Page 12 of Claiming His Highland Bride (A Highland Feuding #4)

C ourage.

Courage.

Courage.

The word repeated over and over in her thoughts as they finished the meal at table and as she followed Lady Mackintosh out of the hall and up to her solar above-stairs. With a discreet motion of her hand, she dismissed anyone who thought to follow or enter the room when they arrived. With the grace of an angel and the appearance of one, too, the lady crossed the chamber to a table and some chairs before stopping.

This woman did not have the reputation of being the most beautiful woman in the Highlands, if not all of Scotland, erroneously. Though that reputation was born out of her lovely looks at an earlier age many years ago, neither ageing nor strife nor a marriage to one of the most powerful men in the land had diminished that appearance. Not one grey hair showed on her head and her skin and eyes carried the brightness of a much younger woman. The lady sat in one chair and, as befitted her new identity, Sorcha remained standing opposite her.

‘Father tells me that you have excellent skills in reading and writing, Mistress MacPherson.’

‘Aye, my lady.’

‘Those could be of benefit in some convents,’ the lady added.

‘Some convents, my lady?’ she asked. Sorcha’s mother had spoken of how few women, even noblewomen, had those abilities and how even fewer used them well. The convent would be the place where she could.

‘Some convents welcome women with skills and put them to use for the good of the Almighty and those whom the convent serves,’ Lady Arabella said. Sorcha nodded for that was exactly what her mother had told her.

‘But some convents, some orders of holy sisters, ignore any and all talents and spend their waking hours on their knees in prayer only.’

That was not what Sorcha had intended to do for the rest of her life. She’d imagined herself spending time in prayer, aye, but also at other tasks as well. Possibly teaching others to read. Or...

‘Truly, it depends on the convent or monastery and the order that they serve. Clara said your kin—a cousin?—serves a convent on Skye?’

‘Aye, my lady.’

‘Do you know which order she serves?’

‘Nay, my lady.’

Sorcha had not bothered to ask. She had only focused on following her mother’s plan and going to Skye. The rest had seemed so far away in both time and place that there was no need to worry over those details. She’d never thought on such things. Sorcha noticed that the lady was watching her closely now.

‘I confess, my lady, my only thought was to go to my cousin and handle the rest of the matter there and then.’

Arabella stood then and walked to one of the open windows that looked out over the training yard from the sounds below. The lady leaned up on her toes and watched out at whoever was fighting. Without turning away from that scene, she spoke.

‘Did you ken that my husband’s uncle is The MacPherson?’

Sorcha clenched her teeth together to prevent the terrible words she wanted to utter just then from escaping. Brodie Mackintosh was related to the MacPhersons. Could her luck be any worse? When the lady turned and smiled, Sorcha thought it probably could and it could right now.

‘If you would like, he could intervene with his uncle to make other arrangements for you? If you have somehow become estranged from your kin, would it help if he mediated the issue? I could ask him to do so.’

Courage. Courage. Courage.

Though her link to the MacPhersons was real and true, Sorcha could not have The Mackintosh or his wife contacting them and asking questions about their treatment, and seeming abandonment, of their widowed kin. That would take her one step closer to having Sorcha MacMillan rise from the dead. If Clara remarked on her resemblance to her own mother, others among the MacPhersons would do the same. Others who had seen her mother, and possibly her, more recently.

Nay, she must keep Lady Arabella from doing this.

‘I beg your pardon, lady, if I have given the impression that The MacPherson or his clan have, in some way, shirked or resisted their duty to their kin. ’Tis not the truth.’ She inhaled and released the breath slowly, trying to calm her racing heart that pounded within her chest. ‘Entering the convent was my desire.’

‘And you would not consider other choices?’

‘Other choices?’ she asked. She could not help that her hands crept together. She clutched them tightly to keep them from shaking.

‘As kin to both Clara and my husband, you are welcome here. I could certainly use someone with your skills to assist me in my duties as Brodie’s wife in overseeing the Mackintoshes.’ The lady smiled then. ‘The children take more and more of my attention and, God willing, there will be more of them soon. To have someone I could rely on to carry out some of the tasks I do now would be more than just helpful, Saraid. ’Twould be a godsend, truly.’

And that would be as close to living her own life as was possible without proclaiming her identity. For a moment, Sorcha allowed herself to dream of that impossible thing. Worse, in that weakness, she began to think that she could marry and have children of her own.

But, none of that was meant to be. To honour her mother’s efforts and plans and Padruig’s sacrifice in getting her away, she must keep on the path she’d chosen. And she had chosen it when she left with Padruig into that dark, stormy night. And again when she chose to come here rather than returning to her father. She could have concocted a story of kidnap on her return and married the chieftain of the Camerons as her father wished her to do.

A chill passed through her then, making her shiver from inside out. She tried to control it, to hide it, from the lady, but she doubted she’d been successful. Lady Arabella missed little even if she did not deign to comment on it. As she did not now, choosing to turn and peer out the window instead.

‘I am honoured at your invitation, my lady. Truly, anyone would be. But, I am decided on this matter.’ Sorcha tried to make her words calm but forceful enough to convince The Mackintosh’s wife. A true Christian would not presume to decide where God would wish her to serve or in which capacity. ‘I will offer myself to the Almighty’s service at the convent of my kin and I will allow Him to decide where my skills should be used.’

Sorcha tried not to smile as she watched the lady try to figure out how to circumvent the rationale she’d just used. It was true—an applicant to holy orders or the religious life did not choose their service. That choice was left to those in charge...and to God. Even Arabella Cameron, Lady Mackintosh, would not argue against God’s right in this.

Or would she?

A smile lit the lady’s face then, but it did not reach her eyes. Sorcha understood then that she would agree with Sorcha’s words even while still questioning Sorcha’s motives and actions. It was there in the way her mouth curved while her eyes remained unmoved.

Had she just made an enemy of Lady Mackintosh?

‘Worry not,’ the lady said as though hearing Sorcha’s thought. ‘You must do as your faith and honour demand.’ The lady walked to the door and lifted the latch, dismissing Sorcha by her action. ‘If I can be of service to you in your path forward, you have but to ask.’

‘My thanks, my lady,’ Sorcha said as she curtsied and then walked past her. ‘I am grateful for your interest and your concern.’

As the door shut behind her, Sorcha understood her time here was limited. A few more weeks, a month, at best. If the lady chose to intervene or interfere and contact The MacPherson, it could be even less time than that. As she retrieved her cloak from where she’d left it in the keep, Sorcha decided to put a few of the coins back in the garment. Better to send back for the rest when she arrived at the convent than to need coins to travel quickly away from Glenlui and not have them at hand.

* * *

Arabella closed the door behind the enigmatic young woman.

This Saraid MacPherson was hiding something. Oh, Arabella could feel it, hear it and almost smell it when she answered the questions put to her. But, at the same time Arabella sensed intelligence and something deeply honourable about her. A loss and pain lived within this young woman as well.

Was she a danger to the Clan Mackintosh? Arabella did not think so.

Was she lying about her connection to the MacPhersons? Arabella thought not.

That clan, like most of the largest and powerful families in Scotland, had many branches with even more septs and connections. Saraid could very well be a cousin of a distant or smaller branch who had no contact at all with the chieftain or his closer relations. When Fia served Arabella before her marriage to Niall, she used to jest about counting the number of Mackintosh cousins when bored. She’d once reached seventy before stopping.

So, even if Arabella were to contact Brodie’s uncle, there was a good chance he might not know of this Saraid. Though part of her wanted to do that—reach out to the chieftain—another stronger part warned her from taking that action. Going back to the window, she watched Brodie and Rob fighting below. Saraid walked out of the keep and faced the yard, standing separate and alone there.

This woman had faced not only sorrow, but also danger and loss. Something in her demeanour told Arabella that the danger yet existed. If Arabella meddled, as her husband would call it, it could bring irreparable harm to Saraid and possibly her cousin Clara. As she watched the scene below, wincing when Rob landed a particularly strong punch on Brodie’s jaw, Arabella observed what she needed to see to make her decision.

Alan noticed the young widow as though he’d been watching and waiting for her to come outside. He walked to her side and, after a few words were exchanged, led her to a place by the fence where she could see the battle rage. They continued to speak, with Alan pointing out various moves and steps and Saraid nodding and engaging with him.

There was something between them that she had suspected when they were at table and that she could see now even more so from this distance. Alan’s request for her to help the widow spoke of an interest that he’d not shown in a woman in a very long time, since he was more boy than man and in love with the young woman who would eventually marry his uncle.

Though Saraid had plans to enter the convent, Arabella saw the cracks in the edges of her resolve in the matter. There was some very crucial reason for the widow’s decision to do it, but the way she looked at Alan and now stood closer to him spoke of another kind of desire on her part. So, what was forcing the young woman to a life behind the walls of the convent? What would make her give up on kith and kin, and a possible marriage and family of her own?

The cheering of the crowd below drew her attention back to her own husband who, it appeared, had not fared as well against his cousin as he had in previous fights. Those watching began to drift back to their tasks and Brodie and Rob returned to work with the warriors there in the practice yard.

Alan and Saraid yet stood talking quietly there, as though they had not noticed the others had gone and the fight was over. Because they had not.

Arabella did not need to see more to understand what was happening between the two. As she went off to seek out her husband and soothe his wounded pride and his jaw, she wondered how long it would take Alan and Saraid to realise it.

* * *

One moment he’d been pointing out the best moves of the two extraordinary warriors as they fought inside the fence before a large and raucous crowd and the next they stood alone. The fighting was done and the crowd gone. Alan glanced around and saw no one taking note of them. Brodie and Rob were now working with the men on the other side of the yard. Most of the others who’d watched were now back at their chores or duties.

As soon as he’d seen Saraid come out of the keep, he’d known it had not gone well with Arabella. He could not say what had happened, but the guarded expression, the way her usually bright eyes were hard somehow, spoke of something gone awry. And he wanted to fix it.

‘What did you think?’ he asked, nodding towards the two men across the yard. ‘Impressive, are they not?’

‘They are,’ she agreed. ‘I cannot believe they were both on their feet as long as they were.’ Whatever had agitated her dissipated as she watched the scene before them.

‘They push each other to be better and better. I would hate to face either of them across a field of battle.’

‘Yet you fight them here,’ she said, glancing at the yard.

‘Aye, but we are not trying to kill each other here.’

They observed the two for some time before Mistress MacPherson began her questions. If she thought they were too personal or prying, she gave no sign of it.

‘How old were you when the feud was settled?’ she asked.

‘The feud has not been settled,’ he explained. ‘There is a truce in place. Brodie’s uncle and mine forged the agreement to stop the destruction of both of our families.’

‘I thought that ended it?’ She winced as Rob punched Brodie in the face and he stumbled before landing on his knees in the dirt. Another wince when those around them cheered loudly. ‘How long has it been going on?’

‘Two score years—nay, three, I think,’ he replied, trying to sort out the details of how and when. ‘A fight over land claimed by both clans generations ago was the start of it. Most of Lochaber is Cameron lands, but somehow the Mackintoshes ended up here in Glenlui. A marriage settlement, I think. Then my family decided to take it back. The Mackintoshes did not care for that.’

‘I would think not,’ she said. ‘Was there still fighting going on when you were young?’

‘Oh, aye,’ he replied. ‘Though Uncle Euan took the first steps towards a peace when I was young. The last raid that spilled blood between us happened before I was born.’ He shrugged when she glanced at him. ‘The last deaths were in the fight between the Mackintosh cousins. But, as kin to them, you might ken that already?’

All of her attention, her body even, turned back to the demonstration happening before them as though it was of the utmost importance just then. After a pause or hesitation of a few moments, she nodded.

‘I ken some of it,’ she said. ‘But my family is but a minor branch of the clan and none have claims that rise to the right to be on the council of elders or serve as tanist. So we have little contact with The MacPherson.’

It was the way of it amongst the larger clans. So much land was held across the width and length of the Highlands that many offshoots of families lived in ignorance of the rest. Until or unless hostilities broke out and they needed to call on kin to come to their defence.

For a short while, they talked and he lost awareness of anything but the sound of her voice and the way she smiled or frowned. He lost himself in the way she gestured while speaking, her slender hands moving with so much grace that they seemed to dance before him. When he next looked around, everyone was gone. He and Saraid stood before an empty practice yard.

Alan was about to ask a question until he noticed Dougal heading in their direction. He knew what the man wanted—to escort Saraid to Clara’s. But right now, Alan wanted no interruptions. So, he held out his arm to her.

‘If you have finished speaking to Arabella and are ready to return to the village, I can take you there, Mistress MacPherson.’

Those enticing eyes made of the palest of blue and shards of gold met his and widened ever so slightly before she nodded. Then she touched him, only a passing touch of her hand on his arm, but he could feel the heat of her through the layers of clothing there. Or he imagined he could. As he watched her hand slide down his sleeve towards the skin of his hand, Alan held his breath waiting for her skin on his. She lifted her hand away just before it could happen.

‘I pray you, do not call me Mistress MacPherson,’ she said. ‘Mistress MacPherson makes me feel older than I am.’

‘What would you have me call you?’ he asked.

‘As most here do, you could call me Saraid.’ She placed her hand once more on his arm and he began walking with her at his side. ‘In the midst of kith and kin, it somehow feels strange for you to call me something other than that.’

‘Very well then, Saraid,’ he said. ‘What did Arabella want of you?’

Bold, but he wanted to know how Bella had approached her conversation with their guest. When she stumbled at his words, he reached out and steadied her...and continued to keep his hand on hers now.

‘Have a care there,’ he warned. ‘The ground is uneven until we reached the bridge.’ An excuse, but it also gave him one to keep hold of her hand.

Her skin was as soft as it appeared and no roughness or cracked skin marred it. It was almost as though she’d never toiled at chores or other household tasks. Tempted to turn it over to study it more carefully, Alan decided to simply hold her hand.

‘The lady kindly offered me a place in her household,’ Saraid said as they walked. ‘I am, certainly, most honoured by such an invitation.’

‘And? Will you accept her offer?’ he asked.

One breath in and released and one pace taken. A second breath in and out and a second step. Then a third and a fourth until Alan realised he was counting her breaths and her paces at his side. Why should it matter? Why did it matter? He kenned only that it did. He wanted to stop and pull her into his arms and convince her that she should stay here.

‘Nay.’ With one softly spoken word, some strange hope within him paused. ‘I am committed to my path.’

Damn it!

Had he so misread her hesitation or had she truly been considering Bella’s offer seriously in those moments before she’d declared it otherwise? With each stride he took, he became more convinced that he could change her mind on this matter. If others like Dougal, and more if Jamie was to be believed, were attempting to dissuade her from the convent and taking of vows to that life, then why was he standing by the side and watching it happen?

Why was he letting it happen without him?

One thing stood in his way and it was not the woman there. It was Gilbert Cameron. His uncle be damned! Alan would choose his own path and his own wife, if it was time for that.

As the road turned on to the pathway that would lead to Jamie and Clara’s, he’d talked himself into and out of doing what he wanted to do several times. As they slowed in front of the smithy and she began to lift her hand away from his arm, Alan decided his own path.

In spite of the knowledge that his uncle thought he would decide the rest of Alan’s life, in spite of knowing that it would cause a battle that would drag his father and mother into taking his side or his uncle’s, Alan knew that he must take a chance and try to make her his. As he let her go, Alan grabbed hold of her hand and lifted it to his mouth, kissing the soft skin that he had touched all the way here.

It was only a kiss and not even one on that lovely mouth that beckoned him forward. A kiss on a soft hand. He met her startled gaze and placed another nearer her wrist where her heartbeat could be felt. Her soft gasp revealed that he’d both surprised and affected her with the touch of his lips there.

It was only a kiss, but it was the beginning of something much, much more, if he had his way in this.