Page 3 of Following Her Highland Journey (The White Witch’s Apprentices #2)

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I t wasn't warm enough to start working in the gardens until later that morning, and once the sun was high enough, all seven girls headed out to their work. It was a common misconception that January in the Highlands was barren and dead, but Adair knew that with the right care and covering, a herb garden could still thrive. Yes, they didn't have access to all of the multitudes of spring and summer—those had been collected and dried and were sorted every morning—but in their covered unheated greenhouse there was still work to be done.

"Oh, look how plump the whitebeam berries have gotten," Natalie exclaimed, scribbling something down in her notebook. "The trick with the soil ye suggested really worked, Vanora."

Vanora smiled, but didn't respond directly. Adair wasn't surprised; the trick was one Vanora had probably learned in her past life as a prosperous clanswoman in the east of the Highlands. She didn't talk much about those times, and they knew better than to press her. When she wanted to talk, they'd know. Instead, Vanora said, "Och, ye're so excited over wee red berries, Natalie, when there's so much more tae find here."

"Dried whitebeam berries have saved armies from hunger," Natalie retorted. "Medicines and poultices are wonderful, but they're nae use at all if yer patient is dyin' of starvation."

Kenzie nodded. "She's right. The Saxons call them mehlberre, meal berries, an' they're true life-savers in times of famine. I once read…"

"Ye with yer writin' and ye with yer readin'!" Fia exclaimed, pointing first to Natalie and then to Kenzie in turn. "With all that information in yer heads, it's a wonder ye ever get anythin' done!" She held a dirty trowel in one hand. "Will ye never get yer hands dirty?"

Maeve, who had been reaching high to search one of the trees outside to check the branches, turned around and said, "Och, Fia, leave them be. We all ken ye like tae make everythin' dirty."

All of them laughed at that, as Fia grinned unapologetically and flipped her braid from one side to the other. Sara, who stood next to Adair as they clipped leaves from a bush often used in important antidotes, blushed a little at the implication.

"Ye girls are so naughty sometimes," Sara said, though it was clear she was also amused. "Are they not terrible, Adair?"

Adair carefully dropped a leaf in her collection bag and made a silly face. "It's a wonder Mor's not kicked the lot of us out for bein' such wretches," she teased. "But that's what makes our wee family how it is, aye? We're naebody's conventional wifies."

"Wifies!" Fia crowed, obviously amused. "Hardly! I'll flirt with every man in Scotland, aye, but ye'll never catch me near a hearth with bairns."

The others chuckled as Sara shrugged and said, "Never say never, Fia. Look at Caiside."

That brought a small silence over them, not a mournful one exactly, but one full of thought. The most recent member and also the most recent to leave their little group, Caiside had been like an eighth sister to them, a gifted healer with a tragic past and a burning determination. They'd all loved her, though perhaps Adair most of all. In Caiside, Adair had seen something she longed to find in herself—a certainty of who she was, a surety that was not all effort. Adair may have been sunshine, but Caiside had been the clouds, the sky, endless and adventurous, and Adair had loved her.

"She was right tae leave," Adair said at last, breaking the silence with words that had been weighing on her mind for two years but that none of them had ever said out loud. "I ken we all miss her. I miss her dearly. But she'd have never been happy if she hadn't gone after Lorcan and found him well."

"Aye, and look what she's managed since," Vanora agreed, a rare tinge of approval to her tone. "Peace in her clan against all odds. The McLeods were likely done for under the terror of that brother of hers, Lennox. Nobody could have guessed that a woman would have turned it all around."

Fia stood and dusted her hands off on her skirt. "Aye! And she's Laird now, of all things—can ye imagine it?"

" Lorcan is Laird," Maeve corrected automatically, then after a moment she shrugged. "Though ye're right, we all ken who's really in charge."

Adair smiled at that. Brilliant, beautiful Caiside. "Aye, well, we all ken nae man would be tellin' her what to do."

"I hear she has bairns now…" Sara said with a gentle wistfulness to her tone. "Twin lassies if the last letter was anythin' tae go by. I ken the rule and why we have it, and I ken she made her choice, but I do hope Mor allows her tae bring the bairns here tae meet us one day."

"Perhaps one day."

They all stopped and turned at the sound of the new voice. There stood Mor herself in the entranceway to the greenhouse, her parted silver hair as meticulously neat as ever, her wise face thoughtful.

Mor looked at them all one after the other and said, "I ken ye all wonder about Caiside. Lord kens I do as well. But me lassies, ye must remember our secrecy here is paramount."

"Of course, Mor," Adair told her quickly. "It's how ye protect us, we all ken it. We just…miss her."

There was silence following those words, then Kenzie asked, more timidly than usual, "Were ye…were ye angry when she left?" They'd all wondered it, but none of them had dared ask.

"Angry?" Mor seemed almost surprised by the question. "No, I wasn't angry. I understood. Approved, even." The old woman sighed. "But aye, I miss her too. I spoke with her before she left. I made sure she understood."

"And she left anyway?" Adair asked. The idea amazed her, even though she'd witnessed it for herself. This monastery, these girls, were all the family she had, all the life that was left to her. To leave it all behind would be to abandon herself. "Even when she kent the cost?"

Mor shrugged. "Of course she did. Caiside is a strong, smart lass, and she needed tae follow her heart, regardless of the cost. Love, real love, is a rare thing, as healin' as any medicine. Love for her clan and her people. Love for the memory of her parents and her governess. And aye, the drivin' force, the love she had for that lad, Lorcan, as well. She did what she had tae do, and while it was our loss, it filled me with pride."

All of the girls seemed to need a moment to digest that, and none of them responded. Adair felt Mor's eyes on her again, even more intensely than they had been at breakfast that morning, and at last she had to ask. "What is it?"

The old healer smiled. "Lass," she said softly, stepping close so that the other girls couldn't hear so clearly, "Ye've been havin' bad dreams. Behavin' erratically. This mornin's breakfast wasn't the only strange thing of late."

"And?" Adair asked, instantly on the defensive. "We all have bad dreams. We've all suffered terribly. It would be stranger if we didnae struggle now and again."

Mor reached out and touched her arm. "But ye, little sunshine, have a crack in yer smile. I hear ye whisperin' tae yerself. I hear ye tossing an' turnin' in yer sleep. Yer heart is achin', lass, and I feel the day comin' soon when ye'll listen to it."

Adair frowned, shaking her head rather more emphatically than she'd intended. "Dreams are dreams, Mor. This is me family." And Henry was dead, she wanted to add, but she couldn't force the words to come to her mouth.

"That's because they're not true," whispered that voice in her mind. "And yer heart kens it more than anythin'."

"All I ask," Mor said, her expression and tone not changing at all, "Is one thing. When ye leave us?—"

"I'll never leave ye!"

"— when ye leave us, make sure tae grant us a proper goodbye."

Adair opened her mouth to argue, but stopped as Fia exclaimed, "Oh! Is that Duncan's cart I see?"

Stepping out of the door and joining her friend outside of the greenhouse, Adair noticed it was indeed Duncan's cart. The old man was a merchant who spent much of his time in the local village and, as a result, visiting their monastery with his supplies. Food, wine, medical supplies, and all that were wonderful, of course, but what Duncan brought them more than anyone else was news.

Though he cared for all of the girls, Adair knew that she had always been his favorite—and he was special to her, too. The gruff but kind man with his bad knee and easy laugh reminded her so much of her father that just being around him was a comfort.

She peeled off her gardening gloves and handed them to Fia. "I'll go see him," she declared, and nobody argued with her. Everyone knew that Duncan would want to talk to Adair.

Adair set off toward the front of the monastery, smiling. She was glad—not only to get to speak to Duncan, but maybe more importantly, to escape the conversation Mor had caught her in. She knew there was something to think about there, but she wasn't ready to do it. Not yet.

"Ye can't hide from yer heart, Adair."

Ignoring her traitorous imagination, Adair kept going until she saw him—Duncan, waiting next to his cart, his face lighting up in a bright smile the second he saw her approach. She raised her hand in greeting, and he waved back with enthusiasm.

"There ye are, lass. Ye're lookin' bonny as ever," he said as she reached him. The two of them shared a quick, fatherly embrace, then Duncan held her at arm's length and studied her with a critical eye. "But…have ye not been sleepin'?"

Adair frowned a little, then tried to play it off as a joke. "Less bonny than usual after all?" she asked.

Duncan wasn't fooled. The look in his slightly-watery eyes was a little too wise for Adair's comfort. "Ye're always goin' tae be a lovely lass, Adair," he told her. "But ye've got bags under yer eyes and ye're paler than normal. Are ye sick? Does Mor ken?"

"I'm not sick," she assured him, though the thought disturbed her. Could she be unwell? What if it truly was a sickness of the mind, like poor Miss Gilchrist? Was that why she had been hearing Henry's voice so much more than usual, why she'd been having such terrible dreams?

" Ye ken that isnae it, Adair. Ye're just not listenin' tae yerself."

She clenched her hand behind her back, silently screaming at her imagination to shut up, but managed to keep a smile on her face. She did not want to worry Duncan any more than she had to. "I'm all right," she assured him. "Mor will want tae discuss wares with ye a bit later, but can I get ye a drink in the meantime? We have some honeyed mead, or if ye fancy, I could brew ye a tea."

Duncan didn't look convinced, but to her gratitude he seemed to decide to just go along with it. He shrugged and said, "I'm all right, lass; I'll wait here 'til Mor's ready. An old man like me doesnae feel the cold the way ye young'uns might."

That didn't sound right to Adair—actually, in her experience as a healer, she'd found it was quite the opposite—but she wasn't about to question Duncan. They all knew he was something beyond the ordinary, anyway. "Very well," she agreed. "Then ye'll at least tell me the news. What's goin' on in me beloved Scotland?"

Duncan pondered for a moment, then said, "Well, way down on the borders, there's a scandal. The daughter of some English lord has become pregnant by the son of a rich Edinburgh type, and the families are fightin' over the bairn."

"Unmarried?" Adair asked, instantly enjoying the fantastic scandal he had delivered. The way the English and even the Lowlanders made everything so dramatic was a constant source of amusement to her. The Highland clan system may not be perfect, but it certainly all seemed more sensible to her. "Goodness! I'm surprised they even acknowledge the bairn exists."

"Aye, well, they wouldnae be the first families tae alter church records tae say what they need them to. Apparently the lass has been married five years already with nae fruit from her husband, so the family wants tae claim the bairn as his own legitimate heir."

"And no doubt the Edinburgh lad can't stand the thought of his own son bein' born an Englishman!" Adair surmised with a laugh.

Duncan continued like that, moving from the borders up, telling her stories from each stop on his travels. Some were whimsical, others more serious, but each fascinating. But as his stories grew closer, his smile faded and a seriousness crossed his face.

"Ye'll have heard of the attacks nearby?" he asked.

Adair frowned. Her circle of knowledge expanded mostly only to the nearby villages and the forests around them. "Attacks?"

Duncan pursed his lips for a moment in thought, then shook his head. "Terrible business. Some upstart Laird with more money than hairs on his ba—" He cut off, considering Adair, then continued. "Well, anyway, he's started plunderin' nearby small clans, destroyin' what he can and takin' what he wants."

"What? Why would he do that?" Adair was not that shocked—some Lairds were power hungry, she knew that more than anyone—but it still seemed so strange to her that in a time of unrest as they were, a Laird would open hostilities against another clan.

"Naebody is sure." Duncan shrugged. "The lad's been Laird for nine years and he's not thirty yet, maybe his youth is what's led tae the madness. I hear his young wife disappeared under mysterious circumstances."

The blood drained from Adair's face at those words. Nine years ago, when she'd been thirteen years old…that had been the year that the previous Laird McNair had died and his son, Brendan McNair, had taken the seat. The same year that Brendan McNair had first approached Adair's father and inquired about his daughter. And four years before the moment her life had been destroyed forever.

It was a coincidence. It had to be. Didn't it?

She cleared her throat. She wanted to ask him about the Laird's name, but instead the words that came from her mouth were, "What happened tae the wife?"

Duncan grimaced. "She was a young thing. A local lass, just a little older than ye, if I'm recallin' correctly. He wed her three or four years ago, but gossip holds he mistreated her terribly. And when she never became pregnant, he declared he had nae more use for her, as she'd only ever been a replacement—and almost a full year ago now, she vanished, nae sign. Her father's a local sailor, man by the name of Ashcroft, and he never stopped lookin', but the Laird was threatenin' him if the truth be kent. And now he's gone as well."

Ashcroft. A memory rose to the top of Adair's mind—a girl, two or three years her senior, with blonde hair just like hers and round rosy cheeks, who used to show her the best way to braid her hair with flowers. "Peggy Ashcroft?" Adair whispered.

Duncan glanced at her with clear surprise and concern in his eyes. "Ye kent her?"

Kent. Yes, past tense was right, because Adair was certain of it now—Peggy Ashcroft was dead. The poor young woman had been taken after Adair escaped, used, probably hurt, and now…

Part of her wanted to scream and run away. But she needed to know for sure. "This Laird…it's Laird McNair, isn't it? Brendan McNair?"

Duncan's frown deepened. "Aye, lass. McNair. God only kens what he's tryin' tae find in those clans he's attackin', but the destruction he's leavin' in his wake is destroyin' the Highlands as he goes."

Guilt churned in Adair's stomach, though she knew she wasn't really to blame. Could this have all been avoided, then, had she simply said yes to Laird McNair? Her father would still be alive, though he himself had refused his consent over and over—he would have let her go if she agreed. And Peggy Ashcroft, taken and misused as a replacement, only to be cast aside and probably killed—she and her father would still be alive and thriving now. Wouldn't they? If she'd just said yes?

"And then what? Ye'd have suffered, Adair. Ye'd have been abused, used, destroyed, body and soul, bein' the wife of a man like him." She knew she was imagining Henry's voice, but it filled her with the kind of warmth and strength that she needed. This wasn't her fault.

But that didn't change the fact that people had died, and were still dying. And Brendan McNair was doing it.

She'd thought that by coming to this monastery, she'd managed to escape it. The power of the so-called White Witch was that the girls here were given a second chance at life, an escape from the darkness that plagued them all. But now she understood that Laird McNair was still out there, still deadly, still ruining lives.

Would she ever be free of him, she wondered? Would there ever be a time when he didn't haunt her, not only at night now but also in the day? Would his destructive path one day reach even here, at her peaceful little home? Ice filled her veins as she realized that, even though she had run off, maybe she had never truly escaped. And maybe she never truly would.