by Aileen Adams
The matter-of-fact way in which she spoke was perhaps most shocking of all, along with the manner in which she continued to ride ahead of him. She guided her horse down the path without so much as a glance over her shoulder.
“Tis quite a way ye have of thankin’ a man,” he muttered.
“What do ye mean?”
“Trying to spit at me, when ye ought to be thankin’ me for taking the trouble to come for ye, then rescue ye. It’s both of our necks now.”
“Ye said that already.”
“It bears repeating.” Och, this woman. She made him want to shout out every foul word he’d ever learned, which was plenty. And it still would not seem enough. It would not vent all of the ire she stirred in him.
Yet there was a sense of relief he could not ignore, knowing she had no wish to be the wife of Angus Cameron. Fenella had no way of knowing how low his estimation of her had sunk when he thought she loved the brute.
“What are ye laughing about?” she called back.
“I didna know I was,” he admitted, still chuckling softly.
She cast a scornful look over her shoulder. “I didn’t know ye remembered how to laugh.”
“I didna know myself,” he admitted, still in a better mood than he ought to have been. He ought not to care as much as he did that the lass was not desiring a marriage with Angus, but it was clear from the lightness of his heart that he’d cared far more than he should.
She was nearly a cousin to him, after all, and he had no wish to see her waste her life in an unhappy marriage. There was no chance of their union being anything but. Over time, he would have worn her down until there was no spark left in her, no desire to be free, to think or speak for herself.
That would’ve been a great loss.
She clicked her tongue, still scornful. “I wonder how all the people ye left in the horse pen feel right now. I wonder if they have reason to laugh.”
“This again.”
“And again, and again, Donnan Ross. They needed us!”
“I dinna care what they needed! I cared about ye, and I took ye out of there, and that is all I know or wish to know.”
“I wish I had your gift for forgetting, then.”
“I wish ye did, too, so we might stop speaking of it. There is no use. We canna go back—even if we could, I wouldn’t have changed a thing. I had a task to manage, and I managed it.”
She turned away, facing forward again. “I’m nothing but a task, then.”
“Aye, take that one small part of what I said and forget the rest,” he grumbled.
“Might I at least know what you’re getting in return for this task? Bringing me back to my father?”
The woman would drive him mad. He would simply lose his mind. “What business is it of yours?”
“Ah, then there is something.”
“I didna say there was.”
“You didn’t say there wasn’t, which tells me there is. Come now. I deserve to know.”
“Ye do not.”
“Might I guess?”
“Please do, as ye believe yourself to be so clever.”
She was quiet for a long time, with nothing but her back visible. He wished he could see her face, to know what she was thinking. “He offered to pay ye, I’ve no doubt.”
“You are correct. I would be a fool to accept such a responsibility without silver in return.”
She nodded. “I suspect it had something to do with your brother’s debt.”
Would she ever cease to surprise him? “How do ye know about that?”
“Our fathers have been friends since they were lads,” she snorted. “When Ewan left, Clyde was… It was a difficult time for him. My father did what he could to offer comfort.”
“That means quite a lot.”
“Ye dinna need to tell me.”
Suddenly, she brought the horse to a stop and dismounted before he knew what was happening. She moved quickly, almost as quickly as her thoughts moved. “Why did ye not come home? Two years ago, ye might have come home. Or at least sent word to say ye were alive. Instead, your Da and your brother mourned ye. How could ye allow it?”
He opened his mouth to defend himself—she knew nothing of him or why he’d stayed away, but she continued before he had the chance. “And dinna tell me it has anything to do with your scars, Donnan Ross, because I dinna want to hear it. Ye aren’t the only man who came home with scars. But they came home. You did not. There were people who wanted ye to return. Who wept over ye.”
Her voice broke. She looked at the ground.
He stared at her bowed head.
He could not make sense of her. One moment, she thrashed him with that sharp tongue of hers. The next, her shoulders shook as though she cried.
“There is nothing to be done about it now,” he grunted, looking away. “When we have time to sit and speak of it, I shall tell ye of the woman who saved me.”
“I do not need to know. As ye say, there is nothing to be done now.” She sniffled.
He caught sight of her dragging a hand across her eyes before she turned away to mount the horse once again.
“Fenella…”
“I said, there is no need.” She turned her head halfway, her bruised cheek a reminder of what they had left behind, and were still running from. “I will not lose control over myself again.”
He bit his tongue before he could make a fool of himself and say he wished she would. For when she did—when her emotions ran hot, when her cheeks flushed, and her eyes went sharp and bright, she was the most magnificent thing he’d ever seen.
Foolish it would be for him to give voice to the words in his heart. For she would never think him magnificent, or anything other than a horror.
And it would do well for him to remember it.
12
What a terrible fool Donnan must have thought she was.
Bursting into tears like a child. Revealing how it had hurt to believe him dead.
She’d never revealed her true feelings to anyone. She had not even known of them until that very morning—even so, it was all a mass of confusion in her heart.
It was fatigue. Hunger. Confusion over what it meant to return home when Angus Cameron would surely send someone to retrieve her—if he did not make the trip on his own.
Her father had men of his own, many of them. They would make the Camerons think twice about mounting an attack.
But there were so many Camerons, and so many others had already joined their ranks. They might easily crush the Gordon men.
Would Angus find it worthwhile to mount such an attack? It would surely be a lengthy endeavor which would take time from whatever it was he planned to do—trekking north for several days, and no telling how long it would take to resolve a clash.
It would also mean repaying her for having run away. She had insulted him. She’d gone against his wishes.
Her cheek still ached every time she brushed so much as the tips of her fingers across it.
No matter how long it would take or how many men he might lose, he would not allow her to get away with making a fool of him, and in front of so many others who’d already heard they were supposed to be married.
Even the men she’d been locked away within the stables had known about it.
She shivered in spite of the early morning warmth, sunlight shining down upon the road which had widened that they might travel abreast.
“Are ye cold?”
His voice set her nerves on edge. Why did he insist on sounding angry? To think, she’d wept over him.
“It is nothing,” she assured him, eyes on the road. She hadn’t looked at him since they’d begun moving again, after her embarrassing show of emotion.
“It will be midmorning, or late,” he murmured half to himself. “We ought to stop soon, I suppose.”
“I can ride longer,” she said, even as she asked herself why she’d tell such a lie. She ached from head to toe, unaccustomed to such long stretches of time spent in the saddle.
Her head throbbed, her eyes were dry and the lids heavy.
“Nay, I dinna think it would be wise. If ye take ill, that will slow us down further.”
“I’ve never taken ill a day in my life,” she sniffed.
“Then you are overdue,” he snorted. “All the more reason to take a few hours to rest. I would wager ye had little chance to do so in the stables.”
“That is true,” she admitted in a soft voice, remembering the long night. “I had no sleep at all.”
“More reason to stop, then.” His voice sounded gentle now. Would that he could decide to be either kind or beastly. She could easily handle one or the other. It was never knowing which he would decide to be that would prove challenging.
She offered no protest when he veered off the road and into the woods, following obediently. Now that the promise of rest was closer than before, fatigue hit her from all sides. She slumped in the saddle, fighting the need to close her eyes.
Oh, for the sweet forgetfulness of sleep. Would that her dreams would allow it.
They walked the horses well away from the road, deep into a thickly wooded patch where heavy pine boughs hung nearly to the ground and provided a natural cover.
“This ought to do,” Donnan decided, coming to an abrupt stop and losing no time in dismounting.
It was cool, the dampness of several wet days still present in the moist soil, droplets of rain clinging to the pine needles. She brushed against one of the boughs while removing her horse’s saddle and sent a shower of water into the air.
To her surprise, she smiled. It seemed a strange time to smile.
Then again, Donnan had a way of making her feel as though everything would be well. As disagreeable as he might be, as angry as she still was with him, he brought a sense of safety. She need not take her troubles entirely upon herself.
It was the reminder that she was not alone which helped her fall asleep easily, even before her head touched the saddle she used as a pillow.
A snapping sound awoke her not a moment later.
Her eyes flew open, her heart pounding wildly.
Where was she? All she saw around her was darkness, blankness, with the smell of pine and moist soil heavy in the air.
Another sound, and the flicker of firelight as flames leaped to life, allowing her a glimpse of a scarred face which had once been so handsome.
“Och, Donnan,” she groaned, a hand over her chest as though this would calm her racing heart.
“I didna mean to wake ye,” he murmured. “Go to sleep.”
She looked up at the sky, or what was visible between the towering pines surrounding them. “I slept so long?” she asked, her voice little more than a croak. Her mouth and lips were so dry.
“Aye, most of the day,” he chuckled. “I didna have the heart to wake ye. I set traps and snared a few hares while you slept.”
“I am sorry. I know how important it is that we keep moving.”
“We would need to stop sometime, and we made a great deal of progress overnight. Besides,” he added, placing the already skinned rabbits over the fire, “I wouldna wish to risk making ye ill. Ye need to eat and rest, as do I.”
“Yet ye aren’t fearful of making yourself ill?”
He shook his head. “I have been through much worse.”
She could not help her eyes moving over the long scar when he said it—as he could not help watching her trace the scar’s path across his face, she supposed.
“So you’ll look upon me now,” he observed, a corner of his mouth twisting in a wry smile.
“When did I not look upon ye?”
“For much of the morning.”
“I was angry with ye. I was not avoiding ye because of your injury. It means nothing to me.”
He rolled his eyes. “Dinna lie to me, woman. I thought better of ye than that.”
“I am not lying. Ye appear different than I remembered ye, that is so, but there is nothing so horrible about your face. What makes ye believe there is?”
“How much time do ye have to listen to me explain?” He tended the rabbits, careful to avoid her gaze.
She sighed as she sat up, tucking her legs beneath her. “It isn’t as bad as that, I tell ye. But I know it does not help for me to insist. I do not know how ye feel.”
He pursed his lips. “That is so. Ye dinna know. No one does.”
He’d always been so handsome. She’d carried the image of his face in her young, lovesick heart for so long, until she’d grown up and forgotten it was there.
It had not gone away. Seeing him again in the great hall had the same effect as a lantern upon a darkened corner, lighting up the darkest places in her heart and reminding her of what she’d set aside.
The shadow of that handsome face lingered in his eyes, his mouth, the sharpness of his jaw—at least, the uninjured side. The scar left a deep indent on his left jaw, breaking the firm line in two.
Her fingers itched to touch it, to tell him it mattered not. For he had endured such pain because of it. There was so much hatred in him now, bitterness which had hardened his heart against a world which had not treated him kindly.
He looked from the fire, familiar eyes meeting hers, and her heart all but ceased to beat.
She wanted to look away, to protect her thoughts, the memories which must have been written on her face. Some instinct warned her against it in time, however, reminding that he would mistake her embarrassment for dismay at his appearance.
So, she held his gaze instead, until it was he who looked away.
“Can ye tell me one thing?” he asked, stirring the fire.
“Aye.” She’d expected questions.
“Why were ye there at all? Your Da was wrong about why you went, and a good thing it is, but that doesna tell me why ye did it.” He glanced up from his work. “Dinna tell me ye took it into yer head that Angus’s plan was a solid one.”
“Nay,” she snorted. “I do not trust the man, nor any of his clan. I saw from the first the unlikeliness of what he described. To think, the Highlands uniting as he described.”
He smiled at this. “Ye saw through it. I did remember ye having good sense.”
This compliment, though it was hardly a glowing one or the sort of thing she’d wished to hear from him as a girl, made her feel warm all over.
“But why were ye with them if ye knew the plan was a lie?”
“I wanted to know the truth.”
His face went slack. “Ye canna be serious, lass. Ye went all the way there to act as a spy?”
“Aye.”
“Ye told no one of this?”
“No one. How could I?” she asked when he blew out a long, exasperated sigh. “Ye know my father. He would never have allowed me to take such a chance. If he sent one of his men, I could not trust them to do a good job. They would have more than likely found a home in the stables after Angus discovered their intentions. I had to do it myself. I only trust myself.”
She braced herself for what she was sure would be a dressing down.
He surprised her by smiling, though he still shook his head as though he did not truly believe her. “I must admit, I dinna think I would have mustered the courage to take a chance such as that,” he grinned.
Again, she warmed from her head to the tips of her toes. Her body seemed to sing with pleasure at his reaction. “Ye took a chance of your own, coming from me as ye did.”
He waved one of his large hands, dismissing this. “Nay, that was nothing, lass. I can defend myself with my hands, my dirk. Ye have neither of those things.”
She sat taller than before. “I have myself. My wits.”
“That ye have.”
They exchanged a long look over the fire, long enough to make her heart swell until it ached. But it was a nice ache.
What was it about him that made her stomach twist in knots? She was behaving no better than Lorna.
Lorna.
The thought of her friend turned a pleasant ache into a painful one. She cl
osed her eyes.
“What is it?” Donnan asked.
“Lorna. I’d forgotten her. She’s alone there without me.”
“The lass with the golden curls?” he asked, gesturing toward his own hair.
She smirked. “I knew ye would have noticed her.”
He shrugged, chuckling. “A man would have to be blind not to.”
Her mouth screwed up as though she’d tasted something bitter. “I see.”
“Ye were close to her, then.”
“I suppose. As close as I could be to anyone there. I’m sorry to have left her behind.” When Donnan drew a breath to speak, she held up a hand to stop him. “I know. It would have been folly to bring her along. She would have merely slowed us. Knowing it doesn’t make it easier.”
“She seemed rather taken with Angus Cameron, did she not?”
“She would have preferred him demand to marry her, aye. He would not have been disappointed by her if she were the daughter of Aleck Gordon, I’ll tell ye. I suppose it’s for the best we did not try to bring her along. She never would have come, and she might have told Angus of our leaving.”
Donnan nodded. “This does not make ye feel better, though. Does it?”
“Nay. It does not.” She chuckled. “This isn’t to say I don’t like the company I’m in. When ye aren’t grumbling and nasty.”
“When ye aren’t making me so.”
They exchanged another look, and a smile, and passed their meal in companionable silence.
13
It was not until the following morning that Fenella noticed what Donnan had been waiting for her to notice. She’d like as not been too tired the previous day to pay attention to the direction in which they’d been riding.
“Why are we riding south?” she asked, looking over her left shoulder to where the run rose. “We ought to be riding north.”