Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Bram wanted to destroy something. Kill someone if necessary. It was only years and years of diplomatic training that prevented him from murdering this messenger on the spot for bringing him such distasteful news. Anger coursed through his blood, pounding in his ears, a thick poison propagated through the drumming of his own heart.

Those witches were alive. All of them. And his men, the men he'd paid so much coin to hire and train and perfect…

"They're all dead?" he demanded. "Each one of me men?"

The messenger glanced around the room nervously, his eyes darting between each of Bram's guards as though he hoped to find sympathy in them. Fool. He'd find none of what he sought there. Bram's men served him with the utmost loyalty, the best that money could buy, and this messenger would find no refuge in them.

The man's voice shook as he replied in a disgustingly common accent, "Aye, me Laird. Each o' them is deid an' gone, I'm afraid."

His advisors, sitting around the long table, began murmuring amongst themselves, but Bram ignored him, his eyes focused on the messenger only.

"And me cousins?" he asked, his voice silky and guarded. "What of their fates? Did those men manage tae dispatch at least one of them before they threw away their worthless lives?"

The messenger flinched. "N—nay, me Laird, nay, they didnae. The lassies all seem tae have vanished, along wi' the man who helped them. Nay other bodies were found, me Laird."

"Hmmm," Bram replied in as cold and neutral a tone as he could muster. Inside, though, he was burning. Panic clawed at his chest, threatening to rise to his throat and choke him, the air refusing to fully fill his lungs.

They lived. All four of them. Not just Blair and her ridiculous husband, but Jocelyn, Deirdre, and Aoife lived too—and now he'd lost them. Where could they be? What were they doing?

Wherever they were, they were plotting against him, he was sure of it. The prophecy would come true, and nothing he was doing was putting a stop to it. Those little wolves were circling, and soon they'd strike, murdering him where he stood and taking everything from him. Bram was going to die unless he did something. And he refused to die. Especially not to a bunch of women, bitches whelped by a traitorous father. No.

He picked his dagger up from the table in front of him and twirled it in his hands, one finger pressed delicately against the point. He saw the messenger gulp, his wan face going even paler, and it made him smile.

"This man ," he said, "Who is he? Who helped them?"

The messenger's voice shook even more now. "He—he was dressed all in black," he stammered. "Heid tae toe. He moved like a shadow, like a…a…"

"A Wraith." The words forced themselves out through Bram's gritted teeth as the anger overtook him and he slammed his dagger into the wooden table so hard that it stood there, vibrating, on its point. "So the whore convinced McFerguson tae send his Wraith tae protect her sisters, is that it?"

The messenger took the moment to bow and leave, and Bram barely noticed him go. It was a smart move. If Bram had wanted to kill something before now, it was nothing compared to how he felt knowing the rest of the news.

"Me Laird…" one of his advisors started, while another spoke up with, "Laird McMillan?—"

"Silence," he demanded. They all quelled, and he looked around at them—his four advisors, the men who were supposed to be leading him through the lairdship. Grant McBride was around Bram's own age, but Bram liked him for his cunning and ruthlessness, which served Bram's purposes well. The other two, McGilvray and Bannock, who had been appointed by Bram, were about the age of his late father, men with experience in warfare and stealth warfare.

The fourth man, Hugh Nils, had been serving since Bram's father was just a boy. While Bram had dismissed all of the others, he'd made a point of keeping Nils on staff, partly to have someone with experience of the lay of the land, and partly as a show to the people that he still cared about the traditions his father had left behind.

He didn't, of course—but power and showmanship went hand in hand.

Bram thought in silence for a few moments, the image of the four wolf pups still fresh in his mind, then nodded, his decision made as quickly as that. "Well then," he said, "If McFerguson thinks it's his place tae interfere in me affairs, then I'll just have tae retaliate in kind. McBride, what's the name of that village just on the borders of their clan, ye ken the one I mean?"

"They call it Whisperer's Rest, me Laird," McBride replied immediately. "It's nae much. Mostly mothers and bairns and grandparents; families whose faithers are in service or have died. A few farmers are what keeps the whole village afloat."

Bram nodded. "I see. So very few men immediately present, a load of whimpering wives of soldiers, and naught of value tae be lost. Very well. It's decided then."

McGilvray cleared his throat. "Forgive me, me Laird, but what is decided?"

Bram grinned. He felt it twist his face, knew that the expression he wore must be something dark, for he saw all but McBride flinch back at the sight.

"On the morrow, before first light, me men will head tae Whisperer's Rest. They'll light their torches, and then they'll burn the place tae the ground. Crops, houses, everything. We're going tae wipe it off the map."

As he'd predicted, three of his four advisors reacted all at once, none obviously too pleased with his plan. McBride sat with an impassive expression and did not speak, watching the others.

"Me Laird, the village is full of women and children, the infirm and elderly! They offer us nay threat," McGilvray protested.

"Aye, and there's nay strategic value; the clan loses nay material goods from sacking Whisperer's Rest," Bannock added. "Ye'd just be killing a few farmers and a load of women and bairns."

"The women and bairns are the material goods," Bram said, adopting the tone of a patient teacher. "And the only thing that will make me point clear."

"And what point is that?" McBride asked. Bram was pleased to see a small smile appear on the man's face. At least McBride could understand his vision, his purpose. He knew he'd made the right choice in appointing him, even though others said he was too young for the role.

Bram removed his dagger from the table and began polishing it with a cloth, carefully and lovingly paying attention to each small detail.

"McFerguson thinks he can send his Wraith tae deprive me of me rightful property—those lassies are me family, and the three unmarried ones still belong tae me ," Bram said after a long moment. Harshness filled his tone as he met the eyes of each of the men. "And so I'll show him what will happen if he doesnae give them back tae me. I'll rob his men of their women and children just as he robbed me. Then he'll have a chance, a small one, tae reconsider."

"And if he doesnae?"

Bram smiled. "War, me good men. Burnings and bloods. The whole country can go aflame if that's what it takes—it's all his choice."

A long silence followed that declaration. Then McGilvray said, "We must object tae this kind of slaughter."

"Object all ye wish," Bram told him. He flicked the dagger so the men could see its shine. "But ken that those who stand against me have nae long tae live. Tomorrow, before dawn, we attack. Does anyone have anythin' they want tae say about it?"

McBride said, "I think it's a wonderful idea, me Laird."

Neither Bannock nor McGilvray spoke, though Bram could see the distaste and perhaps even horror in their faces. Never mind them. They were cowards, and he had nothing to fear from them. They would go along with his plan, and probably curse him behind his back, but they would be loyal. So long as the money kept coming in.

"Good, then. We'll proceed?—"

"Ye cannae be serious."

Everyone looked in confusion toward the elderly Nils, who had spoken at last in his surprisingly strong tone.

"Excuse me?" Bram asked, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"I said, ye cannae be serious. Surely even ye can see that yer plan is monstrous beyond belief," Nils said steadily. Unlike the other two, he met Bram's eyes, and he seemed unafraid. "I've stood here by yer side this whole time, lad, but I willnae be complicit in the murder of innocents."

Bram's fury burned so suddenly, so hot and fierce, that he imagined it must be how the great volcanoes of the ancient stories erupted. "Innocent! Was I nae innocent, too, before I was cursed tae be murdered by me own flesh and blood? Is me life worth less, then, than some camp followers and bastard bairns?"

"Yer life is nae in danger, Me Laird," Nils told him mildly. "Ye're obsessed with somethin' that will never come tae pass, and it's makin' ye an evil man, tae me great sorrow."

Bram gripped the hilt of his dagger. He longed to thrust it into this insolent old man's chest, to teach him a lesson on defiance, but he knew that would not go his way.

"Guards," he called, and a couple of burly men bundled into the room. "Take Nils here tae the dungeons. Show him what happens tae those who defy their Laird."

Nils didn't struggle as the guards grabbed his arms, but he did look balefully into Bram's eyes. "I've kenned ye since ye were a bairn. Ye'll leave me tae spend me last days in a hole? Have ye lost what humanity ye had left?"

Bram narrowed his eyes. "Dinnae fear, old man," he told him spitefully. "Yer last days willnae be as long as ye thought they might."

The guards dragged the Elder away, and Bram turned his back. Only when he heard the door close and Nils's voice finally cry out in pain did he smile and turn back to his three remaining advisors. Even McBride looked a little stunned at what had just passed.

Bram relished in their fear. It would keep them loyal.

"Good. Now," he said, "Tomorrow, before dawn, we attack. Any questions?"

There were none.

Something had changed since their time at the water. Lachlan could feel it. Jocelyn was happier, a little more of that spark of hers obvious to the world, and Lachlan himself felt lighter. It was as though he'd been carrying a stone in his ribcage, blocking his heart, and although nothing had actually happened, just spending time with Jocelyn and the other girls was slowly but surely chipping the sediment away.

The other girls, yes. But it was mostly Jocelyn. There was no denying that she was the one who was affecting him most.

Why, he wondered, was that the case? She was a bonnie lass, there was no denying that, and in a different way than Blair. When his friend and Laird, James, had brought home Blair as his wife and Lachlan had seen her in person for the first time, he'd been impressed with her beauty and understood well why she'd been chosen as a valuable bartering chip before James intervened. He had appreciated her the way that someone might appreciate a painting.

Jocelyn, though. She didn't have her older sister's curls, or the dimples on the younger's cheeks. In fact, though she was pretty, she was a common kind of pretty, the kind you'd see in any crowd or that was what Lachlan had believed at first.

But now…now he could not understand how that had ever been his thought. As they saddled up the horses and bade farewell to the wise-woman, Lachlan saw Jocelyn in a whole new light. For when she smiled, or laughed, the sun was brighter in the sky. When she teased him, her cheeks took on a pretty rose-pink that he'd never seen on another girl. Her eyes were always alight with curiosity, and when she let her reservedness fall away, it was as though a whole new spark of life flooded through her.

Suddenly, the hair was no longer flat, but instead a flowing caress like the waterfall they'd discussed in so much detail. Her skin was not just freckled, but kissed by the world around her, by the country she loved so much. When she laughed and played in the water, he'd seen her heart on full display, and now that he'd seen her— really seen her—there was no going back.

"Ye take care of these lassies," Agatha told him as he climbed onto Stormcloud. The girls were already mounted and waiting. "Or else, ye hear?"

"Aye, Grandmother," he told her, using the term as a sign of respect. Still, it felt strange coming from his mouth, and he flinched away from thoughts about his actual grandmother, thoughts from a life long ago that had never really been his.

And so the five of them rode away from the wise-woman's cottage and in the general direction of the McFerguson lands, of home. Every so often, one of the younger girls made a comment or hummed a song, and occasionally others joined in, but it was otherwise quite a quiet ride. Lachlan couldn't help himself; every so often, he found himself glancing at Jocelyn, his eyes eager to find that spark once more. More than once, he was almost certain that when he looked, she'd just looked away.

Was she thinking of him? Was that day at the river spinning around her head as much as it was around his? And if so, why were they both so affected?

His horse nickered, and Lachlan was pulled back into the present moment with a sense of relief. What was he thinking of? After the events of the last few days, his brain was obviously addled, confused, focusing on the wrong things. He just had to get home, back to where he belonged, and it would straighten things out.

But that didn't stop him, as the journey continued, from stopping to glance at Jocelyn every so often. Just a little bit.

They only stopped a few times to take care of urgent needs, take a drink, or eat, but otherwise the journey lasted the full day and well into the night. At long last, a shimmering loch caught his attention, the water a symbol in the darkness. The moon was high in the sky when he signaled to the girls that they should slow.

"We've traveled enough for the day. We're tired, and the poor horses more so," he said, slipping off his steed. "And here by the loch is a safe place tae sleep and refresh."

They all nodded and voiced their consent to the plan.

He patted Stormcloud's nose. "Ye're a good lad," he murmured, then turned to help the women dismount.

"Ye really love that horse," Jocelyn replied. "Did ye give it the name?"

"Of course I love me horse," Lachlan replied, but for once he did not feel a flare of defensiveness. "Most loyal beast in all of Scotland. And aye, I named him a decade ago when he was a foal and I was half a bairn meself, but it suits him well. What of yer horses? What are their names?"

He watched as a look of surprise crossed all three women's features, and realized they'd probably never had so much as a puppy to play with. These young women had never known the true joy that came from a faithful animal companion. Lachlan felt oddly proud to be part of their learning.

"I dinnae ken if they have names," Deirdre said uncertainly.

"Och, everythin' has a name," Lachlan replied. "But never mind what their names were . I'd say the three of ye have more than earned the right tae call these yer horses now. What name would ye give them? Deirdre?"

Deirdre looked startled at the thought, then examined her horse, a young male with dappled brown hair. Lachlan rummaged in his bag and handed the girl an apple which, after a little prompting, she offered to her horse. When the horse happily accepted the gift, the lass, who at thirteen, Lachlan thought, was still a child in many ways, looked ecstatic. "Oh! He loves it!"

Lachlan chuckled. "He does! He likes ye, as well."

"Does he?" Deirdre asked in wonder. Cautiously, she petted the horse's snout, then smiled again. "I'll call him Cider," she decided excitedly. "Like the drink the monks make."

Chuckling, Lachlan said, "I think that's a fine name. And ye, Aoife? What will yer mare be named?"

Aoife was already petting her horse, a fine female with an almost golden sheen to her sandy coat. She didn't even hesitate as she said, "Her name is Majesty."

"Of course it is!" Deirdre teased, and the two younger girls set about playfully squabbling while Lachlan turned to Jocelyn. What he saw there caught him short.

She stood there next to her white steed, staring at him with a look he'd never seen before. "Ye're kind tae them," she murmured, when she was sure that the younger girls weren't paying attention. "Me sisters."

Lachlan tilted his head. "I didnae do anythin' special."

Jocelyn smiled and took his hand, squeezing it. "So ye think," she said. She shook her head and sighed happily, then in a louder tone asked, "So what should this fine lass be called, then?"

"Well, that's up tae ye," Lachlan replied. "But she is fine. A match for Stormcloud any day, and I dinnae say that lightly."

"Then, if yer mount's the Stormcloud, mine shall be Lightning," she declared. The horse whinnied, almost seeming to approve of her new name, and Jocelyn laughed. "Ye like that, Lightning, aye?"

They spent a little more time tending to the horses and then, when they were fed and watered and secured to a nearby sturdy tree, they set about making camp for themselves for the night. A small meal over a campfire quickly led to yawning, and it was obvious that soon the youngest girl would be asleep.

"All right, time tae rest," Lachlan declared. He glanced out over the loch, the water still shimmering in the darkness. "We'll reach home tomorrow or the day after, dependin' on our speed. Sleep well."

Deirdre and Aoife retreated to their bedrolls without another sound except a brief mumble of goodnight, but Jocelyn stayed put by the fire.

"Ye need tae rest as well," she told him. "Will ye nae sleep?"

"I'll guard ye. Ye sleep."

"And who'll guard ye ?" Jocelyn countered. "Stormcloud?"

Lachlan laughed. "Perhaps! He's a strong horse, ye ken. And what will ye do, eh, if we're attacked? Scold them until their ears fall off?"

Jocelyn gasped in mock-offense. "I dinnae reserve me legendary scoldin's for just anyone ," she told him. "Only those who really deserve them." She winked at him.

A warm glow filled Lachlan that had nothing to do with the campfire. "Oh, fine then," he relented, mostly because he didn't really want to argue anyway. He liked the idea of spending the night with her, just talking. "Ye can stay."

"I'd like tae see ye stop me if ye wanted to," Jocelyn retorted. She moved a little closer, shuffling beside where he sat by the fire. "I'll keep ye company. For a wee while."

Yes. And then, when they reached McFerguson, she'd probably never look his way again. He tried not to grimace, and turned away so the shadows would hide his face.

"Aye," he agreed. "Let's sit together. For a wee while."