Chapter 18

Chapter 18

They rode for an hour that morning without any eventfulness, for which Jocelyn was grateful. Her mind was torn; part of it was excited beyond belief at the thought of finally seeing her beloved sister again after three years, but another, more immediate, part kept returning to the detailed dream she'd been roused from this morning.

Jocelyn had never had a dream like that. Not that she'd known many men who may have inspired such thoughts beyond the guards and staff at her uncle's home, but still. Her younger sister often fantasized about her "prince", but for Jocelyn, it had all seemed such a waste of time. But now…

Since she'd kissed Lachlan, something in her had changed. It wasn't that she felt more adult or anything like that—she was a grown woman with or without a man—but she felt something brand new. It was a kind of freedom, freedom she could barely remember experiencing ever in her life until now. It wasn't so much that Lachlan was changing her as that he had given her the key to changing herself, and now that she'd experienced it, she never wanted to close that door again.

They slowed their horses to a trot after an hour, still keeping up movement but allowing the creatures a little rest before they sped up again. Lachlan guided his horse next to Jocelyn's so that she could hear him clearly, and she smiled as he approached.

How would he feel if she told him about the contents of her dream the night before, she wondered? How would he react, what would he say, what would he do? Would he be pleased? Excited? It was a pleasant thing to imagine, and she shivered inside as she did. Maybe, when they had a moment to themselves, she would tell him.

"Nae long tae go," he informed her, raising his voice a little so the younger women could hear as well. "Once we speed the horses again, we should be at James' castle by nightfall, and ye'll be with yer sister once more."

Jocelyn's mood abruptly changed at that, and all thoughts of romance were forgotten as the reality of how close they were to Blair burst into her mind. Her darling sister! Three long years had passed since they saw each other, but Jocelyn knew that when she met her again, it would feel like scarcely a moment had passed.

"We'll get tae see the bairns!" Deirdre said excitedly. "Last time I saw Blair, I was a bairn!"

"Ye're still a bairn, Deirdre," Aoife teased. Her voice was animated, her anticipation and excitement spilling over in a way that was truly infectious. "Oh, I cannae wait! Do ye think she'll remember me?"

"Of course she'll remember ye, ye eejit! It's been three years, nae three centuries!" Deirdre retorted.

"Watch yer tongue, Deirdre," Jocelyn chided, but she couldn't help but laugh. Nothing could ruin her emotions now; nothing could bring her down from the high she was experiencing from how very suddenly everything was going right in her life. Nothing at all, except…

"Is that smoke?" Aoife asked suddenly, pointing a little to the east.

Jocelyn turned her head and saw to her unease that her sister was right. A large cloud of smoke was rising in the near distance, thick and dense and almost like a wall that was trying to block out the sky. Its movement was rapid, and soon the scent of the smoke reached their nostrils, coarse and bitter. It was not coming from any campfire, it was too large for that, and the acrid taste in her mouth told Jocelyn that the burning was not innocent.

As the smoke reached them, Deirdre began to cough hard. "It tastes like ash!" she exclaimed between hacking breaths. "What?—"

"Cover yer mouth," Jocelyn ordered quickly, and was relieved that her sisters did not question her. As one, they used shawls or handkerchiefs to cover their mouths and keep out the worst of the smoke. She glanced at Lachlan to see if he was doing the same and was stunned and scared by the look on his face as he stared at the source of the fumes.

Lachlan's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open in an expression that Jocelyn could only read as horror. Jocelyn opened her mouth to ask him what was going on, but before she could, the sound reached their ears.

Screams.

The desperate screams and cries of women and children and the futile death cries of men crossed the space between them, faint from the distance but still shudderingly, terrifyingly real. Someone was under attack, so close that they could literally taste it. People were dying.

The terror in Lachlan's face grew sharper, as Aoife cried out in shock and fear and Deirdre whimpered. Jocelyn felt bile rise in her throat, her skin aflame, prickling with horror and fear. They were so close to freedom. So close…

"Are these Bram's men?" she demanded of nobody in particular. "Are they doin' this? Who are they attackin'? Why?"

Lachlan's eyes caught her own and she saw true fear there. "Ye need tae go," he told her firmly. "Ye and yer sisters. Follow the path. Ride on. We're already on McFerguson lands, ye just need tae keep goin'."

"And ye?"

"I need tae find out what's goin' on. I need, ye—please dinnae argue, Jocelyn," Lachlan told her urgently. "Just go. Go!"

"Lachlan—"

"There's nothin' here but that village that is under attack right now , do ye understand?" Lachlan demanded. "Nae for another hour or so. There's nobody who can protect ye. Ye and yer sisters must ride quickly, and get home."

"Nay without?—"

" Go !" Lachlan half-shouted.

"Come, Jocelyn," Aoife encouraged her. "He's right, we must go."

Lachlan shot Aoife a look of thanks, then turned his horse to the east and started a fast gallop away from them, right toward the smoke and flames and screams of the dying.

Jocelyn reluctantly encouraged Lightning to speed up, and her sisters did the same with their own horses. When they were rushing along the path for only a few minutes, though, Jocelyn knew she couldn't do this.

"Aoife!" she cried out over the whipping wind caused by the speed of their horses, hoping that her sister would be able to hear her despite the obstacles. "Ye and Deirdre keep goin'! Find Blair, and tell her somethin's gone wrong at the village!"

"Jocelyn—"

"Tell her I'm with Lachlan! And I'll see ye all soon!"

Before her sister could protest any more, Jocelyn tugged hard on Lightning's reins. The horse turned at her command, and they galloped toward the east, following the trail that Lachlan and Stormcloud left behind.

Jocelyn could still see and smell the horrid smoke. She could still feel the terror in the air and hear the desperate screams. She could still taste the ash on the wind. But it didn't matter. All that mattered right now was that her sisters were on the road to Blair—and that Lachlan was alone, possibly riding to his end with nobody by his side.

And she would not allow the latter to happen. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Lachlan had never ridden his horse this way, never spurred the creature on so quickly. They were flying through the countryside, faster than ever before—but to Lachlan, it wasn't fast enough. Nothing would be fast enough, not until he arrived there, at Whisperer's Rest, and discovered what was happening. He'd spent a decade running away from his past, his memories, but now he and Stormcloud galloped toward them at full speed, and he could only pray it was quick enough—though the twisting in his heart told him that he was already too late.

He was eight years old. His father was a farmer, and his mother helped on the fields whenever she was not tending to Lachlan's needs. There'd been a bairn or three in her belly since Lachlan's birth, but only one had survived long enough to see the world, and that child had died soon after, though luckily he'd lived long enough to be baptized, John, before he died.

Lachlan had once had an older brother, too, though he couldn't remember him very well. The lad had been called Jamie, and he'd been three years older than Lachlan. But three years ago, when Jamie was the same age as Lachlan was now, he'd died in an accident while helping his father on the farm, and that had been the end of Jamie. Lachlan was ashamed that he only vaguely remembered his brother's smiling face and messy dark hair.

Lachlan didn't really understand why God had taken his siblings before they could live, but he knew that his mother was sad all the time as a result, and he knew it was his duty to help her. And he knew that his mammy relied on him and wanted to keep him close forever.

His father was rarely around, since he worked so hard, and when he did come home those days it was with a look of true misery on his face. He was tired and sore, and there was nobody to help him anymore.

Even the house seemed sad; there were holes in the roof that his father had tried to fix with whatever materials he could find, but though it kept them dry, their home was cold now. The fire was rarely lit in the hearth, even in winter, and Lachlan spent much of his time wrapped in a blanket

"Da," he asked late one night when his father came home from the fields, "why are ye and Ma so sad all the time?"

"It's a bad crop, son. Again," his father had told him through a tight, weary smile, "I dinnae ken how we're meant tae last the winter."

"Let me help on the farm," Lachlan insisted. "I'm a big lad now. I can dae it!"

"Nay," his father insisted. "Nay. Ye'll stay here an' keep yer mammy company. She'd have me heid if I let ye there."

And so Lachlan stayed home. And the crops failed. And they grew thinner, and sadder, and colder. Lachlan began to wonder, quite seriously, if there was any hope left in the world at all. He'd do anything if it just meant making his mammy smile again.

He was eleven years old. His mother had taken up seamstress work here and there wherever she could find it, and Lachlan had finally convinced her to let him help his father on the fields. He took odd jobs with the others in the village wherever he could, bringing in as much money as possible. They'd had a few good years of crops and a few bad years, but they made enough money to survive. Their roof was still patched, but at least they still had one, unlike many of Lachlan's friends who also acted as errand boys.

But now his mother grew heavy with child, and soon she gave birth to a pair of daughters, the most beautiful little creatures that Lachlan had ever seen in his life.

"Come meet yer sisters," his mammy beckoned, and he did. He put his fingers out to one of them, and as her little hand curled around it, he was entranced. He knew then and there that these little girls were his world forevermore, and he would do anything for them. "We're namin' them Gracie an' Faith, for they're with us by the grace o' God an' make nae mistake."

But even though the news was good in their family, the world did not share in their joy. It was another bad year for the crops, and their mother lost weight quickly. Her milk did not come in as well as it should, and the bairns cried in their crib for want of sustenance. They fed the children on a mix of animal milks, but it was clear the twins needed a wet nurse to help them grow strong.

"Yer mammy cannae bear tae lose another bairn," Lachlan's father told him, "And nae more can I. I'll go tae the Laird, son, an' hope he takes me intae his service. I hear war's brewin' amongst the clan—he'll need all the able bodied men he can get."

"But Da," Lachlan pleaded, "what will we dae without ye?"

"We all have a fate in this life, son," his father told him. "Live yers. An' wait for me. Look after yer mammy an' sisters. Tend the farm. An' we'll survive."

He was fourteen years old. His father's money had fixed the roof. There was always food in the pantry.

But now his mother's agonized screams rang in his ears so thickly that he knew that he'd never not hear them. He stood by numbly, holding one of his sisters, little Faith, as his mother pleaded with the messenger that there must be some mistake, some confusion—begged him to tell her that her beloved husband had not fallen in battle.

"He wasnae a soldier!" she wept. "Why would yer accursed Laird put him tae battle? Please, bring him home tae me!"

She sank into a deep sadness after that, deeper than Lachlan had seen since before his sister was born. She barely moved, barely ate, barely spoke. All there was for his mother was sleep and sadness. It got worse after Faith, always a sickly child, grew gravely ill once more. Then, the little attention that their mother had to spare was dedicated only to her.

Gracie often asked questions. "Where's Da?" she'd ask him over and over again. Or, "Why Faith doesnae play? I want tae play!" That one always broke his heart. The worst, though, was when the little girl asked, "Why is Mammy crying again?" To all of these questions, Lachlan had no answers, at least none a three year old girl could ever understand.

He could not keep the farm running by himself. There was not enough money in it, not without the income from his father. And so he took charge. He sold off the pittance of farmland and even their home with an agreement that the new owner would permit his mother and sisters to stay as tenants in their cottage in the village. He gained enough money to keep them afloat for a few years.

And then he sent word to the Laird.

When his mother discovered the plan, she begged him, pleaded with him not to go. She tried bargaining, threats, tears, screams. Lachlan's resolve wavered, but never broke. He knew that this was the only way to come back from nothing, the only way he could eschew the fate he'd been given and make his own.

"I'll send money, Ma," he promised her. "For ye an' Faith an' Gracie. I'll keep ye safe, I swear it. I'll have them send medicine tae help Faith, an' everythin' will be better."

"An' who'll keep ye safe?" she'd demanded wretchedly, while Gracie wailed in the background from fright, not understanding the anger and hurt in the room. "Or will I just sit by until a messenger arrives tae tell me that me boy's gone the way of me husband?"

"I willnae be a field soldier for long, Ma. Just ye wait an' see."

"People like us arenae built tae climb ladders," his mother cried. "Please, stay wi' us. Stay wi' me."

Lachlan almost broke, but he hardened his heart and shook his head. "Me fate is me own tae decide," he told her. "I'm goin'."

"Fine then! If ye go, go!" His mother's anger swelled, spilling over into something poisonous. "But dinnae ye darken me door again, ye understand? If ye leave this house, if ye leave us, for some idea that ye're better than what I can offer ye—then ye're nae son o' mine! This will be yer family nae mair, understand that!"

He looked at her, his heart breaking, then nodded. "Then I suppose I've nae family," he told her. "Goodbye, Gracie. Give Faith a kiss frae me when ye can. Goodbye, Ma."

He was twenty-four years old. Shame had kept him from returning all these years. His mother had never sought him out, never tried to get in touch, and Lachlan was sure it was because he'd made a choice. Had it been a good choice?

He knew the money he sent back for them every month was enough to keep them safe and healthy and well. He valued his friendship with James and the position his hard work had led to in the ranks of the McFerguson men.

But he'd only heard from his family once in all these ten years, a note written on his mother's behalf by the only literate in the village to inform him of a devastating blow. Little Faith had succumbed to her illness; none of the medicines or money he had sent had been enough to save her. Only Gracie remained by their mother's side now. And when the note had said, yer medicines didnae help , Lachlan knew it meant, ye didnae help.

His mother must blame him. And honestly, he partly blamed himself.

He couldn't write back in return, of course—women of his mother and Gracie's social class could not read, barely any of the men could either. The literate man would no doubt charge an arm and a leg to have the letter read to his mother. James would offer to cover it, but Lachlan didn't see the point. The damage was done. And anyway, he'd resigned himself to the knowledge that his words were unwelcome, and he'd stayed away, just as he'd promised his mother all those years ago.

James had tried to encourage him more than once to just return to the village of his childhood, to make amends, but Lachlan had resisted. He knew that his mother must hold him accountable for abandoning them and leaving Faith to die, and for leaving her just as his father and other siblings had before him. The longer he'd stayed away, the greater his shame had grown. He'd decided that it was better to leave the past, and let that be the end of it.

But he supposed it was only natural that he'd return here one day. It only made sense that his path would lead him back here, to the first place he'd ever called home.

Home to Whisperer's Rest.

And when he saw his home for the first time in ten years, he saw it was aflame.