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26: WHEREVER YE GO, THERE YE ARE

“THIS brEAD IS yer best yet.”

Smiling under the glow of Cory’s praise, Davina replied, “Ye like it then?”

The cook nodded before taking another bite of the crust he’d cut off the loaf and slathered with butter.

Davina’s smile slid into a grin.

She’d kept herself busy of late but had also taken time to learn how to bake pastry and bread.

It was mid-morning, and she’d emerged from the spence to find Cory helping himself to the bread she’d made earlier and left to cool.

The morning had flown, as it did when one was busy.

With the passing of the days, Davina had thrown herself into any chores she could get her hands on with zeal.

She sewed in a frenzy, repairing and making clothing until her eyes watered from concentration and her fingers ached.

Iver and Bonnie had returned the day before from spending a few days together on the Isle of Arran.

While they were away, Bonnie left Davina in charge of many of her tasks.

Davina enjoyed the responsibility, and she used the time productively.

She cleaned out the spence and took inventory of the harvest stocks, before rolling up her sleeves and helping Cory and the lads cure pork and sausages to fill the larder for the winter.

In truth, she wasn’t used to assisting in the kitchen and initially had worried she’d be more of a hindrance than a help, yet to her surprise, she discovered that she had a talent for it—especially bread-making.

Cory had been a bit awkward about her presence, at first, but after a few days, the cook relaxed, talking her ear off as they worked, shoulder-to-shoulder.

And he was smiling at her now, his ruddy cheeks bulging from the mouthful of bread.

Swallowing, Cory huffed a sigh.

“It’s a pity none of this is for the broch,” he grumbled.

“I’ll leave a couple of loaves for ye and the lads,” Davina assured him.

Hearing this, Cory’s assistants, Boyd and Callan, both glanced up from where they were readying mutton pies to go in the oven and flashed her grins.

“But I’m taking the rest for the poor.”

Cory nodded before gesturing to the large wicker basket hanging from one of the beams overhead.

“Ye’ll need that one for all that bread,” he said, “and mind ye don’t linger in the village or ye shall miss the noon meal.”

“Aye,” Callan piped up, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his hand and leaving a smear of flour.

“They fall upon our pies like wolves … ye have to get in quick.”

Davina laughed.

“I shall head off now then.” Grabbing the basket, she began loading it full of crusty, fragrant, still-warm bread before carefully placing a clean square of linen over the loaves.

“I shall see ye all soon.”

And with that, she tucked the heavy basket against her side, resting it on her hip, and left the hot, smoky kitchen.

Stepping out into the barmkin, Davina glanced up at the grey sky.

The misty rain had ceased for the moment; it was the perfect time to take a trip down to the village.

She’d been at Dun Ugadale a month and a half.

Summer was waning now.

The air grew crisp at night, and the sun’s heat lessened.

The balmy weather had disappeared too, and days of low cloud and drizzle settled over the Kintyre peninsula.

The rumble of men’s voices reached her then, followed by the thud of bound blades colliding.

Her gaze traveled across the barmkin to where Lennox was leading recruits through sword training.

Running a critical eye over the sweating faces and clumsy moves of the green lads they’d taken on, Davina wondered how long it would take Lennox to get them fighting ready.

Over the past weeks, there had been plenty of talk about the need to strengthen Dun Ugadale’s defenses.

News had reached them that parliament had absolved King James of any blame for killing the Earl of Douglas earlier in the year—a decision that meant the king could push forward in his persecution of the ‘Black Douglases’ without worry of reprisal.

Several clans were being pulled into the conflict now, and civil war was looming.

The Mackays of Dun Ugadale had to be ready for whatever would come.

Davina’s attention shifted to Lennox then.

Despite the cool day, he was dressed in a sleeveless tunic and light braies.

Sweat gleamed off his bare arms as he strode amongst the sparring pairs of recruits, correcting their positioning and barking advice.

He tore a practice sword off one of the bumbling lads then, shouldered him out of the way, and demonstrated a feint and parry.

Davina couldn’t take her eyes off him.

His lithe body moved with fluid precision.

He made wielding a sword look easy.

It had been a while since she’d focused on Lennox so intently; she should have looked away yet found she couldn’t.

They still had little to do with each other these days—sitting apart at mealtimes and barely speaking when their paths did cross.

Davina had thought he might seek her out sometimes, but he didn’t.

An ache rose under Davina’s breastbone then.

God’s teeth, she missed him.

As much as she enjoyed living here, her newfound role wasn’t enough.

She longed to sit by his side in the evenings, to tease him, and to watch the glint in his eye as he responded in kind.

Her heart started to pound.

The truth was this man mattered to her, deeply.

As hard as she tried, she couldn’t distance herself from him without suffering.

Lord, no.

Lennox shoved the practice sword back into the lad’s hands and muttered a few words.

The recruit swallowed before nodding vigorously.

Lennox then flashed the lad a grin and slapped him on the shoulder.

And then he looked her way.

Across the yard that separated them, their gazes fused.

Davina’s breathing caught.

Lennox’s smile froze on his face.

He clearly hadn’t expected to find her there, watching him so boldly.

His eyebrows knitted as their stare drew out, his jaw tensing.

Heat washed over Davina in a boiling tide.

What the devil was she doing?

Yanking her gaze from him, Davina clutched the heavy basket against her side and marched toward the gates.

And as she went, she cursed her weakness, cursed the longing that wouldn’t let her be.

Walking back from the village later, after delivering the last of her bread to the poor, Davina pushed back her hood and turned her face up to the misty rain.

Noon was drawing near, but she’d be back in time to help herself to one of those famed mutton pies.

Not that she had much appetite—not after her encounter with Lennox earlier.

Her burning embarrassment had faded, although now she just felt weary.

Exhaustion pulled at her limbs.

Davina heaved a sigh.

Perhaps she’d been pushing herself too hard of late.

It seemed as if she was retreating into old habits.

Back at Kilchurn, she’d withdrawn into sorrow, barely paying attention to the passing of the seasons—and she’d told herself she’d never let melancholia rule her again.

But was her frenzy of activity now any different?

In her desire to carve a place for herself at Dun Ugadale, to forget that stolen night with Lennox on the way here, as well as the disturbing sensations the man still roused in her, she’d found another way to escape reality.

She was still on the run, still searching for an elusive freedom that seemed just beyond her grasp.

Her grip tightened upon the handle of her empty basket.

She was beginning to think that freedom was just an illusion anyway.

Becoming a nun would have liberated her from her father’s insistence she took a husband, yet the rigid discipline within the abbey would have stifled her eventually.

And this life too had its limitations.

She was here at the laird’s whim, and Iver Mackay could change his mind at any time and send her away.

Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, Davina picked up her skirts and circuited a large puddle in the road.

Restlessness thrummed through her, and it struck her that, even if she’d been admitted to Iona Abbey, she’d likely be struggling with the same disquiet, the same desire to be somewhere else.

Wherever ye go, there ye are.

Around her, low cloud hung over Dun Ugadale like a pall of heavy smoke, fog creeping in from the sea.

Nonetheless, cottars still worked in the fields, harvesting the last of the summer crop, and readying the ground for the winter.

Their bent figures appeared almost wraithlike in the gloom.

Davina sighed. Maybe she should ease up on her work a little.

The drum of approaching hoofbeats roused her from her thoughts and made her glance over her shoulder.

A heavy cob was approaching at a canter, mud spraying up behind its feathered hooves.

A cloaked figure sat astride it.

Davina quickly moved off the road.

She didn’t want to be run down or splattered with mud.

Yet the rider must have spied her, for the horse slowed to a trot.

And when the individual drew up alongside her, they pushed back their hood.

Kyle MacAlister grinned down at her.

“Good afternoon, Davina … it’s poor weather to be out for a stroll in.”

Davina favored him with a polite smile before motioning to her basket.

“I was delivering bread to the villagers.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Kind as well as beautiful.”

Davina decided to ignore the compliment.

She was aware that the bailiff—who’d been widowed two years earlier and left with three bairns to raise on his own—was interested in her.

He’d made a few trips to Dun Ugadale of late, and Bonnie had told her, with a knowing glint in her eye, that MacAlister didn’t usually favor them with so many visits.

She’d given him no encouragement—but the man persisted.

The pair of them continued up toward where the walls of Dun Ugadale disappeared into the mist.

“I can give ye a ride for the remainder of the way, if ye like?” MacAlister offered after a pause.

“No need,” she said, forcing a bright tone.

“I’d prefer to walk.”

She quickened her pace, hurrying toward the causeway now.

However, the bailiff kept up with her.

“Ye are looking well, Davina,” he said after a brief pause.

“Life on the Kintyre peninsula clearly agrees with ye.”

“Thank ye,” she replied with another demure smile.

“It does.”

“Do ye have no contact with yer kin at Kilchurn then?”

She shook her head.

She’d been on edge in the first few weeks after her arrival here, half-expecting an enraged Colin Campbell to turn up and drag her home.

But he hadn’t. She really was dead to him, after all.

“Yer father hasn’t visited?”

“No.” Christ’s bones, she wished he’d change the subject.

She’d made the mistake of telling him about the family rift during his last visit and was now sorely regretting being so candid.

“Ye could write to him, ye know?” Kyle MacAlister murmured then.

The gentleness of his voice made her meet his eye.

And from his expression, she realized he’d seen the sadness on her face.

“There’s no point,” she replied, cutting her gaze away and focusing upon where the wickedly sharp teeth of the portcullis yawned before them. “He’d never reply.”