Brice had never been half so eager to arrive anywhere, he was certain. Even during the worst weather, he could normally bear up under it and even maintain his good nature.

That had not been the case in the many days since they’d ridden away from Sorcha’s farmhouse.

Quinn had come down with it first—coughing, sneezing, then complaining of aches in his shoulders, knees, back. Rodric had been next, then Fergus.

Brice had held out longer than the rest—but he, too, had fallen ill, and there was a stretch of two days during which time all four of them rode while barely able to remain upright in the saddle. Only upon a visit to a local healer who made her home outside one of the many villages through which they’d passed had any of them begun to feel some relief.

While the poultice she’d sold them stank to hell and back, especially as it required being applied to one’s chest and therefore always lingered near a man’s nose, it did its job.

Three days had passed since then, and the four of them were beginning to feel more like themselves. They could ride longer distances without needing to rest, were no longer feverish and were generally in better spirits.

Even so, their arrival in Lockerbie had demanded several hours’ sleep in the first inn they arrived at. Normally, they would’ve continued straight out to the Stewart stronghold and perhaps taken their rest there.

Fatigue had simply gotten the better of them.

“I’ll never get the stench of that poultice out of my tunic,” Fergus grumbled, slapping the offending piece of clothing against a rock again and again before plunging it back into the stream in which they bathed. It had been deemed necessary by all of them that they at least make an attempt to present themselves well.

After riding for a week while sick half to death, they all needed some freshening up. What would Douglas Stewart think about handing his daughter over to filthy, stinking mercenaries?

“Aye, once we’ve collected our silver from the earl, I’ve a mind to purchase new cloth for another tunic—maybe two,” Quinn agreed, wringing the water from his pale gray tunic before shaking and spreading it out to dry somewhat while he bathed himself.

“With the amount of silver we’re due, we ought to be able to purchase a bit more than that,” Brice grinned, thinking about what he’d like to do with his share. A new saddle, perhaps, and new shoes. The leather soles of his only pair were worn practically all the way through, and the weather would be turning cold before much longer. The nights were already cooler than before.

“Let us make haste,” he decided before dunking his head under the surface of the crisp water, lingering while he ran his finger through his bushy thatch of hair to loosen any dirt. Perhaps a going-over with a pair of shears wouldn’t hurt him much, though he’d always felt his hair was his best feature. The one area where he allowed vanity to reign.

When he surfaced, Rodric was already on the bank of the stream, standing among the low-growing shrubs. “You’re in a hurry, now?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” he asked, stepping out the water. They might all have been inviting trouble by exposing their skin to water so soon after being ill, but they were also painfully aware of how their stench and appearance might have affected the lass with whom they’d be traveling. It wouldn’t do for reports to reach her new husband of their unseemliness.

Rodric shrugged into his tunic. “It’s not as though we’ll be able to cover much road today, what with the lass likely to be unprepared for us,” he reasoned. “Like as not, Stewart will offer us his hospitality while we wait for her to make ready.”

“Aye, have ye ever known a woman to be prepared on time?” Fergus laughed.

“He speaks as though he’s ever known a woman intimately,” Quinn jested.

“Longer than the hour or two at a time you have, my lad,” Fergus sneered before dunking his friend.

They all laughed heartily, even Quinn, when he surfaced and shook the water from his hair.

“All the same,” Brice continued once their merriment died down, “I would like to arrive in time for the lass to prepare herself for morning. Who’s to say how many goodbyes she’ll wish to extend? It isn’t as if she’ll be returning, and you know how women are when it comes to such things.”

“Aye,” Rodric relented. “You make a good point. All right, then, we ought to move along.”

It was a fine, clear day, with a hint of autumn in the air. Perhaps Brice’s favorite time of year. While he enjoyed a good, long spring—the sense of waking up, of coming back to life after winter’s cold—it was the return to crisp air after summer heat which he liked best.

It invigorated him, which was a good sign after his recent illness. Gave him an appetite, too, which was another good sign. They’d all eaten well at the inn, to the point of sending the owner back to the kitchen more than once.

The poor man had looked nearly ready to throw a fit in despair toward the end and had wondered aloud whether he’d have food left in the larder to serve his guests come supper time. They had each left him more than the price of the room and meal to make up for what they’d cost him.

The much happier innkeeper had directed them to Douglas Stewart’s home, and the road which they traveled was a busy one. They rode single-file, careful to avoid the muck and filth running in a steady flow along the edge.

The village reminded him of the one in which he and Fergus had spent their youth. By now, everyone he remembered from those days would most likely be dead. New faces would have replaced them, faces belonging to people who’d taken up the same tasks, the same day-to-day activities as ever.

And when they died, the process would start itself again.

A good reminder to him of just why he’d left.

After a while, the volume of travelers thinned, and they could ride in pairs once they had more of the road to themselves. On either side, as far as the eye could see, sat rolling fields dotted by the occasional farmhouse. Livestock roamed, men shouted orders to one another. A shout of laughter would sometimes rise up.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing they would not find while traveling a road anywhere else in the countryside. Brice was glad for it, as the last thing they needed after their illness was danger or strain.

“I suppose that’s it,” Rodric announced, lifting an arm to point to the house which loomed up in the distance. It was nothing compared to the Duncan manor house—it might fit into a small corner of the place, all told, but then the Duncans lived in more of a castle than a house—but it was far more impressive than anything they’d seen in their travels to or from the village.

“The Stewarts must be doing well for themselves, then,” Quinn observed with a wry chuckle.

“Aye, and with the marriage to an earl, they’ll be more firmly situated than ever,” Fergus added. “A shrewd man, then.”

“Remember what old Murphy described,” Rodric reminded them. “He’s fierce, or believes he is, and a bully. I cannot speak for all of you, but I’ve no desire to feel a war hammer against the side of my head.”

They would have to be on their guard. Brice steeled himself for what was to come as they neared the Stewart home, his eyes shifting from side to side all the while.

There was activity outside the house. A stable boy groomed a young, gray mare, checking the saddle and ensuring the bags hanging from the side were secure. An old woman, large as a mountain and twice as wide, shouted instructions to him from the doorway.

“Be certain she has enough blankets!” she commanded. “And did you add the packet of bread and apples I tied up?”

“Aye, aye,” the lad grumbled, muttering to himself.

Brice felt for him, as the role was a thankless one even under the best conditions.

The woman folded meaty arms over an expansive breast, eyeing the four of them as they approached. “And you’ll be the escorts bringing my lass to her husband, then?”

“Aye,” Rodric replied with a slight bow of his head. “We were sent by Earl Remington to ensure the lass’s safety.”

“He’d do a sight better to come fetch her himself, rather than sending the likes of you,” the woman snarled before spitting on the weathered stones which made up the outside of the house.

The men recoiled slightly out of surprise.

Not that they’d expected a warm welcome, but this was beyond anything they’d imagined.

Brice reminded himself it wasn’t them she spat at. It was Remington. Who was this man, and why hadn’t he come to fetch his own bride? Not something any of them had discussed before then, as none of them would have an answer no matter how many times they turned it over.

He noticed then the redness of the woman’s eyes, how swollen they looked. How tears thickened her voice. She’d said, “my lass.” She loved the girl and would never see her again. He decided she was only doing what she felt was best for the sake of someone she loved a great deal and shook his head slightly when Quinn looked as though he might raise an argument.

The woman looked as though she could pack a punch, and he was in no mood to find out whether she did.

“Is Douglas Stewart about the place?” he asked in an attempt to turn the discussion back to the matter at hand.

“Aye, I suppose he is,” she replied, “and I suppose he’ll make himself known to ye in short time.” She sounded none too pleased. In fact, she screwed up her face as though she might spit again.

“Nurse! You did not tell me our guests had arrived.” A man who could only be Douglas Stewart strode from inside the house.

As Murphy had warned, a large war hammer hung from the man’s right hand, as though to send a message to those before him.

Brice distrusted him intensely.

“A good day to ye,” Rodric said, nodding. The rest of them nodded as well. “I see we’ve been expected, then.”

“Aye, word of your arrival reached me only this morning.” Douglas looked them up and down, one by one. “I understand you’ve traveled far.”

“Indeed. It’s been quite a strenuous affair,” Fergus confirmed, perhaps in the hopes that they would be invited inside and offered comfort in repayment for their pains.

He was not offering silver, after all, and yet he would surely benefit from whatever the earl offered in return for the marriage.

Douglas merely shrugged. “I suppose that is what a man learns to live with when he accepts payment in return for such services, aye? There are days when I envy men such as yourselves, untethered as ye are. While men such as me have lives to protect and a clan to oversee.”

An uneasy silence fell over them. It was clear to Brice that the man was trying to prove a point; he was their better, the stronger man, the one with responsibilities and respect.

When none of the four visitors offered a reply—for there was none to be offered—Douglas took a step back into the house. “Nurse,” he growled, “send the lass down. She’ll be wanted at her new home.”

Brice and Rodric exchanged a look when the woman disappeared, leaving them alone with the waiting stable boy. There was a strange quiet in the air, in spite of the stables and pig pen and barn sitting all around them. As though the very animals were afraid to make a sound, and those who cared for them were wary of showing their faces.

“Is there something wrong with the lass, do ye think?” Quinn wondered aloud. “It seems as though he’s glad to be rid of her, does it not?”

“Considering the trouble she’s given him, who can blame the man?” Brice reasoned. “Remember what Murphy told us. He’s likely relieved to be free.”

“I’d think that would make him better inclined to be courteous,” Fergus grumbled.

None of them had the chance to reply before a blonde-haired girl appeared in the doorway. She was small-boned, delicate, yet with a wickedly sharp jaw which Brice supposed spoke of her nature.

She looked upon them, that sharp jaw clenched. There was no telling what she thought of them or what it meant to leave her home.

It mattered not, either way, just as it mattered not what he thought of her. She might as well be made of silver, for that was what she meant in the end.

“Are you ready to leave?” she asked, chin held high.

They exchanged a confused glance, the four of them.

Brice was the first to find his voice. “You… wish to leave now? This very minute?” he asked, as though he hadn’t heard properly.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked, turning her cold gaze upon him. Blue eyes, like ice. So that was who she was. Spoiled, about to marry an earl, knowing she’d be moving up in the world when she did. Looking down upon men such as himself, much as her father did.

“Not at all,” he replied with false courtesy, a wide smile stretching his lips. “Merely that we’d expected you to take your time, as most women do.”

She all but squinted, her eyes narrowed so, and her lips drew up into a pucker. As though she were sizing him up and came away displeased with what she’d found. “You’ll find I don’t adhere to the standards men hold for most women,” she murmured. “It’s best you know that now.”

“We’ll take it to heart,” Rodric interjected with a swift glance in Brice’s direction. “And if you are prepared to depart immediately, I’m certain we can accommodate ye.”

Just like that, Brice’s hopes of one more night spent in a comfortable bed were dashed. And all because some spoiled princess of a wench had to have her way.

“Fine, then,” she said, taking the reins of the tawny mare from the stable boy. “Let us be on our way.”

Not even a glance backward as they rode off. Not a look, a hand over her eyes to catch a tear. Nothing. As though she had no feelings at all.

Perhaps it was for the best that they get started immediately. The sooner he could be rid of this creature, the better.