shook herself free from the hold that the shocking news had caused and stood. After checking on the bairns in the other room and pulling the door closed, she crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. Her intense stare worried Sorcha.
‘Tell me the rest of it, Sorcha. We must have our plan in place before the bairns wake and James comes home.’ Now it was Sorcha’s turn to be surprised. ‘I think that Saraid fits you well as a name. Saraid MacPherson, my cousin whose betrothed died and who has come to visit with me for a wee while.’
Whatever she had expected, this was not it. Her cousin listened to her explanation and did not take long to come up with a story, a whole life in truth, and all before the three children woke. By the time James, the village blacksmith, arrived at the cottage, Sorcha allowed herself to hope that she was on the right path.
And she doubted not that if she needed guidance Clara would be the one giving it now.
Alan noticed her first when he entered Brodie’s hall.
She stood near to James and Clara, but not with them. It was almost as though she was trying to stay out of sight. She nodded if they spoke to her, came closer when they beckoned and then crept ever so slowly back away. She seemed to prefer the shadows over the light.
He strode past her and the others and climbed the steps up to the chieftain’s table. Waiting for Brodie’s nod, he glanced once more over to the corner and noticed she yet remained there.
‘You know that is not necessary,’ Brodie called out to him. ‘Come. Sit. Eat.’
‘I would not wish to abuse my welcome here,’ he said, the sarcasm coming easily between him and the mighty Brodie Macintosh.
It was always good to have one of the most powerful men in the Highlands beholden to you twice over. No matter his uncle’s demeanour or behaviour, Alan Cameron would be welcome here at Drumlui Keep and any place that Brodie controlled. He knew it and mayhap that was why this place felt more like home than Achnacarry or Tor did.
Servants served him from platters and filled his cup with a fine red wine. He nodded to several there in greeting, knowing he would speak with them later. The meal was pleasant, the company more so, but his gaze kept returning to...her.
It was not that she was a spectacular beauty that drew his eye. It was not that he recognised her, for indeed he did not. So, what did draw him to her?
‘I see you have noticed our newest guest there,’ his cousin Arabella whispered to him while Brodie’s attention turned elsewhere. At first, he was tempted to deny it. Why bother when his cousin was right?
‘Aye. Who is she?’ he asked.
‘Clara’s cousin, recently widowed,’ Arabella explained. ‘Staying with James and Clara and helping her with the bairns.’
As Alan watched, the woman under discussion lifted her head and smiled. Though it was too far for it to be for him, he smiled as though remembering her. He could not help himself. He reached for his cup and drank deeply from it, swallowing the rest of the wine down. He could not see the colour of her eyes nor hear the tone of her voice, but the need to know both of those things and more about her nearly forced him to his feet. Only the soft chuckle from Arabella brought him under control.
‘She is lovely, is she not?’
‘Other than Clara’s cousin, what do you know about her?’ He tried to say the words calmly—hell, he even tried to convince himself it mattered not. The feeling in his gut and the way it was hard to take a breath said otherwise. What the hell was happening here?
‘She is called Saraid MacPherson. That is all I know. Clara brought her here to make her known to Brodie and me a few days ago,’ she said. ‘Why do you not speak to her yourself, Cousin?’ Arabella gave him a puzzling smile before nodding in the direction of the woman. ‘She is, after all, a widow.’
His body understood what Arabella was saying even if he was tempted to scoff at the remark. A widow had certain freedoms that a married or unmarried woman did not. Good God, what had his expression been to give Arabella the idea that he wanted this woman? But then, Arabella never needed a reason to meddle in his life. For the last several years, she’d taken it upon herself to seek out a possible match for him.
Like Fia...
He cleared his throat and turned to face her then.
‘There is no need for this, Bella,’ he said softly. ‘I know you wish me well, but there truly is no reason for you to be involved.’ Tears glimmered there in her eyes and Alan felt her concern. ‘Surely you understand that our uncle expects to dictate that choice and not allow me that choice by chance.’
The change in her demeanour was so quick and clear that it even drew Brodie’s attention. The chieftain stiffened in his chair and slid his hand over to cover his wife’s where it lay between them on the table. A quick frowning glance at Alan, then one filled with concern at Arabella was followed by a tense silence.
‘All is well, Brodie,’ she said quietly, stroking his hand until he nodded and turned back to the conversation he’d been having before he’d sensed her discomfort. Once more looking at Alan, she nodded. ‘All will be well, Alan. I think things will work out, somehow, regardless of what Gilbert Cameron wants or how he acts.’
‘Brave words, Cousin. Especially from someone who knows him as you do.’
They’d both grown up with the current clan chief, though Arabella’s father had occupied the high chair before their uncle. In spite of the difference in their ages and their gender, each had witnessed many examples of Gilbert’s true nature and temper.
‘Well, I was not suggesting you marry the widowed Saraid,’ she said then. ‘I thought you might be interested in the company of a young woman.’ She let out a breath then and shrugged, sadness and something uncomfortably close to pity entering her pale blue eyes then. ‘I want you to find the happiness I have, Alan.’
It was not pity there, he realised. Arabella was more like an older sister to him than a cousin. She was having a care for him and it felt strange to him because no one else did. Here they sat, two Camerons amongst the Mackintoshes, welcomed more by this clan than their own.
‘Is aught wrong, love?’ Brodie leaned over and spoke to his wife. ‘The two of you have the makings of some tragic story in your expressions.’ Brodie’s astute dark gaze met his own then. ‘Something I should know?’
‘Nay, Brodie,’ he said, shaking his head. There was nothing about which he could or would speak to The Mackintosh, so he smiled. ‘Arabella is simply...’ He paused, searching for the best word to use, but Brodie beat him to it.
‘Meddling? Overstepping? Controlling?’ Brodie asked, moving his intent gaze now to his wife, who blinked several times at his words. Then, the chieftain lifted his wife’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, softening what could have been insulting words. ‘Bella likes everyone’s lives to be orderly and has a way of trying to make that happen.’
‘Brodie, I would never...’ she began.
‘Never meddle, my love?’ Brodie kissed her hand again.
