Page 23 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)
Chapter
Sixteen
C old mist hugged the ground, swirling around William’s boots as he stamped out the dying embers of last night’s fire.
Every part of him ached. The bone-weary exhaustion of days of marching, the tighter ache that had nothing to do with muscle or rain.
Around him, the army’s camp stretched, plaid and grey wool mingling with the clatter of mess tins and muttered Gaelic curses.
Voices carried. The low grumble of MacGregor men, the sharp bark of a MacDonald officer, the sing-song scold of a mother dressing down a wayward son.
Somewhere, the piper coaxed out a lonely tune, and he felt pride and fear battling inside his chest, the same, he suspected, as every man who’d marched this ground for a cause.
He moved to stow his compass safely away, pausing when a familiar, stubborn voice drifted through the grey.
“…but why must the women always stay behind?”
Harper drew curious glances wherever she strode. Her brown hair was tied in a makeshift knot, but loose strands escaped, curling wildly from the drizzle. Her skirt was caked in mud at the hem, and she gripped a water pail with a scowl on her face.
A cluster of women in muted tartans watched her with wary distaste.
Her habit of direct speech, her unguarded questions, the way she failed to keep her eyes lowered or her opinions hidden, these things made her stand out like a bright bird in the heather.
She pressed her case in halting Gaelic, lips pressed thin, and the older woman replied with a tart, “That’s the way it’s always been, lass,” before turning her back.
Despite being annoyed by the fuss she caused, William had to admit he was proud of her for standing up for what she believed. He crossed the muddy ground, boots squelching, until he reached her side. “Leave it,” he murmured, keeping his voice low. “It’s not worth the fight.”
Her hazel eyes flashed gold with frustration. “It’s not right. Why should I be kept from helping? Women know as much about pain and loss as any man here.”
He bit back the retort forming— Because you’re in danger every hour, because you have no kin here, because my heart knots itself in fear that something will happen I canna fix. Instead, he set his hand lightly on her arm. “Try to let it be, aye?”
A sigh escaped her, but she nodded, tension lingering in the line of her shoulders. “Fine. I’ll help in other ways.” He watched her stalk off toward the cookfire, clutching the pail.
Behind him, Angus arched a brow, lips twitching with a knowing smile. “She’s got more fight than a badger, that one.”
“Aye,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “And just as likely to bite if crossed.”
A sweep of rain gusted across the glen, the scents of wet grass and peat smoke mingling with the faint tang of horse and sweat.
The camp moved with the sluggish urgency of men who knew every step north brought them closer to English blades and guns.
He scanned the shifting crowd for trouble, gaze catching on Callum, who stood just beyond, frowning pensively at the prince’s standard.
But what drew his attention most was Harper’s secretive habit of slipping away after dusk to perch by the fire, a small leather-bound book cradled in her lap.
He’d watched her scribble late into the evening, shoulders hunched, eyes distant.
Once he’d caught the glimmer of pages crowded with tight lines, words, sketches, and dates.
But when he tried to ask about her writing, she’d snapped the book closed, a flush rising in her cheeks.
“Just letters,” she’d muttered, and he let the lie stand.
Still, the book troubled him. If anyone but he or his men caught wind of it, wondering at her secret notes, suspicion might shift again to this “widow” with her strange accent and stranger knowledge.
And yet, he would not be the one to take her last comfort.
He knew well enough the burden of keeping ghosts alive on paper, even as jealously flared at the thought of her writing about her late husband.
The day wore on slowly, the sun hidden behind a stubborn curtain of grey clouds that leaked steady drizzle upon the trudging column.
William rode near the front, senses alert, scanning the mist-hugged hills for signs of danger.
Behind him, clansmen marched in grim silence broken only by the rhythmic squelch of boots on soggy earth, and occasional muttered curses as someone stumbled on hidden rocks in the heather.
Amid it all, he caught frequent glimpses of Harper, threading through the line like a determined shadow, quietly offering help, bearing water, mending torn coats.
She’d refused to ride, saying she needed to be useful.
He saw how her shoulders squared with purpose, how she refused to bend beneath disapproving stares or muttered comments.
They kept the fires burning low that night to avoid English eyes.
William sat sharpening his dirk, watching the play of firelight on Harper’s face as she mended a torn shirt.
Her movements were clumsy but dogged. She’d gotten better at sewing, but not by much, though she now teased his men back when they made a jest over uneven stitches in the mended garments.
From the shadows beyond the fire, Mairi approached, a woman shriveled by age but sharp-eyed, her white hair plaited with bits of ribbon.
She carried a basket of roots and leaves, smelling of juniper and bog myrtle.
“MacGregor, is it true the Sassenachs have more guns than men?” she asked, cackling, eyes alight.
He smiled grimly. “Aye, it’s near the truth.”
The healer chuckled, then turned her attention to Harper, who greeted her with a mixture of relief and curiosity. Mairi examined a scrape on Harper’s hand, clucking over another scrape on her arm.
“Your mind runs too fast, lass,” the old woman said, glancing between them. “Come see me this night, both of ye. The water in the old spring is good for such troubles.”
William nodded. He respected the healer’s skill and wisdom, even when it veered into the realm of fairy tales and second sight. He watched as she ushered Harper away, the younger woman’s shoulders slumping in gratitude as she followed.
Under a moon no bigger than a silver shilling, he accompanied them beyond the edge of camp, pine needles soft underfoot.
The trees pressed close, their bark slick with moss, the night alive with the hum of insects and distant river song.
The spring itself was little more than a hollow in the earth, stone-rimmed and black under the moon, fragrant with wet fern.
Mairi knelt and began murmuring in Gaelic, her words half-prayer, half-spell. William felt the air thicken, as if some unseen presence listened from the darkness. Not for the first time, he wondered at the ancient powers buried in these hills.
Harper knelt at the spring’s edge, cupping cold water to her lips. A shiver ran through her, but her posture eased, the tightness in her jaw softening. “What … what do I say? She stammered.”
Mairi smiled, her lined face gentling. “Ask to be forgiven for those burdens not yours to carry.”
Silence hung as she bowed her head, lips moving in a voiceless plea. An owl called once, twice, from deep in the sparse trees. William felt the quiet that fell over the glen, as if something ancient and patient, like the stones themselves, was watching him.
When Harper rose, she seemed lighter somehow, her eyes still shining with fresh tears. The old woman squeezed her hand. “You walk between worlds, child, but let the dead rest.”
As William guided them back through the wood, his chest tightened painfully.
Harper’s quiet courage moved him deeply, but the shadow of Ian’s death lingered over them both.
He saw how profoundly it weighed on her, how she carried a guilt that was never hers to bear.
His own memories rose unbidden. He recalled the first life he had taken, the sudden horror, the sickening realization that he had crossed a line from which there was no returning.
He knew too well that such wounds never fully healed.
Watching her struggle now, he wished desperately to shield her from the same burden, but knew all he could offer was understanding, silent companionship, and the hope that one day she might completely forgive herself.
Back at the fire, he offered her his place beside the flames. “Are ye finding your feet here in the army?” he asked softly.
She hesitated, gaze tracing the flames, her voice a hesitant murmur. “I’m trying, truly, but every step feels uncertain. Like I’m balancing on slipping stones.”
He shifted closer, gently cupping her hand within his own. “Then lean on me when your footing falters. You’re no longer alone.”
Her breathing hitched slightly, her fingers squeezing his once, briefly, before easing in quiet acceptance. “Maybe I can. Maybe,” she whispered, “I already am.”
He reached out and took her chilled fingers in his own, scarred thumb tracing the bandage Mairi had wrapped. “You belong here, with me. No matter what the morrow brings.”