“Sorcha, Lena,” Isobel called from across the room, interrupting their talk. “I have to go back to the castle. My grandmother is nae feeling well. Do the two of ye want to come with me? Or ye could follow the stone path to the brewhouse and take it just a bit farther to the west side of the loch. The shore is verra beautiful over there, and the water is warm for swimming.”
Lena looked to Sorcha. “I love to swim,” she said, her smile seeming hopeful.
Sorcha grinned. “I dunnae ken if I even can, but I’m willing to learn.”
“Excellent! Then it’s settled,” Lena announced. “We’ll come back to the castle this afternoon.”
A triumphant look flitted across Isobel’s face. Was her grandmother even ill, or had Isobel planned all this simply to give Sorcha and Lena time to resolve their differences? Either way, Sorcha needed to thank her later.
They followed Isobel out, and the three women paused outside the closed door. “Just return to the castle before dark. It’s perfectly safe, mind ye. Nae a soul gets on this island without having to pass by the guards at the bridge, but Graham, worrier that he is, still dunnae like me to wonder about after dark. I’m certain Cameron will feel the same way.”
Both ladies nodded, then parted ways with Isobel as she headed toward the castle and they took the path to the brewery. They walked in companionable silence, Sorcha thinking upon Lena’s memory of her mother. Something about the memory had tugged at her mind, but she could not quite part the fog in her head to understand why.
“Alex’s men have arrived,” Lena murmured, pulling Sorcha’s thoughts back to the moment.
She glanced through the trees, down to the bridge that connected the castle on the island to the land. A long line of men on horses had halted, and as Sorcha and Lena watched, it did indeed appear that each man was only allowed to pass through the heavily secured towers after personally being spoken to by the guards.
A knot of tension that Sorcha had not even realized was in her stomach seemed to loosen. They were certainly quite safe on this island. It was too bad they could not stay here forever. It was by a look of silent agreement toward the brewhouse that they continued on their way and spent a few hours laughing and speaking with the men who worked the house as they sampled a good bit of brew. It was only later, as they made their way to the loch Isobel had told them of, did Sorcha realize how lightheaded she felt, much the way she had felt after imbibing in too much wine back at Dunvegan.
She groaned. “I fear I drank too much ale.”
Lena chuckled. “I feel most excellent, but then, my husband forced me to drink exceeding amounts of wine and ale because he said it took the fight out of me.”
“Oh, Lena—”
“Dunnae,” Lena bit out. “I kinnae stand the pity.”
Sorcha nodded, understanding. As they came to the shore, they exclaimed in unison as they looked out at the sparkling water and sat down.
After kicking off their shoes and moving close enough to the water that it washed over their feet in cool, rippling laps, Sorcha closed her eyes, tilted her head to the sun, and soaked in the heat. When Lena cleared her throat, Sorcha opened her eyes and turned to look at the woman. A soft breeze blew a few curling strands of Lena’s long, russet hair across her face. Sorcha’s breath caught as the woman lifted a trembling hand to push the locks behind her ear.
“It might help to tell someone about some of the things that are in yer memory,” Sorcha said. “It seems to me that it would give them less power to haunt ye.”
“My head kens ye’re right,” Lena said in a trembling tone, “as it did help ease the pain a bit to speak of my marriage a bit before to Isobel. But my stomach knots and my throat tightens when I even consider telling all the horrid details of how weak and groveling I became. I tried to seem braw when I was rescued, but it was nae real.”
“I understand,” Sorcha assured Lena. “I’ve a great fear of what I might learn about myself, but I try to be braw every day.”
Lena’s eyes widened, and she gave a nod of recognition. “He’d make me drink until I lost my accounts,” she said suddenly, looking down at the ground as she swirled her finger in the dirt. “He’d put his hand on my neck and choke me until I drank, and then—” A violent shudder racked her body. “Once the room swayed and all the fight had left me, he’d tear off my clothes and do things that my body rebelled against. I simply did nae have the strength at that point to stop him.”
Sorcha kept absolutely quiet, not wanting to disrupt Lena, yet she did curl her fingers hard into the dirt as rage for the woman coursed through her.
“I’ve wished many a night, I had nae lived through his treatment.”
“Lena, nay!” Sorcha burst out. “If ye had nae lived, then ye would nae have a chance to find happiness now.”
Lena turned sad eyes to Sorcha. “I dunnae believe I will ever find happiness.”
“I believe ye will. Ye will marry, and—”
“Nay,” Lena said harshly. “I will nae ever submit to marriage again. I’d rather be dead.” Sorcha bit her lip but held her words, feeling they would only be seen as pity as before. Lena drew her knees to her chest. “I dunnae ken what I should do quite yet. I thought at first I would stay at Dunvegan and be with my brothers, but they are all married and dunnae really need me.”
“Cameron is nae married,” Sorcha protested.
Lena smiled. “Nae yet,” she said in a teasing voice.
“Just because yer brothers have taken wives, dunnae mean ye dunnae have a place, though,” Sorcha said, choosing to leave Lena’s comment alone.
“Oh aye, it does. Unless I want to be the sad, unmarried, angry sister for the rest of my life—or worse, they have to defy the king as they almost did afore to protect me from a forced marriage. Nay.” She shook her head. “I must take hold of my future. I am simply nae quite certain how yet.”
“Ye might change yer mind about marriage,” Sorcha said hopefully, thinking upon seeing Lena and Alex each give the other looks of longing when they thought no one was observing them.
“I’ll nae be changing my thoughts about that,” Lena insisted. “However—” she gave Sorcha a shy look “—I do wonder sometimes in my bed at night what it would be like to be kissed by a man I did nae fear. But I grow tense even thinking of a man’s lips on mine. Do ye see the problem for me? Even with a want to discover the tenderness of a gentle kiss, I fear submitting to it too much to ever allow it.”
“Perchance ye simply have yet to meet the man who will be able to make ye long for his kiss more than ye fear it.”
“Nay,” Lena said with ringing certainty. “I—That is, there is a man who I long to kiss, but it is nae enough. The longing is nae enough,” she finished quietly, her voice sad.
Impetuously, Sorcha reached over and hugged her. Lena tensed at first, but then she relaxed. “It is nae enough yet,” Sorcha insisted. “Give it time. I feel certain it will be. And now,” she said cheerily, certain the mood needed to be lightened, “let us see if I can swim!”
Laughing, they both stood. Sorcha took off her bow and set it and her arrows down under the tree. She walked back to the shore, stripped to her léine as Lena had done, and they both waded into the water. Sorcha’s heart began to pound as the water crept up her legs, past her thighs, and to her stomach. She paused, but Lena nudged her.
“I’m here for ye, if ye need me,” Lena assured her. “I’m a verra good swimmer, and I’ll nae let ye drown.”
Sorcha nodded and moved with slow, tentative steps farther into the water. It passed her chest, then her neck, and when it got to her nose, she glanced to Lena. Sorcha stood on her tiptoes, breath held and heart speeding.
“Submerge yerself!” Lena urged. “I vow I’m here.”
Taking a deep breath, Sorcha dipped her head all the way under the water and pushed off from the ground. Suddenly, her body took over and her fear abated. Her arms and legs moved instinctively from memory, and such exhilaration filled her that when she broke t
he surface, she let out a whoop.
When she looked to her right, Lena was there beside her, grinning. “Ye swim as well as a fish!” she praised.
“Thank ye,” Sorcha replied, laughing. “And thank ye for staying with me. Ye made me feel safe, as if—” the truth of her feelings in the moment hit her “—as if ye took the place of my sister who is nae here.”
Lena’s lips parted, and she slowly smiled. “Thank ye, Sorcha,” she replied, her voice trembling with emotion.
They whiled the rest of the afternoon away, swimming, eating, and then swimming some more. When the sky became orange with the first hint of dusk, they decided it was time to return to the castle.
“Care to race?” Sorcha challenged.
Lena answered with a grin and a dive under the water. She shot past Sorcha in the clear water. Chuckling, Sorcha gulped in a deep breath and dove under to catch up, not coming up for air until she saw the ground appear beneath her in the water, so that she knew she was very near shore.
She broke the surface with a whoop, stood, and rubbed the water out of her eyes. “Did I win?” she asked breathlessly as she blinked her eyes open.
Her breath solidified in her throat when she saw Lena, lying unmoving on the shore, her face turned toward Sorcha but her body twisted the other way, as if she had tried to fend off someone but had been caught unawares. Blood streamed down her forehead, and her eyes were closed.
Sorcha’s gaze flew to the face of the man looming over her. She squinted up at him, struggling to really see him as the setting sun was in her eyes. He held a dagger in his hand and had a savage smile on his face, but his features were blurry.
“Hello, Sorcha,” he said in an eerily pleasant tone, as if greeting an old friend.
Something in his voice made her gasp. She knew that voice. Happiness and dread flooded her at once, and as the man bent down to his haunches and his face came into view, her stomach knotted in recognition as memories flooded her mind. “Finn,” she choked out, looking into the face that so mirrored her own. Silver-gray eyes the exact color as her own stared back at her with cold dispassion.
Finn ran his blade across his now-bearded face, as if he needed to scratch an itch. “Ye’ve caused me much trouble, Sorcha, and wasted an immense amount of my time, but here we finally are.”
“Ye came to retrieve me?” she asked, her voice betraying her fear, despite her effort to sound nonplussed.
Finn frowned. “Nay. I’ve come to kill ye,” he stated without a hint of emotion.
She responded at the same moment he lunged for her. Lurching backward, she ducked under the water, frantically clawing at it in hopes of escape. His strong hand locked around her ankle as she kicked, and it yanked hard, pulling her back toward the shore she had been trying to get away from. She was dragged, sputtering and gulping in mouthfuls of water, onto the shore, past Lena’s still form, and across the rocky land. She dug her nails into the ground, trying to gain purchase, but to no avail.
“Finn!” she screamed, as he hauled her toward the edge of the stone path she and Lena had come down earlier.
He stopped directly beside the tree where she had left her bow and arrows. When he flipped her onto her back, he stared down at her with an expression of hatred that made her shiver. “For years,” he spat at her, “I had to endure Father berating me, telling me I was weak and unworthy, shaming me in front of others, but I withstood it because I kenned that one day Blair Castle would be mine and I could finally be free of Father. But ye ruined that as ye ruin everything!”
Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs as she stared at her brother. All the while, she was trying to discreetly judge if she could reach her bow and have any hope of nocking an arrow and aiming before Finn stopped her. She was unsure. She had to get closer, had to keep him talking.
“How do I ruin everything?” she asked, even as memories filtered in that made her think she partly knew.
“I was Uncle Brom’s favorite,” he growled, “then ye stole his love.”
“Ye were cruel to him,” she countered, trying to edge a bit toward her bow.
“Cruel?” Finn scoffed. “He almost drowned ye. He deserved the beating I gave him.”
“Nay.” She shook her head, the memory of the day she had fallen into the water coming back to her even more clearly now. Brom had saved her, but Finn had appeared, taken her from Brom, and started to shake her for being careless. Finn undoubtedly had known, just as her sister, Constance, had, that Father would blame them for Sorcha’s carelessness. Age-old guilt besieged her, yet it was edged with the awareness that her brother’s heart had been twisted into an ugly thing. Still, he was her brother.
“Finn,” she said, softening her tone, “ye made Brom fear ye. That is nae my fault.”
“I had to beat him because of ye,” Finn accused. “I had to lie to Father to protect myself because of ye,” he shouted. “So aye—” he narrowed his eyes “—it is yer fault.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said simply, knowing her impetuousness as a child, combined with her father’s quick temper and harsh treatment of Finn, had led to this moment.
Her twin shook his head almost violently. “Sorry will nae suffice. Father will give my castle to that bastard Hugo if he learns ye still live.”
Sorcha gaped at her brother for a long moment, as she soaked in what he had just said and sifted through her memories. She recalled in quick flashes the night she had heard her father plotting Katherine’s death, and she knew Finn’s words to be true. She and the castle were the prizes offered to Hugo for his deed.
She swallowed hard, horrified. She truly was related to the enemy. But there was no time to consider what it meant now. “Why does Father think me dead?”
“Because I led him and Hugo to believe I saw ye killed. Did ye think I was coming to rescue ye?” he jeered.
She didn’t bother to tell him she’d had no memory of who she was until a moment ago. “Finn,” she said in a broken whisper. “I dunnae wish to marry Hugo or have yer castle. If ye will just let me speak with Father, I may be able to compel him to allow me to marry another.” She thought immediately of Cameron. What if she used what she knew her father had done to try to coax him into letting her marry as she wished? It was a risk, but she saw no other option. “I’ll go with ye this day to speak to him!”
“Nay!” he yelled.
When he pulled his arm back as if to strike her, she rolled toward her bow and arrows, grabbed them, and scrambled to her feet as Finn brought the blade down near her leg, grazing her skin. For one breath, she stared in astonishment at the blood trickling down her leg before she whipped up her bow and aimed it at Finn’s heart.
“Dunnae move,” she said, her voice steady and cold, though her heart raced wildly. “I will shoot ye, and ye ken I will nae miss.” The memory of her brother’s jealousy over her skill with daggers, with the bow, and on a horse rushed back to her. Each recollection of the hostility he had for her made her flinch and die a little inside.
Finn’s nostrils flared, but his lips pressed into a smirk. “Ye dunnae have the fortitude to kill me. Ye love me.” He spat the last sentence with dripping scorn. She understood well why. Father had made Finn believe that soft emotions—love—was for the weak and the foolish.
“I’ll find the strength,” she vowed, unsure if it was so. As the words left her mouth, Finn surged forward, and she released the arrow, aiming for his shoulder instead of his heart. He stumbled backward and dropped his dagger, which she kicked well out of his reach.
“Ye shot me,” he roared, yanking the arrow out of his shoulder with a curse. Blood immediately began to pulse from the wound, turning Sorcha’s stomach with dismay and sorrow. “Ye shot me,” Finn said again, but this time his voice was a bewildered mumble. His gaze caught hers, hurt flashing across his face as he swayed a bit. “I did nae truly believe ye would shoot me. Ye’re my sister.”
She sucked in sharp breath at his words, at his obvious pain. More
memories flooded her of a time when he had not been twisted by jealousy and hatred. They used to play a hiding game from their parents, and Finn had always found them the best hiding places. And she, Finn, and Constance would climb trees, and he would always help her into the tree and go down before her to ensure she didn’t fall. Finn used to catch light bugs in his hands for her, so she could make wishes on them, and he’d shown her how to fish. Her throat tightened painfully. What should she do?
“Shoot me,” Finn demanded suddenly.
“What?” she asked in horror.
“If ye take me to the MacLeods, the king will have me executed for helping to kill Katherine. That death will be slow and painful, but ye can kill me quickly.”
“I kinnae kill ye, Finn.” She trembled with the mere thought of it.
“Ye will be sentencing me to death when ye hand me to the MacLeods, and possibly Father, too. I kinnae vow if they torment me that I’ll nae tell that Father was involved in the plotting to kill King David’s mistress, so it’s best if ye shoot me. Do it here,” Finn growled, ripped open his shirt, and poked a finger at his heart.
From somewhere behind her, Lena moaned, making Sorcha jerk. Finn’s gaze skittered past her to where Lena had been left. “She’s waking. Ye have little time to shoot me. Do it now.”
Sorcha shook her head, tears already leaking down her face. She could not kill her brother. It had been one thing to defend herself when he was trying to kill her, but she could not kill him as he was asking. Nor could she set him free and be responsible for Cameron’s possible death if he did not catch him. A bitter, sour taste filled her mouth as Lena moaned again. Sorcha stared at her brother. She could not be responsible for sending him to his death. What was she to do?
Queasiness turned in her stomach as Lena moaned again. Sorcha stared at Finn, her heart feeling as if a hand had gripped it in a merciless hold, and her mind registered that he had on a MacLean plaid. “My God,” she gasped. “Finn, did ye kill a MacLean to gain access to the island?”
He narrowed his eyes. “What if I did? What difference does it make? I tried to kill ye,” he said, his voice breaking and tears leaking out of his eyes now, too. She saw then what she had known, why she was standing here still. Finn was broken. His shoulders suddenly slumped, his hand came to his face, and he buried it in his palm. “I’m sorry, Sorcha. So sorry. I’ll nae ask yer forgiveness.”
How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady Page 27