Chapter Twenty Five
Fiona left the pantry, heading back into the kitchen. “Mary, I noticed the stores of willow bark and sage are running low. Otherwise, the herb cupboard is well in hand.” Fiona smiled at the cook. “Not that I am surprised. Ye keep a well-stocked pantry, to be sure.”
Mary blushed at her praise. Dusting off her hands, she passed Fiona a wooden spoon. “Taste the pottage I’ve made for the warriors’ dinner.”
Fiona crossed to the pitfire over which hung a large, steaming pot. She deeply inhaled the coiling scents of rich meats and thyme before dipping her spoon into the stew. “Delicious,” she affirmed to the cook.
Mary nodded. “Good. Those men have been training night and day. I only pray their skills are not needed.”
Fiona made the sign of the cross and whispered a similar prayer before she reached over and patted Mary’s hand. “God is on our side. Remember that in yer heart.”
Tears flooded the cook’s eyes. “If only I can count on his forgiveness.”
Fiona shook her head. “But whatever for?”
Mary swiped at the wetness that had escaped the confines of her lids. “When I learned our laird had chosen ye as his bride, I had wicked thoughts. I didn’t want ye here. I prayed ye wouldn’t come.”
“Hush now, Mary. Don’t fret,” Fiona soothed, pulling the cook into her arms. “Trust me when I say my prayers were the very same.”
Mary smiled, laughing through her tears. “I suppose we’ve surprised each other.”
“We certainly have,” Fiona said warmly.
Mary cleared her throat and stepped back, patting her face dry with the bottom of her apron. “Now, then, where were we? Oh, I’ve planned a special feast for the evening meal in honor of our laird’s return.”
Fiona’s heart leapt with excitement. “He did say we might expect him today. I only pray he’s not been delayed.”
“My lady!”
Fiona and Mary both turned.
Matthew stood in the doorway, his breaths coming in great heaves. “There was an attack on a group of cottars settled an hour’s ride west of here. Warriors already race to their aid. I’m leaving now to join them.”
Fiona nodded, wiping her hands off on her apron. “I’m coming with ye.”
“Nay,” he blurted. “What I meant to say, my lady, is…well…Nay! ‘Tis too dangerous.”
Fiona walked past him. “I will not yield. Do not waste yer breath.”
She rushed to the herb cupboard and seized a basket off the shelf, which she filled with dried Hart’s Tongue, meadowsweet, goldenrod, butter, and strips of clean linen. “Ye’ll need a healer, which I am.”
Matthew shook his head but did not try to stop her. “I do not ken what Jamie will say, but let us hurry!”
Fiona bent low in the saddle, urging her mare to keep up with Matthew’s powerful black stallion. Together, they thundered up a steep hill. When they reached the top, Fiona’s heart sank. Tears stung her eyes. Billowing black smoke writhed above huts being devoured by roaring flames. Mid-summer crops were crumbling to ash. Warriors moved among the rubble and charred earth, searching for survivors.
Choking back sobs, she charged down the hill. When she neared the destruction, she slid off her horse and darted toward the nearest warrior. He looked up at her approach. Bushy brown hair framed his ashen skin. His face was pinched with anguish.
“Please tell me they’re not all dead,” she cried.
He held out empty soot-streaked hands. “We’ve found no one.” He pointed to a nearby hut, consumed by fire. “’Tis my home.” His lips trembled. “I do not ken if my wife and daughter escaped.” Then his eyes shot wide. His nostrils flared. Without another word, he turned and seized Fiona’s mare, swinging up in the saddle. Then he sped off toward the woods.
Her mind raced, and her heart drummed in her chest as she scoured the grounds, searching for any sign of life…or death.
“Matthew,” she screamed, racing toward a fallen woman whose legs protruded from behind a tree. When she reached the body, Fiona dropped to her knees. “Please, God,” she rasped and swept aside the woman’s tangled flaxen hair to press her cheek to her chest.
“She breathes,” she announced to Matthew when he arrived with her basket of supplies in hand. Fiona snatched up a linen strip and blotted the dark red trickle seeping from a gash on the woman’s temple. Then she noticed a ragged tear in the upper arm of her tunic. Folding the thin wool back, Fiona gasped when she saw blood oozing from a deep slice in her arm.
Matthew bent down several feet away and yanked an arrow from the ground. “It just missed its mark.” Then he motioned to a rock near the tree. “I’d wager she fell when the arrow grazed her and hit her head.”
“Then, she’s been rendered unconscious,” Fiona said absently as she took hold of the woman’s hand. Thick lashes fluttered against the woman’s pale cheeks. Fiona guessed they were near the same age. “What is her name?”
“Holly,” he said. “She is Balloch’s sister.”
In answer to her questioning look, Matthew told her, “Balloch is the warrior ye spoke to when we first arrived.”
“They are here,” a deep voice bellowed.
Matthew’s face brightened. “And here he is now.”
From out of the woods, Balloch appeared, holding a young lass in his arms. At his side, with her arms wrapped around his thick waist, trudged a willowy-framed woman with long, red hair. Behind them more than a dozen people followed.
Fiona jumped to her feet. “They survived,” she squealed to Matthew before racing toward the villagers. “Praise be to Mary and all the Saints,” she cried when she reached Balloch. The wee lass in his arms had hair every bit as red as the woman at his side, but her eyes were rich brown like his.
Tears streamed down his rugged cheeks. “My lassies,” he said, his voice breaking. He pulled his wife close.
Fiona’s face crumpled beneath the weight of her relief. She stood by and watched the families embrace and console one another.
“Where were they?” she asked Matthew when he reached her side.
“Jamie had the warriors dig deep pits in the woods hidden amid the bramble and thicket in case of an attack.”
Balloch’s wife turned to them. Her blue eyes weary but relieved. “When we heard the watchtower bell, we hid.” Then her face crumpled. “It was dreadful, the shouts of the men and the roar from the fires. They searched the forest, but praise be to the good Lord, they did not find us.”
“It was so scary, Da,” the wee lass said, turning big brown eyes on her father.
“’Tis all right now, lass,” he crooned.
Fiona nodded. “Yer da’s right, little one.” Then she stepped back and cupped her hands around her mouth. “If anyone has suffered injury, come forward.”
Several people turned to her with scrapes that needed bandaging while others just needed a shoulder to cry their fears on. She prayed with them, giving thanks to God for his mercy.
“My lady.”
Fiona looked down at Balloch’s daughter who reached her arms high. “Oh, ye sweet wee lass,” Fiona exclaimed, scooping up the child. She held her close, bouncing ever so slightly. Her wee body trembled in Fiona’s arms.
“I was so scared, my lady,” she cried.
Fresh tears stung Fiona’s eyes. “Ye’re safe now, sweetling.”
Suddenly, the thunder of hooves drummed in the distance. Fiona sucked in a sharp breath.
“Back to the woods,” Matthew shouted
“It will be all right,” Fiona told the girl before handing her back to her mother. “Go,” she shouted. “Run!”
Then she whirled around, her gaze fixed on the sloping moors. The pounding of the hooves matched the rhythm of her quaking heart. She held her breath, waiting. Then riders appeared over the hills, their banners flapping in the wind. “’Tis the MacLeod,” she shouted. Her heart nigh leapt from her chest. “Matthew, ‘tis Jamie!”
She raced toward the riders. One broke away from the others, pushing his horse harder. Golden hair shone in the sun. “Jamie!”
When he drew close, he slid from his horse. In breaths, moments, his arms were around her. He held her in a crushing embrace, lifting her feet clear off the ground. Then he set her down and cupped her cheeks. “Are ye all right? Are ye hurt? Why are ye away from the keep?”
“I am well,” she assured him. “I came to help.”
He kissed her lips, then looked past her to the destruction.
“They’re all alive,” she told him. “Everyone survived.”
Relief instantly shone on his face. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and walked with her toward the people who had turned back from the woods. As Jamie and Fiona drew near, the children rushed to their laird. Tears streaked their sooty faces. Jamie released her and knelt to the ground. He opened his arms wide in time for the collision of wee bodies against his chest. Closing his arms, he held them close. Fiona cried into her hand at the sight of Jamie embracing the children.
He was her husband, and like any true laird, he was father to their people.