by Aileen Adams
Who would build the fire in the morning when she was no longer present to do it?
In the days since her beating, she had called upon her father’s shrewd intelligence and sense of self-preservation, urging him to hire a lass from the nearby village to look in upon them and care of the home. “Neither Iain nor Jamie are fit for such work, and they are young men,” she’d pointed out, certain to make a point of this.
He would never allow his sons to debase themselves by engaging in woman’s work.
Even so, Kin was a miserly scoundrel who did not part easily with the meager few pence.
The thought of his allowing the household to fall to ruin plagued her waking thoughts and her dreams alike. The house was not hers, and she knew it well, but she had kept it standing and shining by the sweat of her brow and the ache of her back.
While there had never been much in her life to bring her happiness, she had known the satisfaction—deep, true, peaceful—of turning to look at the clean, orderly kitchen before going to bed and knowing she’d done a good day’s work.
Speaking with Kin had been a pointless endeavor, and so she’d turned her attention to what might be done to set her brothers off on the right foot.
The larder was full of preserved and pickled fruits and vegetables as a result. Fresh butter, fresh bread, all of the root vegetables she could manage to pull from the garden behind the cottage. She’d weeded the garden to perfection as well, had mended holes in both boys’ tunics, had cleaned the hearth and chimney.
By the time she’d allowed the floor to dry before replacing the table and chairs, there was nothing left to do but bathe away the grime which had caked itself on her skin and wait for the members of her clan designated to accompany her to the home of Fergus MacDougal’s uncle.
He was a Campbell, Fergus’s uncle Luthais, meaning his clan was one of the strongest in the highlands and growing stronger all the time.
Would Fergus take the clan as his own after the marriage? Would she be expected to follow suit?
It did not matter, as she had no intention of marrying the man.
Or any man.
She walked to the stream which ran past the south side of their land—her father’s land, not hers, it would do her well to remember it—and made use of a thick shrub to conceal her from the notice of anyone who might awaken in the cottage. Not that any of them would, not until the cock crowed them all to wakefulness.
It was a pleasure to peel the sweat-soaked kirtle from her skin, along with the chemise she wore beneath it. She draped her fresh kirtle, one suitable for traveling, over a branch before taking the other garments to the stream with her.
The water was crisp and refreshing, perhaps a bit too chilly for bathing in the already cool air, but she was no ordinary woman who caught a chill or swooned at the sight of blood.
Trifles such as catching a chill mattered little to her. She’d never experienced a day’s illness in her life and had no intention of developing the habit.
Instead of avoiding the washing of her hair, then, she knelt in the deepest stretch of the stream and leaned back until the water covered her hair. She ran her fingers through her cursedly thick hair so as to loosen any dirt or dust therein, allowing the rushing stream to carry it all away.
Would that it might carry her away.
She rarely gave in to despair or dark thoughts, as they were of no assistance to a busy, productive person. But there, in the stream, on the verge of leaving the only home she’d ever known…
It seemed impossible to suppress her darkest fears.
She’d done her level best with what the gods had seen fit to give her. Raising her brothers, growing up without a mother’s guidance, without a father’s love. Learning both the art of childcare and homemaking at the age of ten with only the occasional visit from a well-meaning neighbor to provide comfort or instruction.
And yet there were times when she wished it hadn’t been so.
There were even times when she’d wished to have been born male, so that she might make her way in the world without the need to answer to anyone. For had the situation been reversed and one of her brothers had been born first, and she had been the one born just before her mother’s death, he would not have given his life over to her raising and well-being.
She would have been sold off to another family, or at the very least given away. And her brother would have gone on to his own destiny.
Perhaps he would have forgotten her existence, as men were allowed to do.
She sat up once it seemed her hair was clean, the heavy mass hanging over her back and sending water pouring down. After squeezing out as much of the water as possible, she went about the business of washing her soiled garments.
What of this Fergus MacDougal, the one to whom she’d been promised in marriage? How was it that he had avoided the burden of wedding vows? He’d run about the countryside for several years after the war, or so she’d heard, performing acts of dubious nature for those willing to pay.
How on earth did anyone expect him to settle down into a life of marriage? A fine husband he would be, riding hither and yon with no knowledge of when he would be returning to his wife and family.
It was none of her concern, for he would never be her husband. No matter what Kin Reid or Luthais Campbell believed.
No man told her what to do.
Little wonder her father had never learned this, as he had never taken pains to know anything of her.
Once finished with the washing, she used her fingers to comb out her hair, then braided it. The morning air had dried her skin, leaving her free to dress.
With one more look at the stream, with the tall, graceful, silver birches which lined it on both banks, she returned to the cottage. The cock crowed as she stepped over the threshold.
By the time the sound of her brothers stirring to life reached her ears, she had folded her clean kirtle and chemise and tucked them into her pack along with the few things she had already thought to bring on her journey.
It would be little trouble, losing the clansmen sent to escort her. She knew the woods for miles around, had spent days hunting them. She’d built many a fire to warm herself overnight, had taken refuge in caves during sudden storms. She knew how to live off the land—which plants were poisonous, and which were safe to eat, how to track deer and avoid bears and other dangers.
“Moira?” Jamie and Iain appeared in the doorway to her bedchamber, looking utterly wretched and trying very hard not to.
She opened her arms, embracing them both at once, assuring them as fervently as she could that they would do well without her. They were young men now and could fend for themselves.
“I’ve taught you everything I could,” she reminded them both, kissing their cheeks. She’d kissed them so many times, from the day they were born.
It wasn’t like her to cry. She had not shed a tear after a single one of the beatings Kin Reid had bestowed upon her. In fact, the last time she’d cried was the day her mother was laid to rest.
She had become a mother that day and had not given in to despair or sorrow since.
Even so, this did not keep the tears which threatened to overwhelm her from stinging behind her eyes, in her nose. She held them back for the sake of her brothers, but barely.
Kin did not deign to leave the comfort of his bed in order to see his daughter off. This was no surprise. In fact, it might have knocked Moira off her feet if he had.
The sound of approaching horses sent a chill to her heart. It was time for a final farewell. She had dreaded this moment ever since agreeing to the marriage arrangement made on her behalf by Clan Reid and Clan Campbell.
“Remember,” she murmured, turning to the twins and taking their hands—so large, reminding her of puppies who had yet to grow into their paws. “No trick archery. I do not wish to hear that one of you shot an arrow through the other’s head.”
“What if it is an arm, instead?” Jamie tried valiantly to bring a smile to her face.
“So long as it is not the arm you most need,” she grinned, cuffing him about the ear.
She turned to Iain. “Do not push him. You know what I speak of. When he is in one of his tempers, leave him alone. Do not attempt to talk, do not attempt to soothe him when he is dark and brooding. Leave him be. Go to the woods, both of you.”
“I will remember,” he whispered.
“Be good men.” She took them by the backs of their necks. “Be good men. Be the men I raised you to be. And remember how much I love you, for I do. No matter how far away I might be. You will always be the last thing I think of before I close my eyes every evening.”
She looked from one of them to the other and dared share something—very generally, very vaguely, so that they might not be accused of prior knowledge.
“No matter what you hear of me, know that I am well. I am taking care of myself. Do you understand?” She shook them slightly. “Do you? Worry not for me. Take care of each other, that is all I ask.” Perhaps this would provide a bit of solace once the inevitable news of her escape reached their ears.
They nodded, the green eyes so like her own shining with unshed tears. It would be best to end things there, she decided, before either of them embarrassed themselves by weeping. They might come to resent her for that in the future.
“I love you,” she whispered again, turning away before she began her own weeping, and went out to add the pack of clothing to the back of her saddle. The gray mare had been carefully washed and brushed by her brothers, one final act of the love they knew not how to express otherwise.
Riding down the path from the road were four horsemen. She recognized them, but only vaguely, having met them during clan meetings held nearer the farm. While she could not have named them if given a dozen years, she knew them by the shocking, almost obscenely red hair typical of the clan.
Her father’s hair was the same shade, while she and the boys had taken their mother’s brown with hints of gold, bronze, and copper. A relief, as she had no desire to live life looking as though her head were on fire.
“Are ye prepared, lass?” The first rider, tall and muscular with a jagged scar running down the right side of his otherwise handsome face, brought his stately chestnut to a stop close to her.
She replied by mounting the mare, tucking her skirts about her legs. The four of them stared in a mixture of surprise and amusement, she thought, as she rode through and past them, taking the lead as they left the farm.
She’d never see it again.
Even with that knowledge in mind, she did not give it a single backward glance.
Her heart might break if she did.
6
“What do ye mean, she escaped?” Luthais screamed and swore, kicking at the ground. It took skill and strength for the trio of riders to keep their mounts in place, as the poor beasts could do nothing but react to Luthais and his screams.
Fergus hurried to the group, followed by his friends. “What is this?” he demanded, looking to the riders for an answer as it was clear he’d get none from his uncle. The man appeared close to apoplexy.
One of the riders explained. “We received word from the Reid escorts, who asked us to bring the message to the Campbell house. Moira Reid escaped the four Reids assigned to escort her here. They are currently looking everywhere for her, or else they would have brought the news themselves.”
“I suppose that is one way to avoid marriage,” Quinn whispered from behind him.
He had to hand it to her, whoever she had become as an adult; the lass had courage and skill if she was able to escape as she had. Tyrone Reid would not assign four riders to the task if they were not the best he had to call upon.
And she had done him a great favor, as well.
He would always thank her for it.
Luthais glared at him as though he could read his nephew’s thoughts. “I suppose this has something to do with ye,” he spat.
Fergus had been certain his uncle could surprise him no further. “How could it? Ye told me fewer than twelve hours ago of your plans to wed me to the lass.”
There was no argument his uncle could make to counter this, so he consoled himself with a few more colorful turns of phrase before storming into the house. The riders appeared all too relieved to ride away.
Which left Fergus with Rodric and Quinn, the three of them looking at each other with equally dazed expressions.
“I suppose that is the end of that,” Rodric suggested with a shrug. “Ye are no longer under obligation and might do as ye wish.”
“I suppose so.” It was a great relief, to be certain, but it had come so suddenly as to leave him somewhat unsettled.
“Will ye come with us, then?” Quinn was all but prepared to mount up and ride away, it seemed.
Fergus could not blame him for his haste, as the Campbell household was hardly a pleasant place even in the best of times.
With Luthais storming about the place as he was, swearing up and down and throwing anything he laid hands upon, it went from unpleasant to dangerous.
Though he did not wish to spend another minute, he did feel as though he could exhibit the same haste.
“I must first speak with my father,” he relented. “And ye have somewhere ye need to be. I shall meet with ye at Padraig’s, or perhaps at the inn. I had planned to meet with Murphy there.”
“We shall see ye soon, and if we see Murphy first, we’ll tell him ye have business with him,” Quinn promised as he untied his gelding from the post. “Ride with care.”
“And the same to ye,” Fergus replied, only partly paying attention to the words which came from his mouth. The question of what to say to his father weighed far heavier on his mind.
Tavis was where his son had expected to find him—in Luthais’s study, cringing as the man screamed and railed against him, against the Reids, against everything in his line of sight.
Including Fergus, who observed from the doorway.
“I ought to have known a matter involving ye or your worthless son would end in such a manner,” Luthais growled, lifting a mug and pulling his arm back as though he prepared to hurl the thing at Tavis’s head.
This stirred Fergus to action, and he was quick to place himself between the two men. “Neither my father nor I have anything to do with this,” he snarled, looking at his uncle as he would have regarded an enemy on the field of battle. Would that he might bury his dirk in the man’s chest and watch him die.
“Nay?” Luthais asked with a barking laugh. “Perhaps if the prospect of marrying ye were more attractive, the lass would not have taken such a risk. She would rather place herself in mortal danger than marry the likes of ye.”
“Or perhaps she was just as disgusted at the notion of being sold into marriage as I was. Perhaps it was ye who bargained badly when ye made this plan for us,” Fergus argued before turning to his father and helping him into a chair.
It was clear the news had taken the strength from him, which was to say nothing of the abuse he’d sustained thanks to his brother-in-law.
“I am sorry, lad,” he murmured, shaking his head with a mournful frown. “This was all for naught.”
Guilt and disappointment battled for control in Fergus’s mind. He merely patted his ill, aging father’s shoulder before whirling about to face his uncle.
“You will see to it that my father is well cared for until he recovers from his illness,” he demanded. “If the man is ill, it is your doing. Bringing him all this way, and for what? To press him into accepting this scheme of yours.”
“Scheme?” Luthais turned purple once again, shaking with fury. “How dare ye, when this is the best match ye could possibly have hoped for?”
“Ye insist on saying this, but I find it difficult to believe. Especially as I have no wish for a match with any woman, ever. As I said, ye will see to my father’s comfort, and ye will drop the entire matter.”
“I will do no such thing,” Luthais hissed.
Fergus had expe
cted nothing less. “Then I will bring my friends here to visit ye, along with a rather unpleasant band of cutthroats with whom I’ve become acquainted over the years.” When his uncle sneered, Fergus raised his voice to add, “I will also bring the full force of both the Anderson and Duncan clans at my back. If it’s war you’re looking for, Luthais Campbell, ‘tis war you’ve found if ye cross me.”
This was another matter entirely. To threaten with a handful of rogues such as himself was little bother to a man with a small army at his disposal.
To threaten such strength as Fergus knew would come to his aid—for neither Padraig Anderson nor Phillip Duncan could abide the evil of a man who took advantage of a smaller, weaker man—was another.
Luthais Campbell had few allies, having run off those his father had cultivated in years past with his tempers, his distrust of those surrounding him. After Moira’s escape, Tyrone Reid would not wish to align himself with one who might suddenly decide to take vengeance.
He would have no one to call upon should an invasion take place.
He backed down, as Fergus knew he would. “Aye, it shall be done.” How he gritted his teeth when he said it.
“I swear to ye, if I receive word he’s been treated with anything less than he deserves…”
“I tell ye, he shall be comfortable under my roof,” Luthais growled.
Fergus held his gaze for a moment longer than was necessary before returning his attention to Tavis, who seemed to shrink into the chair he sat upon.
It pained Fergus to leave his father in that terrible place, where his much stronger brother-in-law might wear him down until there was nothing left. While the men were roughly the same age, a life of daily work and deprivation during the times work was slow showed itself in Tavis’s stooped stature and thin frame.
At the same time, Luthais looked as strong as a bear and would gladly fight one when his blood as up, as it was at that moment.