Rosalie looked at the tiny grave. She couldn’t imagine the loss of a child. To go so far as to take someone else’s though and force them to play the part, though, made her sick.
“Why would you let her take me?”
“You think I’m a coward.”
Rosalie wanted to snap back with an obvious “Yes,” but she held her tongue. It was all unbelievable. She sat in silence, neither negating nor coddling the man.
“We’ve told this lie for so long, and,” he looked at her, “when I saw you…for a moment, I forgot it was all a story. For a moment, I thought maybe, just maybe you were our Bridget. Then Catherine—I would do anything for her. She would not let it go. It made me sick to do it, but she what she said made some sort of sense, that you’d be happy with us, that we’d be a family just like before.” He looked back down at his hands in shame, “It was a terrible mistake. It’s helped her none, and poor Gale, always living in the shadow of Bridget…” he shook his head.
“Does Gale know the truth?”
Edward nodded. “Everyone knows. Sometimes, I think even Catherine sees it.”
Rosalie’s head spun. The thought of the entire Keep pretending this child was not dead sent chills up and down her body. She pulled her cloak closer to her. It all made sense, Gales comment, the story Euna told her—how it seemed so rehearsed.
“Ye can set it right, though. I can go home, an’ maybe bringin’ Catherine here might bring her closure.”
Edward’s features changed. Horror and anger flashed across his face. “No, not possible.” Edward grabbed Rosalie’s wrist with such a force that it scared her. “You cannot tell her. Not a word. She’s been eating, and she’s out o’ our rooms, and I haven’t seen her cry once since ye’ve been here.”
Rosalie was aghast. “I cannot jus’ pretend I’m yer daughter.” Anger and confusion welled in her. “I have a family.” Her voice heightened with desperation.
“I promise you; I can give you a life, a comfortable life. You willnae even have to stay here. I can set up a good match for you, a wealthy match, an’ when you marry, you can just move on and forget this business.” Edward spoke fast, panicked.
Rosalie tried to pull her wrist from his grip. When he clung to her, she pushed it away with her free hand, relieved he let it go.
“This is madness. I cannae do this. I cannae. She’s, she’s—”
Rosalie gestured to the castle. She wanted to say the woman was insane, dressing Rosalie up like her dead daughter. All at once, she understood Gale more as well—locked up in the keep, not allowed to venture out, forced to keep her family’s perverse secret.
Edward said it forwardly. “She’s lost it. I know, but please, I beg o’ you. I cannae go through it again.” He cradled his head in his hands, pulling the thin tufts of hair, “You don’t understand. When Bridget died, we lost everything. My life was destroyed. This is the happiest I’ve seen Catherine since, and I’d do anything to keep her sane. Anything.”
The look he gave her then made Rosalie’s blood run cold. It was a dangerous and desperate glint that told her she needed to be extremely careful about what she did next. She stood up and considered running until she remembered how easily the man overpowered her when he took her initially. If he was willing to kidnap someone for the sake of his wife, he was ready to do anything.
Rosalie’s heart raced. She did not know how she would get herself out of this. She knew herself, even without Magda and Anna back home, there was no way she could play this part.
“You would have a good life. Not like the life you were doomed to before. You’d be a noblewoman, and Gale would be your best friend. Please, I beg of you, consider this. I know,” he nodded, “I know it is insane, but I promise you this could be good. It could be good for all of us.”
He believed this. The weight seemed to lift from his shoulders a bit. Rosalie had followed him thinking she would find closure in these woods. Her heart pounded with such ferocity she thought it might explode from her chest. This was unthinkable. She felt trapped. Even if she ran, they could catch her before she got far. Whatever happened next, the one thing she knew was that she needed to choose her words very carefully and keep a clear head. She looked up to the stars. There would still be another hour or two before Declan would see her candle, and even then, she needed to make it safely there to call him to the rescue.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rosalie’s face, her smile and laughter contagious enough to make Declan laugh, even though he didn’t know why they were laughing. His laughter cut short. Rosalie’s hands were bleeding. He looked at them with horror. All around him, the heather meadow and rolling glens melted into drab, stone walls. She tore away from him, an invisible force pulling her back. Declan ran; his hand reached out to her. No matter how hard he forced himself to move, her fingertips remained just out of reach.
Declan awoke with a start, a cold sweat matting his hair to his forehead. It took him a moment to catch his bearings. The nightmare was real enough for him to recall the smell of dank stone and still feel the pangs of loss from watching the Rosalie torn from him, covered in blood. He clutched at his chest to still his beating heart.
The rain had stopped. From the cracks in the old barn, he could see the waning of the day. The air was sweet and pure from the rain, contrasting with the mud and manure and hay on the verge of molding. Declan stirred and cursed as a sharp pain shot up his arm.
A mighty gash where one of the bandit’s blades slashed him burned with the angry onset of infection. Should’ve had Rhona look at it. It was the furthest thing from his mind when he returned to the small cottage.
The image of Angus’s children, especially the shy Davina, came to mind. He had half a mind to leave Angus here with these strangers. Not because he wished to abandon him, but because he knew what could lay ahead. If they were attacked by the family keeping Rosalie, he risked more than his life.
Declan turned to the sound of the barn door groaning as it opened. Rhona poked her head around the corner. In the darkness, her pale skin glowed in the soft light of dusk breaking in from behind her.
“Yer awake, then,” she said.
“Aye.”
Declan made to stand. Every muscle in his body was wrecked from riding for days on end. Even with the few hours of sleep, he still felt as if he’d stayed awake. He thought he might have felt more rested before laying down, his body now tight from the short rest.
“There’s food fer ye in the house if yer hungry,” she said. She stood there for a moment before adding, “Or, I can bring it to ye, if you’d like.”
“No,” Declan pushed himself up, biting back the urge to curse at the pain. “’Tis alright.”
The woman nodded and pushed the door further open, waiting for Declan. One of Declan’s hips was stiff enough to cause a limp. He knew it would work itself out, but the question that bothered him was when.
An owl hooted somewhere in the distance. The first faint sparks of stars twinkled on the hazy blue-gray sky. The wind blew through a nearby field, causing the grains to whisper.
“It’s no’ much. ‘fraid with Pa’s age an’ bairn still feedin’,” her thought trailed off a bit as she looked down at her boots, “It’s difficult, I ‘spose.”
Rhona was a beautiful girl with dark, silky hair and creamy skin. Declan guessed she was in her early twenties, maybe even younger. He still noticed the lines etched into her forehead and around the corner of her mouth, though. They had seen hardship. He kept silent, not wanting to pry into their matters.
Peat smoke-stained just about everything black. Even Rhona’s gown was smudged with it. Usually, Declan didn’t mind the smell, but in the single-room abode, it made it hard to breathe. The bairn cried in the old man’s arms. He let it squirm, still tending to his pipe as if he never set it down.
Angus laid in the same position Declan left him. The large man had fallen fast asleep upon returning, much to the chagrin of Rhona’s father. He was impossible to rouse from his
exhausted state. Rhona covered him in a blanket stitched from small animal pelts and wadded up with clothes beneath his head. He was snoring; the long, nasally pulls rattling in his throat like the growl of a small bear.
“Been snorin’ like tha’ awhile, has he?” The sight lifted his spirits. He wanted to laugh but restrained himself with a half-smile on account of the old man’s cross expression.
“Bin loch ‘at aw day.” The old man spoke as if his mouth was full of cotton.
Rhona smiled as she stepped over Angus to get to the cauldron steaming over the fire, “Started up soon after ye laid down. Hasn’t stopped since.”
Declan sat down at the modest table and turned to Rhona’s father, “Thank ye again fer helpin’ us. I don’t ken what we’d do if ye turned us away.”
“Thank mah dochter.” He raised his pipe, gesturing towards Rhona. “Thes ain’ mah business.” He smacked his gummy lips and drew on his pipe with a final, “Hm.”
Rhona brought them some of the soup she cooked. Declan spooned some of it up, looking at the contents. Small pieces of rabbit and cabbage floated in a broth thin and colorless enough as kin to water. He felt for them. There was a field of oats, ripe and ready for harvest, and yet they were starving. Declan looked at the old man’s hands, and then his eyes followed the tiny bairn as it passed to Rhona to feed.
No one spoke throughout the meal. When Declan finished, he held out his hands to relieve Rhona of her child so she could eat. He stared at the big eyes of the tiny being and wondered what might happen to it as it grew. So far, there was no sign of a father; Declan did not wish to ask.
He always had a soft spot for children, but it seems as if they caught his attention differently as of late. Before, they were just sweet, fun, and lively. Now, they made him think about his future and of his future offspring. Up until now, he hardly thought about securing anything for a future family. Sure, he knew it was important and would eventually come, but his concern was on the present. He was content and faithful. As he held the child, his brain started sprouting plans for ensuring his future family and his community thrived.
Declan was still exhausted, and it was dark. Content with Angus’s safety, he retired once more to the shack. There was still time for Angus to sleep before they went to watch for Rosalie. As for him, he knew he would not be able to sleep any longer. He managed to get a few hours in during light after returning from Rosalie, and that would have to suffice.
The shack smelled of animals, but there was a charm to it. Up above, he could see a sliver of the night sky lit up by the brilliance of a million stars. The draft cleared the air of animal musk and was easier to breathe than the peat smoke inside. Earlier, he slept with nothing, but now he wrapped his wool blanket around him and found himself quite comfortable, staring up at the stars and thinking about what might come over the next days.
These thoughts were broken after an hour or so with the creaking of the door once more. It was Rhona again. She looked hesitant. As soon as Declan met her eyes, he watched a pink stain bloom over her cheeks.
“May I come an’ sit with ye? Pa an’ the bairn are asleep.”
The woman stepped toward him, her movements slow and timid yet excited. Declan nodded. He was enjoying the time alone, but he didn’t want to be rude to someone who probably saved the life of a friend.
She sat down next to him, close enough for her knee to brush against his. Declan shifted away, putting space between him and the young woman. Tension built between them. Rhona tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked up at Declan. His brow wrinkled, unsure of what to say. He could sense she was there for more than an amiable, innocent company.
Finding the silence unbearable, Declan spoke, and the only obvious question fell from his mouth. “The father…”
As soon as he said it, he felt as if it was the wrong thing to bring up, but he didn’t have anything else for her. Rhona shook her head. Declan could see the shame in her eyes as they shifted away. She plucked a strand of straw from beneath her and pulled it apart.
“Pa was righ’ abou’ him. Tol’ me not tae talk tae ‘im. He needed help with the field. His hands pain ‘im now, an’ his eyes don’t work so good no more. He said we’d wed, bu’ he took off as soon as I tol’ him abou’ the bairn.”
She threw the bits of straw as hard as she could. They floated down. Declan pursed his lips.
“Sorry tae hear tha’.”
“Are ye married, then?”
She looked up at him, and Declan could see the hopeful sparkle in her eyes. He swallowed, not wanting to answer her question. Lying was not something he did.
“No, but…” he paused. What was Rosalie to him? She felt much more important than any way he might describe her to Rhona.
“Ye have someone ye sweet on?” she said.
Declan nodded, relieved. “Tha’s where we’re headin’. She’s missin’.”
Genuine concern pinched Rhona’s face, “That’s awful,” she said. She placed a comforting hand on Declan’s thigh.
Declan stiffened at the touch. It made him uneasy and embarrassed. He was delicate in removing her fingers and returning her hand. He cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean tae…” she looked away.
“It’s fine,” he said.
“It’s awful brave o’ ye to be travelin’ such a distance an’ fightin’ bandits an’ all to help her,” she said, playing with a strand of her black hair. “I wish someone would do tha’ for me.” Declan felt for the poor girl but said nothing. “How long have ye known her for?”
Damn. Declan didn’t want to say it. He felt it weaken the strength of their bond somehow. His throat hitched, “In total or,” he cleared his throat again, “since before she went missin’?”
“Since before,” she said, still not looking at him.
Declan shifted his weight. His collar suddenly felt too tight. When the words came out, they were hardly a whisper. “Three days.”
Rhona’s eyes snapped up to him. There was too much joy there for Declan’s liking. He wasn’t sure how or when, but somehow she was sitting close enough to touch him again.
“Ye’ve been ridin’ fer a while then?” she asked in a sweet, tender voice.
Declan nodded. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as his muscles stiffened and tried to scoot away again. Her hand reached out and touched his shoulder. Before he could withdraw from her, she started to knead out the muscles in his shoulder—muscles that ached and found relief under her fingers.
Rhona clucked her tongue. “You poor thing, you mus’ be sore.”
“I-I am, but,” he stammered.
“Shh,” she quieted him and shifted positions. Both her hands were on his shoulders, and he could feel her breasts grazing over his back. “Jus’ try an’ relax. There’s nothin’ tae worry abou’. Ye’ll be no use tae yer lady if ye cannot ride.”
Declan didn’t like it. It was true, he needed his muscles rubbed out, and his wound looked at, but this left a knot in his stomach. He felt disgusted with himself as he felt the grazing of her breasts on his back and her mercurial intentions. Declan rushed to his feet.
Rhona gave a soft, dismayed cry. “What’s wrong? It’s jus’ a massage. Ye cannae ride like tha’.”
Did he imagine the way she looked at him? “It’s fine. I need tae be getting’ to sleep, Rhona.”
That was when she saw his arm. “Oh my,” she cried.
She stood up and grabbed his arm with both hands. Declan covered his face with his free palm. Her soft fingers pushed back the torn fabric of his shirt to reveal the wound. It was bad. He knew it. He could feel it burning, but why could she not have noticed it earlier under the eyes of her Pa instead?
“I’ll be right back,” she said, smiling at him gleefully.
Declan groaned. There was nowhere for him to go. He watched her leave and summoned up the image of Rosalie for strength. Three days. It astounded him how much could happen within three days. He had heard his mother
and father talk about how fast the love took hold between them, but to experience it was an entirely different matter. One he could hardly explain to other people because they were not there to feel the chemistry between them.
Rhona returned quicker than he would have liked. To make matters worse, she closed the shack door behind her. The shack was almost in darkness except for the light coming in through the shafts in the ceiling.
“Take yer shirt off.” She was decisive, focused, and serious.
“Surely tha’s unnecessary.”
Rhona shook her head, looking at the wound and pulling the fragments of shirt up, “No, it needs tae come off. Here, I’ll help,” she grabbed at the hem of his shirt, pulling her body too close to his.
Highlander’s Gypsy Lass (Highlander's 0f Clan Macgregor Book 1) Page 20
