Page 47

With her horse ready, Ruaridh helped her climb onto the saddle and then she was gone, riding away from the chaos of the night with a torch in her hand.

She didn’t stray too far from the keep. It was late and the wind whipped her face as she rode, seeping through her yellow kirtle and her overgown.

In her hurry, she had neglected to pick up a cloak and now she regretted it dearly as the chill reached her bones, but it was too late for her to turn back.

At the clearing, where the trees would block the wind, she would be warmer.

With that thought in mind, Sorcha pushed forward, the trees blurring into shadows as she rode through the forest. It was not long before she reached her usual spot; her beloved clearing, waiting there for her as it always did.

Jumping off the saddle, Sorcha led her horse to a patch of grass where it could graze as she relaxed, and then she slid down against the trunk of a large oak, sitting on the soft earth under its canopy.

It was peaceful there; there was no one to bother her, no one to ask for another dance, no one to trap her against a pillar.

“Good evenin’.”

For yet another time that night, Sorcha jumped right out of her skin, a curse escaping her at the sound of the strange voice.

Unlike the other two times, when she turned to look at the intruder, she didn’t recognize him and her heart leapt to her throat just as she leapt to her feet.

The man was cloaked in shadow, and only when he stepped forward and was illuminated by the orange glow of the torch did Sorcha realize that he seemed vaguely familiar.

Blonde hair, green eyes… I must have seen him somewhere.

The man had been at the ball, they had exchanged a few words. He was dressed in fine clothes of wool and silk. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a patrician profile that would have made him the kind of man her parents would easily choose for her.

The kind o’ man I’d choose too.

There was something about him, though; something she couldn’t quite name that weighed heavily on her regardless.

“Good evenin’,” she said, though she kept her distance from him. “If ye have followed me here tae speak tae me, then I would much rather be left alone.”

What other reason did the man have to be there? This was a place just for her, a place where no one else had any reason to be. Still, the man laughed as if in disbelief, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Follow ye?” he asked. “Ye’re the one who followed me. I’ve been here fer a while.”

That didn’t sound right to Sorcha at all. Not only had she not followed the man there, but she was also certain he couldn’t have been there for hours, not if she had seen him at the feast. Frowning, she took a few more steps back on instinct, her hand brushing against the rough bark of the tree.

“I dinnae think I ken yer name,” she said, in an attempt to find out who the man was.

“I dinnae think ye ken it either,” the man said, which only deepened her frown. Surely, he had understood she was asking for it, but he refused to give it to her, and now he only grinned at her as she looked at him in confusion.

“Well, can I ken what it is?” Sorcha asked, but the man shook his head.

“Why would I tell me name tae the lass who followed me here?”

Sorcha couldn’t tell if the man was joking or not. Every single man she had spoken to that night had been strange, though, in his attempt to charm her, and perhaps this was no different. Maybe despite his good looks, he didn’t know how to speak to women.

How can he be so handsome yet so… strange?

“Well, I’m sure ye ken me name,” Sorcha pointed out. Everyone at the feast knew who she was, of course. Everyone had gone there to see her. “So I think it is only right that ye tell me yers.”

“Ye can call me whatever ye please,” said the man with a small shrug.

“Then I shall call ye peculiar,” Sorcha said, unable to stop herself from delivering a spunky response. For all she cared, the man was asking for it. “Perhaps even rude.”

The man’s laugh filled the small clearing, deep and resonant. “An odd choice, when ye could have called me anythin’ else ye wished. Dae ye truly think it so rude o’ me tae withhold me name?”

“O’ course!” said Sorcha, irritation flaring up inside her now.

This man was teasing her, there was no doubt in her mind about that now, but she had had enough of people trying to get her attention in the most bizarre ways that night.

If he truly wanted to get to know her, then he could try speaking to her and showing some interest in what she had to say.

“First ye claim I followed ye here, when I clearly didnae, an’ now ye willnae even tell me who ye are.

I ken ye followed me here, so why dinnae ye simply tell me what it is ye want from me? ”

The man remained silent, only watching her with a lidded gaze that sent a shiver down her spine. From the very first moment she had seen him, something had seemed odd to her about him, and now it was only being confirmed again and again in her mind.

It didn’t really matter; she had had enough of men for one night, and even now that she had fled the feast, one of them had still managed to track her down.

It would be better to head back to her chambers for a while, she thought.

Then perhaps, she could get some moments of peace before having to return to the feast.

Never taking her eyes off the man, she said, “I should head back now. Everyone at the ball will start wonderin’ where I am.”

“I’m afraid I cannae let ye dae that.”

The man’s expression was entirely deadpan, entirely serious, and yet Sorcha found herself laughing, thinking that he must be teasing her again. When he didn’t laugh, though, but rather stared at her with a blank expression, she realized he was not teasing her at all, and her laughter was cut short.

The man approached her slowly, his footsteps quiet in the soft earth. Sorcha’s stomach dropped, the blood rushing in her veins. She had to get out of there; she had to escape.

“It would be best if ye didnae run,” said the man.

Despite the warning, Sorcha did just that.