by Aileen Adams
What would any of them think? Such as the owner of the land? This was all very strange, to be sure, and far beyond what she had expected from her midnight ride.
Liam had settled into a peaceful slumber on a pile of the sweet-smelling straw. She untied the strings of her cloak and draped the garment over him, then pushed back a lock of hair from over his forehead.
She had to keep him in mind. Whatever it took, she needed to get him away from there. He’d done nothing except follow her. This was her fault. If she’d only paid attention to his tracking, she might have turned him away long before reaching the farm.
She ought to have turned him away regardless, rather than allowing him to take part after he’d announced himself. It had been a matter of his pride, and his tender heart, and protecting both.
What a fool she’d been, for look where she’d gotten them. Better to injure his pride than to lead him to this. Locked in a shed by a stranger who toyed with them, leaving her to question when he would decide to take them to the magistrate.
She could imagine worse, in fact. What if he spread the word of her capture? What if she found herself in the center of a mob? They would be angry. Enraged. Murderously so.
Anything to protect Liam. Anything at all. She would give her life for his if need be—begging on bended knee was not beyond her, not at that moment. If it meant protecting him from injury or worse, nothing was too much.
He stirred, as if he heard her thinking of him, lifted his eyelids only partway, regarding her through thick, dark lashes. “What is it?”
“Nothing, lad. Go back to sleep.” He was finally getting proper rest without constant interruption from either Malcolm or one of the other men, stomping around as they tended to do and ordering him about as if he were nothing more than a servant.
She bit her lip to suppress a disbelieving laugh. Was it possible that he was receiving better care here than he had at home? For he’d eaten well and seemed satisfied, and was sleeping all he needed. Perhaps there was a positive side to this.
Her optimistic attitude dissolved like sugar in a cup of tea when the lock clicked open outside. Liam did not stir this time, yet she was between him and the door nonetheless. When there was no telling just what sort of mood Drew—or whatever his name happened to be—would be in when he entered, she felt it best to protect her brother.
Just as she always had.
“’Tis myself,” he muttered as he entered, bearing a platter laden with cold roast, bread, apples. “I shall bring ye water from the well in a moment’s time.”
She stared at him in wonder. Who was this man that he could lock them away in such a manner, then provide meals which to her eyes appeared as sumptuous as a feast?
“Why are ye doing this?” She could not help but whisper as he left the platter on the floor, keeping his slight-yet-sturdy body in the doorway so as to block her exit.
He truly thought of everything. A suspicious mind, he had, which led her to wonder just what else went on in it. What was he thinking? How could she get around him?
“Feedin’ ye?” he muttered, looking at her as if she’d grown a second head. The sweat on his brow and grime which had collected on the back of his neck and beneath his nails told her he’d been working hard. A mere farmhand? No, for he had a home of his own—that much she could surmise.
“Being kind, when all ye want is for us to face punishment. Why go to the trouble at all?”
He looked down at the platter beside his feet, which she had not yet touched. “I didna think this was too much,” he muttered. “Are ye not accustomed to eating well, then? I need not ask on behalf of the lad, for anyone can clearly see he has not had enough to eat, ever.”
“I do my best for him,” she sniffed.
“’Tis only yourself, then? And the lad?”
She wanted to explain—her mouth even went so far as to open, but she snapped it shut straightaway. “Ye dinna need to know any such thing.”
How easy it would be to admit everything, to throw herself at his feet and beg for mercy. She’d never wished to become involved with such lawlessness. She merely wished to maintain the peace with her uncle, and to keep Liam with her. She’d had no choice.
Yes, it would be easy, but it would only lead to more trouble.
He nodded, studying her with that unnerving way he had. It sent prickles up and down her back. He seemed to see straight into her mind, her thoughts.
Then he would know how she loathed him. Good.
“Ye seem to forget which of us is the thief, and which of us is not,” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “Ye keep forgettin’ that.”
Standing as tall as she could, she replied, “Nay. I have not forgotten. I will not allow ye to force me to speak, no matter how ye may wish me to. My life is mine. Not yours. And why we do as we do is none of your concern.”
“’Tis my concern when ye take what is mine.”
“Yet it is not yours,” she corrected with a sense of satisfaction. “Nothing here is yours, is it? It belongs to another. No matter how hard ye might work, it will never belong to ye.”
He jumped as if startled, holding himself still in time to keep from—what? Lunging at her? Taking her throat in his calloused hands? She knew how strong those hands were. Rough, unforgiving, powerful, they had held her in place, and she’d known without trying that there would be no fighting him off.
Those hands curled into fists. Tight, tight fists. She looked up from them at his face, the lip curling as he snarled. “What I have done, what I do, is no more your concern than your life is of mine. Ye know nothing of my life, or why I happen to be here.”
“I know the farm is not yours, yet ye speak of it as though it is.”
“Ye make it sound as though that’s a terrible thing,” he snickered. “I know ye have never worked for a thing in yer life if ye can speak of it with such disdain.”
“Perhaps ‘tis yourself I speak of with disdain,” she suggested.
“Perhaps ye ought to turn that disdain inward, and target your own self.” He unclenched one hand and pointed to Liam, who managed to sleep through this exchange.
And why not? He had long since learned to sleep through nearly anything.
“Look at him. Look at what you’ve done. Ye brought him to this. Ye would lead him into danger, to punishment which might follow him the rest of his life. Ye do know that he shall never find a position now. No one will do business with a thief. No one would even wish to bring him on as a farm hand or guardsman. He cannot be trusted.”
“Do not speak of him,” she hissed. It was her turn to clench her fists, to glare at him, to hear the blood rush in her ears and all but deafen her to anything else. The noise filled her head. Her vision seemed to blur.
A nasty smile stretched his mouth. “Ye call yourself a sister. Ye are no sister to the lad if this is the life ye allow him to lead.”
“I warned you. Do not speak of Liam. Ye dinna know him. Ye dinna know us.”
“Perhaps ye ought to explain yourself.”
“Perhaps I ought to claw your eyes out.” Rage was quickly turning to something else, something even stronger. Something she dreaded and even feared. Hot, angry tears prickled behind her eyes and threatened to spill over. What a fool she would seem if she cried.
And how correct he would believe himself. For he’d been correct about everything. The fault was hers and hers alone for allowing her brother into this. They might have avoided it if not for her.
“Many’s the man who tried to best me,” he informed her with a note of humor in his voice, “and many’s the man who failed. While I have no doubt ye would do yer worst, I canna imagine ye getting near enough to do much harm.”
“So long as ye allow me to try.”
“I’m not daft, lass. Mad, perhaps, but not daft.”
She drew a deep breath which seemed to bring her back to herself enough to speak clearly. “Get on with it. Whatever it is ye wish to do, do it. I have no desire to remain here, where ye can dis
parage me and my brother. If this is your way of tormenting me, I would rather ye tell the magistrate of our theft and be done with it. I will not linger here for ye to enjoy making a mockery of us.”
“Are ye certain of this, lass?” His mouth tipped upward in a smirk as he looked her up and down. “Dinna say things ye shall wish to take back later.”
“I never take back anything I declare.” She tossed her hair over her shoulders with a shake of her head and gave him what she hoped was a defiant stare. If only she appeared as fearsome as she wished to.
He nodded. “I admit, I admire those who stand by their word.”
“I did not ask for your admiration, or for your opinion. Enough of this trifling about. Either turn us in or do not, but enough of this.” Gathering every bit of self-possession she could muster, Anne bent to retrieve the platter. “I thank ye for bringing refreshment.”
He did not move to help her, nor did he back away. She was deeply aware of his nearness as she lifted the platter, rising, her gaze traveling from his feet to his grim face. “Be certain ye eat some of it this time,” he grunted.
Damn her nature. The impulse to not so much as take a bite flashed through her mind, but her better sense took over. Refusing food would not serve to punish him. Only herself.
“Thank ye—Drew,” she added, then held her breath.
For one long, heavy moment, he said not a word. No hint of surprise or recognition or even dismay crossed his expression. He remained grim, stony.
Yet he brought water from the well, as promised, before locking them in again.
9
“’Tis growing chill.” One of the hands—was the name Fergus or Kirk? Drew was far too disturbed to recall the name of the lad who’d just finished herding the cattle after they’d grazed.
“What’s that, then?” He closed the last of the stalls, sliding the wooden plank home and recalling doing so when it was a pair of humans inside, rather than a steer.
“I say, there is a chill in the air.” The lad blew on his hands before tucking them beneath his arms. “Winter is on its way, to be sure.”
“Aye. So it is.” Drew’s distraction merely grew at the mention of it. There was most notably a chill in the air which had deepened as the day progressed. On leaving the barn, he took note of the dark clouds building in the western sky. There was a storm on its way, one which would certainly make things miserable and wet and colder than ever.
And them in the shed. He could not leave them there—at least, not Liam. He was far too weak, no matter how strong he pretended to be. The fact that he’d been asleep when Drew visited them with dinner, for one, spoke of his weakness. His need for rest and nourishment.
If only it weren’t so easy to pity him.
Drew had left strict instructions for the bairns to stay with Innis and Davina until he fetched them. He did not wish for Clyde or any of the others to take them from the main house to his own, where they would be too near the shed.
He did not wish for his guests to be heard, of course.
His guests. Strange that he’d come to think of them as such—perhaps a bit mad, at that. He could hardly think a clear thought thanks to them. To her.
She had left the forefront of his mind for more than a moment at a time all day. Her defiance, her insistence that he ought to turn them in rather than him treating them as prisoners, as thieves. As criminals.
And why should he not treat them as such? She, at the very least, was an admitted thief. Why then should he treat her as anything other than who she was?
Nay, she would rather he bend the knee and treat her with deference. Either that, she challenged, or see to it that they were sent to prison. What did she think she could accomplish by behaving in such a foolish manner?
If she believed she would wear him down until he took pity and forgave her crime, she’d be waiting the rest of her life.
Even so…
Even so, he imagined her hungry, cold. The same went double for the lad—Drew could recall, years later, how acutely he felt the cold when he was Liam’s age. A ten-year-old who appeared younger, no meat on his bones. Thin garments, all but worn through at the elbow and knee.
How could he leave them out there through what was sure to be a long night?
“Uncle Drew!” Moira threw himself at him when he entered the main house through the kitchen door, wrapping her arms about his knees and all but knocking him flat.
“Och, lassie!” He swung her up high, the clear tinkling of her gentle laughter like music to his weary soul. What would have come of her had he not been there to take her in? The question refused to cease haunting him.
She might have seen it in his eyes, for her laughter quickly turned to concern. “Are ye tired?”
Neither she nor her brother deserved to see him at anything less than his best. Children ought not to be aware of the toils of adults. He flashed a grin and tossed her again. “Nay, my love. Merely thinking. Where is your brother?”
“With Davina. She is winding a ball of yarn—come see!” Merriment and mischief shone on her face as she took him by the hand and led him to bedchamber.
On the bed knelt Owen, looking very serious and rather bored of his task. He held his hands roughly shoulder-width from each other, and around them was wound a great deal of yarn which Davina rolled into a ball. He could not jump, he could not bounce, he could not run about.
Drew believed the lad’s concentration and willingness to be of help spoke volumes of his affection for Davina.
The lass in question appeared brighter and healthier, Drew was relieved to note. “How are ye this evening?” he asked with a smile.
“Better than I’ve been in some time.” Davina shared a private smile with him. “Thank ye.”
“No ill effects?”
“None. ‘Tis a bit sour, but I’m glad to put up with the taste if it means holding down the contents of my stomach.” Her hands worked all the while, rolling the yarn quickly enough that her hands appeared to blur, until Owen was free, and a great ball of yarn rested at Davina’s side.
She kissed Owen’s cheek, which resulted in him all but glowing with pride. “Ye are a great deal of help to me,” she declared. “Now, I can start on a blanket for the wee bairn.”
“’Twas nothing,” Owen assured her with a rather dashing smile as he slid from the bed.
“All right, then. We ought to be going home and giving Davina a bit of peace.” He managed to keep the smile steady on his face until they left her, all the while asking himself what she would think if she knew what he’d done.
She might have understood his hesitation around sending the lad to prison. She had a good heart, Davina, and a strong sense of justice. It would not be just to destroy the lad’s life when he had done nothing wrong.
But to hold the truth from Rufus was another matter altogether. Drew was not a praying man, but if he were, he would pray this did not come between them.
The children laughed and rejoiced in the way their breath formed a thin cloud about their heads. It seemed the air grew colder by the minute.
They would never make it through the night out there.
What else could he do? Bring the pair of them into the house along with the twins and allow the four to become acquainted?
He could not help but watch the shed as he approached the house, asking himself what the two inside were doing, thinking, feeling. Liam was so slight of build, so thin. The cold would affect him so keenly.
How was a man to live with himself, knowing how a lad of ten years would suffer through the long, cold night?
“What is it, Uncle Drew?” Moira asked as she twirled circles in the center of the room.
He set the pot of stew which Innis had prepared over the fire, clamping the lid tight over the top. “Not a thing, lassie. Wash your hands. Ye, as well, Owen,” he called out to his nephew, who had lingered just outside the door.
“Is there—” Owen stared off in the direction of the shed. “I heard a sound.”
“By all means, remain out of doors in case it is a wild animal,” he called out, even as his palms went slick and his heart began to thud. Damn the lass. He would have wagered the walls around him that it was she who’d made a sound to attract attention.
Owen leaped into the house and slammed the door shut, throwing all of his weight and might behind the act.
He hurried them through their supper, only listening partway as they told him of their day. It would be much the same as the day before, and the day prior to that, so there was no guilt to be had. So long as he nodded at the right times and made noises as if he paid attention, they were none the wiser.
It seemed a year, at least, until he managed to get them into bed and settled down. “Now, I ask that the pair of ye remain here throughout the evening. That means dinna leave the bed. Do ye ken?”
“Aye.” Owen sighed.
“Dinna sigh, now,” he warned, tapping the lad on the nose with a forefinger. “I mean what I say. I dinna wish to see or hear ye. I have had a very trying day and would like to sleep in quiet.”
“We will behave,” Moira promised, eyeing her brother warily.
Drew knew she would hold him to his word. He pressed his lips to her forehead, then to Owen’s, before leaving them to sleep.
He was quick to go outside soon after, the cold now biting at his bare skin. He imagined them shivering in there, huddled together, cursing him.
Though they had no one but themselves to blame, and he knew it. When had he softened so? He had at one time been the least forgiving man in the Highlands. He’d beaten more men bloody than he could possibly recall and had more than once been pulled from a stunned or unconscious foe before he could kill the man outright.
His temper had been that difficult to control.
Now, there was a pair of children who depended upon him. He supposed that was the difference, the reason why his hands shook as he unlocked the door.
Just as he’d suspected, in the corner were two shivering bodies. Anne’s eyes burned into him, spitting fire and hatred.
