where their colouring and height were the same, the way they acted towards him was not. Flora’s nose was jammed into her chest, her lips trembling.
Creighton’s eyes were a flat stare and he held his hands fisted at his sides.
Gaira took a quick sidestep and waved her hand briefly over the head of a boy whose hair looked as if it were trying to escape. ‘You met Alec.’ She roughed the boy’s brown hair and it barely moved. Alec smiled, obviously pleased to be introduced.
‘The little one there is Maisie.’ Gaira pointed to the girl hanging on Alec’s left arm. ‘She’s not two, but learning words.’
Maisie’s hair was so blond it was practically transparent in the firelight, but her eyes were round, green and took up half her face. He could not discern much more of her features because it looked as though she were trying to swallow her free hand and arm whole. Spit glistened.
He forced the words from his mouth. ‘Are these yours?’
‘Aye.’ She jutted out her chin.
None of the children resembled each other and certainly not the tall woman in front of him. The camp itself was a single blanket attached to a rope tied to a tree, making a crude tent too small to fit them all. She had a single horse, with a single satchel.
This woman was not their mother, maybe not even their relation. Yet she claimed them. He didn’t know who she was, or even if she was from Clan Colquhoun, but she had been taking care of four children who had survived the massacre. By herself.
And she was burying their decaying parents’ bodies at night. By herself.
It looked, too, as if she had no protection, no companion and was camping in a godforsaken land on the brink of the most bloodthirsty war he’d ever known in his lifetime.
Her eyes were challenging him, her hair coming loose from the many plaits resembling Medusa’s snakes. In the full fire’s light he could make out the roughness and largeness of the tunic she wore. It was not a woman’s garment, but a man’s. Had she been wearing that before or after she arrived here? There were too many questions.
Whatever he was expecting by coming to this small farming village, this was not it. By coming here, he had wanted to see if the rumour was true—if his English brethren could have the capacity for such horror. He hadn’t expected survivors. Yet here they were: four children and a woman.
And he didn’t know what to do with any of them.
He was going to leave. Gaira could see it in his eyes. She felt a moment of panic before she relaxed again. His hands were tied. How was he supposed to go?
She glanced at the children. Creighton looked as though he might murder Robert. Flora looked as though she might cry from fear. Alec, bless him, looked happy just to be there. Maisie’s big eyes absorbed everything around her. At such a tender age, she had seen too much.
She couldn’t soothe the children’s feelings, which had to be just as confused as her own. She had just brought an Englishman to the camp and the English had slaughtered their families. Had killed her sister. She choked on the grief clogging her throat.
She couldn’t risk letting him out of her sight. ‘You must be hungry. Would you like some food?’ she asked.
He looked to the children as if they had some say, but they were quiet. They knew something was held in the balance.
He nodded and she released her held breath.
* * *
Sobbing.
Gaira woke. The sun was just cresting the hills and it cast the morning mist a milky white. When had she fallen asleep? Late, but it should not have happened.
She moved slowly, careful not to wake Maisie and Alec, who were snuggled against her.
Broken words. Nightmares again.
With the crisp wind biting her cheeks, she tucked her shawl around the children and turned to Flora and Creighton, who slept closer to the fire.
Flora was awake, crying, frantically patting her brother’s shoulders.
Creighton made not a sound, but his entire body keened of the demons trapped inside. This nightmare was worse than the last.
She gently laid her hand on Flora, who jumped. ‘Let me,’ she asked.
Flora shifted away from her brother, her hands locked tight in her lap.
Singing very low, Gaira gently brushed Creighton’s brow until his breathing eased and his body slumped. Singing helped. She had startled him awake before and wouldn’t do it again.
Slowly, Creighton’s body eased and when he woke, he looked surprised that Gaira was there.
Smiling, she stood. The cold wind whipped around her and she wrapped her arms around her waist. Then froze.
Robert was sitting and staring at her. She became aware of the arch of his brow, the shape of his nose, the colour of his deep brown eyes.
She was no longer aware of the children or the biting wind. All she could feel were his eyes. She thought he hid himself just under the surface, but now everything she ever wanted to know about the world, about him, was right there. Without blinking, his eyes became opaque, the brown turning flat.
She felt as though she had been pushed from a summer brook to the cold sand of shore with no chance of submerging back to the warmth.
Acutely self-conscious, she looked to Maisie and Alec, wrapped tightly in her only shawl. She glanced again.
He looked angry and more than frightening.
His hair was a beautiful shade of brown, but it was long, unkempt and fell in deep waves to his shoulders. It looked soft and wild at the same time. She followed each strand, each curve of each wave. A strange tingling in her palms occurred. Nervousness again?
Trying to calm her suddenly heightened nerves, she unwrapped her arms and raised her chin against him. Without her arms, the wind plastered her tunic and leggings tight against her body. ’Twasn’t decent, but it couldn’t be helped. She wouldn’t show her nervousness.
His eyes flickered; his frown deepened. Aye, he was frightening. She couldn’t believe she’d invited him to their camp.
His entire appearance indicated he couldn’t be bothered with a comb, frippery or anything to make him pleasing to the eye. He wore a beard, like a Scot, but his did not have pretty plaits to keep it tidy—his was full, waving and long. If it wasn’t the same beautiful colour, she’d have thought him an old man.
‘We’ll need food,’ he said.
The timbre of his voice was clipped, abrupt, the tenor still too pleasing.
Stray curls swept across her face, blinding and stinging her eyes, but she did not push them away. ‘I’ve set some traps.’ She waved her hand
