by Aileen Adams
For one wild, breathless moment, he considered taking her with him. Claiming her as his own and riding home with her behind him, or beside him on her mare. She might be his bride, and she would manage his household just as well or even better than Greer Stewart had ever done thanks to the way she’d been taught in her girlhood.
She would be a prize, a jewel, something for him to be proud of. She would bring him joy, as would their bairns.
At that moment, he imagined this. Years spent with her. Knowing that no matter what came, she would be willing to wash his wounds and praise his victories.
How sweet it would be, and how right. He’d never imagined Innis this way. It had been wrong from the start, no doubt, with little love on either side. He might have learned to love her better, might have come to appreciate her if she had been faithful and true.
Now? He was ever so glad she’d been who she was and that she’d run away. Now he understood what he might have lost forever had she married him.
Though what was the use of knowing what could be, when what could be would never be? How would it look to the other lairds if he were to marry a half-English noblewoman? And what manner of life would be able to give her if the surrounding clans turned their backs on him?
To say nothing of his own clan, who might rise against him? It would not only be unfair to her. It would be akin to spitting in the face of every man who took up arms to defend the clan against those who shared her blood. They might well hate her, and she deserved anything but hatred.
Only a lovesick lad would imagine being able to surmount such obstacles. He was not a lad. He was a man with a duty to his people.
He drained what was left in his cup, certain of what he had to do. “I must ride out,” he murmured. “It has been too long that I’ve been away from my clan, and my men will be in greater need of me than ever.”
“Aye, ye must do what needs to be done.” Calan stood with him, clasping his arms. “Ye ever have a friend and ally here, Boyd MacPherson, and dinna forget it. Send word of your return and if ye are in need of anything.”
“I will that.” He bade farewell to Greer and thanked her for her generosity before striding from the hall, taking pains to avoid Olivia’s gaze even as he felt it burning into the side of his head.
If he looked at her now, he might never be able to go.
19
Where was Boyd going? And so suddenly?
Olivia reminded herself that she could hardly run from the hall to follow him. How would that look to the others? Besides, she had tasks to attend to. Men whose cups needed filling, jugs which needed replacing. Just as the other maids, all of them scurrying about to serve the many hungry and thirsty men who soon enough would take up arms.
Against her people.
But these were her people, too. All of them. She might not have been of their clan, but she shared their blood just as she shared that of the English. It was impossible to take sides in a war such as the one about to be waged when considering who she wished to come out victorious, as she was equal parts both sides.
At least, it ought to have been impossible. She ought to have been torn between her duty to her father and affection for her departed mother.
She was not torn, traitorous as it might make her.
She wanted Boyd to win. It was as simple as that. A silly notion, to be sure, as he would not be at the head of any army and if Scotland won it would not be his victory alone.
Still, when she imagined the Scottish emerging victorious, she could only envision his face in her mind.
She wanted him to win, which meant she wanted Scotland to win. For all they wished to do was defend their land and keep it as their own. They did not wish to claim something new. Her father’s land would still be her father’s land, as would George Ainsworth’s.
Calan Stewart, Donnan MacNair, Boyd MacPherson, and so many other lairds. Their fathers and grandfathers had led their clans, and those under their protection had worked the land and lived and died on it. They had put in the work; from the weeks she’d spent on this side of the border, she knew it to be backbreaking.
Why should they not be granted the freedom to call the land their own, then?
Oh, how scandalous these thoughts would be if she shared them in the company of her father and his friends. How quickly they would turn their backs on her. They did not understand for they’d never seen it with their own eyes. They thought of the Scots as brutal people, less than human.
In fact, she’d imagined them this way before knowing them, a fact which caused her no small amount of shame. To think, she would have turned away from one such as Boyd MacPherson before giving herself the chance to know him. What a loss that would have been.
When Boyd did not return after a few moments, dread began to tighten in her chest.
He would not leave without saying goodbye, would he?
There was only one way to find out.
She picked up an empty jug and carried it to the kitchen as if intending to refill it, but instead of doing so walked straight through the hot, crowded room and out the rear door. The chill was a shock to her warm skin, making her shiver as perspiration on her neck and back instantly cooled.
There was a lantern burning in the stables. She darted across the courtyard and found what she’d suspected she might find. Boyd MacPherson saddling his horse.
“You are leaving,” she whispered, halfway between a whisper and a sob.
He did not turn to look at her. He did not even flinch in surprise. It was as if he’d expected her to find him. “I must leave. I was always going to leave.”
“I know,” she whispered, looking at her feet. “I do not have to be glad of it.”
“My clan needs me. I have been away for long enough.”
“As I said, I understand,” she replied. “You do not have to explain yourself to me. I only wish you had not been about to ride away without saying a word to me.”
“What difference would it make if I did, lass?” He pulled the cinch tight, patting the palfrey’s flank once he’d finished.
“What difference?” she breathed. Was he to be believed? Should she take him at his word? “How can you ask that? After…”
“We both know it matters not.” He drew a deep breath before pulling his shoulders back, then turning to look upon her. “And it ought not have happened. Forgive me for having acted before I thought. T’was a mistake. All of it.”
A mistake? How could it be, when the idea of never setting eyes upon him again filled her with such pain as to render her dead on the spot? She might easily—and gladly—have laid herself down on the straw-strewn floor and closed her eyes for the last time. It would have been far simpler than living without him.
Pride tugged at the back of her mind, holding her tongue in place. What would it mean now to throw herself at him, to beg him for one last kiss to carry with her for all her life? He would hate her for that, no doubt, and always remember her with a bitter twist of his mouth and relief that he had avoided becoming more entangled.
She drew a slow breath, fighting back tears which threatened to reveal her heartbreak. “I see.”
“I dinna believe ye do.”
“Do not tell me what I think or know,” she snapped, heartbreak turning to ire in an instant. It was easier than holding everything inside, certainly, even if he did reel back as if she’d slapped him. If anything, his reaction pushed her to even greater fury. “You are correct. This was a mistake. For it would be folly to spend another moment with a man who believes he always knows best. That he understands the first thing about my mind, about the way I think. You called me faithless before, do you remember? One time of many in which you misunderstood me. Just as you did not believe I could survive on my own. Yet I managed to make it here, did I not? And they have accepted me. I must know a thing or two, mustn’t I?”
He nodded, heaving a heavy sigh. “Aye, lass. Ye must at that.”
“Very well. Be gone. I will not hold you back.” She f
orced her feet to move, to turn her in place before carrying her back to the keep. It was akin to moving great blocks of stone; that was how it felt, at least, but she managed.
“Olivia.” He caught her before she stepped out from beneath the thatched roof, the two of them still barely hidden by shadow. His hand closed around her arm, holding her in place. “Ye must promise me something.”
“So long as you do not touch me,” she warned, pulling her arm free. For his touch was too welcome. It filled her with too much joy. It made her want so much more. “What do you want?”
“Remain here,” he urged. “I beg ye. Dinna leave, lass. The Englishmen are coming, be certain of it, and they will be coming from the coastline rather than the southern border as we had imagined. Ye must remain safe here, in the castle. Do ye vow ye will do this?”
“Where would I go? Why would I ever wish to leave?”
He made a sound, a cross between a groan and a growl.
She turned her head partway. “Well? Why would I leave this place? They have been good to me. Very good, and you have seen that for yourself. Why would I go when there is so much danger now?”
“Why must ye ever question me?” he demanded. “Because Donnan MacNair sent word that your intended is still looking for ye.”
She turned back to him, trembling and wishing now that he would touch her. That he would hold her, for she suddenly felt so cold. “He is still searching?”
“If he arrives, asking about ye, ye must remain here. Do ye ken, lass? Dinna run as ye did before, for it will be far worse for ye now.”
He took her by the shoulders, his grip tight enough that she could not have escaped it this time if she tried, staring down at her. “But if ye do, lassie, ride north. Ride to me. It would only take ye part of a morning or afternoon, perhaps less if ye put on speed. Even at night ye might make good time if ye remain on the road, which runs straight to my keep. Do ye ken?”
Of everything he’d spoken, three words rang clearest in her head, like a great bell. Ride to me. “To you?” she asked, hope catching in her throat.
He gave his head a slight shake. “To my clan. Ride to my clan. I will shelter ye. But for now ye must remain here, or else I will have quite a lot to explain to Calan Stewart, and I dinna wish to admit I lied to him. Do ye ken how important this is, lass?”
It would have to be enough to know he would shelter her if the time ever came. She certainly hoped it would not, for she had no great desire to run away again. Her life with the Stewarts was hardly enviable, but it was far better than what she had suffered before her arrival.
“I do,” she whispered, and even then, she wished he would pull her close if only for a moment. He need only draw her in and enfold her. So long as she knew that all which had passed between them was more than a moment’s weakness or a foolish lapse in judgment.
She could do anything, so long as she knew she meant something.
And she believed he might. She believed the dark eyes which probed hers might soften, that the hands on her shoulders might tighten with new urgency. That his strong arms would be around her, closing her off from the rest of the world. She would welcome this.
It was not to be.
He released her, turning and marching to his waiting mount. “Go,” he murmured nodding toward the keep. “Before ye are missed.”
She opened her mouth to say something, anything. One final word or sentiment.
“Goodbye,” she whispered, the word reaching her ears only. For he had already started off, leaving her more alone than she’d ever felt.
20
It might have been simpler to cut off an arm and leave it behind. Or a leg.
Or to reach into his chest and pull his beating heart free. To drop it at her feet, as it belonged to her, truly.
Any of that would have been simpler than riding alone, knowing she was behind him and knowing there was a chance that George Ainsworth would never make it far enough into the north to reach the Stewarts. Knowing the English were sailing up the coast and intended to invade by sea meant there was greater chance than ever of the man being caught up in a battle.
It would have been far safer to turn south. Fear for his own precious neck might yet outweigh the man’s pride.
And that would be for the best, without a doubt—even if it meant Olivia never having an excuse to ride to him.
A foolish offer, to be sure, and one which he had regretted the moment it fell from his lips. He could not pretend he did not know the lass if the came for her to arrive, for one and all knew he had defended her honor in the market. If Calan sent word of her running from his home, how could Boyd feign ignorance without risking a long-standing alliance?
“Och, what a fool I am,” he muttered, with none but the palfrey to hear. So many layers of lies, and for what? When he ought to have been honest all along.
For her, of course. Because she had wished it so. Because he had wished to keep her safe, to keep knowledge of her English blood secret. She had no cousins among the Stewarts as she had among the MacNairs.
Because he loved her and would do anything to protect her.
The moon was little more than a sliver, with clouds rapidly piling in from the west just as English soldiers might be piling in at that very moment. There was no way of knowing. Soon the clouds would cover the sky and darken everything as the soldiers would surely do to the land.
He did not need the light of the moon to show him the way home, for he’d made this ride more times than he could possibly hope to count. He might have done it blindfolded, in truth, having ever been the one to fetch his father from Calan Stewart’s whenever he’d thought to pay a call there.
It was a task he’d dreaded as a lad, half-frightened of the powerful Stewart laird, but one he’d come to appreciate upon growing into manhood.
Never had his heart been this heavy while guiding his mount along the familiar road between the two expanses of land, not even while riding sound as a lad.
The sight of several scattered huts on the edge of MacPherson land lightened his heart considerably, however. The familiar swell of pride reminded him of why he’d chosen to leave Calan’s, to leave Olivia behind. Why he’d had no choice but to return to his land and his people.
Of which Olivia was not one. He had to remember that, to keep remembering it no matter how it stung. His love for her did not change that, no matter how he wished it so.
“Och, the laird himself.” A pair of his guardsmen nodded in recognition as they approached, riding from the other direction. “Have ye returned to stay, then?”
He nodded, taking in the sight of the familiar clan tartan slung over their shoulders. It was a welcome sight, to be sure. “Aye, I have at that. Did the rider reach the keep, are ye aware?”
“The rider?” The pair exchanged a glance, both frowning.
“No matter. Ye might have missed him, at that. I sent a rider with a message earlier in the evening, promising my return once I’d dined with the Stewarts. I will continue to the keep now.”
He rode on, his eyes sweeping over the land before him. His land, all of it, or rather the land belonging to his clan. His birthplace, and the place where his bones would rest once his life came to an end. It rolled on for miles before him, gently dipping in places and rising in others. He knew that once the sun rose the new, spring grass would shine a brilliant green as far as the eye could see, all the way to the distant Cairngorns farther north.
He was proud of it, no doubt, and once again regretted that he might not join in the fight to defend it. It seemed disappointment was the way of his life as of late.
He was thinking and behaving like a bairn, and he knew it. Good thing it was not much further to his keep, his study, his bed. It was past time to turn his thoughts to the clan and how they would move forward with planning for the fight to come.
“Laird MacPherson,” one of the guards riding around the castle walls exclaimed in surprise upon recognizing him. “We did not expect ye until morning, at
the earliest. Did something—”
“Wait.” Boyd held up a hand, cutting off anything the man was about to say. “Ye did not expect me? I sent word earlier in the evening, and the rider ought to have arrived well before now. Did not my cousin Elliott speak of this?”
His frown matched the one exchanged by the guardsmen Boyd had spoken with earlier.
Damn it all.
He rode in through the gate and left the palfrey in the care of one of the two drowsy stable lads before bounding into the keep. “Elliott?” he called out, caring little for the lateness of the hour or who he might awaken. “Elliott MacPherson!”
“What is the shouting about?” Elliott emerged from the study, appearing both disturbed and relieved. “Och, ‘tis yourself. A welcome sight, ye are.”
“Did ye expect me?” Boyd demanded, nearly taking his cousin by the tunic and shaking him.
Elliott’s dark eyes narrowed. “At some time, aye. I thought perhaps tomorrow and considered sending word—”
“Ye did not receive word from me this evening?”
“Nay.” Understanding was beginning to dawn. “Ye sent it?”
“I sent a rider,” he replied, pushing past his cousin that he might enter his study. As ever, the table at which he worked was covered with scrolls and pieces of parchment. He tore through them, searching for his own writing. He found nothing.
“What is it all about?” By now, several guardsmen had heard the commotion and joined Elliott and Boyd in the study. His cousin stood near him, concern furrowing his brow. His resemblance to Boyd’s own father was startling, especially when he frowned in such a way.
“I am not certain yet.” He looked around the room. “None of ye saw a rider coming in this evening? Not one of ye?” They shook their heads.
He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “I must speak privately with my cousin, but dinna ye wander far. I might need ye before the night is through.”
