by Aileen Adams
“Let’s go back home,” Beitris suggested. “Alasdair needs to know.”
“He already does.”
“What?” Beitris asked, turning toward her friend. “He already knows there’s a price on his head? That people are looking for him?”
“Yes,” Elspeth said gently. “That’s why we’re riding into town for supplies. I was going to tell ye, but…”
“Let’s go home,” Beitris said, feeling her way around the wagon and climbing into the seat, her face stinging and her head still pounding. Home. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to reach the safety of the stone house and Alasdair’s strong presence.
13
Alasdair stood in the freshly churned soil of the large plot of ground along the side of the house facing the lake. A garden of some sort looked like it had been planted here in the past, based on several roots he had dug up, and he assumed it had been a flower garden. While he liked the color of flowers as much as anybody else, a vegetable garden was much more practical. He planned to surprise Beitris after he finished preparing it. At the moment he eyed the lake and the edge of the garden, wondering if he could dig out a new irrigation trench to make watering the garden a bit easier. The land between the plot and the lake was fairly level, but if he dug deep enough, then devised some type of wooden gate with a lever much like on the well with the bucket, it might work.
Beitris and Elspeth had taken the wagon and one of the horses to the village earlier to purchase additional supplies for the household. Elspeth had wanted to check on her cottage and bring a few additional items back with her to the stone house beside the lake. He offered to do it, but both the women had gently refused, Beitris telling him that she knew exactly what she needed in the kitchen, and for her sewing, and she wanted to venture into town to visit with her father anyway. Alasdair had reluctantly agreed. Not to mention, after Colin’s recent words, it was wise he steer clear of public areas.
It neared the noon hour; the sun having broken through the early morning clouds. Still, a thin cloak of mist hung over the surface of the lake, the quacking of the ducks and the honk of geese occasionally breaking the stillness and echoing over the land. It was a good piece of land, with a solid house. Both needed some work, but he was fortunate. Now he had two plots of land, and if he needed funds, he could always rent out his own property bequeathed to him by his father and bring in a few extra coins every month. It was good, and—
A sound captured his attention, and he turned, frowning in surprise when he saw a wagon approaching the yard at a good clip, pulled by a sorrel mare. It only took a few seconds for it to dawn on him that Beitris and Elspeth were sitting on the seat, the wagon pulled by his own mare. He stiffened. Why had they returned so soon? They wouldn’t even have made it into the village yet. The horse didn’t look injured, and the wagon didn’t appear damaged in any way. One glance at their faces when Elspeth pulled the wagon into the yard caused his heart to skip a beat.
He took a look at Elspeth’s torn gown, her color, and then Beitris’s mussed hair and a dark smudge on the side of her jaw. He discarded his rake and rushed toward the wagon, his eyes widening still more when he saw his wife’s bloodied lip. A surge of fury coursed through him when he got a closer look, one hand holding the reins of the horse as he stared at the women.
That wasn’t a smudge of dirt on his wife’s face. It was a bruise, and beneath the bruise, her cheek had already begun to swell, as had the corner of her right eye, also with a small crescent-shaped bruise forming under it. Her bottom lip already swollen, dried blood marring its lush surface.
“What happened?” he demanded, striding to the side of the wagon, his voice thick with fury at the thought of someone laying a hand on his wife. He clasped Beitris’s warm hand in his and then gently lifted her from the wagon. She clung to him for several moments, and in those moments, she seemed so small and frail to him.
As he stepped back to take a closer look, to examine her top to toe, he saw the blood on her hand and lifted it in his own. Her knuckles bloodied, he gazed at her, then at Elspeth in question. His emotions erupted out of nowhere. Without thinking, without giving it a second thought, he stepped closer, wrapped his arms around Beitris’s small shoulders, and pulled her close to him. How dare anyone attack his wife! Even more so a blind woman! His heart pounded hard in his chest. It was his responsibility to protect her, and he had already failed. While Beitris was far from helpless, she did—and would in the future—rely on him to keep her safe, to protect her from harm, whether that be from animals, the landscape, or man.
For a few moments, she seemed to settle into his embrace, her cheek turned deep into his chest. Listening to his racing heart? Her fingers clutched at his arms, and he rested his chin gently on the top of her head, eyeing Elspeth.
“What happened?” he asked again.
“We were about halfway to the village when a group of men emerged from the trees along the side of the road,” Elspeth began, her voice trembling only slightly.
Alasdair saw the anger in her gaze, and rightly so, as she stared at him, then Beitris, before she continued. He gave Beitris’s shoulders another gentle squeeze and released her. She didn’t step away. Rather than being annoyed, he felt a surge of pleasure. She wasn’t afraid of him, not like he had thought. Still, he stepped back, hands on her arms now, gazing at every aspect of her face, frowning at the bruises, once again growing infuriated that anyone would dare place a rough hand on a woman. His woman.
“They were looking for ye, Alasdair. Not by name, but they described a man with a scar down one side of his face…” Though he still clasped Beitris’s arm, his hand easily encompassing her small wrist, she looked up at him, her jaw set, her unseeing eyes riveted to his. “Scotsmen looking for another Scotsman. They have deemed ye the rebel, Alasdair, and they’re out for yer head. I would venture to say there’s been a reward offered for yer capture and death.”
She said the words so calmly that at first, he thought she cared not one whit what happened to him. But then she placed her other hand on top of his and squeezed gently. “We didn’t tell them anything, and they have no idea that ye and I are married, and they won’t either,” she promised. “But what is happening? Why—”
“I already told ye, Beitris,” Elspeth interrupted, her hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “It’s because he joined the Jacobites.” She turned Alasdair. “These were Scots, obviously seeking a reward, the bastards,” she snapped. “But I’m sure they’re not the only ones. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there are spies roaming through the land looking for people like ye.”
Alasdair looked from Beitris to Elspeth, making sure that neither one of them were seriously injured. He glanced down at Beitris’s hand. “How did yer hand get bloodied?”
Beitris tilted her head, recalling the event and telling him what happened. “They grabbed Elspeth and pulled her off the wagon. One of them grabbed me too. I fought—”
“She did more than that,” Elspeth said, her voice tinged with pride. “She landed two good punches, one in the man’s groin, the other in his face. She broke his nose and bloodied his lip! Not to mention the rock she threw.”
Alasdair gazed down at Beitris, at the frown she wore, the fierce expression, the set of her jaw. An immense surge of pride filled him, but anger quickly took its place. He turned to Elspeth. “Where did they go? How many of them?”
“Four, and after they left, they headed back toward the village.” She paused. “Alasdair, they didn’t know who we were, but they’re hunting for information.”
“But no one from the village would say anything, would they?” Beitris asked. “They know ye well, they wouldn’t betray ye—”
“Don’t count on it, Beitris,” Elspeth interrupted. “For the want of a few coins, any man will betray another.”
Alasdair started to gaze at her, wondering at her vehemence. Had she been betrayed once by a man? Her father or a beau? He knew very little about Elspeth, or Beitris for that matter.
“Alasdair, ye must go away, at least until these men stop looking for ye. If they find ye, they’ll kill ye!” Beitris exclaimed, both hands now clasping Alasdair’s wrists.
He gazed down at her in surprise. Had she begun to develop feelings for him? At the thought, he wondered if he too had begun to grow fond of her. How else to explain his immediate fury when he saw her disheveled appearance?
“What do they look like?” he asked Elspeth, still staring down at Beitris’s delicate features. The thought of her having to fight off a man horrified him, and yet he felt a sense of pride and approval that she had fought back and left her mark on the bastard.
“Ruffians, each and every one of them,” Elspeth spat. “One had red hair. Curly red hair. The other had black hair, dark as midnight. The other two, brown hair. They all had beards, and—”
“What did they wear? Do ye think they came from the city?”
“Nay,” Elspeth said. “Their clothes were stained and dirty, as if they spent much of their time outdoors. Maybe outlaws?”
Alasdair thought about that while he tried to slow his thundering heartbeat and his emotions, trying desperately to tamp down the rage that flowed inside him. He couldn’t let anger control his actions. He had learned that on the battlefield. The moment ye lost control of yer emotions, ye made mistakes. Ye allowed the enemy to get close, so bent on—
“Alasdair, is there anywhere ye can go?” Beitris asked him. “If they find ye, they’re going to kill ye.”
“Nay, lass. Wouldn’t be the first time someone has tried to take my life,” he grumbled. “It’s not likely to be the last time either.” He turned to Elspeth. “Take her inside, take care of her. I will—”
Beitris’s grasp on his wrist tightened. “Nay, Alasdair, ye mustn’t. I know what yer thinking, what yer planning to do, but I’m asking ye not to.”
He paused, a myriad of emotions sweeping through him. “No one touches my wife,” he swore, his voice rough with anger. “Yer fortunate they didn’t—”
“They might have tried,” Elspeth broke in. “One of the men, their obvious leader, told them to stop. He had an odd accent. English. And one, perhaps, came from the southern lowlands… but none of them sounded like Highlanders.”
“Alasdair, someone has betrayed ye. Someone brought the Sassenachs to the region,” Beitris said. “Yer not safe here. Ye must hide!”
The fear in her voice gave him pause. “I hide from nary a man, lass,” he said quietly but firmly. “If what these men have said is true, then they are not the only ones looking for those like me who have made their way back home from the rebellion. We won’t be safe, not until every last one of us is dead, our heads separated from our shoulders.”
“But why?” Beitris cried, stomping her slippered foot on the ground.
Alasdair almost smiled at the temperamental gesture. “By some, we are considered heroes, and by others, as traitors. Take yer pick.” He shook his head. “It’s not like I can’t change my appearance, cut my hair, or shave my beard. My battle scars are obvious, so hiding is not much of an option. It’s clear from the looks of me I’ve been at war.”
Beitris reached a hand for Elspeth, and her friend scrambled down from the wagon and clutched it tightly. It didn’t matter to him now whether Elspeth liked him or not. She had protected Beitris to the best of her ability. The two of them were stubborn and fierce. Still, the thought of anyone putting their hands on them, on his wife, caused anger to once again bubble up inside him, to the point he trembled with it.
“What are ye going to do?”
That from Beitris, her voice dry and tremulous. He gazed down at her and offered her a smile that she couldn’t see, then turned to Elspeth, who, oddly enough, seemed to anticipate his actions.
“I’ll go get ye some food,” she said quietly, then gently tugged Beitris away from the wagon and into the house, Beitris protesting softly.
Alasdair stood, staring out at his surroundings. He should’ve known that something like this would happen. Someday. He was wanted now, a wanted man who would be killed on sight if they found him. The women were right. Someone had betrayed him and brought those ruffians here. If not ruffians or soldiers, possibly mercenaries, ones who didn’t care one whit about the politics of the situation, but the weight of gold coins in their hands. He cast his gaze about the farm, searching the tree line in the distance, then turned to look back at the stone house.
He couldna just stay here, waiting for attack, putting the women in even greater danger. It was at that moment that he realized that somehow, over the past few weeks, though little had been spoken between them, that he had grown increasingly attracted to the lass. His respect for her had grown, as had his pride. A sense of personal pride in her overcame his fury for the moment. They had yet to consummate their marriage, but perhaps that was best. If he died, if he were killed, it would perhaps make it easier for her father to find her a new husband. The thought disturbed him.
“Beitris is mine,” he spoke softly, his tone firm. “No one will have her but me.”
At that point, he strode into the small stable near the house to ready to his horse.
14
“But he’s been gone for days!” Beitris said, worry evident in her tone. She stood in the middle of the main room of the stone house, her fingers tightly clutching her kirtle, feeling an unusual urge to hit something, anything. Her father had long warned her about her temper, but at this moment, her father, decorum, and ladylike behavior were the furthest thoughts from her mind.
“He does not need watching after, Beitris,” Elspeth said from one of the chairs in front of the old fireplace. “He is a grown man. A warrior. A soldier. A fighter.”
“But he—he’s out there alone!”
Elspeth sighed. “Ye know I’m not terribly fond of the man, Beitris, but he is a man. Ye are nothing but a woman, and one without sight.” She moved to stand beside Beitris and placed a gentle hand on her arm. “I do not say that to hurt ye, ye know I never would. But what do ye think ye can do? How do ye think ye can help him?”
Beitris turned to the sound of her friend’s voice, frustrated that all she could see was a dark wavering shadow against a dark gray background. She’d often been frustrated by her blindness, but never so deeply as this. Combined with worry, her worst possible fears constantly racing through her head, she needed to do something. Anything!
“Beitris, ye must settle yerself.” Elspeth tried to guide Beitris to a chair, but she proved stubborn and remained where she stood.
“Elspeth, I have a bad feeling. I fear that he’s been wounded. He could be lying out there, dying, and—”
“And what, Beitris? How could we possibly find him? Look what happened on our way to the village. Two women riding alone in the woods? It just isn’t done!”
“But what if something has happened to him?”
Elspeth groaned in frustration and copied Beitris, stomping her own foot on the floorboards with a thud. “And what if it has? What could we do? We are not trained soldiers, we have no weapons with which to fight. We have no skills, and I daresay it would be a struggle for either one of us to swing a sword. So, ye tell me, Beitris. What exactly is it ye propose we do?”
Both women frustrated, Beitris groaned, disgusted at her weakness, her inability to help Alasdair. “I don’t know, but I’ve got to do something!”
Elspeth said nothing for several moments. Beitris heard the silence, knew her friend was watching her, studying her. “What?”
“Yer growing fond of him, aren’t ye? Yer falling in love with him.”
For a second, Beitris prepared to protest, to tell her friend she was silly, that she was concerned, that’s all, and it was that mere concern prompted that empty feeling in her chest at the thought of something bad happening to Alasdair. Was her growing fear merely the thought of being alone again, having to move back home with her father, or perhaps in with Elspeth at her small cottage? Was it her fear of nobody else wanting her, no one
wanting to be burdened with her care for the rest of their lives?
Nay, and it wasn’t just a sense of gratitude that Alasdair had married her, either. He had been forced into it, much as she had. But he’d made the effort. Made an effort to fix the stone house to make sure she didn’t catch a chill in the evening, who acquiesced to her desire to have furniture in a certain spot and not move it. He didn’t baby her, didn’t treat her like she was an invalid. He had shown patience, taking his time, telling her about every wall, every corner, every creaking floorboard in the house. He had gently held her elbow as they roamed the yard those first few times, telling her where clumps of shrubbery grew, when the land dipped, giving her steps as measurements that she could imagine in her head. He’d cleared a path for her from the house down to the edge of the lake, and she knew that the day that she and Elspeth were attacked, he had been preparing a large garden plot for her and was working out an irrigation system to save her work.
Elspeth was right. She turned her friend had nodded. “I am… I have,” she said, her voice filled with wonder. “I know ye don’t like him, Elspeth, but—”
“I apologize for that, Beitris,” Elspeth broke in softly. “I didn’t think that he would appreciate ye. I didn’t think he would want to be troubled with ye, that he would treat ye like ye deserved to be treated. While I’m still not sure about all of that, I do admit that he’s treated ye fairly, not like a burden, not like someone who needs to be watched after every moment.”
Beitris smiled. “Ye like him too, don’t ye?”
Elspeth merely mumbled a reply, then turned toward the kitchen area.
She knew that Elspeth wouldn’t answer and turned toward the front door. “I’m going to gather the eggs. Maybe we can bake some bread today.”
She didn’t receive a reply but didn’t really expect one either. She reached for the wicker basket left beside the front door, clutched it in her hand, opened the door, and stepped outside. She felt the early morning mist in the air, which usually dissipated by midmorning, sometimes hanging on until almost noon. The air smelled fresh, wet with moisture. To her left, down near the lake, she heard the soft quacking of ducks. In the trees near the wood line, the chattering of birds, and from in the house, Elspeth’s soft humming.
