Page 19 of The Story of his Highland Bride (Dancing Through Time #4)

19

T rudging along through the snow that still lay thick on the ground, despite the sun’s best attempts to diminish it, Eloise hummed a cheerful tune to herself. It was a beautiful afternoon, bringing to mind childhood winters in her hometown, where she and her parents would take a Christmas Day walk through the forest at the back of the house.

The birds had come out of their hideaways, stretching their wings as they pecked the blanketed ground for worms and delicacies. Eloise smiled at a robin that hopped right across the road, leaving tiny imprints in the snow, and waved at a lone magpie perched on the branch of an ancient oak.

“No sorrow today, thank you,” she told the bird, remembering the old rhyme her mother used to do: One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told.

She wondered if there was a song for starlings, and what the number of birds on the stones had meant. Maybe, there was a trick to it, and she was determined to figure it out, running through her vague memory of that life-changing event.

“Is that it?” she mumbled, coming to what appeared to be a crossroads, though the snow was making it difficult to navigate. And she didn’t have much of a sense of direction, at the best of times.

She checked the way-markers and found the four names that Old Joan had mentioned. Satisfied by her pathfinding and gaining confidence that she’d made the right decision in going there alone, she headed toward Longbeck.

At the small bridge that arced over a babbling stream, close to overflowing with the ice melt coming down from the mountains, Eloise diligently turned left into the woods.

She hadn’t expected a path of any kind, considering the witch in question wanted to remain hidden from her persecutors, but as Eloise walked on, she noticed a very clear track through the densely packed trees. Recently trodden, too, by the look of it. The grass and underbrush had been trampled down, giving her pause for thought. It certainly didn’t appear to be the comings and goings of one solitary woman.

Maybe, I’m not the only one who needs her help, she considered. It’s winter. A lot of people get sick in winter, even with modern medicine. She could well imagine that, when desperate, the nearby villagers and townsfolk would go to a witch for assistance. A last resort.

Undeterred, she pressed on through the trees, following the flattened trail for what felt like an eternity. She kept her eyes peeled for any sign of the cottage but, so far, there were only trees and trees and more trees, with the occasional bush for variety.

Did Old Joan give me the wrong directions, or did I just not follow them properly? After the bridge, she supposed she’d known she’d be flying blind.

The memory of yellow-eyed wolves with dripping fangs flashed into her mind, bringing her to a sharp halt. If she got lost in these woods, it would be hours and hours before Jackson even realized she’d gone alone. By then, she might be dead in any number of cruel and creative ways.

She hesitated, a twig snapping underfoot as she contemplated turning back and waiting until Jackson could come with her.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find ye here,” a voice snarled from the shadows.

Eloise had thought the snapping twig was her fault, but as her head whipped around to where the voice had come from, she realized it had been a warning. Between two ash trees stood a man in black, with a cloak over the top: the hood thrown back so she could see his face. He was tall and thin, with hunched shoulders, and a bird-like face. The latter feature alone let Eloise know who he was; Jackson had described him as resembling a heron, just in case she ever crossed paths with the priest.

He does look like a heron, she thought absently, her eyes narrowing at the man.

“Do I… um… ken ye?” Eloise put on her best Scottish brogue, failing miserably.

The priest sneered. “Ye daenae know me, but I know ye. I’ve seen ye, wandering the castle grounds at His Lairdship’s side, bewitching him with every step.” He took a few steps forward. “It’s because of women like ye that our land is poisoned, and the minds of men are being corrupted.”

“Women like me?” Eloise barked a laugh. “I think you probably mean all women, from the looks of you. What’s the matter, Father, were you rebuffed by a woman you loved once? Are you burning with so much hatred for that woman that you’d take it out on any female that dares to look in your direction?”

The man froze mid-step, his eyes widening in alarm. “Ye are a witch, if ever I’ve witnessed one.”

“So, I hit the nail on the head, then?” She rolled her eyes, almost disappointed that she’d figured him out after a couple of minutes. “I thought you weren’t supposed to feel that kind of thing, being a man of God and all. What happened to love thy neighbor?”

“Ye aren’t my neighbor!” The priest jabbed a shaky finger at her. “Ye’re a seed of the devil, come to twist the mind of His Lairdship! Why would ye be in this forest, seekin’ the cottage of a witch, if ye weren’t?”

Eloise held her nerve, squaring her shoulders and straightening up. “Who says I’m searching for anything? I’m just taking an afternoon stroll in the woods. Why are you searching for the cottage of a witch, since you seem to know so much about it?”

The priest faltered again, clearly unused to being talked back to, least of all by a woman. “I have come to seize the witch, as is my duty,” he spat. “How fortunate that I should find two in one place.”

“You haven’t found anything.” Eloise turned on her heel and began to march back through the trees, hoping that if he tried to pursue her, she could outrun him.

She heard the rustle of underbrush being crushed and the rapid snap of branches, like guns firing, forcing her into a sprint. She leaped over rotting logs and weaved between mossy trunks, putting faith in her footing as she hurtled toward the road. Even if she had to dive into the overflowing stream to escape him, she would.

But Father Hepburn was faster than he looked, and just as the road came into view, a hand closed around the back of her cloak, yanking her backward. The shock of it downed her for a moment, splaying her out on the ground among the wet grass and the undergrowth. Adrenaline rocked her back up a second later, launching her to her feet. There’d be bruises and aches later, but first she had to make sure that there was a later.

She whirled around at speed, coming face to face, and almost nose to nose, with the priest she’d heard so much about. He was even more unpleasant, up close, than he’d been from afar.

“I know what you are! Ye won’t escape the Lord’s wrath!” the man screamed, lunging forward. He grabbed her by the arm, squeezing so hard that his fingernails broke the surface of her skin.

“And you won’t escape mine!” she screamed back, as instinct kicked in.

She’d taken a few self-defense classes at university, and weekly circuit training sessions on Saturday mornings for years, and it appeared that all of that had been leading to this moment. As the priest came in to try and grab her other arm, likely hoping to pin her or something, she threw her elbow up as hard as she could. The blow caught him squarely in the nose, his head jolting backward as the sound of his nose breaking lingered in her mind.

But there wasn’t a moment to lose. Spinning around, her veins still pumping with adrenaline, she ran for the road, and she didn’t intend to stop until she was safely behind castle walls again.

The trouble was, after what she’d just done, she doubted there was any wall high enough to keep Father Hepburn away. He’d burn her for the insult alone of suffering a broken nose. And with the path to the witch now blocked, her chance of making it home had just plummeted almost to zero.