara’s hand. ‘Jamie has offered to take me up to the chapel when he goes to the keep. To meet Father Diarmid.’
‘So, if you have courage to do that, do you have enough to learn to make bread this morn?’
‘Is it as hard as making porridge?’ she asked. Her heart felt lighter after seeing the love and trust between Clara and Jamie. Now, she would meet the priest and begin the journey forward. Surely she could conquer a bit of flour and water?
‘Nay, not harder. It just takes some strength and patience.’
Which was exactly how Clara described each and every chore and task she’d taught Sorcha since her arrival there.
‘I thought it might.’
Together, they went back inside and spent the next several hours trying to mix the perfect loaf of bread. Lucky for her, Clara had both the strength and the patience to dominate the unruly mixture of flour and water and yeast. By the time Jamie sought her out, she wore enough of all the ingredients to make another loaf. But Jamie, being the wonderful husband whom Clara praised, knew better than to point that out to either of them.
Soon they were riding up to the keep in a small wagon with Jamie’s tools that were too heavy to carry. The chilly morning fog had burned off and the sun looked as though it had gained control of the day. Sorcha loosened her cloak and pushed it back from her shoulders.
‘That cloak is quite heavy,’ Jamie said. She thought he commented on the changeable summer weather here in the Highlands, but when he continued, she understood it was not the weather of which he spoke. ‘I have a strongbox with a stout lock in my workroom where your valuables would be safe.’
The jewels and coins were still sewn into the hem and the pockets of her cloak. Jamie knew it. Sorcha did not say anything, but nodded.
‘You might want to keep one or two in place. If you have to leave quickly or have need of such a thing.’ She looked at him then. ‘I know you sought refuge, so you must be running from something or someone. If the time comes when you must flee, at least you will have something to help you on your way.’
‘Very practical,’ she said, glancing down at the cloak. ‘Something that my mother would have said.’
Sorcha smiled then, remembering several times her mother had offered such advice, even before she’d explained about the need to run. It would seem that her mother had been planning this for much longer than Sorcha had known and she’d had faith that Sorcha would be able to do this.
The rest of the way up the road to the keep and through its open gates was accomplished in silence, but for greetings called out to Jamie. By the time they reached the small stone chapel, the yard was busy with those going about their duties. Most attention seemed to be on the training yard where Robbie Mackintosh worked with his men. On previous visits here, she’d witnessed part of the tough regimen he put his warriors through, in sun or rain, to keep them well prepared.
From her place on the wagon, she could see the two men fighting within the larger circle. One was Robbie and the other one was Alan Cameron. Her gasp drew Jamie’s attention and then he looked over to see what had caught her eye.
‘I wondered when he would challenge Rob,’ Jamie said. ‘Do you want to watch?’ He climbed down and held his hands up to help her to the ground. ‘Though I suspect prayers might better serve him in this.’
‘Why?’ she asked, following him without thought towards the fence encir
cling a large clearing there.
‘Because Rob is one of the best fighters,’ Jamie said over his shoulder as he cleared a path for them to the front. ‘And Alan has not trained with him for a while.’
When they reached the fence, Jamie called out a bit of advice to his friend. Even though she wanted to watch, it was unseemly to do so. She stood back behind Jamie, letting his size block most of her view until the two fighters moved towards them. Bared to the waist, with their hair pulled back and out of their faces, Sorcha saw the blood already flowing from Alan’s mouth and one eye. Rob looked untouched but out of breath.
But Alan’s chest glistened in the sun’s light as they turned and spun and stepped this way and that. Muscles she’d felt when she’d held on to him on the horse were now visible and she watched as they flexed and tightened with each movement. He smiled at Rob, but it was a grim one, promising pain and defeat. Sorcha could not breathe as they circled each other, delivering blows when they discovered a weakness or opportunity.
The two did not use swords due to their deadly nature. Instead they used wooden poles which, as much as she could tell, could still inflict a goodly amount of pain and damage. At least those weapons would not kill the one receiving the blows.
They feinted. They struck. They circled. All the time others cheered or booed, calling out insults and advice. Rob and Alan appeared impervious to all the interference and Sorcha found herself staring at his every move. At some point, she moved to Jamie’s side to better see them.
Then, Alan managed to back Rob up against the fence in front of where she and Jamie stood and she gasped aloud as he hit the wood with enough force to shake it.
Which drew Alan’s attention to her, his eyes widening a scant second as he recognised her there.
Which was enough to give Rob a chance to take control once more.
Which he did.
Horrified, she watched as Rob rolled to his side and swiped Alan’s legs out with the pole. Alan fell hard, his breath knocked from him as he landed in the dirt. As Rob made a final move to complete his win, Sorcha stumbled back and ran to the chapel, hoping no one had noticed her there.
But Alan had. His gaze at that moment told her so. A flash of recognition in those stormy eyes, followed by a second of something else, unidentifiable and yet something that sent a thrill through her at the same time.
She grabbed the cloak she’d heedlessly left on the wagon and made her way into the cool, dark chapel. Tossing it around her shoulders, she sought refuge in the shadows of the silent building.
Chapter Seven
Alan spat out the dirt from his mouth and wiped the blood off his face as Rob reached out his hand to help him to his feet. Waving him off, Alan pushed up and brushed more soil from his skin.
‘Not quite ready,’ Rob boasted with a wink. The man comprehended how close he’d come to defeat in front of his own warriors but would never admit it now. ‘A little more work with the quarterstaff should help.’
Tempted to wipe the smirk off the commander’s face with his fist, Alan nodded and clenched his teeth together to avoid saying what he knew to be the truth. The lass had done it—distracted him and given Rob the victory in their skirmish. One moment Alan was winning, about to take Rob down, and in the next, he stared into those amber-and-blue eyes of hers, recognised her concern for him and lost his concentration. It was all it took for him to falter and for Rob to take advantage.
He walked over to a large barrel of water at the side of the training area and splashed himself to wash off the worst of it. His eye would swell a bit, but the cut was more bluster than substance. His lip was split and not for the first or worst time. Overall, his pride took more damage because he’d been trying to beat Rob Mackintosh for years and this had been the closest he’d come to accomplishing it.
Until he saw her face. She might have gasped—that might have been what drew his attention. Either the sound or the sight of her witnessing the brawl—it mattered not what had drawn it. Now, with the fighting done, the crowd drifted off as he washed and retrieved his shirt and plaid from the fence. When Rob came over, Alan shook his head.
‘You were lucky, old man,’ he said, glaring at the man. Rob had been the one who’d gotten him drunk for the first time in his life when he’d been two and ten and a prisoner of the outlaws of Clan Mackintosh. Though he was older in years and experience, Rob Mackintosh was still the strongest and fittest warrior outside of their chieftain.
‘Aye, I ken the truth of it though I would never admit to it.’ Rob reached out and smacked Alan on the shoulder. ‘If not for the lass stepping up just then, I would have had to break into a sweat to take you down, lad.’ They both laughed at the blatant lie even though it revealed a truth.
For some reason, the lass affected him in a way that other women had not, did not. The rush of interest and attraction that filled him in the hall when he’d first seen her rose even now as he wanted to glance around the yard to find her. He resisted because he neither wanted to give Rob another reason to taunt him nor expose this strange weakness in his concentration.
Just then, Rob’s wife walked out of the keep, carrying their newest bairn in her arms. Rob stopped breathing, stopped talking, stopped everything as he gazed across the distance at her.
‘Damn women,’ Rob whispered a few moments later, his voice full of awe and worship and yet frustration, too. ‘They grab you by your bollocks and you cannot do anything but follow them around.’
As Rob climbed up and over the fence, shirt in hand, and gazed on the lovely woman holding his child, he shook his head at the last moment and smiled at Alan.
‘At least you know that lass is headed for the convent,’ he said. ‘No need to get yours in a vice when you know you cannot have her.’ And with those words, Rob was gone, off at a fast trot to reach the woman who held his b—though to be candid, Alan was certain it was Rob’s heart that Eva held.
Looking around, Alan did not see the woman who had been the cause of his defeat. Jamie’s cart stood nearby and Alan knew he was working at the stables this day. On the morrow, he would be at the miller’s house. Alan had purposely not gone to the village this morn because she, Saraid, had rattled his control with the instantaneous attraction to her. He’d known she was someone to avoid, someone who would avoid entanglements. But when he had noticed her there watching, it had been even worse for him than he’d expected. He spit into the dirt again, his mouth yet carrying the reminder of his defeat because of her.
Alan did glance around then and wondered if she had sought out the chapel. Was that why she was there? Surely not to watch him fight with Rob, for that was an unplanned opportunity he’d seized, both to defeat the strong Mackintosh commander and to work out some of the tension that yet hummed in his blood and his muscles. Instead of the relief he’d hoped for, her presence made it worse.
Now somewhat clean, he pulled on his shirt and wrapped the plaid over his trews and around his waist, tossing its length over his shoulder as he walked up to the stone building. Father Diarmid lived in a small annexe added to the back of it some years ago when Brodie convinced the priest to remain here. There were enough souls needing tending that the priest was kept busy most days. He’d returned just yesterday from a journey across Mackintosh lands. A young woman considering entry into the religious life would wish to speak to him, so that was her most likely reason for being here in the keep.
Alan stood in front of the door with his hand on the latch and unexpectedly hesitated to open it. Mayhap he should not invade her privacy at prayer? Mayhap she was speaking to Diarmid and should not be disturbed? He’d not been this unsure of himself or his actions ever before, so he stood there, stunned at that realisation.
She was not for him and could not be, as Rob had reminded him. A simple concept, but he had to tell himself that a few more times as he waited there. So this could only be simp
le curiosity or a gesture of friendship towards Clara’s cousin who was both new and alone here in Glenlui—something he had been and understood how it felt to be so. Convinced now, he lifted the latch, tugged the door open a bit and slipped inside.
Two small windows on either side of the low-ceilinged chamber let in light. Candles burned on the unadorned altar there all hours of the day and night whether the priest was present or not. It was something he’d insisted on when he agreed to serve the people here and something that Brodie agreed to—the chapel was open to everyone no matter the time or day. Benches sat around the outer perimeter of the chapel and would be moved into rows during Mass or other services. So, Alan glanced along them until he saw her.
She sat, head bowed, lips moving silently in some prayer as he watched her. Though her hands were empty, her fingers moved as if she clutched prayer beads in them. Alan smiled at the sight of it, remembering his mother’s hands as they moved in the same way. Not wishing to disturb her devotions, Alan slid on to the nearest bench and leaned against the stone wall at his back.
The silence between them was soothing in a way. He’d always found it to be so here in this place of God, though he would not consider himself an overly prayerful man. He sought the peace it brought during difficult times in his life as most did—begging for forgiveness after trespassing or thanking the Almighty for favour or mercy shown. When kith or kin passed. When word of Agneis’s death reached him.
A few minutes passed and Alan wondered if he should indeed say something or simply leave when she broke the silence and spoke.
Claiming His Highland Bride Page 7