Page 8 of Claiming His Highland Bride (A Highland Feuding #4)

A lan 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 simple 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.

‘I pray you will forgive me,’ she said. Her soft voice echoed across the chamber to him. ‘I did not mean to...’ The words drifted off as she clearly searched for the correct one. ‘Draw your attention from your opponent.’

‘I think you gave me the excuse I needed for losing,’ he replied, laughing softly. ‘I have never been able to best the man in battle.’ It was the truth he offered her. ‘Though I have tried many, many times with a variety of weapons and even with none.’

‘He was impressive,’ she admitted. It stung his pride for a moment, but it was the truth so he agreed.

‘You should see him fight with Brodie. Now that is a battle worth watching.’ He stood and walked to where she sat. Pausing for a few seconds so that she could object if she so wished, he sat down near her. ‘And when Magnus makes it a battle of three, it is a sight to behold. The whole of the keep and village turn out to watch.’ He slid a little closer then, stopping when his knee almost touched her skirts.

‘Magnus is...?’ she asked, turning towards him then.

‘Margaret’s husband. He sits on Brodie’s council.’ He faced her. ‘You have met Margaret, have you not?’ he asked.

‘Aye, she has been quite kind to me. She’s taught me about many things.’ A frown wrinkled her brow for a moment and her narrowed gaze lit on him. ‘Margaret’s first husband was Clara’s brother.’ Though a statement, the tone of her words turned it into a question.

‘It must be intimidating, meeting them all at once and trying to sort out who belongs with whom?’ He laughed again. ‘At least I met them all over some time.’

‘How long have you lived amongst them?’ Saraid asked him, sitting up and shifting a bit closer to him. They both kept their voices low out of respect for the place.

‘Ten or so years,’ he said. ‘I came here first with my uncle when the truce was being negotiated.’ Something changed in her at the mention of his uncle. ‘’Twas my Uncle Euan who was chieftain at that time. Arabella’s father.’

‘Is that not unusual? A Cameron living among the Mackintoshes?’ Her manner became somehow colder then, a distance opening between them at this topic.

‘Aye, well, with the truce holding as it has, ’tis not so unusual.’ Had she heard about him from Clara or Jamie? About what had brought him here and why he was more welcome here than at Achnacarry?

‘I did not mean to pry,’ she said. ‘My curiosity must be unseemly for a stranger.’

‘Nay,’ he said. ‘Not a stranger but kin of my kin.’

The silence gathered once more around them.

‘Did you have a reason for coming in here?’ she asked. ‘Do you seek Father Diarmid, too?’

Why had he come in here? Because he needed to see her. But he could not admit that, for he had no right to want such a thing as her company or her attentions. Trying to remember which need drove him in here, he remembered—she had gasped so loudly during the fight that he and most around them had heard it.

‘Nay, not the good priest,’ he said. ‘You looked alarmed during the fight. Then you disappeared. I wanted to make certain you were well,’ he admitted that much to her. ‘Now that I see you are, I will leave you to your contemplations.’

If he admitted the truth here in God’s house, he really wanted to lean over, pull her closer to him and taste her mouth. Instead, he began to stand to put some space between them before he did what he’d been thinking about and did it in a holy place such as this.

She placed her hand on his, stopping him. Alan noticed the way the porcelain-white colour and softness of her skin contrasted with his as she touched him. His control diminishing, he needed to leave, now, but her words gave him pause.

‘Can you tell me of this priest? Jamie spoke of him but I worry, for the one who served my...who lived in our village was a harsh man and stern priest.’

‘Fear not, our priest is neither of those things. He will give you good counsel in whatever matter you place in his hands.’

Alan did stand then. Too much time in her presence, alone with her, could give rise to gossip, even if that time was in a chapel. And give rise to things he could not allow.

‘His practice is to go to the hall to break his fast after morning Mass. He should return soon. Or you can find him there?’

‘I will wait here,’ she said. She smiled then and he lost the ability to breathe. He wanted...

But the door opened then, startling them both, and she jumped to stand next to him as the light and wind seemed to bring in the portly priest. She barely reached his chest when she stood this close. Alan stepped back a pace and nodded to Diarmid as they waited for him to close the door behind him.

‘Father, this is Saraid MacPherson,’ he began to introduce her.

‘I thought it must be her,’ Father Diarmid said, holding out his hand in greeting. ‘Lady Arabella spoke of you and your admirable desire to seek entry into a religious community.’ Diarmid paused then and looked directly at Alan.

Knowing he was not needed or desired here and now, Alan nodded to both of them and took his leave of them.

‘Come, mistress, let us pray first for God’s guidance along the path He has chosen for you.’

She walked with unexpected grace, like that of a lady, to the priest’s side. Diarmid led her towards the altar and, as Alan glanced back from the doorway, helped her to kneel before it.

As he closed the door quietly, he found himself praying words he suspected were the complete opposite of the ones both the priest and Clara’s cousin were offering.

Alan went about his tasks for the day and decided that it might be a good time to make a visit back to Achnacarry. Some distance from the fair widow might ease his growing desire for her and, with Brodie’s concerns over Gilbert’s possible treachery, matters needed his attention away from here. And it was time to re-establish some connections to his own family.

He would speak to Brodie about it later. Mayhap Brodie would come up with some message or other task that would give Alan a good enough reason to be there without suspicion. Alan shook his head over the fact that he, a Cameron, needed a reason other than kinship to return to his home.

* * *

Father Diarmid was much nicer than the priest who served the people of Castle Sween. He did not call down the damning power of God to smite her once during their prayers or discussion. Indeed, he should have considering how much lying she did when explaining her circumstances to the priest...without actually explaining her situation and history. He was patient and answered her questions and even shared the story of his own time in the monastery learning to be a priest.

Father Laurence had no pity or mercy within him, God-given or otherwise, and Sorcha had feared confessing anything to him. The penance he required were as harsh as he was and did not inspire one to believe in a merciful God. Father Diarmid’s approach made her want to beg his forgiveness for lying to him. As in the example of marriage learned mostly from her parents, this stark difference between priests surprised her as well.

* * *

Sorcha left the chapel some time later with a lighter heart. The priest, having learned that she could both read and write in Latin and the native tongue, invited her to use his prayer book during her visits. Father Diarmid recommended daily prayers, in the chapel if possible, and contemplation of the path she wanted to follow. He even offered to contact her cousin at the convent on Skye to let her know she was coming, but she found a way to decline that kindness...with another lie. If she did not take heed, Sorcha would find herself facing a tall pile of penances if held accountable for every lie or omission she spoke here to these people.

Jamie had not finished his work in the stables, so she left the keep to go back to the village by herself. Although he laughed when she told him she could find her way, he nodded and went back to his task. Walking back around the training yard, she noticed that few watched the men practising there now. No spectators calling out cheers and jabs. No raucous yelling. Just Rob and another man, guiding those practising through their paces. Sorcha nodded when Rob waved at her as she passed on the way to the gates.

The weather had remained fair, so she carried her cloak rather than wearing it. The weight of it was noticeable and Sorcha decided she would remove most of the jewels and coins hidden within it and store them in Jamie’s strongbox when she arrived back at the cottage. Soon though, she ended up at the miller’s cottage next to the stream instead of Clara’s and realised she’d missed a turn or several along the way.

‘Good day, Mistress MacPherson,’ a voice said from within the millhouse. A man stepped into the daylight and nodded to her. ‘Are ye lost once more?’ It was the miller’s son, Dougal, and she nodded with a laugh.

‘Aye,’ she admitted. ‘I cannot seem to follow the same path twice.’

‘Come then,’ he offered, pointing off to the right of the building and across the stream. ‘Let me show you.’ They walked in silence along the stream until they came to a small bridge over the water.

‘I do not remember this bridge,’ she said, stopping before crossing it.

‘You may not because Clara and Jamie’s croft is over the other side of the village from here,’ he explained.

She met his dark-brown eyes and saw merriment in them. He could not be much older than she was, but had the height and strength common to the men here. He wore his hair cut shorter than most, shorter than Alan did. Sorcha looked away for a moment, aghast that she would compare Dougal, or anyone, to Alan.

‘Coming?’ he asked. When she nodded, he led her across the bridge to the third road they crossed. ‘If you follow this straight to its end, you will find Jamie’s smithy.’

‘My thanks, Dougal,’ she said. ‘I will try not to get lost again.’ He laughed at her promise and watched as she walked away from him.

‘To its end, Mistress MacPherson,’ he reminded her. ‘Look for me if you find yourself lost again.’

She smiled once again at his kindness and paid heed to the path before her. How she’d made it halfway across Scotland without getting lost, she did not ken. Somehow she could not go from one end of this village to the other without it happening. When she turned back, Dougal was standing there, watching her make her way. She waved once more and did as he bade her do, walking without making a turn or deviating from the pathway. Soon, he was out of sight as the path curved and ended before Jamie’s smithy.

She walked past the building, knowing Jamie had not yet returned, and found Clara in the cottage, the quiet cottage, mending some clothing while the bairns napped.

‘Come. Sit,’ Clara invited her. ‘You have been gone for a while.’

‘My apologies, Clara.’ She put her cloak over a stool and walked to her cousin’s side. ‘I should have returned sooner.’

Sorcha reached down and took some of the torn garments from the pile. Accepting a needle and a spool of thread, she sat and began working. Sewing and embroidery put her at ease. Embroidery of the kind at which she excelled had no place amongst the villagers, but sewing was always needed.

‘You helping with the bairns was part of our story, but I do appreciate your efforts with them,’ Clara said as Sorcha settled and began working. ‘Did you speak with Father?’

‘Aye.’ Sorcha smiled, remembering the priest’s advice and guidance. ‘He is so very different from the priest who served our clan.’

‘And what did he tell you?’ Her cousin shook her head then. ‘Or more importantly, what did you tell him?’

‘’Twas difficult not telling him the truth of it. I explained it as you told me—my husband had died, his family was not welcoming,’ she said, listing the important details of her story. ‘No family left of my own. My devotion to God.’ She paused for a moment, praying that God would forgive her trespass. ‘He urged me to pray and think on it for a while. He offered to contact my cousin there, but I declined.’

‘Are you not ready to go then?’ Clara asked her.

‘I...’ Sorcha put the mending down on her lap and looked at Clara. ‘I did not want him contacting her and mentioning someone who does not exist, Clara. She may remember Sorcha, Erca’s daughter, but Saraid MacPherson would mean nothing to her and yet would begin to raise questions. Questions that would be dangerous to me if asked of the wrong people in the wrong places.’

‘That makes sense,’ Clara agreed.

‘I cannot remain here for very long though. Not with the ties that are between the Mackintoshes and the Camerons. Someone may recognise me at some time. Nay,’ she said as she placed the garment in her hands on her lap. ‘The convent is my choice.’

‘I am not trying to rush you or make you leave here,’ Clara said. ‘Once made, it is not a vow that can be undone or denied.’

‘I understand. I have made the decision.’ She let out a breath. ‘It would be safer for me and you and Jamie if I left soon.’

Silence met her declaration. Clara had not withheld her opinion on any matter since Sorcha had arrived at her door those weeks ago. So, this absence of a comment or advice was startling. She waited, for she knew her cousin well enough now to know it was simply a pause and not something that would not happen. Sorcha smiled when Clara opened her mouth.

‘I think you should stay here a bit longer,’ she said. ‘Truly, Sorcha, you are too young to lock yourself away for the rest of your life. Whether for the good purpose of devotion to God or to protect others, do not do that yet.’

When Sorcha would have spoken, Clara gestured with her finger on her lips to stop her.

‘Besides, you do not even ken how to make a decent porridge yet.’

‘Or a loaf of bread,’ Sorcha added.

‘Or a savoury stew.’

‘Or wash a tubful of laundry,’ she said. ‘There is so much I have never had to do before, Clara. And though I have failed, there is much I would like to learn.’

‘You have not failed,’ Clara assured her. ‘Your life has been a privileged one as befits one of your birth. That your mother taught you to want to do the simple things is a credit to her and to you.’ Sorcha felt tears burning in her eyes and a tightness in her throat. ‘Your mother would be proud.’

Honour. Loyalty. Courage.

Her mother had taught her so much. An appreciation of the service others give you. A sense of curiosity and wonderment. A need for joy.

So, would it be a bad thing that, before she entered the convent and gave her life over to God, she would live it a bit first? As Saraid MacPherson, widowed cousin, staying on to help Clara and Jamie. And she would learn to do the things that people like her cousin took for granted.

In that moment, the image of a tall, strong warrior with long brown hair and eyes of blue and green and grey came to mind. Was he part of the reason she wished to stay here now? Sorcha decided not to examine that too closely right this moment.

Sorcha stood and retrieved her cloak and the small sharp knife that Clara used to cut fabric and threads. Sitting down under her cousin’s watchful gaze, she cut along the hem and took out the treasures she had carried with her from Castle Sween...and from her mother. When a small pile sat on her lap and only a few remained in place, Sorcha gathered them into a small sack and held them out to her cousin. Clara did not speak, could not speak, Sorcha would guess. The sight of so many jewels of such value rendered her speechless and surprised beyond words.

‘Jamie suggested these might be safer in his strongbox. Since I am staying, I think it’s best if they are put away.’

‘You are?’

‘Aye. I am. There is much I would like to ken and to learn before facing the convent and its walls.’

‘How long will you stay?’ Clara asked, as the bairns began to wake and whisper in the next room.

‘For the rest of the summer. Unless I am found out sooner.’

As the children woke and the next set of chores and tasks began, Sorcha smiled. The strange thing was that amidst the dread of cooking a meal and washing clothes, a sense of anticipation grew over next seeing Alan Cameron.

But he did not visit and she did not see him at the keep or in the village for several days.