The hooks along the walls sat empty, no longer holding her modest kirtles or chemises. The little chest which had sat at the foot of her small straw tick bed held everything she owned in the world, other than her land, naturally.

There was nothing left to do but wait for her escorts to arrive.

Time had never stretched out the way it did just then, with each moment seeming to span a day. It wasn’t as if she wanted to leave or that she wished her escorts would make haste.

It was merely the strain of waiting which wore on her.

Ysmaine gazed out the window beside her bed for what could well have been the ten thousandth time.

And possibly the last.

How many sunrises? How many first snowfalls of the season? How many nights had she spent there, seated on a little stool, staring out into the dark, starry night? Wondering?

What she’d wondered had no name, no explanation. She’d simply wondered. About life, about her future. About the past and what had brought her mother across the North Sea from Cherbourg and up to Inverness, where she’d met the man she’d been fated to wed.

Ysmaine had pondered the question of whether such a fateful journey might be in store for her someday. Now, she was on the verge of a voyage to the land from which her mother had come.

What would her mother think if she knew this? Would she be proud?

As Ysmaine took one last, long look at the land which her father had left her. It stretched down to the river, where fish traps had sat for as long as she could remember. Many was the morning she’d walked down to the water’s edge to check for fresh pike, carrying the traps back to the house with a proud smile as though she were the reason the fish had swum into the traps.

Many was the day she’d stripped off her stockings and tucked her skirts into her belt before playing in the cool water. She had once slipped and fallen in entirely, with only a low-hanging branch further downriver providing her the means to save herself.

She’d never told anyone of it, out of shame for the panic she’d suffered in those agonizing moments before she’d seen the branch and reached for it. When she’d been certain she was going to drown.

The land on the other side of the river was covered in fragrant pine, providing the most wonderful scent when the wind blew just right. She would never smell pine again without thinking of home.

Niall’s men had already come to gather the chickens and livestock the day before, as she hadn’t the heart to sell them prior to departing and he’d offered to take them. There simply hadn’t been time to prepare herself for everything involved in leaving home, but he had promised to look after her interests in her absence.

The Marquis had certainly not given her much time to settle things, though he might have assumed there was nothing for her to settle. Women did not often own land, Connor Fraser had made certain that none could contest her claim in the event of his death, but many men did not take such pains.

The sight of a carriage in the distance, pulled by a pair of black horses, shook her from her reverie. Was it coming for her? She did not recognize the men seated behind the horses, both of them dressed in long tunics which fell past their knees and were dyed the most fascinating shade of red.

How did one achieve such vibrant color? She could hardly imagine, never having owned anything that was not brown, gray or in the most special of cases, a shade of red which reminded her of rust and faded with each washing. Nothing near as wonderous as what approached.

The men wore hats with tall crowns and wide brims which made it all but impossible for her to see their faces, not that she could have made much out from afar. She merely wanted to know—needed to know—whether they were friendly or unkind.

The swords hanging from their leather belts caused her to believe they might be much more the latter than the former. A lump grew in her throat, making it difficult to breathe.

They were her protectors. The Marquis had sent them for her to ensure her safety, as her grandfather would have wished. There was nothing to fear.

Even so, the hand she ran over the front of her kirtle trembled. She looked down at herself once again, wondering if the garment she had chosen for such a special occasion was truly so special when compared to the finery of her escorts.

It was something her mother had overseen the making of before her passing and was perhaps a bit tight at the elbow and bust; it was several years old and, while in good condition from being rarely worn, was still a garment created for a fifteen-year-old who’d had growing left to do.

She’d wanted to impress them, to prove that no matter what idea her grandfather had given his friends about his son-in-law, she’d lived a good life. A life in which her parents had provided well for her. Though her father was no longer alive to bear the scorn of Simon de Monterel, that did not remove the bitter thorn from Ysmaine’s breast.

When the carriage turned from the road and through the opening in the stone wall which bordered it, she knew it was there for her.

This was it. The day on which the course of her life would change.

She cast one more look about her chambers, a room in which she’d slept and dreamed, tossed about the bed with a fever which her mother had helped her through, and wept when both her mother and father left her forever. So much of her life spent right there, behind the window, looking out onto a world of which she was about to become a part.

It was best to hurry out before tears had the chance to take hold.

Her trunk sat inside the rear door, everything of value packed inside. It wasn’t as though she possessed much. A pair of copper candlesticks which her father had presented to her mother after their wedding, and the gown which Louise had worn during the ceremony. An old rag doll which she’d loved in her early years. Her mother’s pearls, carefully wrapped in layers of linen so they might not become scratched and dull.

The only other valuable item—other than Ysmaine’s garments, all of which were packed around her treasures—was a jeweled brooch. Gold, inlaid with pearl. Louise’s favorite jewel. Oblong, as wide as the length of Ysmaine’s thumb, it had been used to hold Louise de Monterel’s cloak together while she journeyed from Cherbourg to Inverness, where she had become Louise Fraser.

Ysmaine closed her long, dark cloak with the same brooch before opening the door to her escorts.

Rather than the men, what caught her eye was the horses. Beauties, all of them, prancing and sleek, muscles standing out beneath their shining coats. Their tails flicked back and forth; their heads tossed as they waited impatiently.

The man sitting beside the driver alighted from the carriage and bowed. “Is this the residence of Ysmaine Fraser?” he asked.

“It is. I am Ysmaine.” Her cheeks pinked, she was not accustomed to speaking with strange men, especially those who were not of her father’s clan.

He nodded, then looked about himself. “We’ve come to take you home.”

Home? But she was already standing at the threshold of her home, where she had spent her entire life. Cherbourg was not home, no matter what waited for her or how wonderful it might be.

She hoped she might one day come to think of it as home, as her mother had once she’d settled into married life.

“What are your names?” she asked as the man loaded her trunk into the carriage, its rounded top covered with thick canvas to provide privacy.

They exchanged a wide-eyed look, as though surprised she would ask—why, she could not imagine. They would travel many days together, after all. Why not at least know how to address them?

After a pause, the man loading her trunk—younger, almost rather handsome—replied. “My name is Leon. The driver is Geoffrey.”

“I’m pleased to meet you both.” She looked up at the driver, who nodded without speaking. He was older, weathered, with the dark complexion of a man who spent much of his life out of doors and a scar which ran down the length of his neck.

“You are the Marquis’s men, then?” she asked, and realized she was stalling. This was it, after all. There was no turning back once they’d begun, certainly not once they boarded the ship which would carry them across the sea.

“Yes, we are. And we had better be on our way, as the Marquis is waiting for us.”

“Yes,” Geoffrey agreed, finally deciding to speak. “He is not a man who enjoys waiting.”

Well, then.

Ysmaine held her tongue and allowed Leon to help her into the back of the carriage, where there was no choice but to make a seat on the wooden boards, among lengths of rope, bags of oats for the horses and crockery which she supposed was meant to store water.

“Our apologies,” Leon murmured, looking pained. “We were unable to secure a more comfortable carriage upon our arrival in Inverness.”

She put on a cheerful expression. “Not at all. I am certain this will do very well.” She sat with her back to her trunk, facing the rear of the carriage so that she might at least have a view of what she was leaving behind even if the canvas made it impossible to look around her.

“Take care to watch for anyone who might follow us,” Geoffrey grunted from behind her.

“Why is that?” she asked, craning her neck to look up at the two men through an opening in the canvas.

“These roads are not safe,” Leon scowled as he called over his shoulder. “We heard reports at the inn in which we spent the night of three carriages overtaken by thieves in as many days.”

The thought was enough to stop Ysmaine’s heart in mid-beat. She fingered the brooch at her neck, rethinking the wisdom of having worn it. Judging from the distant attitudes of both men, she could as easily have worn her oldest kirtle and foregone entirely the use of shoes.

It would have made no difference in how little they considered her.

Geoffrey snapped the reins, and the carriage jolted, then began swaying back and forth as the wheels turned and they began their long journey.

Tears flowed freely down Ysmaine’s cheeks as she watched her little house grow smaller with each turn of the wheels. It looked sad, somehow. Abandoned. As though it knew she was leaving.

This was all nonsense, naturally. Stone and mortar made a house, nothing more.

This did not comfort her. She still felt the pain of watching her childhood home dwindle in size as keenly as she’d felt the pain of losing her parents. Perhaps that was what truly hurt, leaving the last of them behind.

And moving on toward… what? She could not say. Not yet. She could only hope it was something better, something that might make the loss worthwhile in comparison.