by Aileen Adams
“I suppose it’s verra nice for them, now that they found each other.” He waved away her offer of milk, choosing instead to drink water he had just taken from the stream while she’d been on her own. “They had quite a difficult time of it at the start.”
“Aye, she told me of this morning. A terrible thing, that. It makes their joy that much sweeter, I would imagine.”
“I would imagine,” he agreed. “I would not know, ye ken.”
“Nor would I. My father…” She bit her tongue before anything further spilled out. It was too easy to share too much. She reminded herself of the need for discretion. “My parents did not live together long. I do not remember anything of their life together. He died. I know nothing of marriage or home life.”
“My mam died when I was born.”
“Och, I’m sorry to hear it.” How bitter her life would have been without her lovely, sweet, fiery mother.
“I didna mean to make ye feel sorry. Only to tell ye I understand more than ye might imagine. I’ve never had a home of my own, not truly.” He tore another bite of bread away with his teeth, and she thought he might have perhaps torn a bit harder than he needed to. As if he recalled something unpleasant.
“You live under the laird’s protection, do ye not?”
“Aye, but that is not the same,” he muttered as he chewed, staring off into the distance. “I live there as I always have. I was born in inside the castle walls. But it will never be my home. I will always be a guest, just as long as I continue acting as captain of the guard. Once I’m too old to do so—or should I be wounded badly enough that I canna any longer lead the men—I suppose Richard would allow me to stay on. A sense of duty, ye ken. He’d feel he had to. But it still would not be mine. It would never be.”
“And you would hate that.”
“With every breath I took,” he admitted. “Because I would not be earning my way. I would have nothing to be proud of. Nothing of my own. At least now, I feel as though I earn my place.”
“Does it worry you? The thought that you might one day not be able to do your duty?”
“At the moment? Or for the last fortnight? Aye,” he snickered. “’Tis worried me more than I like to admit.”
“We are almost there, are we not?”
“A few days more.” He finished eating and saw that she was already finished as well, and as such rose and gathered their things. “If we make good time.”
“You will not have to worry for long, then.”
“I didna bring it up to make ye feel sorry for me.” He turned to her once what was left of their meager feast had been packed up again. “I only wished to show ye in some way that I know what it means to feel like a person without a home. And if ye were to come to live within the walls of the keep, I would understand if ye felt as though ye didna belong there. It would not be yours any more than ‘tis mine.”
She remained silent.
He looked down, kicking at a stone with his toe. “I dinna think I ever considered any of this until now. Not even when I visited for the wedding. The farm was in grave shape then, nowhere near where it is today. And everything was in a state, ye ken, with the wedding coming and all the excitement. Now?” He sighed. “Now, I see what my friend has, and perhaps I wish I had it for myself.”
While she understood how he felt—all too well, in fact—she wondered why he chose to share this with her at this very moment. Was this an attempt at relating to her? Reminding her how rational he was, not at all the strange and threatening figure she’d feared?
If so, it was working, in spite of her misgivings.
“I felt the same way,” she admitted. “Davina… I wished I was her. I had never been inside a happy home before. I saw the manner in which she managed the house, the men, the way she takes care of them and keeps them fed, clothed, and the like. And it was very nice. Better than anything I’ve ever had, I can tell you.”
He nodded. “We are not verra different.”
“We are the opposite of each other in some ways,” she corrected. “But not all.”
“Do ye trust me? I am not some wild man, roaming the Highlands in search of lasses to rescue.”
She looked at him, into his eyes. Lovely eyes of the clearest green, reminding her of fresh spring growth along the hillsides. The green of new leaves, new grass.
And they studied her with such seriousness.
Yes, she had always been able to understand people. And she understood his need to know she believed in him. Trusted him. That she did not fear him. It would not be enough for her to simply go along for the sake of going along.
She remembered the overpowering relief when he killed the man who’d threatened her. He’d done so without question, without hesitation. All because she’d needed him to.
He had not even stopped to ask who she was running from that night on the road.
“I do,” she whispered. “I trust you.”
“’Tis glad I am to hear it.” He held out a hand. “Come. We have a good deal of riding to do before we can bed down for the night.”
She reached out, placing her palm against his. So much larger than hers, calloused from hard work, from holding the reins and wielding a sword.
Yet he had the lightest touch. He drew her to him, then placed those work-roughed hands at her waist and lifted her into the saddle. How could he be so strong, so rough, yet so gentle?
She’d spent the morning asking herself about his choice of words.
Now, she could not stop asking about the man himself. What made him who he was. And why he fascinated her so.
15
It was not until well after the sun had made its descent and the sounds of night creatures—owls, bats and the like—had begun making themselves known that the scent of smoke caught William’s attention.
The lass’s, as well, since her head snapped up and almost connected with his nose. He moved out of the way just in time to avoid a bleed, or worse.
“A fire,” she whispered, unaware of their close call.
“Aye,” he replied, looking ahead. “I dinna see any light. Do ye?”
“Nay, though we are downwind of them, which means they must be in that direction.” She pointed ahead and slightly to the left, which indeed was the direction from which he’d estimated the smoke was coming. He reminded himself that she’d spent her life roaming to and fro, and had possibly learned even more than he about living out of doors.
“What do ye think?” he asked, and the fact that he thought to ask her opinion surprised him.
“I think we ought to avoid them,” she replied, in a voice heavy with disbelief. “Why do you even need to ask?”
“I thought perhaps we might stray nearer—not too near, mind ye, but enough to get a sense of who they are. They could be unaware of ye. As Drew was unaware.”
“Or they might be enemies who would murder you and take me to Jacob Stuart.”
“They might be enemies,” he admitted, “but we might learn something from them if we listen. Men’s tongues tend to loosen when seated around a fire. Have ye never noticed?”
“I’ve traveled with men all of my life,” she snorted. “I’ve heard more than my share over the years. Things I was far too young to hear.”
He could just imagine. “We’re downwind, as ye say, so the sound will carry.”
She groaned. “I do not much like the thought of this.”
“I didna think ye would.”
“Yet you’ll do it.”
“Aye. I’m not asking your permission.” He dismounted. “Ye might stay here. I can always steal closer to their camp and might be able to better do it alone.”
“Och, aye,” she muttered, shaking her head as she followed suit. “I shall stay here, alone, in the dark, while you wander away. Forgive me if the notion provides me little comfort. It was enough that I stayed alone while you went into Inverness. I cannot believe my nerves would manage it a second time.”
He chuckled, earning an icy glare he could
still make out even in the dark. “All right, then.” He tied off the horse’s reins and prayed no one thought to wander by and steal it.
They crept along, him taking the lead while she followed close behind, both of them careful where they stepped lest they fall or give themselves away. It brought to mind his training, when his father had taught him just as he’d taught the other guards.
Difficult training from a difficult man, but it had been necessary in order to build a strong, efficient, fierce group of men. Including William himself.
And he’d learned to train others along the way, which he supposed now had been his father’s goal all along.
They’d learned to track from early on, how to creep through darkened, dangerous areas with nothing but a dirk or even one’s bare hands for defense. How to move about without attracting attention. To surprise a trespasser before they even knew they’d been spotted, much less followed.
All of these lessons came back to him as he picked his way along in the darkness and maintained keen awareness of her behind him. It did not take long for him to catch on to her skill. She knew almost as well as he did how to move about without making a sound.
But she would, of course. Being who she is, doing what she does.
This was not the best time to remind himself of her past, yet it was too late to pretend he hadn’t heard that thought. The voice in his head was not unlike that of his father, a man who’d been dead more than five years.
She had been caught while raiding villagers, stealing from innocent, hardworking people. This was second nature to her. How many camps had she and her kinsmen raided before she was kidnapped? Dozens? Hundreds? How much suffering had she caused?
“What is it?” she breathed when he came to a stop, causing her to bump into him.
He shook his head, raising an arm to indicate the presence of light. It was just barely visible now. A fire. And people walking before it. Tents.
Tents?
Yes, of red and gold and blue. Rich colors. Vibrant. Many voices were now present, overlapping each other. Laughter, singing. Soft, but there.
She saw it. Heard it. Now he could see her more clearly, and her expression betrayed her. She felt hope. Fear for them. Fear for him, perhaps?
Or for herself?
“Your people?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “Nay. Not mine. My kind? Aye. But not mine.” Was she disappointed by this? Relieved that he would not know where her family could be found?
“Who goes there?” A sharp voice, shrewd, angry.
They’d come upon one of the men, someone who had evidently stepped away to relieve himself in private. He was only just adjusting his breeches when he stumbled over them.
“Wait!” she whispered as William reached for his dirk, while the man in question reached beneath his tunic, into the waist of his breeches.
She held her hands up. “We are not here to harm you. We were merely riding through and thought you might have been our foes, but we wished to know better before we continued on.”
“Riding through?” the man snarled, his hand still lingering on the unseen weapon he had not yet withdrawn. He looked a great deal like her, with dark hair curling over his forehead and down the back of his neck. Dark eyes, heavy brows. Young. Perhaps pretending to be fiercer than he was.
“Aye, the horse is back there,” William murmured, motioning behind him.
“Ye weren’t sneaking up on us in hopes of raiding us, were ye?” he asked, looking them both over.
“I am one of you,” she informed him. “Can you not look at me and see it?”
“One of us?” He peered more closely, squinting, and that was when William knew for certain he’d been drinking. Quite a bit, really. They had accidentally come upon a celebration.
His face cleared, his eyes widened. “That ye are. Are ye…?”
“Hush.” She shook her head. “I will not speak of it, nor will you. We’ll be on our way now that we know you mean us no harm.”
“Ye will not.”
“Pardon?” William straightened to his full height, leaving him more than a head taller than the man before him. “We shall do as we wish. We have no business with ye, and ye have none with us.”
“I only meant that ye ought to join us,” he explained, holding both hands out as if to show he meant no harm. “We have more than enough to eat and drink, and are celebrating Samhain.”
“Samhain?” she asked. “Is it truly so late in the year?”
“Aye, come, ye ought to join us. Ye both look as though ye could use the warmth of a fire, at the least.” He was not wrong about that, as the night had become quite cold once the sun set.
They exchanged a look. He lifted a shoulder, wondering if any harm could come of this. She did not appear to know this man, though it seemed as though he had at least heard of her. So many had. Perhaps the people around the fire might tell them of any rumors they’d heard regarding her travels.
The three of them found the horse together—she was unwilling to let William go on his own, and their new friend would not allow either of them out of his sight, and brought it to the camp.
All eyes turned their way. Even those of a handful of bairns no older than three or four winters.
“Good Samhain to you,” she smiled. “My name is Tara. We were…”
“Riding,” William finished. She was overwhelmed at the presence of so many like herself, while he thought this might have been the most foolish thing they’d done so far.
Yet if they had refused, he might have been reduced to killing the man who’d found them in order to keep him silent, and she would never have stood for that.
“We were riding through, and the scent of your fire caught our attention,” he continued as the skin on the back of his neck crawled. He had never been so out of place in his life.
Nor had he ever borne the weight of so many angry, distrustful, hate-filled gazes. Yes, hate, they hated him. He was a symbol of everything they’d suffered at the hands of men such as himself.
She placed a hand over one of his, as though she’d read both their thoughts and his own. “He is a friend,” she assured them. “He is a friend to all of us.”
He would not have gone as far as that had the matter been left up to him, but the matter was not left up to him, and anyway, it was better for them to believe her. Otherwise, all of the men and some of the women appeared to be armed with dirks, at least, though one or two had pistols at their waists.
These were people accustomed to defending themselves.
Against men such as him.
“Come.” The one who’d found them, who appeared even younger now that the firelight lit his face, gestured to a great pile of roast meat which William guessed had once been a boar. “There is more than enough, as I said, and we have a great deal to drink.”
One of the older men, the side of whose face bore a scar from temple to jaw, pulled the young man aside and muttered a great deal in a language which William did not understand.
She, on the other hand, understood every word. She stiffened, nostrils flaring, the hand which still covered his tightening little by little. When William moved as if to approach them, however, her eyes met his, and her head shook just enough for him to see.
He could only wait for these strangers to decide their fate, then. And hope they had not just walked into their deaths.
16
“Why would you bring them to us? This devil could be the death of us all. He is not welcome here, nor is she. You should have ended them, or called for us to come and assist you.”
Shana’s heart nearly drowned out the sound of the man’s voice, and she willed herself to stay as calm as she could, if only that she might hear him better.
The younger man, who might have been his grandson, stood with head bowed. He swayed a bit, telling her he’d had more than his share to drink. That explained his open, generous nature. His insistence that they join the celebration. “She is one of us.”
“She is not one of us,” the old man hissed. “She is not of our clan. She is an Other, and we have no room for Others here.”
“It is Samhain,” the young man insisted. “We have so much. Why not share with them?”
“They did not come to us in search of help or food. They came to be certain they were not in the presence of foes. Fools. They should have been on their way.”
She could agree with the old man on that point, at least. She ought to have demanded William ride away from the smell of smoke. It mattered not whether those who’d built the fire were friend or foe, so long as they were in one place and she was in another.
No, she had deferred to him, and now there was no telling what might come of them.
So long as he remained still and did not pose a threat. She squeezed his hand hard, willing him to simply stand there and not say a word until the elder—who this old man clearly was—had decided what would be done with them.
She gave herself a decent chance of surviving. While she was not of their clan, she was one of their kind—half their kind, but they did not need to know she was not full-blooded. They would not kill one of their own.
William, on the other hand…
She could not allow it.
The old man heaved a heavy sigh, shaking his head at the youth before him. “The next time you decide to make water, you will take someone with you. I cannot have you bringing strangers to our camp whenever you walk off alone.”
Then, he turned to her and William. “You are welcome here,” he announced, no longer using his own ancient language. “Please, be comfortable, and join us in celebration.”
The music started again, the children danced, and Shana did not know whether she wished to laugh or weep for all she missed.
She did miss this, so terribly. Not until now, as the music she’d listened to all her life played on a fiddle and young women danced in a circle around the musicians had she realized the deep well of longing in her heart.
Never had she expected to see or hear anything of the sort again.
