LOST AND FOUND
The thing that struck hardest out here on the moors was the cold.
Joanna, out riding her favorite horse, a Jennet called Storm Surge, gifted to her by Brien, shivered.
I should have brought my other cloak.
When she first set out on her ride, the sun had been shining, sending frosty shafts of light down to the field. As she rode, the wind had risen, bringing back the clouds.
Now there's a storm.
It hadn't broken yet, but Joanna, used to the weather in these parts, could feel it building. The air had that strange, sparking quality that heralded it, the clouds black, and the wind fretful. It howled through the distant trees, making Joanna shiver.
I'm out here with nowhere to hide.
She wished she had brought that wool-lined coat. When the rain came, she would be soaked through. Then she risked the fever that her mother and her sister had. She might already be harboring it.
She bit her lip. She did not want to worry. She had enough to worry her here.
The missing servants. The haunting. Dougal.
Of all of her worries, the haunting seemed more straightforward. She rode on, focusing on that particular concern.
Somehow, she knew her vision linked to it: the vision of Dougal that had overlaid his face the night before. The one where he was young and cruel. She had no idea how that might contribute to the problems they now faced.
I shall have to ask him.
The thought made her feel odd. A sort of strange excitement filled her. The same feeling that came over her every time she thought of spending time with Dougal, alone.
No, Joanna.
She couldn't let herself get lost in thoughts of Dougal. That didn't help her to solve any problems.
She was here on a mission: to see her great-great uncle's property handled as he would have wished. So far, though, she had no idea how. The longer she stayed at Lochlann, the more problems appeared to assail her. A trip to the kitchen to pack lunch had shown her the supplies were irregular and their stores were low.
I don't think we can last through winter. Not without being very careful.
In that case, the lack of servants was a benefit: They had less people relying on them for food.
However, the townsfolk would lean on the stores of grain – they always did – and the guardsmen needed to eat, and the priest...
Joanna stopped. Where was Father Mallory? It was strange. He had cared for the whole family at the castle, and in former times he would have been a constant presence, reassuring the servants, giving condolences to the family, helping to plan the wake and settle the matter of Lord Brien's possessions. However, he was not here.
Maybe he has withdrawn to pray. He will be at the wake. I can find him then.
The thought of the thin, kindly face of the old priest brought Joanna some reassurance. He was well loved in the valley, respected by everyone who lived there.
If anyone can convince these people that the hauntings aren't real, it's him.
The thought cheered her. She was sure he would see things as she had. He had a ready mind and, unlike many of the priests she met, he was willing to listen to almost anything, considering all eventualities.
Yes, he can help us in this.
Joanna felt her spirits lift, and looked around. She was surprised. She had been so lost in thought that she barely noticed just how dark it was. She had followed the track up the hillside almost by instinct and she was now out quite far, following the ridge where the trees began. She frowned.
She saw some sheep move on the hill along from her, and recalled another worry from the morning. I should ask Bet about the farmer.
The matter of the rancid butter bothered her. Why had nothing been delivered since last week? It was odd.
The sudden crack of thunder jerked her head up.
“Storm Surge?” she said nervously to her horse, feeling her suddenly tense.
Her horse snorted, shaking again as if she was bitten by flies. She was restless. Feet stamping, tail flicking. Joanna, looking around, realized why.
The sky was almost black. She could see nothing across the valley, the hill and the castle all swallowed up in mist. If she had not known this hillside, she would have been completely lost.
“Easy,” she said to the horse, patting her neck. They halted and Joanna looked down over the valley, trying to stop herself from panicking.
When the next roar of thunder shattered the silence, Joanna felt her finally lose calm. Storm Surge threw herself back, rearing in alarm then she bolted.
“Stop!” Joanna said loudly. “Calm. Calm down, dear.”
Nothing was going to calm her frantic steed. She had enough, clearly, and bolted for home.
Except she was facing the wrong way.
“No!” Joanna shouted, really alarmed now. They were, she was sure, heading the wrong way. The castle was behind her, surely now?
It was dark, the rain starting. She could not see from here the rocky summit where the castle stood. The valley between was swathed in mist and torrent. She was lost.
“Storm Surge, whoa!”
She was almost crying now, terrified. Her whole body shook with the bone shattering speed of the ride. Her arms ached from trying to stay upright, holding onto the pommel of the saddle with one hand, then with both, the reins wrapped in her left, gripping wildly. Her back hurt.
She was cold, in pain, frightened. Lost.
“Please,” she whispered, though she did not know any more to whom she spoke. “Help us.”
The sky roared at her, the darkness shattered with a sudden burst of fire. Her horse screamed with it, and Joanna let her own voice out in a wordless, horrified cry.
They were heading to the edge.
She knew this ridge, she remembered. She had ridden it once when she was much younger, perhaps ten years ago. She had been with Fergal, the head of their guard. He had told her of the dangers of riding here alone, and in winter.
“You dinnae see the edge, milady, not afore you're too late.”They were heading, at a breakneck speed, towards the cliffs.
Sobbing with panic, soaking, cold, Joanna closed her eyes.
She couldn't do anything to stop. All she could do was hope.
The storm was different. The rain had started, a sheeting, drenching tide that scalded her eyes, freezing her to deep in her bones. The roars had softened, the gap between the lightning and thunder longer now than earlier. It was still hazy, impossible to discern where she was, or where they went.
Her eyes closed again, Joanna listened. Something else had changed. They were on rocky terrain, and she could hear a second set of hoof-beats.
At first, she thought she imagined it, but the more she listened, the more certain she became.
There was someone with them, keeping to their pace.
She wet her lips, cleared her throat. “Hello?”
Her voice must have carried, for she heard someone shout.
“Joanna? Wait!”
“Can't...,” she screamed. Her horse, who had slowed somewhat, was going faster now. She had evidently heard the voices too, and the second hoofs, and spooked again.
“Hold on!”
The voice shouted behind her, and she knew then who it was. Somehow, somewhere, Dougal had arrived. He was here. Behind her. Racing to catch up.
Joanna closed her eyes. Prayed. Gripped with her knees. Tried to lean, to draw on the reins, to grip. To do all the things you were taught to do to slow your mount.
She slowed.
At the same instant, she heard the hoofs alongside theirs. It was Dougal.
“Here!”
He reached across to her. His arms came around her waist, holding her tight. As she screamed, terrified, he drew her from the saddle, hauling her across his knee. Then he grabbed the reins of her horse.
Shouting, he reached out and covered the horse's left eye. She did what horses do when they are suddenly impeded. She turned.
Away from the cliffs.
Dougal halted their horse. Watched as her horse ran a little down the hillside, and then paused. Stopped. Waited.
Joanna lay where she was on his knee. She was panting with terror, her body shuddering with exhaustion and relief and the aftermath of horror.
“You...saved me,” she gasped.
He looked down at her. “You mad fiend,” he almost shouted, shaking her. “How could you do something so wild, so dangerous? You nearly died!”
Joanna looked at him. He had just snatched her from certain death. Now he shouted in her face? Shook her, as if she was a child in the kitchen-patch, stealing shelled peas?
She slithered off his horse and landed on the ground, her sodden boots making a sloshing noise as she made an impact. He scrambled down from his horse, seeming horrified.
“What?”
“What!” she laughed, knowing she sounded hysterical. She didn't care: she was. “I could ask you the same thing! You shout at me, shake me, treat me like a child! Have you no feelings? I would have died!”
“Why do you think I'm angry with you?” he shouted back. “How could you! I almost lost you.”
She stared at him. His breath was heaving in his chest. The storm had died down, the thunder a distant roar. The rain was slowing also. His face was tortured, slick with rain, eyes dark.
Joanna felt something move in her chest. She went to him. Held him close.
He lifted his own arms. Very slowly, tenderly, he folded them around her body. Held her close. His cloak covered them both. He held her tight. He smelled of leather and smoke, of musk and peat and dust. He felt safe.
She looked up at him.
“Thank you.”
He stared at her. “My lady, I...”
He moved and she moved and, as if they had discussed it, their lips met. His lips were hard on hers, wet from the rain, hungry and questing and warm. Her own needs met his and she felt a wild joy break loose inside her.
He stepped back. “Lady Joanna...”
“Joanna,” she said firmly, breath heaving in her chest. “And you are Dougal. I think, now you saved me, we can set aside formality?”
She laughed a little unsteadily, and he laughed with her.
Joanna looked up at him, his head thrown back, rain soaking his face, wetting his hair, plastering his cloak down to his body. She felt wonderful.
“Dougal,” she said softly. “Dougal.”
“Joanna.”
They embraced. Their lips moved over one another's once again. This time, the kiss was soft, slow, and eager, an exploration of one another's bodies.
When they drew apart, Joanna felt as if her heart might break. She wanted him. She longed for him. Without ever having done or felt any of this, she knew her body knew what it wanted.
Who it wanted, now and always.
As if they had agreed it, they reached for one another's hand.
Slowly, shivering, drenched with rain and holding hands, they walked down the ridge.
Heading for home.