to the lake, he came across a large plot of freshly tilled land. It was a garden. The stench was so strong now he wished he didn’t have to breathe at all.
There were fresh, shallow graves mixed with patches of burnt vegetable stalks. The bodies were laid close together and there was a long scrape made in the dirt between the bodies and the garden. The bodies had been dragged to their resting place.
It was a gravesite and a gravesite meant survivors burying their dead. There were footprints, too, but it looked as if they were the same size and at least one foot dragged.
He scanned the surrounding area again, but he could hear nothing. Everything was still.
Was one man trying to bury many? He wondered why anyone would bother. There was nothing left in the village to save, no way of healing and rebuilding after the destruction Howe’s men had caused.
Knowing he was not alone, he unsheathed his sword. Keeping his weapon low and at his side, he carefully walked towards the lake.
Then he heard it: a scrape, quick and loud, coming from one of the partially burnt huts.
Wanting to make sure his words were heard, he waited until he was closer. ‘I come in peace!’ he said in English and again in Gaelic. ‘Please, I mean you no harm.’
Another scrape—it sounded like metal. There was someone definitely inside the hut.
‘I offer help.’ He tried to make his words as convincing as he could. Whoever was in there, they could not have warm hospitality on their minds.
Approaching the open doorway, he raised his sword to hip level. He would rather have waited until whoever was in the hut had come out, but the person inside could be injured and needing his help.
Setting his shoulder in first, he entered the hut. The moon’s light slashed through the burnt roof. The one room was small, square, but he could see little else. There was no time to avoid the small iron cauldron swinging towards his head.
‘Oh, cat’s whiskers around a mouse’s throat, I’ve killed him!’
Gaira stopped the still-swinging cauldron and swallowed the sharp bile rising in her throat. With shaking knees, she knelt beside the man. Slowly, so slowly, she lowered her hand to his mouth and felt hot breath against the back of her hand. He breathed!
Her heart swiftly rose. Dizzy, she closed her eyes and drew in a steadying breath. When she was sure she could, she opened her eyes to inspect him.
He was a large man, not taller than any Scotsman, but maybe thicker, and his chest was so broad it was surely carved from the side of mountains. She could not discern his face in the moonlight, but she could see his hair was long, wild and he had let his beard grow unkempt.
His hair and beard puzzled her, for it was very un-English and this man grew his as if he were the lowliest of serfs with no comb. But an English serf would not be this far north and all alone.
Carefully, she felt along his sides for a pouch or weapons. He smelled of cedar, leather and open air. Only the fine, soft weave of his clothing gave beneath her fingers. His body, warm through his tunic, was hard, unforgiving. She frowned at the fanciful word. A body could not be unforgiving.
Feeling along his front, her palms suddenly dampened, tingled, and she stopped at his hips. She wanted to continue her exploring, but she realised it wasn’t to find weapons.
What was wrong with her? She had three older brothers. This man could be no different. But he feels different. She squashed that thought. Foolishness again. If her hands felt strange or hot, it was because she was scared he’d awaken. Aye. Plain nervousness was all she felt.
Willing her hands to obey, she moved them around his waist. Did his breathing change? No. His eyes were still closed. Taking a steadying breath, she felt the flat ripples of his waist, the knot of his hip bones. She stilled her breathing as she slid her hands down each bulging cord of his legs. At a strap near his boots she felt the hard hilt of a dagger. Pulling it out, she felt the weight and heavily carved decoration on the handle.
‘Nae a peasant, are you?’ Setting the dagger aside, she felt along his broad arms and immediately felt the cold steel of an unsheathed sword at his side. Her skin prickled with anger.
‘Even if you hadn’t spoken, I’d know you’re English for the liar you are. Peace! Hah! What man comes in peace when his sword is drawn?’
With trembling fingers she unwrapped his fingers from his sword. Wobbling at its weight, she set it on the other side of the room and grabbed the rope hanging at her waist. It wasn’t long enough to tie his hands and feet, but it was mostly his hands she was worried about.
Her heart thumped hard against her chest. She was worried about other parts of him, too. She was not so naive to think this man was safe. His muscled body, his ability to speak English and Gaelic, were testament to a soldier’s training.
Without a doubt, he would have a foul temper when he woke. But what choice did she have? She had hid in the hut. It wasn’t her fault the brastling man had entered. She’d had to swing the cauldron and protect herself.
But now what? He was sure to awaken soon. He was English, but she didn’t know if he’d burned the village. She couldn’t take any chances. It wasn’t just her own life she had to worry about.
‘Think, Gaira, think!’ She had his weapons. They might give her some control. Quickly finishing the knot, she scrambled back into the scant shadows to wait.
* * *
‘What do you mean she’s not at her brother’s?’ Busby of Ayrshire spat on the ground. The glob hit square in the centre of the old leather shoe worn by his messenger.
‘She’s not on Colquhoun lands, my laird,’ the messenger stuttered. ‘Her brothers were most surprised to see me.’
Busby rubbed his meaty hands down the front of his rough brown tunic. The only satisfaction in this bit of news? His cowering messenger was afraid. He liked it when they were afraid.
‘Did you explain to that whoreson Bram if he dinna produce his sister to me within a sennight, our bargain was off?’
‘Aye. We were given leave to search the castle.’
Busby took a step forward. ‘Did you tell them for this bit of inconvenience, I demand the further compensation of five sheep? And I wouldn’t have taken her had I known she was so bothersome? And if they want war between our clans they’ll have it?’
‘Aye, my laird.’ The messenger bent his body to look up. ‘I told them all, every bit of it. It dinna make nae difference. We searched everywhere and there was nae sign of her.’
The wench had been missing for three days while he waited for the messenger to bring her back or bring him news. The fact he had neither fuelled his fury.
‘Tell me their response,’ Busby demanded.
The messenger shifted his feet and almost imperceptibly took a step back. ‘They were not pleased.’
‘What.
