by Lily Baldwin
“Where are ye going?”
“To make the rounds,” she shouted back over her shoulders.
“And to venture to the fields, no doubt.”
She whirled around. “What is it to ye?”
Michael closed the distance between them. “I like Rory too. There is much to admire in his character, but ye can’t marry him.”
Alex crossed her arms over her chest. “I have said nothing of the kind.”
“Ye didn’t have to say it. Yer eyes have done all the talking for ye. For pity’s sake, Alex, think of the people. Yer heart cannot be yer guide. The MacLeod will never forgive the insult if ye were to choose a peasant over him. Ye know this. ‘Tis why ye wrote to Abbot Matthew in the first place, instead of choosing a husband from one of our own warriors.”
She stiffened. Michael was right, and no amount of wishing on her part could change that. A weight settled over her, pressing down on her heart until she could hardly draw breath. Rory made her knees weak, her heart pound. He made her happy. Still, she had no business falling for him. Marrying for love was not a privilege enjoyed by noblewomen. A prudent marriage would strengthen their borders. She gripped her mother’s trinity knot and remembered. The wellbeing of the people comes first, always. She had no words. An ache like a steel cage enclosed her heart. Numbly, she walked away.
The noontide sun shone down, though she did not feel its warmth. She felt cold and empty, as if her heart was being hollowed out. Childish laughter drew her eyes from the bracken-covered earth. She looked up to see a blur of limbs and big smiles racing off toward the woods, wee ones with only a year or two left to enjoy the freedom of childhood before they would take up their place within the clan, planting seed, cooking, and harvesting. She crossed a small wooden bridge that cast its shadow over a swiftly moving stream just before the road came to a fork. Right would lead her to the fields and Rory. Left meandered down to the village where her people awaited her care. Her heart thudded in her ears, not the racing heart of desire. It was the drum of doom. With a sigh, she chose left and hurried to Helen’s cottage, bursting in without first knocking.
Helen’s eyes widened for a moment. “Alex, are ye alright?”
Alex closed the door gently behind her. “Sorry, Helen. I…I…” She sighed. “I just missed ye.”
Helen pressed her hand to her chest. “Ye sweep in here like a banshee crossing the moors. My heart’s still pounding.” Then she motioned to the small table in the center of the room. “Sit, love, and I’ll pour ye some ale.”
Alex scooped Cassie up in her arms on the way and sat down, cuddling the wee lass.
“Yer heart is heavy,” Helen said.
Alex shook her head. “Nay, all is well—”
But Helen was quick to interrupt. “Don’t ye try that with me. Mayhap ye can fool the rest of the world, but not me. Now, out with it. What’s on yer mind?”
Tears stung Alex’s eyes. She couldn’t tell Helen the truth, not without revealing her secret life. “‘Tis just that I saw some children racing into the woods only minutes ago. They were laughing and playing. It made me think of those days. Do ye remember?”
Helen chuckled. “Of course I do. We used to wander down to the river and pick berries until our bellies were full.”
Alex swiped her wet cheeks and smiled. “Our hands would be purple for days.”
Helen reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Do ye remember that time Jean sent us picking so she could make tarts, but we ate all we could find?”
Laughter bubbled up Alex’s throat. “Our faces and hands told the truth even if our tongues tried to lie.”
“She didn’t stay mad at us for long,” Helen remembered, smiling. “She sliced us each a big piece of bread, smeared butter on it, and said she didn’t blame us one bit. That she had a sweet spot for berries too.”
Alex sighed. “Those were good days.”
“Aye, they certainly were, but why are ye visiting the old days? What’s happened?”
Alex quickly scanned Helen’s sparsely furnished cottage. How could she complain about her lot in life to Helen? Helen awoke before dawn and started her fire. She made Gregor breakfast before he left to work the fields. She had five children all under the age of nine. She cooked, cleaned, and toiled from before sun-up until after dark—and she had no choice, while Alex chose to labor. She chose to make her life a service to her people. The only advantage afforded Helen’s station was that she had been lucky enough to marry for love. She had chosen Gregor while Alex certainly would never choose to marry Adam, Robert, or Timothy. Then she again remembered that Timothy longed for the priesthood, striking him from her list of suitors, which left only Robert and Adam who were both vexed with her. She cursed under her breath. Her behavior the day before had complicated an already complex situation. Mayhap she didn’t even have the luxury of a choice anymore. What if neither man would take her?
Alex rubbed her eyes, then sat back in her chair. “I do not ken what’s wrong with me. I suppose seeing those children just made me long for those carefree days.” She finished her cup and stood up. “Anyway,” she said with forced brightness, “I will carry on with rounds and let ye get back to cooking.”
Helen frowned. “Ye look tired. Finish yer rounds and then go take a rest.”
“I will if ye will,” Alex said with a wink, knowing Helen would have to be near death to sleep in the middle of the day.
She stepped back outside and lifted her face to the sky. The sun shone bright and warm and directly overhead. She chewed her lip, debating whether to return to Luthmore for the noon meal. She turned her back on the castle. Too many men awaited her there, and at that moment, there was only one man she wished to see.
“I miss ye, Da,” she muttered under her breath.
With so many villagers up at the keep, the naked paths beckoned her with their openness, their quiet. They promised clarity. She would have no place to hide, even from herself. She wandered the roads, imagining her father still walked at her side. As if in a dream, cottages floated past like gray, shifting clouds while her mind focused on her father’s imaginary counsel. Gently, he placed Michael’s truth deep inside her heart, his voice as soft as a feather sashaying through air. Her life was not her own; it belonged to her people.
“Does anyone’s life belong to themselves alone?” she whispered aloud.
Only those with no one to share it with.
The truth was weightless in its simplicity.
Feeling resolute, she scanned her surroundings with renewed focus. She had unknowingly wandered beyond the village outskirts. Her eyes traced the distant castle. Then shifting her feet, she drank in the sight of rugged mountains set far against the heavens. Again, she turned, but her newly claimed calm fled her soul as she gasped and stumbled forward, her eyes wide with disbelief. Thick ribbons of smoke coiled up from the roof of a distant crofter’s storehouse. An instant later, she was running. Cries for help reached her ears, and she pushed her body harder, racing against the hungry flames.
Two feminine figures came into view. Margaret, the crofter’s wife, and her daughter, Anna, hoisted buckets of water at the blaze. Ash and smoke blackened their faces and tunics. Despite their desperate struggle, the fire yielded nothing. Alex rushed past them without stopping and dashed inside, wanting to save as many bags of seed as she could. What if disease swept through the village, or one of their neighbors attacked? They could not afford a smaller harvest. The risks were too great.
“Nay, my lady, ye mustn’t,” she heard Margaret scream.
Alex barreled out through the door, stooped over from the weight of the heavy sack on her shoulder. “Send for help!”
“Go, Anna! Go to the keep,” Margaret cried.
Thick smoke choked the air. Alex covered her mouth with her arm as she burrowed once again into the burning store. She reached for another bag of seed, but then above the din of splintering wood and thatch and the roaring fire, she heard the bleating of panicked sheep. Str
aining beneath the weight of the seed bag, she bent over and hastened toward the door and dumped it off her back when she reached the pile she had made safely beyond the destructive lick of the flames.
Then Alex turned around. The fire had spread now across the roof and up one side. Still, the bleating sounded from within. Without hesitation, she rushed back inside.
*
Rory pumped his arms, running as fast as he could toward the black smoke curling toward the sky. He could hear a woman screaming for help and the breaths of the men running just behind him. By the time they reached the long storage hut, the roof was engulfed in flames.
“She ran inside,” the woman screamed, racing at him.
“Who ran inside?” Rory said, grabbing her shoulders.
“Alex,” she cried. “She’s going to save them.”
“Alex,” he shouted, pushing past her. He pulled the plaid from his body and plunged it in the nearby trough. Then hanging the fabric over his head, he barreled through the blackened doorway. Blazing heat scorched his skin.
“Alex,” he shouted. “Alex!”
“Rory,” she cried. “I’m here.”
His eyes stung as he tried to see through the smoke. He rushed in the direction of her voice, but then a creak rent the air. He looked up just as part of the ceiling gave way. He dove to escape the fiery embers.
“Alex!”
“I’m surrounded by fire!”
Through licking flames and billowing smoke, he saw the shift of her silhouette. Her racking cough reached his ears. He pulled the plaid low over his head and leapt through the flames. She stood, hunched over in the corner, coughing and huddling around a cluster of sheep.
“Where are the others?” he shouted above the roar of the flames.
“What others?” she croaked.
“The ones ye’re saving.”
“Here,” she said, gesturing to the sheep.
“For the love of God, Alex!” He cried. Then he threw the wet plaid over her. Heat blasted his bare flesh. He kicked against the thatch and log siding again and again until at last he made a large enough hole.
She started to shoo the sheep through the opening.
“Are ye mad?” he cried. “Leave them!”
But she ignored him and scurried through the hole only after the last animal had escaped. Then he crawled through on hands and knees. He lay on his back, sputtering and coughing. An instant later, the storehouse groaned as the rest of the ceiling collapsed.
*
Alex coughed into her pillow. Her throat stung. She turned to lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling. “Ye cannot force me to lie in bed for the remainder of the evening.”
Mary did not look up from her embroidery. “Ye fell unconscious after having to be nearly dragged from a burning building. Yer throat is clearly raw. Ye’re staying put.”
“I had to save the sheep.”
A knock sounded at the door. Alex prayed it was her turn to be rescued. “Come in.”
Rory flung the door wide and stalked in, planting his feet wide at the foot of her bed. “Are ye telling me that ye raced into a fiery death trap only to save some sheep?”
She sat up. “Nay,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Really? Then please tell me what else ye risked yer life for?”
“Sacks of grain and seed,” she replied
His scowl deepened. “Ye accuse me of being reckless when ye’re madder than any agent I’ve ever met. How could ye put yer life on the line like that?”
She swung her blankets back and jumped out of bed, storming at him. “I am acting laird of this clan. The lives of my people are my responsibility and mine—” Her words were smothered by her cough.
He threw his hands up. “But that is the point I am trying to get into that hot head of yers. The only life at risk today was yer own. Grain and seed can be replaced. A brood of sheep can be replaced. Alex MacKenzie can never be replaced. No one’s life was at stake other than yers and mine by default.”
“No one’s life was at risk today because of that fire. But what of tomorrow or next month or next year? What of the lambs those sheep will birth in the spring? What of the crops lost today because of the seed I couldn’t save? Someone will go with less food tomorrow because of what happened today. Stores represent hope against disaster, which in the end is inevitable. That is the power of one bag of grain or one sheep. Never take anything for granted, Rory MacVie. My actions today were not to save a necklace. I did it to save my people.”
Rory raked his hand through his hair while he wrestled contrasting desires. He wanted to ring her neck, but he also wanted to raise her high, higher than the stars for how well she loved her people. Inside her slim frame, she held greatness, but also blind recklessness—not that he was any better. Still, he had expected her to have more sense than him.
“Truth be known,” Mary said from her seat near the hearth. “I think ye’re both mad.”
Chapter Fifteen
Rory sat on a stack of grain bags and leaned back against the cool inner wall. Overhead, a canopy made from oilcloth kept the rising sun off his brow. He took a deep breath and tried to release the anxiety he’d been lugging around since he first heard that Alex had rushed into a burning building. He still could not believe what she had done. He furrowed his brow, imagining how she might respond to his judgment of her. She would accuse him of being a hypocrite, which would, of course, be true. He often acted heedless of danger, but that was different. His life mattered little when measured against the exquisiteness that was Alex MacKenzie. The mere thought of the world being denied her courage and grace was too great a sorrow for him to bear.
She had become essential to him.
He closed his eyes. At least for the moment, he didn’t have to worry about her safety. She had agreed to remain in bed for one more day. He chuckled to himself. That was wholly inaccurate. Alex had certainly not agreed to remain isolated in her chamber. Mary, proving herself to be quietly resolute, and Rosie had united, making a stubborn and impassable front. Truth be told, he thought Alex had appeared well enough to move about, but he wasn’t about to stand in Mary and Rosie’s way. They clearly wanted to hold Alex responsible for her misguided heroics.
The drum of hooves captured his attention. He leaned forward, peering out from beneath the canopy at a rider galloping into the courtyard with Gavin at his side. A nagging apprehension filled him when he recognized Benny, the abbot’s youngest agent. He hoped the lad did not bring ill tidings. Quickly sliding to his feet, he hastened toward the visitor.
“Whoa,” Rory said, grabbing the horse’s bit and helping Benny bring his mount to a halt.
“Nice plaid,” Benny said, eying Rory’s new attire.
“’Tis rather comfortable. Ye should try for yerself.”
Benny laughed. “And show the lassies my scrawny legs? Absolutely not.”
Gavin brought his horse alongside Rory. “He said he was a friend of yers, which is clearly true.”
Rory nodded. “Indeed he is. Benny, this here is Gavin MacKenzie, captain of the guard. Gavin, meet Benedict MacTavish, one of the abbot’s messengers.”
Gavin nodded at Benny in greeting before turning back to Rory. “I’ll leave ye both to yer business and let Finlay and Michael know of his coming.” Then he turned his horse and left the courtyard through the gate.
Benny slid to the ground.
“What word from Abbot Matthew?” Rory said, his voice low.
“I wasn’t sent here by the abbot. My message is from David.”
“What word then from David?”
“He bids ye make haste to the Iron Shoe Tavern. He needs ye for a mission.”
“Did he give ye any details?”
“He told me nothing other than he will meet you in the tavern two evenings from today.”
Rory could not imagine what would be important enough to pull him away from his current mission.
“Does the abbot know?”
Benny shrugged. “He knows about David’s mission. I do not ken whether he knows David sent for ye.”
Rory groaned and looked heavenward. “Ye ken ye’ve complicated what is already a rather complex mission here.”
Benny smiled. “Remember—I’m only the messenger.”
Rory raked his hand through his hair. “Aye, well come on messenger. I’ll take ye to the stables. Ye can wipe yer horse down and give her some fresh oats.”
They stepped into the stables, and straightaway Rory spied Robert who was on his knees inspecting a newborn foal with Fergus, the stable master.
“Good morrow,” Rory said, keeping a cautious eye on Robert while leading Benny’s horse into an empty stall. Robert looked up. His gaze held none of the previous day’s hostility. In fact, Robert smiled and looked like he was about to speak to Rory when a lassie with chestnut curls and bright, blue eyes opened the stable doors.
“Da,” she called, drawing everyone’s gaze.
“Aye, Cara,” Fergus said, looking up.
Cara’s gaze shifted from her father and locked with Rory’s. She stared at him with open admiration. “Yer lunch is ready, Da.” Cara said, not looking away from Rory.
“Thanks, love. Tell yer mother I’ll be home after I’m done here. Robert is helping me with the new foal.”
Cara smiled at Rory, a lovely rose blush tinting her cheeks, before she dipped in a curtsy and turned on her heel, disappearing the way she’d come.
Benny slowly shook his head. “Ye never cease to amaze me. No matter where ye go, the lassies turn three shades of pink at the sight of ye.”
Rory shrugged, his attention still on Robert who had stood and was crossing the stables, heading toward them.
“I’m sorry for confronting ye at Lammas,” Robert said, offering his hand to Rory. “Spirits ran high. Ale flowed freely. Ye ken how it is.”
Rory clasped Robert’s offered hand. “’Tis I who should apologize. And ye’re right about the ale. I was soused. I had no right to hit Adam.”
“Mary told me just this morning that Adam bears ye no ill will and neither do I.” Then Robert chuckled. “It was a lively night, to be sure. My head pounded the next morning. It felt like an army marching to war across my forehead.” Suddenly, Robert’s easy expression vanished. Brows drawn, he said, “Have ye any word on how Alex is doing? I tried to visit her earlier, but Mary and Rosie refused me. I dread to think of what could have befallen our dear lady had ye not rescued her in time.” Robert pulled a folded piece of parchment from his satchel. “I’ve written a poem celebrating her great heroics. Those sheep are indebted to her.”
