The Outcast

by Glynnis Campbell

  Meanwhile, Alisoune was enticing his hound with the dregs of her porridge.

  “Did ye hear what your master said about ye, Campbell? He as much as called ye a flea-ridden mongrel. Come on now, pup. I’ll give ye a wee bit o’ my porridge to soothe your injured pride.”

  The hound lapped her bowl clean and then eyed Lachlan’s.

  “I suppose ye’ll be wantin’ mine as well?” he said. “Ye’ve spoiled my hound, lass.”

  “Oh, I’ll wager he was spoiled long ere I arrived.”

  She was right. As Lachlan’s only companion, the trusty deerhound lived in relative luxury. Lachlan set his bowl on the floor, and Campbell made quick work of it.

  Alisoune rose then and gathered their dishes.

  “I can do that,” he grumbled.

  “O’ course ye can.” Nonetheless, she made herself at home, pouring water from his bucket into the empty porridge pot and hanging it to heat over the fire again.

  ’Twas admittedly convenient having her help. Lachlan had let the cottage go, mostly because there was no one worth keeping it clean for. But he didn’t want her to think he was helpless. He got up from the table, took his cloak from its peg, and picked up the empty bucket.

  Murmuring, “I’ll be back,” he lifted the latch of the door with his elbow and nudged it open. Campbell eagerly nosed outside, leaving the door wide, and Lachlan limped out after him through the snow, heading for the spring that coursed through the forest.

  The day had turned gray and frigid, but not frigid enough to cool the residual passion that simmered in his veins. A part of him wished that he and Alisoune could start over and that she’d never kissed him. ’Twould be hard to forget the honeyed taste of her lips.

  When he reached the spring, he leaned his crutch against a tree beside the icy water. Holding onto the trunk for balance, he lowered the bucket, filling it slowly. Then, with his crutch under one arm and the bucket in the other hand, he made his difficult way back to the cottage, careful not to spill too much.

  The dog had relieved himself by then and nudged the door open for him. But when Lachlan stepped with his snow-covered boot on the flagstones, it slid, and a lightning bolt of pain suddenly streaked down his missing leg. He caught himself on the crutch, but not before a wave of water slopped out onto the floor.

  Embarrassed, he glared sharply at Alisoune. She was busy rinsing out the bowls and didn’t seem to notice. The calf of his missing leg was throbbing now, which infuriated him. After all, it should be impossible to feel a limb that was no longer there. He hoped to God ’twasn’t going to be one of those days that he spent clutching his stump in agony. Compressing his lips and ignoring the pain as best he could, he bent down to replace the bucket.

  “Is it still cold out?” she asked without meeting his eyes.

  “Aye,” he said, hanging up his cloak.

  “’Tis been an unusually frigid winter.”

  “Aye.”

  “It looks like another storm’s comin’ in, aye?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So there’ll be more snow.”

  He frowned. The pain in his leg was beginning to ease. “If a storm comes, I suppose so, aye.”

  “Ye’ll be grateful for a big roarin’ fire to sit by then.”

  Lachlan’s brows converged. She wasn’t just fascinated by the weather. Something else was on her mind.

  He was fairly certain he knew what she was after. And he was just as certain he should deny her. After all, he’d already been more than generous. He’d hidden her from an angry mob. He’d fed her breakfast. He owed her no more.

  But though ’twas against his instincts, his better judgment, and his will, in the end, he knew he couldn’t refuse the lass.

  Alisoune didn’t want to ask Lachlan outright to let her stay. But she feared the stubborn soldier was never going to ask her himself. And if he didn’t, she didn’t know what would become of her.

  If she returned to her room at the inn in Keirfield, ’twould only be a matter of time before the priest dragged her out of it and finished what he’d started. If she left, she’d not only be leaving behind all of her possessions—her coin, her clothing, her tools—but she’d likely be caught without a cloak in a winter storm before she could reach her home in Stirling.

  Then again, why should Lachlan invite her to stay? He was perfectly content as he was. For the moment at least, he had a roof over his head, a warm fire, and a faithful dog.

  Besides, she’d doubtless annoyed him by breaking into his house and forcing her affections on him. And she’d probably bored him with Copernicus’s theory and her collection of spectacles.

  ’Twas no use. She’d never convince Lachlan ’twas to his benefit to harbor an outlaw. She wouldn’t blame him if he tossed her out on her heretical arse.

  He prodded the coals on the fire and let out a lungful of air. “If ye’re wonderin’ whether I’m goin’ to turn ye over to the villagers or out into the snow, ye needn’t fret. Ye’re welcome to stay…till the storm passes.”

  Relief welled in her heart as she said, “Oh, thank ye, sir. Ye won’t be sorry. I…I’ll make your meals and fetch your water and make sure your hound—”

  “I don’t need your help,” he said rather defensively.

  “Oh, I’m certain ye don’t,” she said carefully, though ’twas plain his cottage needed a thorough scrubbing from top to bottom. “But I don’t have much coin left, and I can’t stay here in all good conscience without earnin’ my keep.”

  Before he could have second thoughts about letting her stay, she grabbed a rag and began wiping down his cupboards.

  Meanwhile, he made up the bed with one hand, cut a generous piece of salted meat for Campbell from the slab hanging in the kitchen, and put another log on the fire.

  “Ye know, I have to admire the way ye get about on one leg,” she told him as she scrubbed at the porridge pot. “I mean, everythin’ must be a challenge…walkin’…fetchin’ water…carryin’ wood. But ye don’t seem to let your adversity stop ye.”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Well, a lesser man might give up.” She pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “How long has it been since ye lost it?”

  She had the feeling, from the grim look in his eyes, that he could probably tell her down to the minute. Instead, he mumbled, “About three months.”

  “Is that all?” She turned to stare at him in wonder. “And ye’ve adjusted that well already. Can ye still feel it?” Alisoune was admittedly intrigued by the concept of phantom pain. She’d never talked to anyone with a missing limb before. ’Twas the perfect opportunity to do some firsthand scientific inquiry.

  “Nae,” he grunted.

  Her face fell. “Truly? Because I’ve heard that—”

  “Ye can’t believe everythin’ ye hear.”

  “Nae, I suppose not.”

  Still, when she glanced at him hobbling toward the hearth, she could tell by the subtle tightening around his mouth that he did indeed feel some sort of pain. ’Twas just like a soldier to try to deny it.

  She wondered if there was any ease for him, if there was any way to eliminate or diminish his suffering. She was in the habit of looking for solutions. ’Twas the bane, she supposed, of possessing a scientific mind.

  But she also genuinely wanted to help the man. He seemed lonely and uncared for, living alone in this wee cottage far from town. By the melancholy cast of his eyes as he gazed into the fire and the deep lines etched into his forehead, it had been a long while since he’d had a happy thought or a kind word or a good laugh. Perhaps it had been a long while since he’d had reason to laugh.

  She might not know yet how to ease his physical pain, but she thought she could probably coax a chuckle out of him.

  She set aside the clean pot, and then returned to the bed and began riffling through her satchel.

  “Come here, Campbell,” she called. The dog obediently ambled over and sat before her. She pulled out her box of spectacles and found
the biggest pair. Campbell was very patient. He sat quietly while she strategically perched the oversized spectacles on his nose.

  “What do ye think, Lachlan?”

  What Lachlan was thinking as he gazed absently into the fire was that he should never have told Alisoune his name. It sounded too enticing upon her lips. He was already having trouble keeping his mind off of the bright ray of sunshine who was, much to his chagrin and against his wishes, lighting up his cottage and warming his heart. But when she said his name…

  He reluctantly lifted his eyes. What he saw made his face crack into a grin. His buffoon of a deerhound looked like a wise old scholar.

  “Oh! Wait,” Alisoune said, digging in her satchel. She nudged Campbell around to face her and tied a white coif around his head. To Lachlan’s amazement, the dog put up with her machinations without moving a muscle. She tied a red ribbon around the dog’s neck and sat back to admire her handiwork.

  “There,” she said, turning the hound toward him. “Laird Lachlan, Lady Campbell wishes to make your acquaintance.”

  A snort of laughter escaped him. The dog made the ugliest woman he’d ever seen.

  She pretended to politely introduce the hound. “Lady Campbell, Laird Lachlan.”

  Lachlan shook his head. “Ach, Campbell, have ye no shame?”

  “Shame?” Alisoune cried, affecting great affront. “Why, Laird Lachlan, Lady Campbell takes great offense at that. Don’t ye, Lady Campbell?”

  Campbell lifted his muzzle and gave a mournful howl, and Alisoune broke out in infectious giggles. Lachlan couldn’t help but join in. And the more they laughed, the more Campbell howled, until the cottage was filled with a loud and eerie mix of misery and merriment.

  Eventually, the dog shook off the annoying accoutrements and slunk off to sit at the hearth, sulking in humiliation.

  Alisoune was still hiccoughing when she removed her spectacles to wipe her eyes.

  Lachlan’s belly was sore from laughing. How long had it been since he’d laughed, truly laughed? Half a year? More? It felt good, like flexing his sword arm after a long absence from the battlefield.

  He was still smiling when she put her spectacles back on and flashed him a wide, radiant grin. He realized now that her beauty didn’t come from her appearance. She was beautiful by virtue of her honest face, her kind soul, and her sweet nature.

  There seemed to be no artifice in her. What she appeared to be, she was. What she said, she believed. ’Twould be a lucky man who laid claim to a lass so pure of heart.

  That last thought dimmed his happiness. He would never be that man. Nae, a woman like Alisoune deserved a whole man—a man who could care for her, love her…protect her.

  Chapter 6

  For Alisoune, there was nothing quite as satisfying as finding the solution to a problem. ’Twas the reason she enjoyed selling spectacles. Choosing the correct lens and instantly improving a person’s sight was gratifying.

  But that wasn’t the only reason Alisoune’s heart swelled at her success in coaxing a laugh out of Lachlan.

  The way his teeth flashed, the silver sparkle in his eyes, and the easy chuckles that started low in his chest gave her a glimpse of the man Lachlan used to be…before misfortune befell him. That man was kind and fun-loving, mischievous and merry. And Alisoune thought she liked that man very much…very much indeed.

  She caught her lip under her teeth. Of course he clearly didn’t feel that way about her, which wasn’t surprising. Alisoune made most men uncomfortable. Not only was she odd-looking—tall and spindly and bespectacled—but she was also too clever and outspoken for her own good. Men were intimidated by her, which was why, of course, the good folk of Keirfield wanted to burn her at the stake.

  Still, Lachlan hadn’t wanted to burn her at the stake. And aside from the unfortunate kiss she’d forced upon him, he didn’t seem to feel threatened by her.

  She glanced over at him. He stood by the window now, peering out the shutters. His face had gone grim again, as gloomy and gray as the weather.

  She bit her lip. ’Twould be a challenge, luring him out of whatever pit of despair he’d fallen into, lifting his spirits and returning him to the carefree man he’d been.

  But Alisoune loved challenges. They taxed her scientific brain. If she could solve Lachlan’s problems, if she could choose a lens for him that would make him see his world and his life with new clarity, ’twould be rewarding indeed.

  She’d start by clearing out the cobwebs, literally. His cottage was sadly neglected, much like the man himself. Perhaps if he could see restoration in his living quarters, ’twould give him hope for himself. Smiling in determination, she snatched up the broom and set about sweeping the corners of the ceiling to dislodge the spiders.

  Then, because she found it difficult to be silent with all the interesting thoughts constantly whirling through her brain, she began to muse aloud.

  “A spider web—that’s it!” she exclaimed, staring up at a heavily webbed beam. “Can ye see, Lachlan? Our galaxy is like a gigantic spider web. And we’ve been thinkin’ all along that we’re the great spider in the midst o’ the web, that the other planets are like flies caught in the strands. But what if ’tisn’t true? What if the Sun is the great spider, and we’re one o’ the flies?”

  She glanced at Lachlan from the corner of her eye. Would he mock her as most men did? Or would he simply stare at her as if she were daft?

  He did neither. He listened and frowned and seemed to consider her idea. “But how can that be? I can see the Sun goin’ from east to west, circlin’ around us.”

  “True! However…” She thrust aside the broom and sought out objects to illustrate her point, finally settling on one of his apples and a small round stone she found on the mantel. “What if ’tis only a difference in perception?” She held up the apple. “Say this is the Sun. ’Tis circlin’ the Earth here, aye?” She moved the apple slowly around the stone.

  He nodded.

  “But what if ’tis reversed? What if the Earth is circlin’ round the Sun?” She held the apple still and circled the stone in the opposite direction around the apple. “To our eyes, ’twould appear the same, aye?”

  His brow furrowed, but a spark of enlightenment glittered in his eyes. “Hmm.”

  “’Tis the heliocentric hypothesis!” she said in triumph, replacing the apple in the bowl.

  He scratched at his beard. “Is this why the priest thinks ye’re a witch?”

  “Well,” she admitted, rolling the small stone between her palms, “men o’ the church don’t much like men o’ science. It upsets them a great deal to have their doctrine questioned.”

  “No doubt.”

  “But ye don’t think I’m a witch, do ye?”

  “Nae.” He reached down to scratch his hound’s ears. “Campbell doesn’t let witches in the house.”

  She smiled, tossing the stone up a few inches and catching it.

  “Ye’d better be careful with the Earth there,” he warned her.

  She giggled, then cocked her head at the round stone in her hand. ’Twas most unusual. “Where did ye get this?”

  He smirked. “From a witch.”

  Scolding him with a dubious glance, she held the stone up to the light. It looked like polished crystal, but it had curious cracks in the interior that made milky filaments in the stone.

  “A strange old crone brought it to me in the middle o’ the night,” he explained. “She called it the Winter Stone. She said ’twas a magic relic that could change a man’s fate.”

  “Magic? I don’t believe in magic.” She examined the crystal closer. It shimmered in a rainbow of hues as she rotated it slowly from left to right, confirming her suspicions.

  “It seems to change color,” he said. “I’m not sure about changin’ a man’s fate.”

  “If this is what I think ’tis, it might indeed change your fate. It looks like a rainbow crystal. The cracks inside create an internal prism, which refracts the light into various colors.
Stones like this are very rare and quite valuable.”

  He snorted. “Then why would she give it away?”

  The instant Alisoune looked up at him, an eerie tingling arose at the back of Lachlan’s neck, stirring his memory.

  Dark hair.

  Bright green eyes.

  Take the Stone to its rightful Keeper.

  Could it be? Could Alisoune be the Keeper the old crone was raving on about? But how could she have known? After all, the lass hadn’t arrived at his cottage till hours after the old woman disappeared.

  Lachlan wasn’t sure he believed in magic either. But ’twas hard to explain the events of the past day using reason.

  “I think she meant it for ye,” he said.

  “Me? Pah!” She set the stone carefully back on the mantel. “Nae, ye should hold onto it. No doubt ’twill fetch a king’s ransom.”

  A king’s ransom. What would he do with a king’s ransom? Coin meant nothing to him, not when he had no one to share it with. He’d gladly give up a king’s ransom if he could only get his brothers back.

  But that wasn’t what the old crone meant by changing his fate. And he was sure the lass must be the one the crone intended to have the crystal. He wasn’t normally superstitious, but he’d told the old woman he’d deliver the relic to its Keeper. Just to be safe, before Alisoune left, he’d tuck the stone into her satchel.

  She continued to clean his cottage, wiping the counters, tidying up the food stores, sweeping the floor. While it pleased him to see his hovel being restored to order, it also made him feel guilty for having let it become so filthy.

  He tensed his jaw. He felt as if he should stop her. Not only was it not her duty to look after him, but ’twas not something he needed. Why should he live in a nice home anyway while his brothers dwelt under the cold, hard, blood-soaked ground of Haddon Rig?