Chapter Eight
Frantic knocks sounded in the hall outside their room, putting Brodie on alert as he halted pulling on his boots. He held his breath as he heard a door open and two men begin to speak in heated tones.
“Four dead,” a weary, but angry voice stated.
A curse flew through the air, followed by something pounding on the plaster outside with such force that it vibrated through the walls of the old tavern. “Was it the MacDonalds again?” He’d heard this voice before but couldn’t place it, and now they were talking about Skye’s uncle’s clan.
“Aye ’tis what it looks like. Angus wrote out MacDon in his own blood as he lay on the floor dying. ’Tis unspeakable to attack a family while they sleep.”
“The brutal bastards. We have to put an end to it,” said the familiar voice.
“I ken no MacLeans will sleep soundly until we do.”
Brodie recognized the voice now—it was Ross MacLean’s oldest brother, the man who would one day be laird.
Ice spread through him as he turned his gaze to Skye, who had frozen, standing at the end of the bed in the process of dressing in a rosy pink gown he’d had delivered from the town seamstress the evening before. She eased down on the end of the bed, angling her ear toward the door.
The MacLeans were staunch Royalists. If Skye’s uncle was attacking them, it could be the proof he needed that the MacDonald was a Covenanter sympathizer. The letter he’d given to the innkeeper on their arrival last night to be delivered to a post-boy invited the MacDonald laird to come retrieve Skye at Kentillie, but there was no way he’d let her go with a Covenanter, especially when Argyll wanted her dead.
A bang reverberated as a door shut, and Brodie assumed both the men went inside one of the rooms, because all he could hear after that were muffled tones. He could feign inebriation and listen as he lay outside the door. On numerous occasions, he’d had to put himself in a vulnerable position and suffered a few cracked ribs and bruises when he’d been kicked to make sure he was of no threat to the men talking. But Skye was here, and he couldn’t put her at risk.
Could the men’s discussion have something to do with Ross’s attempt to abduct her? Instinct told him yes, and he didn’t know if it was his duty or something more primal that warned him to keep her near. The MacLeans were a fearsome bunch when their clan was threatened, and someone out there was stirring them up.
And, what of the MacDonald? Was the man letting his clan run amok killing innocent people and threatening war? If he was in league with Argyll, why would the Covenanter leader be after Skye? The laird was more cunning than that and wouldn’t risk his niece, but until Brodie knew the truth, he could trust no one. It would be all-out war between Ross’s clan and the MacDonalds if Skye’s uncle were truly involved in the massacre of innocent MacLean farmers.
In the meantime, Skye would most certainly be better off with the Camerons at Kentillie—he’d have Lachlan lock her in the dungeon before he allowed her to put herself in that kind of danger.
The need to keep her guarded came back stronger than ever, but also the idea that she knew something which could help him put all the pieces together.
Standing without retrieving his boots, he moved to the end of the bed and pulled Skye to her feet.
“That was Ross’s brother talking about yer uncle’s clan.”
The far off look that had settled into her eyes faded. “The MacDonalds would no’ slaughter innocent people. I dinnae ken what they are talking about,” she whispered, but he could hear the bite in her words at the accusation.
“It could explain what Ross wants with ye.”
“And what would that be?” Putting her hands on her hips, she glared at him with the same anger that had emanated from her the night he’d found her in the wagon.
“Mayhap revenge or as a bargaining chip to keep yer uncle in line.” The trust he’d slowly developed with her over the last couple days was slipping away, but he continued.
“My uncle has done nothing.” She started to put space between them, but he moved to the side and blocked her escape.
“Then, why does Argyll want ye dead? Mayhap the MacDonald made a deal with him to slaughter innocent Royalists but his conscience returned, so he’s stopped following the earl’s orders.”
“My uncle would never bow down to the Covenanters.” They glared at each other for a moment. He backed away but kept his gaze on her as she darted to the other side of the room.
He would have to resort to an indirect method to gain information. As he’d surmised earlier, seduction was his best course of action. It would be easier than this verbal sparring.
Motioning for Skye to continue dressing, he peered out the small window and saw that the MacLeans were mounting their horses and riding away. It was safe to leave the room. But as they made their way downstairs, he eyed every corner and crevice they passed for any potential threats.
…
As they sped along the well-trodden road back toward Skye’s old home and the world she’d left behind, the time passed quickly and dark pines became thicker, dotting the inclines of the mountains as they started to take on familiar forms. The terrain had become a bit rougher and the trail made snake-like patterns, slithering around the landscape to adjust for the steep hills and fast flowing streams.
The conversation of the men in the hall this morning played again in her head, and she couldn’t help but think she was missing something important. Brodie must have felt the same, because he’d turned confrontational, accusing her uncle of awful deeds he was incapable of, which had only fired her temper. Brodie had no right to be angry with her.
What had they said? “MacDon…” Her head swirled as warning bells she couldn’t quite hear rang out.
The murder of a MacLean had her thoughts wandering to Murdina, the woman who had taught her which spices mixed well and how to use them.
Who had told Murdina what happened to her husband? Skye could still see his brutalized body lying on the shore after she and her uncle had ferried across the waters that separated the Isle of Skye from the rest of the Highlands on their way to Stirling. Vicious cuts had marred his naked body, almost as if he’d been tortured. Blood still seeped into the ground where he lay face down, holding a stick with which he had etched some letters into the sand. She saw them, but they didn’t register then, because she’d noticed his face and realized she knew him.
Memories of the man bringing in sacks of potatoes and other heavier items into the kitchen flowed through her, and she’d turned her head to block the sight, but the image was already burned into the back of her eyelids. She thought of the three fatherless children and the sweet woman who had been a mentor.
Her uncle had sent her ahead with a few men to an inn, where they’d stayed waiting for several days. When he arrived, he didn’t answer any of the questions she’d put to him.
A shiver ran through her, and she had a nagging sense she should have caught on to something.
As the sun started to descend yet again, a loud yipping call erupted into the air, alerting them to the presence of a nearby fox in search of a mate. The sound took her back to the first time Brodie had gone somewhere and left her behind.
“Brodie, I have something to show ye,” a younger version of herself called out to him as he boarded a wagon with his family. Having found a den of baby foxes, she wanted to share the discovery with him.
“No’ now. I’ll see when we get back.” She wanted to scream “look at me,” but his family was there, and his mother had never given the impression that she liked Skye. Not wanting to incur Shona’s wrath, she tamped down the rising swell of anger.
“Back from where?”
“We’re going to Inverness.” She opened her mouth to ask why, but Brodie’s father called out to the horses and they shot off, leaving her in clouds of dust.
The next morning, she’d gone to see the wee animals, but all she found were smudges of blood and a nest that looked as if it had been ripped apart. She cried alone in the woods, and when Brodie returned home, more than a week later, he didn’t even ask what she had wanted to show him.
Looking back now, ’twas probably silly to have expected him to remember her request, but at the time, it had been important to her. Shaking her head free from the memory, she reflected on his uncharacteristic silence thus far on today’s journey. She knew she’d upset him with her words this morning, but he was wrong about her uncle.
They had used most of the daylight to traverse the rocky winding path, but the sun’s rays were fading behind the mountains now, and a cold breeze swirled, so they stopped at yet another inn for the evening, and she sought out the innkeeper while Brodie saw to the horse in the stables. Luckily, she’d been able to secure a room for each of them above stairs. She kept her distance and her resolve to not give in to the desire for the companionship, trust, and love they once shared. She was betrothed. Even if she found a way to forgive Brodie, it was too late for them. With Collin, she wouldn’t have love, but she’d never be alone again, and Brodie had proven he couldn’t give her that.
Setting out the next morning, she noticed Brodie’s cheeks were flushed red, and he moved slower than he had the day before. By the afternoon, a bitter wind blew down the path, corralled by the mountains on either side. Dark gray clouds colored the sky in an ominous portent of what it intended to unleash on them.
Brodie pulled an extra plaid from a bag he’d had belted to the horse and wrapped it around them.
“We arnae far now. I dinnae have much in the kitchens, but I would be grateful if ye would make us something to eat.” They hadn’t stopped for lunch, and she was famished.
“I’m sure I can find something, but will yer mother let me in her kitchen?”
“Ye dinnae have to worry with that. I moved out.”
Relief flooded her, and her rebellious mouth opened to confess something that had bothered her for years. “I dinnae think yer mother liked me.”
“Nae, she liked ye just fine until ye left me without a word. Now, she isnae too pleased with ye. What makes ye think she didnae like ye?”
“She told me once that I was in the way and should spend more time at home.”
“I promise that until ye left, she never uttered a word against ye.”
They fell into silence again as thick white flakes filled the air, landing on her cheeks and hair, welcoming her home with the beautiful, magical twilight. An urge to go down the dark, moss covered path that led to the double waterfall she’d loved as a child brought a smile to her lips, but it was freezing. Those falls had brought her comfort whenever Brodie disappeared, the soothing hum blocking out the fear he wouldn’t come back this time. She shook away the memory.
Shivering, she sank deeper into Brodie—he was like an oven and had kept her warm most of the day. But the cold had intensified with the wet slivers as the sun had started to set. A layer of white blanketed everything in sight, giving the landscape a dreamy, surreal view.
The snowcapped mountains and pines were beautiful, and despite her being gone for so long, it was reassuring to note the familiar landmarks dotting the frozen wilderness. She had never admitted to herself how much she truly missed this place, but seeing it again told her it had been a mistake to not insist her uncle bring her for a visit so she could deal with the demons of the past.
They rode past Brodie’s house and kept moving toward the cottage where she had grown up, and her heart started to race with excitement. He was taking her home. Her toes were starting to go numb from the cold, and she leaned back closer to his warm body as he softly wrapped his arm around her waist.
“Welcome home.”
She had expected to see a rundown shell of the home she had known from her youth, but it appeared just as well kept as ever, with its solid thatch roof and smooth stone walls still looking the same as the day she had left. Someone had cared for the place. Emotions washed over her as pride swelled in her chest and nostalgic memories danced through her head.
Her eyes watered, and she stood unmoving in the cold to enjoy the view while Brodie stabled the horse. An image flitted by, a young girl with bouncy blond curls skipping behind a golden haired braw Highlander—her father—and the tears threatened to spill.
Brodie joined her, but his movements had become slower and even more languid. Lines creased his brow, and his eyes were red and tired. She’d had chances to doze on their travels, but he had not, and now she felt guilty that he had pushed so hard to get them there in record speed.
Cold seeped through her boots as they trudged through the accumulating snow. When the door swung open, she gasped. It was as if she’d never left. One of her favorite plaids was draped across the back of the same wooden bench where her mother had read tales of chivalrous knights and ladies to her.
Skye darted into the house then walked in a daze to the red and green woven material. Sinking onto the worn cushions of the bench, she pulled the plaid up to her cheek. It was as soft as she remembered it, but the smell was different. The masculine scent of fresh chopped wood mixed with smoke filled her nostrils. Brodie. Her insides warmed. Not a thing had been changed, and it had all been meticulously kept up.
As the door clicked closed, she turned to him. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. He studied her.
“Did ye take care of it?” She waved her hand around the room.
“Aye,” he said as he dropped the small bag he’d been carrying, then swiveled to latch the door. When he twisted back around he stumbled, and she’d have thought him intoxicated if she’d not just spent the whole day on horseback with him.
“Ye kept it all the same?” Her eyes followed him as he staggered to the cushioned bench beside her and fell into the seat.
“Aye, ’twas perfect the way it was. It has only been missing ye.” His glassy eyes were sad and seemed to have trouble keeping their focus.
“Thank ye.” Reaching out, she placed her hand on his cheek, wanting him to know how much it truly meant to her.
He was so hot.
“Ye’re so warm. Are ye well?”
“I am just a wee bit tired. Let me get the fire going for ye.”
“Nae, stay here.” She motioned around the cottage. “I remember where everything is.” Her uncle had not bothered to give her time to pack, because he’d whisked her away immediately following her father’s funeral, insisting he would get her everything she needed.
Brodie remained seated without protest and curled up in the plaid she’d just been holding. Reclining awkwardly, his feet hung off the end as he lay on his back. The fabric rippled as he settled beneath it. He must not be feeling well to let her take charge.
Unease about his condition pricked at her, but she busied herself making a fire. She put some water on to heat for tea and was struck by a feeling of belonging. It felt good to be in her own home again. She inhaled sharply and reveled in the familiar smell of pine and peat.
Glancing over to where Brodie was softly snoring on the bench she smiled and was surprised by the first thing that popped into her head. He looked right there, too. This place was not her home without him in it. They had practically grown up together, and her father had loved him as much as he had her.
She tiptoed over to study him. The man who had once owned her body and soul. Being honest with herself, she sighed and admitted what she had tried to deny—he still did.
His teeth were chattering, and he was shivering. His golden skin had become pale. She knelt beside his restless form and touched his cheek again. Trailing her hand up, she gasped at the heat that radiated from his temple.
He was ill. Panic enveloped her. How had he become so sick so quickly?
Oh God. Her heart sank. He hadn’t. The signs had been there all day. But he’d fought through it to get her home by tonight. The foolish man. She knew how to use herbs for cooking, but not how to heal.
Her hands trembled as she stood and clasped them together to calm the fear and helplessness that coursed through her. She had to find someone who would know what to do.
Would Coira still be at Kentillie Castle? The sun had almost set, but she knew the way by heart.
She raced to the kitchen and took the warming water out of the hearth. After gathering a plaid, she threw it on then struggled to pull her still wet boots back onto her feet. She knelt and whispered in Brodie’s ear, “I’ll get ye help, dearest.”
It was the first time she had used that word in years. The old endearment had rolled off her tongue without thought. She swiped the tear back from her cheek, pulled at her arisaid, pinning it securely, and made her way to the door.
Once back out in the chilled night air, she ran for the stable. She would be able to get to the castle, but once she arrived, would there be anyone who would be able to help Brodie?