do with the chill weather around them. At his uncle’s nod, the chieftain followed him away from their gathered men to a place a short distance from the tents. Although they turned and left quickly, it was not so quick that Alan missed the knowing smile on his uncle’s face.
Gilbert Cameron was not displeased by this death.
Once more it would seem that his uncle would be the one benefitting by a young woman’s death. As he waited on his uncle’s orders, he offered up a quick prayer that this lass, like the ones before her, was in a better place than she would be as Gilbert’s wife.
Two weeks later—near Glenfinnan
Weariness and cold unlike anything she’d ever experienced sank into her bones and her soul. She’d followed Padruig for days and days, into the dark storm and away from her father. She had followed him across lochs and around them. Followed his unrelenting steps towards freedom.
And now she watched as some villagers buried him in the ground.
Sorcha had held on to hope, even in the terrible days after her mother’s passing. Even when her father had forced her to accept the betrothal to the ruthless and brutal Cameron chieftain. Her mother had sworn there was a way to escape it, but now, at her weakest moment in the last two months, Sorcha was not able to find the strength to cling to that hope.
Tears she’d held in for so long threatened to spill and yet she could not allow the weakness to gain control over her. Sorcha knew that holding in her fears until she was safely at her destination was the only way she would survive. The burial completed, she nodded to those watching. They thought he was her father. She would not cry over her father, but they did not know that.
‘What will ye do now, lass?’ the miller’s wife asked as she stood by the grave. ‘Do ye hiv kith or kin nearby?’
‘Nay,’ she whispered as she shook her head. ‘My mother’s kin is out on Skye.’ Padruig had revealed her mother’s plan to her within hours of their escape from Ballachulish and it included fleeing to her mother’s sister on Skye—and life in a convent. But she must not reveal that to anyone.
‘Is that where ye were journeying to when he passed, then?’ the woman asked. The concern lacing her tone and words removed some of the chill on Sorcha’s heart. Coming from a stranger, it surprised her.
‘Aye.’
‘This road is the way there, so if ye bide awhile ye might find someone travelling there and go wi’ them.’ The woman, Coira, nodded and smiled. ‘Ye wouldna want to travel on alone, lass.’
Sorcha shook her head and shrugged. She must decide how to proceed, but right now, it seemed any decision was not within her power to make. She needed to rest and clear her thoughts before taking another step towards...anywhere.
‘Is there a place where I could stay here? Or nearby? I have some coins and could pay.’ That did not include the fortune sewn into the hem and lining of her gown. She knew better than to reveal that kind of wealth to anyone, be they beneficent strangers or kin.
‘Och!’ Coira said, sliding her arm under and around Sorcha’s then. ‘Ye can stay wi’ us, lass. There’s always a place to sleep and a crust of bread to share with someone in need.’
‘Your husband will not mind?’ she asked. That husband had helped bury Padruig when Sorcha had discovered him dead this morn. ‘He and the others have helped so much already.’
‘Nay, Darach is kind-hearted under that gruff manner. Something about ye touched him, lass. Our first daughter would have been yer age now and I think he sees her in ye,’ Coira admitted. So many bairns died too soon and theirs had been one. Her own mother had lost six bairns during carrying and their first years, so Sorcha understood the loss.
Sorcha followed the woman away from the graveyard to a small cottage that sat next to the millhouse there on the stream. Coira opened the door and bade her enter. Peat burned there in a hearth built into the one wall and she appreciated the warmth it gave off. Too many days on the road, exposed to the Highland winds and rain, had left her cold and damp. She moved to stand nearer to it and watched as the woman retrieved a pot from over the fire and poured some of its contents into a cup.
‘Here now, lass,’ she said. ‘This will warm ye. Have ye eaten yet?’
‘My thanks.’ Sorcha accepted the cup and sipped the warm brew within. It was hot enough to spread the warmth through her and sweet, too. ‘I did eat something.’ She put the cup on the table there. ‘I should get my bags and bring the horses here.’
As she turned, she lost her balance and swayed. Coira grabbed hold of her and guided her to a stool. Pushing her hair from her face, Sorcha fell hard on to it.
‘Dinna fash, lass,’ Coira said, bringing the cup to her. ‘Drink and take a bit to rest.’ The woman walked to the door and called out to someone. ‘Kennan! Fetch the lass’s horse and bags. See to them!’
‘Kennan?’ she asked, drinking down the last of the cup.
‘Our son, the youngest,’ Coira said, never pausing in her work as she moved from one task to another in the cottage. Folding this, pouring that, and so on. ‘So, was yer father ailing for long?’
For a moment, Sorcha was confused, thinking of her true father instead of the man who’d been her mother’s servant for decades. Then she shook her head. ‘Nay, not ailing at all.’
She thought on the last days of their journey and realised Padruig had been tired. He’d complained of his arm and shoulder paining him yesterday and laughed about being an old man to ease her concern. Then last night before they slept, he mentioned that his stomach was unsettled. But those things could have been anything and she’d not connected them with an illness. The journey had been long and filled with tension and fear over being found and returned to her father. Her own stomach had been unsettled for days. Her arms ached from hours of controlling her horse on unfamiliar paths.
‘Well, lass, sometimes the Almighty is being merciful to take someone quickly. ’Tis still quite a shock.’
Sorcha murmured some reply, unable to think of what to tell this woman who clearly only wanted to help her and offer her some measure of comfort over losing her father.
* * *
As the next hours passed, Sorcha realised that she’d never spent this much time with the common people who lived their lives outside her world of comfort and wealth.
Other than those who served them within Castle Sween, Sorcha never had much to do with people who did not live in the keep. Nor had she seen how they lived. Oh, she’d seen and passed cottages in the village before, but had not spent any real time there, observing their tasks and speaking like this. Her father had forbidden all but the most casual of conversations or visits, deeming them beneath the dignity of his daughter.
She watched as the others in the family arrived back after their chores and duties and greeted each other warmly. Though she’d done nothing to help, their hospitality was freely offered and gladly accepted. Coira brushed off any gratitude she tried to express. Soon, it was the darkest part of the night and Sorcha lay awake, considering her plight and the possibilities before her.
*
