The Highlander’s Lady: Highlands Forever

by Adams, Aileen

  Elliott’s dark eyes narrowed. “At some time, aye. I thought perhaps tomorrow and considered sending word—”

  “Ye did not receive word from me this evening?”

  “Nay.” Understanding was beginning to dawn. “Ye sent it?”

  “I sent a rider,” he replied, pushing past his cousin that he might enter his study. As ever, the table at which he worked was covered with scrolls and pieces of parchment. He tore through them, searching for his own writing. He found nothing.

  “What is it all about?” By now, several guardsmen had heard the commotion and joined Elliott and Boyd in the study. His cousin stood near him, concern furrowing his brow. His resemblance to Boyd’s own father was startling, especially when he frowned in such a way.

  “I am not certain yet.” He looked around the room. “None of ye saw a rider coming in this evening? Not one of ye?” They shook their heads.

  He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “I must speak privately with my cousin, but dinna ye wander far. I might need ye before the night is through.”

  Elliott waited until the door was closed before turning to Boyd. “What is it, then?”

  “I still canna say.” Boyd leaned against the desk, palms flat against its surface. “I feel something is wrong. There is no reason for the rider to have not arrived.”

  “The English?” Elliott murmured, taking care not to be overheard. Word spread quickly in the keep, and within minutes all beneath its roof would likely know what was being said behind that closed door. It was as inescapable as the sun rising in the morning, as death itself.

  His wisdom and understanding of such matters was one reason why Boyd had entrusted the clan to his care.

  “I dinna know,” Boyd admitted. “If it were, why would they not have stopped me? I only arrived minutes ago, and took no pains to conceal myself as I rode. I saw not so much as a hint of any danger, any trespassing. I passed a pair of guardsmen along the way, and they did not seem alarmed or on the alert—more than usual, ye ken.”

  “What else could it be? He might have been injured,” Elliott reasoned. “We might send a few extra guardsmen out to search for the poor wretch.”

  Boyd caught his arm, holding him in place just as he’d held Olivia in place earlier. Had it only been hours since last he’d touched her? It might have been half a lifetime.

  “There is another danger the rider might have met with, though I am not certain of it. But if it were…” Boyd lost his line of thought as he imagined it. George Ainsworth, lying in wait. Intercepting his message, knowing the time to strike would come after he’d left the Stewarts.

  “I want the men to ride out in groups of six. Nay, eight. Three groups of eight to sweep the southern border, in case the rider did simply injure himself or his mount.”

  “Three groups of eight? So many at a time?”

  Elliott was unaware of so much. Too much for Boyd to explain all at once. “Did ye receive word of the Englishman searching for his betrothed? The message Donnan sent?”

  His cousin hesitated, scratching his head before shrugging. “Aye. I didna think much of it, I admit. It has nothing to do with us, as far as I ken. Ye believe he had something to do with this?”

  “I suspect it.” Yes, it was clear now, the way he had been lying in wait. The manner in which Boyd had allowed himself to be used. “I suspect he has been following me all along.”

  “Why would he do that? Are ye hiding his bride in yer saddlebag, then?” Elliott asked with a chuckle as they hurried from the study, with Boyd ordering the men out as he’d planned.

  “Nay, but she is hiding. And he may have been waiting for me to leave…” Yes, it made sense the more he thought about it, and it sickened him. What if George Ainsworth had been near the village that afternoon? What if word had somehow reached him of Boyd MacPherson fighting for the honor of a pair of lasses?

  What if he had somehow seen Olivia on the road to or from the village? What if he had managed to find her thanks to Boyd having found her first?

  And he had left her there, and told her to stay, when it would be his fault for George finding her. If he was foolhardy enough to threaten a MacNair with hundreds of men behind him, what would he do to a single lass who he believed he owned?

  The very thought of it set his feet in motion.

  “Where are ye goin’ now when ye just arrived?” Elliott called out as Boyd ran for the stables.

  “I must ride to Calan’s!” he shouted over his shoulder. And if the gods were good, it would not be too late.

  Though with so many hours already passed, he feared the worst.

  “Why?” Elliott demanded. “What is this all about?”

  “I promise ye, I will tell all when I return.” He chose another mount, likely saddled for one of his guards to ride out. “And if I am in time to find her before that Englishman steals her away, I will bring a lass along with me.”

  21

  Most of the keep had retired for the evening, and those who lived in the village or outside had long since returned to their homes.

  With Boyd having left so suddenly, there was no reason to linger once the meal was finished. All the better for the maids and cooks, who might clean what was left and go to sleep after such a long, busy day.

  It had been long for Olivia, heaven knew. She’d been out of bed since before the cock’s crow. Yet the thought of returning to her bed did not appeal, especially when she knew she would spend much of the night—if not its entirety—thinking of just one person.

  How long would it take him to ride home? How long before he rested his head inside the walls of his own keep?

  How long before he forgot her entirely? For he would, no doubt, especially when the time came to send his men out to fight the English. She would be nothing more than a faint memory, a way in which he had passed the time for a brief while.

  And there she would be, still living and working as a maid.

  She had not considered what might be her future. All she had given thought to was the next moment, then the next. Making her way to the MacNairs without having her throat cut. Running away, finding somewhere to live. Doing her best to make herself part of the household, to speak and think and behave as a Scottish lass would.

  And now, she would continue to do so until the threat of George Ainsworth was no more. How long would that be?

  What would she do once he had given up the search and gone home? How would she know if he had?

  Did this mean she could no longer see or speak to her father? Could she not even send word to him?

  Rather than returning to the small, stone building in which the maids slept, she walked the courtyard while wringing her hands and questioning every choice she had made until that moment. It seemed she’d worked her way into the center of a maze from which there was no escape.

  For no matter how she viewed her situation, the answer remained the same. There was no hope of her sending word to her father, of assuring him she was still alive and well. How would she ever manage to send her a message? Who could she trust not to give away the place from where the message had come?

  Once her father knew where she was, he would be in danger. And so would she. George would surely take his revenge upon them both.

  She would not wish to put the Stewarts in a dreadful position, either. Writing to her father would mean possibly leaving them vulnerable, open to suspicion.

  There would be many who would blame the Stewarts for taking in an Englishwoman. Even if those as-yet nameless, faceless people came to believe Calan Stewart was unaware of her being English, they would then laugh at him for being easily fooled.

  He was a man of great pride, as most men were. How it would pain her to know she had wounded him, when he had never been anything but good to her.

  No, she had not thought things through, because she had no chance to do so. There had simply been no time to think when all she could do was keep herself alive and out of sight. One could not think beyond the next step when
one was in constant fear of discovery and punishment.

  A small, stone cottage sat between the stables and the building in which the weavers and menders did their work. A light glowed from inside, telling her a fire burned, even now.

  She had never been inside, and had never met the old woman who lived there. From what Mairi had told her, this was either the mother or the aunt of the lady of the house.

  “She is a seer, ye ken,” Mairi had confided in a whispered giggle not long after Olivia had first arrived. “I have spoken to her once about Tamhas, and she assured me that all would be well.”

  Both kindness and eagerness to please her new friend had been enough to keep Olivia’s mouth closed at the time. She had not wished to offend this young woman who had welcomed her with open arms and had so generously taught her nearly everything she knew about pretending to be an experienced maid.

  In truth, Olivia had never given credence to seers or witches or anything of the like. She considered herself far too sensible to believe there were women who could see the future, those who could change the present.

  That was her father’s blood, and she knew it. He, too, had always been very sensible, choosing to believe what his eyes saw and his hands touched over what might be or what could have been.

  How would her mother feel about this, however? Would she believe? And would she encourage her daughter to venture to the old woman’s door and rap upon it with her knuckles?

  For that was what Olivia did before she could stop herself. She simply had to at least voice her concerns, her fears to someone. Even a stranger.

  The door opened slowly, and a pair of pale, almost milky eyes peered out at her from behind it. “Who goes there?” a thin, high-pitched voice asked.

  She sputtered, at a loss. “I—that is, forgive me for the lateness of the hour, but I saw your fire —“

  “Ye are troubled.”

  She supposed it took no special gift in order to see this, as the shaking in her voice and the wringing of her hands gave her away. “I am,” she confirmed.

  “And ye want old Gavina to settle your mind.” The old woman laughed as if she had heard this a hundred times before. Perhaps she had.

  Normally, it would have disturbed Olivia to no end, the notion of stranger laughing at her. It did not bother her half so much once the door began to swing open further, and a gnarled hand waved her inside.

  What was she doing? Was she truly entering this tiny, round cottage, little more than a hut with a hole in the roof through which smoke from her fire could escape? To call the place simple would have been an insult to simple dwellings. This might as well have been a cave.

  And Greer Stewart allowed the woman to live this way?

  “My eyes are not what they once were when I was a lass of your years,” Gavina confided, shuffling about the small room. “Yet even I can see how disappointed ye are at your surroundings.”

  Olivia’s face burned with shame. “Not at all. It is merely that you might to live comfortably in the keep, rather than being on your own.” Indeed, the old woman relied on touch to know where she was, reaching out with her hands to feel the walls, the table and its two chairs, a row of hooks on the wall which held a few simple garments.

  Would it not have been safer for her to live in the keep with those who might help her?

  The old woman shook her head, her loose, flowing hair the loveliest shade of silver. “I would not live in that place for all the gold in the world. Under the watchful eye of my daughter, no doubt.” So this was, indeed, Greer’s mother. And to hear the woman speak of it, she took no pleasure in the fact.

  Yet when Olivia imagined how Greer would dominate the old woman—much as she dominated everyone under her roof, including at times her husband—she thought she understood at least in part why the woman would prefer to be away from the other members of the household. At least she had some measure of peace here, yet was still close enough to her daughter that she might ask for help should the need arise.

  “Do sit,” Covina implored her. “Ye will be one less thing for me to bump into when ye do. What brings ye here? It seems most of the others have retired to their beds by now.”

  Olivia sat, her hands in her lap. She pulled at the hem of her apron, nervous and still wondering exactly what she was thinking when she’d knocked at the door. “I am troubled, as ye said,” she murmured. “I know not what to do.”

  The old woman’s head tilted to the side, listening. “Ye are not Scottish born, are ye?”

  Olivia’s mouth fell open. “I—that is, I canna—”

  Gavina raised one hand, the knuckles large and bulging, her skin as thin as parchment and even thinner. “Nay, ye are English. Born and bred, at least. Is that so?”

  What was the use denying it? If anything, it would come as a relief to be honest with someone other than Boyd. “Please, do not reveal me.”

  “What difference does it make to me, lass? My grandfather was English, ye know. I hear it in your voice, just as I heard it in his when I was a wee lass. Ye are trying as hard as ye can to sound Scottish, and ye do a fair job of it.”

  “I do? How is it, then, that you were able to find me out?”

  Gavina smiled, her wrinkled face wrinkling even further. “My ears have taken the place of my eyes, ye ken. They allow me to know what others do not. Dinna worry yourself, my dear. For an English woman to hide behind these walls, there must be a reason.”

  “That there is. I do not know what to do.”

  The old woman sat opposite her, reaching for her hands. Now that Olivia trusted her better, she was quick to get them to the woman.

  Gavina’s grip was strong, firm, her weathered hands tracing Olivia’s palms. She closed her eyes, tilting back her head. “Ye have run from love. Is that not so?”

  This was not what she had expected at all, nor was it the reason she had come to the woman. Then again, she had not intended to knock at the door.

  A tremor ran through Olivia’s body. “I have run,” she admitted, though she was not speaking of love. “I felt as though I had to do so. I was frightened.”

  “Aye, love can frighten us. Your running has caused ye some pain, has it not?”

  “It has.” And no doubt it would have caused pain to her father, once he received word of her no longer being under the protection of Donnan MacNair.

  “Ye must not run from love.” The woman’s hands closed over hers. “For love will find ye, no matter how long or how far your running takes ye. Ye will find that it was all for naught, that there was no escaping. Och, ‘tis a terrible thing to run from what is meant to be.”

  “You believe something in my life is meant to be?”

  Another smile. “My dear, when we are born our lives are already stretched out before us, planned by the gods themselves. We are fools to believe we can thwart those plans, yet so many of us break ourselves against the will of the gods in an effort to prove we know better than they. Dinna make that mistake. Love will come for ye, and ye must be prepared for it. Dinna run again, for ye might wake up one morning and realize ye have run all your life. Ye will be an old woman such as myself, and there is nothing worse than the regret of the old.”

  She snorted, even laughing slightly. “I know it well, my dear. I know it verra well.”

  Olivia stood, more troubled than she had been before. But what has she expected? For this woman to tell her that Boyd MacPherson was the man she was destined to love?

  No, that was foolishness. There could be no destiny for them, for they were of two different worlds. She belonged in his world no more than he would have belonged at her father’s estate. Girlish fancy had gotten in her way, nothing more. And any time she spent thinking about him or pining over him or wishing she were with him would be a waste of her time.

  To say nothing of the pain it would cause her already bruised heart.

  “I thank you for your time, and I apologize for calling at such a late hour. Please, if there is ever anything I might do for you, do
not hesitate to call upon me. My name is Olivia.”

  Instead of smiling or bidding her good evening, Gavina’s brow furrowed deeper than ever. Her head turned this way and that, as if she were listening for something. “Aye, it will all unfold as it is meant to,” she murmured.

  Olivia was uncertain whether she spoke to her or to herself.

  Perhaps this was all in vain, after all.

  She excused herself, slipping from the front door and relieved that no one was about to see her do so. How foolish it was, calling upon a seer. As if such a thing truly existed.

  Her footsteps were quick and light has she stole from the cottage, hurrying toward the maids’ quarters. With any luck, Mairi and the others who shared their room would already be asleep.

  All she heard was the snapping of a single twig. That was it, nothing more. The snapping of a twig behind her.

  Followed by a hand clamping over her mouth.

  Panic threatened to choke her, a scream sounding in her head and rising in her throat, a moment from escaping her lips. The hand over her mouth cut it off.

  In an instant, the image of Alec Stewart’s face filled her mind. He was going to take his revenge, was he not? She might have known. She should never have ventured out alone at night, so soon after the threats he’d given her that day. She had forgotten about him until just then.

  “We have been searching for you a long time,” a man’s voice murmured in her ear. A voice tinged with anger, even resentment. Hatred, perhaps.

  That was when she knew Alec had nothing to do with this. And her panic only worsened.

  There was no fighting the strength of the man who held her, and then dragged her from the courtyard through the gate behind the kitchen garden and out to where her intended waited on horseback for her to be delivered to him.

  “Well, well. I knew that if I persevered long enough, we would find you.” He dismounted, standing face-to-face with her. “It seems you owe me something, Olivia Smythe, and I have no intention of allowing you to get away with denying me what I am due.”