Labor of Love

by Felicia Rogers

  The wall rattled as his fist connected. This attraction to Sorcha was unexpected. But in all honesty, how could he not be. The lass could use a bow as well or better than most men. Beautiful, friendly, vocal, and opinionated were just a few of her endearing qualities. He wondered about her other skills.

  A heavy sigh escaped as he berated himself. What was he thinking? Sorcha wasn’t Scottish. She wasn’t pure. Why, she didn’t fit his description of a wife at all.

  ****

  Sorcha fled the safety of the cabin and Grant’s arms. When she rested beside him the bad dreams stayed at bay. When she woke up and he was staring at her and smiling, she hadn’t known what to do. She didn’t believe he was like Festus, but he was a man. Didn’t they all want the same things from a woman? Of course, Samuel hadn’t been that way. Was it safe to assume Grant might not be as well?

  The thoughts tumbled in her mind as she found the privy. It wasn’t in great condition but it was better than the corner she had used while in prison. The dark room was entered. Done with the personal task, Sorcha walked outside and looked around. A tiny stream flowed nearby. She walked to it and knelt down. In her hand she scooped up some of the crystal clear water, and washed her hands, her face, and her teeth. Hunched over she thought she heard a foot fall behind her.

  “Well, what have we here?” An unfamiliar voice asked, pronouncing the words individually in a sinister tone.

  Sorcha tried to rise and run, but the stranger grabbed her by the hair and jerked her backwards. A yelp of pain passed her lips.

  “Ah, now that didn’t hurt.”

  “Who said it didn’t hurt, ye big oaf. Let me go!”

  “Feisty, are ye?”

  The hold slacked. Taking this opportunity, Sorcha slammed her booted foot on the stranger’s toe. He squealed, let her hair go, and started hopping. Skirts lifted, she bolted for the cabin.

  The man swiftly regained his composure and pursued. “Come back here, lass. Ol’ Tom just wants to be friends with ye.”

  Because of Tom’s proximity, Sorcha couldn’t make it to the cabin. Instead she ran behind a huge tree trunk. He converged on the opposite side. When she would go one way, he went the other. Back and forth they went around the tree. Breath coming in short rasping gasps, Sorcha tired. If help didn’t arrive soon she was in trouble.

  Where was Grant?

  ****

  Grant went out the back of the cabin to check on the hidden horses. They were grazing on grass, and appeared to be in good shape. Against a tree he leaned, watching the sunrise, and wondering what things would be like when he arrived home.

  There would be a festival to end all festivals, no doubt. Hands embracing and congratulatory back slaps would come from his male family members. His sisters would bring forward their children to be admired and fawned over. They might even have a line of available women for him to study. Then after they welcomed him home, they would inquire about Samuel. Where was he, how he faired? That would be when he would introduce Sorcha, but how?

  Grant wouldn’t lie and say they had been married. Nor would Valan, his father, believe Samuel would be with a woman and not marry her, especially if she was expecting his child. None of it made any sense.

  Valan would stew over the details for a time. Once he got past his unbelief then he would wish to speak with Samuel. Grant would have no choice but to tell him Samuel was gone.

  Just thinking about those words gave him an empty feeling. To believe he would never see Samuel again was almost more than he could withstand. Samuel believed if they both accepted Jesus as their Savior one day they would meet again in a place he called Heaven. It was a perfect place with no more sadness, sickness, death, or disease. Grant hadn’t believed him, but now he almost wished he had. It would offer him hope he didn’t yet feel.

  How long had he wasted? Surely Sorcha was finished with her morning rituals. Headed back to the cabin, he heard voices.

  “Come to Tom, lil’ lass. Ye have already slept in my bed. What is one more night?”

  “Get away from me, ye fiend! That home never belonged to ye, unless ye like to wear frilly woman’s underclothes!”

  Grant followed the yelling. He hoped Sorcha knew what she was doing. Aggravating an unknown man might not help her situation.

  Grant heard a deep guttural sound.

  “Not me. There was a woman here. She was my woman.”

  “Where is she now?” asked Sorcha.

  Tom grunted. “She made me angry and I got rid of her. I had to leave for a while and hide her away.”

  Grant entered. Sorcha was stunned into stillness by the man’s last words and now Tom was within arm’s reach of grabbing her. Sword free of his scabbard, he realized he was too late.

  Tom reached to seize Sorcha, and she shot across the yard. He caught up to her easily and jerked her backward by her long hair. She spun around to face him, lifted her skirts, and put a well — placed knee into his bulging groin. Tom dropped to his knees and Grant knocked him unconscious with the hilt of his sword.

  Tom slumped forward, landing on his side. Sorcha knelt. She tore at his clothing like an animal ravaging carrion.

  “What are ye doing lass?”

  “Stripping him, so I can tie him to yon tree.”

  Grant looked at her dumbfounded.

  “Are ye goin’ to just stand there or are ye goin’ to help me?”

  “A-aye,” he stuttered. When they got to the man’s trews, he made a suggestion. “I will finish. Ye go to the cabin, and salvage what ye can.”

  “Aye.”

  Sorcha sauntered away. Grant finished the gruesome task post haste. The entire time he worked, all he could think was, What a woman!

  ****

  “Pa, can’t we speed up? I got me a girl and a heifer waitin’ on me at home.”

  “Are they not one in the same,” said Nigel, unable to resist.

  “Pa is he trying to insult me future bride?”

  “Nay, son, Nigel knows better. Tell him what happened to the last feller that insulted yer bride.”

  Nigel expected to hear that the man had fell over dead from Festus’ sheer stupidity. What he wasn’t expecting to hear was a tale of Festus’ brutality, which made the explanation a bit alarming.

  “Well, let me see. Are ye talking about the man I beat against the stone wall of the pub until his brains escaped his head or the man that I tore his leg off and beat him with it?”

  Nigel’s forehead creased. “Is there anything you won’t do, Festus?”

  “Hmm, don’t rightly know. I haven’t tried everything yet.”

  “Well, let’s just say it is a pleasure to have you on my side.”

  The three men rode behind the large group of armed soldiers. Festus had easily followed the tracks of the Scotsman and the young girl.

  Festus scratched his lice infested beard. Without warning he stopped. “This is the wrong way.” The steed was turned around and rode the way they had come.

  Nigel twisted in his saddle and stared at Festus’ retreating form. “Lorcan, where is he going?”

  Lorcan pursed his lips. “I don’t rightly know.”

  “Well, we must find out and stop the men. He can’t just run off without an explanation.”

  “Just wait here.”

  Lorcan rode off in pursuit of his son, leaving Nigel to wait. The sun was on its descent by the time the duo returned. Nigel had paced and cursed, cursed and paced. After much debate, he had his men set up camp. When Lorcan and his offspring returned Nigel was in a beastly mood.

  “Where have you been?” Nigel asked.

  “Followin’ the trail, of course.”

  Nigel was immensely frustrated with the dolt’s long pauses and pitiful explanations. “Well…”

  “Well, we found the place the Scot started fooling us, and we tracked ‘em back to where they used to be.” Festus snickered and Lorcan picked up the thread.

  “They left proof they had been there.”

  “Why? How?” quest
ioned Nigel.

  “Ye can see when we get there.”

  “Oh, Pa. Can’t we tell him?”

  Nigel wasn’t interested in what the couple had left behind unless it led to their current location. “Can you track them from there?”

  While Nigel spoke, Festus meandered away and went to stand with a group of the soldiers sharing an amusing story. Lorcan looked over his shoulder then back at Nigel. “Aye, we can track ‘em. That is if it don’t rain.”

  “Do we need to leave now?”

  “Nay, my bones are not achin’.”

  “What have your bones to do with it?”

  “Well if my bones were achin’ then it would be about to rain and we might wish to hurry. But since they don’t ache, the rain might stay away a bit longer, and we can take a night to rest. Ye done got this here camp all set up and it would be a shame not to enjoy it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The rain began as the sun settled on its final descent. Sorcha was instantly drenched. Teeth chattered as the cold rain permeated her clothing and threatened to enter her bones. Grant was fairing no better.

  They had left the cabin and shelter, hours ago. Now they needed to find a new shelter, and quick. Grant moved a little faster. Hope soared that he had seen a place for them to rest and dry out.

  Indeed he had. Grant led them to a small cave. Hunched over they went inside. Their gear was unloaded while Sorcha huddled against the wall and shivered. Perhaps Grant would start a fire, however she couldn’t see how.

  Finished unpacking the horses, Grant sat and watched her. “Ye need to remove yer clothes.”

  “I beg yer pardon?” she said in a suspicious tone.

  Grant sighed. “Sorcha, yer clothes are soakin’ wet. Ye have to get out of them before ye catch yer death of the ague and hurt the babe in the process.”

  Irritated by her circumstances, Sorcha couldn’t stop the haughty voice she used. “And how do ye suggest I do that?”

  “I will close my eyes while ye disrobe and wrap up in a blanket. They stayed mostly dry.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “That’s absurd. I couldn’t possibly do that.”

  Grant shrugged. “Suit yer self.”

  Back bent over he stood and began removing his own attire. The tunic was pulled over his head, and spread out over a rock. Aghast at his boldness, she drew in a sharp breath.

  Sorcha’s eyes were glued to his exposed frame. His body carried not one ounce of fat. Long lean muscle rippled with every movement. Transfixed by the site she continued to stare at his brawny body until he reached for his trews. Then she closed her eyes and squeezed them tight. While she ogled him he hadn’t seemed to mind. Embarrassed by her actions, heat infused her face.

  Deep riotous laughter echoed throughout the cave at her discomfort. “Ye can open yer eyes now lass.”

  “Humph.”

  Grant ignored the earlier event and changed the subject. “Sorry, I canna start a fire in here. The opening is too small and I fear the smoke might build up.”

  “Verra well,” she answered, refusing to look in his direction.

  “Lass, I’m covered.”

  “I heard ye.”

  “The offer still stands. I will gladly close my eyes for ye to change yer self.”

  “Nay, that is all right.”

  Sorcha couldn’t see Grant clearly in the dark room. Just making out the shrug of his shoulders showed her he didn’t care either way.

  In a circle he walked like a caged animal until he found a suitable place on the ground and lay down to rest.

  In the corner she sat, continuing to shiver with cold. She should have taken Grant up on his offer. Now if she tried to change, he might accidentally turn and see her. She had to do something. Fresh chill bumps rippled along her forearms. White wisps of breath came from her mouth. The cold would only get worse.

  In a hunched position, she snuck over to the supplies. To reach the bags, she had to come alongside Grant. The steady rise and fall of his chest meant he was asleep. Now if she could just get over there in this gloomy room and find the blankets amongst the stuff she might be able to get out of her wet things and get warm.

  Fear pushed down, Sorcha went to pass Grant. Seized by the ankle, he thrust her against the wall. Her hands were jerked above her head, her wrists clasped together in one of his massive hands as he held them in place against the cold stone wall. She quivered with terror. Did he know what he was doing?

  “Grant?” she whispered, afraid to move.

  ****

  What was he doing? Grant shook his head to remove the fog. Sorcha was pinned against the wall in front of him. Instinct had taken over as she tried to slip past. Her hands were above her head, her lips a hair’s breath from his own. Wet clothing touched his exposed chest as she breathed heavily with fear. Squelching his feelings, he released her hands and moved away. Had he hurt her?

  Grant couldn’t take his eyes off her. “I’m sorry. Are ye all right?”

  She didn’t speak, and his worry increased. “Sorcha, please answer me.”

  “Wh — why?”

  “It is what I have been trained to do.” What a pitiful excuse! The real reason was because she startled him. He had kept her there because he wanted to touch her.

  She nodded, but didn’t move.

  “Sorcha, let me help ye.”

  She shook her head.

  “Sorcha, I am going to help ye. Ye have to get out of those wet clothes. I am going to wrap my cover around me and then I am going to get ye a cover. I am going to help ye undress. Are ye ready?”

  “Nay,” she whispered breathlessly.

  “Aye, Sorcha.” He placed his hand on her to reach for her dress, when he felt a tiny fluttering movement. “What was that?”

  She smiled. “The babe — it moved!”

  He left his hand in position and waited for it to occur again, but felt nothing. Lowering his hand, he caught hold of the hem of her dress. The dress was pulled past her legs, past her protruding waist line, over her breasts, and finally over her head. Careful not to touch her flesh, he handed her a dry blanket and scooted away while he placed the soaked garment over a rock to dry. He returned. “Any more wet items that need to dry?”

  “Nay,” she answered a little too quickly.

  Had the dress been all she was wearing? The magistrate hadn’t exactly given her anything when she left the jail. And all he had given her when she bathed in the cabin was a clean gown. He wished he had more to give her.

  As he thought about her lack of clothing, he thought about resting his hand on her stomach again. The movement of the babe would be a reminder of Samuel’s existence. But he hesitated.

  Grant left Sorcha to wrap the cover around her trembling body and walked to the cave entrance to check on the weather. The rain came in huge sheets so thick he couldn’t see beyond the opening. It would need to let up so they could leave before they were caught. Sighing, he turned back into the dark cave, listening to the even breathing of Sorcha, who was fast asleep.

  ****

  “No bones achin’, huh?”

  The rain descended on them with a vengeance. Even his shelter flooded. Rivulets of water poured from one side of the tent to the other, making a river of mud through his belongings. Lorcan Breslin and his offspring were more trouble than they were worth.

  After the rain had begun and his tent flooded, he ordered the men to pack up and head out. There was little reason to wait around until the trail was completely obliterated. They traveled to Grant and Sorcha’s last known location, a wooden cabin nestled deep in the forest. While Festus and Lorcan tried to reconnect with the trail, Nigel had the men find a dry place, start a fire, and then set up camp. If they were going to have to wait they might as well do so with a full stomach, and a warm body.

  Nigel went first to the cabin and walked inside. In the middle of the room sat a huge metal tub. It was full of tepid, grimy water. Sorcha must have washed there. Next, he strode to the fireplace. Inside
rested a piece of burned, charred cloth. It reminded him of his mission. He would see the lass fry for all the trouble she had caused him. He might even place Festus and Lorcan beside her.

  On such a pleasant thought, he walked to the front porch. The rain was a fine drizzle. Looking around the small yard, which surrounded the cabin, he saw the present Lorcan had hinted of.

  Tied to a tree rested an Irishman. At first glance he appeared to be covered with wool but upon further inspection it seemed the man was covered in red furry hair. Left naked and tied to a tree, he yelled to the men, encouraging them to come closer and release him from his binding. The men looked to Nigel for permission or denial. He refused the request.

  “Why canna we free him Pa?” asked Festus as he came around the cabin and saw Nigel’s negative reply.

  “Don’t know, don’t care.”

  “But Pa…”

  “Don’t sass me boy. We are here for the lass, not to be good Samaritans.”

  A deep booming voice rang out. “A lass, ye say?”

  No one answered. The voice repeated, “A lass? Perhaps, red headed and towing a man on her skirt tails.”

  Nigel listened to the exchange from the safety and dryness of the cabin’s porch. He was tiring quickly of the conditions. He wondered if his wife would believe he had done his best to retrieve the girl and the child, but was unable. Would she allow him to come home? He sighed deeply, knowing the welcome he would receive if he returned without the babe. Tuning to the conversation he heard Festus’ reply.

  “Aye, she is a pretty little thing with auburn hair and green eyes.”

  “Aye, that was the one.”

  “The one?”

  “Aye, the one done tied me to this here tree. I was willing to make her me new woman, but she must done taken offense, ‘cause for no reason she and her man stole my clothes and left me here this way.”

  Chuckles ran through the men. Nigel silenced them with a look. “Which way did they go?”

  The man waited a moment turning his head this way and that. “And why should I tell ye where she is? I was thinkin’ on taken her for meself. I don’t exactly take to sharin’.”