Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Jocelyn stood bound to a tree while the men were bickering amongst themselves about something. She heard them talk about her and what Bram would do to her when they arrived back at the castle. She heard the disgusting excitement in their voices as they salivated over the reward they would soon receive. She heard them talk about hunting down her sisters and their supposed victory in slaying the McFerguson's Wraith at long last. She heard it all, and yet while it might have all filled her with revulsion and fear before, now their words could not reach her.

An odd tranquility filled Jocelyn from her head to her toes, washing over her body. The knowledge that Lachlan lived was a protective talisman against the horror around her. That young girl and the older woman had protected him, saved him, and he would survive. And the reason he had lived in the first place was because Jocelyn herself had saved his life! It may have led to her capture, yes, but how could she ever regret a moment which had allowed her to save Lachlan and let him live?

Not only that, but these men could talk of capturing her sisters all they wanted. It mattered not, not anymore. Their numbers had dwindled from twenty to around perhaps six, and all six of them were here with her. It would take them time to get her back to Bram, time in which her sisters would have more than completed the short remaining journey to Blair's side. All three of her sisters were free of danger, free of Bram, and once again, Jocelyn had been a key part in giving them that freedom.

No fear could touch her, not anymore. No horror. No regret. How could she sad for a moment, knowing that everyone she loved was now safe, and that she had helped them become so? All she felt now was calm—calm, mixed with defiance. These men wanted her to beg, to plead, to cry. And she would give them none of it.

"Get her on a horse," one man demanded. Jocelyn thought of Lightning, waiting patiently with Stormcloud, thankfully hidden out of sight. She knew that Lachlan would care for both horses.

The man who had once been her guard, Barra, approached and roughly cut the bonds to the tree, leaving the tight loops around her wrists and ankles intact. He caught her before she slumped to the ground and dragged her over to the horse and tossed her over its back like a sack of wheat.

"Cannae I even sit?" she asked. "Me hands and feet are bound; I cannae run away or anything anyway."

The guard grunted. "Ye should watch that smart mouth of yers before I gag ye as well," he growled. "Ye must realize how much danger ye're in."

She shrugged as best as she could in her awkward position. The strange calm swelled within her, mixed with a thrill of defiance. These men could do nothing to her. They would not cause her any lasting physical harm, not without risking Bram's wrath for stealing the kill he wanted to make with his own hands. Even more, they could not hurt her mentally, not anymore. She was beyond their threats, beyond their hurt. She'd saved Lachlan. Her sisters were safe.

The guard narrowed his eyes. "When me Laird gets a hold of ye, lassie, it's gonna be painful. Ye ken that, aye? He's gonna whip ye like a horse, marrin' that pretty skin of yers until there's naught but blood and mess."

"Oh aye?" she asked casually.

His expression soured more. "Me Laird will hurt ye in ways ye've never even considered. He'll drown ye and steal the breath frae yer lungs. He'll use hot pokers tae burn his brand intae yer flesh. He's gonna make ye beg for the mercy an' succor of death."

Jocelyn waited for the fear to overtake her, but it didn't. What reason did she have to fear these things? Of course she did not wish for these things, but who was to say it would happen? Her fate did not belong to Bram. She was in control, and just like Lachlan, her fate was her own to make. Until they reached the castle, nothing was over. And even then, she'd escaped before—and she would do it again.

"Have ye lost yer tongue, witch?" Barra demanded, his anger even hotter than before. He was clearly waiting for a reaction, and furious that she wasn't providing it. "Did ye leave it on the ground with the dead Wraith?"

Jocelyn didn't deign to respond. She just fixed him with a defiant look as best she could from her awkward position on the horse.

Barra spat to the side. "Come, then," he told her derisively, mounting the horse. "Ye've an appointment with yer fate."

As the horse began to move, Jocelyn smiled faintly to herself.

Her fate was in her own hands, despite what these men seemed to think. And before long, she'd feel freedom again. She knew it.

Lachlan groaned and opened his eyes. His head was throbbing, and the faint flicker of candlelight was too bright and caused him to squeeze his lids shut once more. He swore, trying to understand what was going on.

The next thing he noticed was that there was a mattress beneath him. Nothing fancy; a poor man's mattress made of hard packed straw, but a cloth pillow supported his head and someone had covered him with a blanket.

He forced his eyes open again, squinting against the light.

"Mammy, he's awake," a young woman's voice said. She sounded very young, maybe even still a girl. Lachlan willed himself to focus his blurry vision until at last he could properly make out the figure next to his bed.

She was young, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, with large dark eyes and hair as black as pitch tied roughly in a tail behind her head. But despite her youth, an intelligence and compassion shone in her gaze as she took him in—and along with that, something all too familiar.

Recent memories batted against his pained skull.

Whisperer's Rest. The fires. The deaths. A woman calling his name. And?—

"Gracie?" he mumbled, scarcely able to believe this was real. "Is that really ye, wee Gracie?"

The girl's face broke into a bright smile filled with warmth and excitement. "Aye, it is me. And ye're Lachlan, are ye nae? Me own brother, the lad I've wanted me whole life tae meet. And now ye're here!"

Lachlan's heart contracted and his lungs seemed to forget how to absorb air. Gracie, his little sister, here in front of him after all those years. No longer a bairn squalling in her mother's arms, but a girl halfway to womanhood, childhood long behind her. Unbidden, tears sprang into his eyes, though he didn't let them fall.

"Faith…" he whispered, barely aware of the word escaping his lips.

Gracie's smile faltered a little, and a sad look filled her dark eyes. "That's right, Lachlan," she said, obviously relishing the use of his name. How long had she waited for him so that she could say it? "Faith passed some years back, a while after ye left. I barely remember her meself, though I talk tae her sometimes. Mammy says it's because we were twins, but I think I might be a wee bit mad. Maybe when ye're recovered, I can take ye along tae the kirkyard and ye can see where she's buried, aye? Mammy says?—"

"Let the lad breathe, Gracie," an older voice instructed, and Lachlan's fractured heart throbbed painfully as his mother walked into view. He expected blame, disgust, maybe even hatred when their eyes met, but all he saw there was love.

"Ma," he breathed.

His mother started to sob. Gracie hastily stood, guiding her mother to the bedside chair she had been occupying. As soon as the older woman was close enough, she reached out and cradled Lachlan's cheek, gently turning him to face her. Lachlan leaned into the touch, all of a sudden transported back through the years to a boy who just wanted his mother.

"Me wee soldier," his mother wept. "Ye came tae save us, after all these years. Ye've always taken care of us, even so far away, but I thought— Me wee love, I feared I'd never see ye again."

Lachlan tried to turn to face her more properly, but a searing pain in his abdomen made him stop.

"Nay, stay still," Gracie warned him. "It was more than just a bonk on the heid ye got. Ye're fair injured, and it'll take some time before ye can move around without riskin' yer health."

Lachlan grunted in acknowledgment. "Ma, I—I always thought I wouldnae be welcome back even if I tried. I thought?—"

His mother shook her head. "I said such terrible words tae ye, me own son. In me grief, I— Och, Lachlan. I never wanted tae turn ye away. After yer faither died, the thought of losin' ye as well, and with yer sister half in the grave, it sent me mad. I said such terrible things, I ken I did. Can ye ever forgive me?"

"Forgive ye?" Lachlan asked. "Ma, can ye forgive me ? I left, and Faith died anyway. I robbed ye of two more bairns that day."

"Ye robbed me of nothin', son," his mother told him, very seriously. "I wanted tae see ye so much in these ten years. I wanted tae beg yer forgiveness. But I heard that the man they called the Wraith was adamant he had nae family tae speak of. And I kenned then and there that I'd hurt ye beyond any hope of reconciliation."

He shook his head, even though a moment later the thunderclap in his skull made him regret it. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he said, "I wanted tae hide where I came from because I was ashamed. Nae ashamed of ye , Ma, nor of Da or Gracie or any of the bairns who passed. I was ashamed of me , and how I'd let ye down. When I didnae hear frae ye, I assumed I was right in that ye blamed me and I had nae right tae consider meself part of yer family."

"So what ye're tellin' me, both of ye," Gracie interrupted, "Is that all these years we've missed out on bein' a family because the pair of ye just assumed that was what the other wanted? What a pair of bampots ye are!"

"Gracie!" their mother exclaimed, "Watch yer mouth and how ye talk tae yer brother!"

Lachlan laughed, though the movement made his chest and stomach hurt. "Oh, she isnae wrong at all, though. I'm truly sorry, Ma."

His mother leaned over and kissed his forehead, and Lachlan closed his eyes, feeling a healing presence from just the touch. "And I'm sorry, as well," she told him. "Me poor lad. And here I thought I'd lost ye."

Lachlan's fuzzy memory cleared a little at that. How had he gotten here? The last thing he remembered, he was riding toward Whisperer's Rest as fast as he could, and then?—

"Jocelyn!" he exclaimed. He sat bolt upright, ignoring the screaming agony that was his body's protest at the sudden movement. "Ma, Gracie, there was a lassie, a woman a wee bit younger than me, she?—"

"Stop before ye burst yer stitches!" Gracie scolded in a voice that was far too mature for her years. "Ye cannae help anyone if ye bleed tae death in this bed or that bang on yer heid makes ye collapse."

Lachlan waved a hand impatiently. "Never mind that. Where is she? Where is Jocelyn?"

His mother and Gracie exchanged looks before his mother finally spoke. "If ye mean that lassie with the voice and dress of nobility, they took her a few hours ago, while we were bringin' ye inside."

"What? Who took her? What?—"

Gracie spoke up next. "Ye should have seen her, Lachlan. She jumped into the fight tae save yer life, even though they nearly killed her then and there. And then when they hit ye and ye fell, she looked like her heart was broken. I tried tae tell her secretly that ye were still alive, but we had tae make the soldiers believe ye were deid. They would have taken ye as well otherwise, or just killed ye then and there."

The soldiers…yes, he remembered now. He remembered everything. Whisperer's Rest was burning. Women and children were screaming. Farmers were dying, blood on the ground, flames and smoke and ash in the wake of the rampaging soldiers.

And Jocelyn, from nowhere, arrived to save him. An angel sent from heaven, swooping in just as all was lost.

And now she was lost.

He heaved himself out of bed, ignoring his mother and sister's alarmed protests that he would reopen his wound or worsen his head injury. It didn't matter. Jocelyn was in danger, and he had to get to her. Bram's men had her now, and they had a few hours head start—who knew how far they'd gone, or what they'd do to her?

"I'll come back," he promised and then lurched for the door, ignoring the way his body reacted, ignoring everything except the fact that Jocelyn needed him. He had to hurry before it was too late.

He stumbled on the small step outside of the front of the cottage and had to grab the wall to stop himself from falling. His head was spinning and his body was in agony, but he couldn't stop. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to steady and move through the village.

What he saw when he looked up filled his throat with acrid bile. The village dead had been moved, lined up neatly on the side until their families could bury them. On the other side of the village, a pile of dead soldiers had unceremoniously been dumped, awaiting disposal. The fires had gone out, but smoke still unfurled lazily from the remnants of buildings, and women and children were sobbing, scrabbling in the ruins of their homes to try to find anything they possibly could in the aftermath.

At least the dead villagers were a lower number than he'd first thought. In the height of the chaos, it had seemed like half of the residents had been slaughtered, but in reality it was no more than maybe ten or eleven. Still far, far too many—but not a complete annihilation. Still, many of the dead were the few men who lived here, mostly farmers, and this village would need help to thrive.

Once he had Jocelyn, he would appeal to James for help. But now, he could not stop to aid them, could not spare them even a moment. He had to hurry. The tableau in front of him was all the evidence he needed that Bram's men were as evil and deranged as their leader, and he could not risk leaving Jocelyn in their clutches another second.

Getting to the village gate despite his body's protests was hard. He felt dizzy and sick, and only stubbornness made it possible to keep going without vomiting or losing consciousness. But his determination to meet his goal made all of that unimportant.

He found his horse waiting patiently for him, still tied to the tree—by Jocelyn's horse, Lightning. His heart constricted at the sight, and he petted the white horse gently.

"Dinnae worry," he mumbled. "I'll find yer mistress."

"Wait!" a voice cried out. Lachlan turned and saw Gracie running toward him. She stopped, panting, in front of him and said, "I ken I cannae stop ye, and I'm nae here tae try. Anyway, that lassie is obviously important tae ye. But ye must at least take these."

Lachlan accepted the offered bundle of supplies. "What is this?"

"Herbs for healin' tea, and some bread and water as well," Gracie told him. "But, Lachlan, please be careful. I'll never forgive ye if ye die so soon after comin' back."

Lachlan nodded seriously. "I swear it. In the mean time, do somethin' for me, Gracie."

"Anythin'."

He petted Lightning again. "Look after this horse for me while I'm gone. She's a grand steed, and she belongs tae Jocelyn. Can ye keep her safe 'til I return?"

Gracie nodded enthusiastically. "We'll manage," she promised. Then, to Lachlan's surprise, she threw her arms around his waist. "Travel safe, me brother," she mumbled into his chest. "And then come home. I've wasted ten years without kennin' ye. I dinnae want tae lose any more."

Lachlan hugged her back tightly and swallowed the lump in his throat. "I promise," he told her, then, impulsively, kissed the top of her head. "Stay safe, Gracie. I'll see ye soon."

"But now ye must go," Gracie replied. She nodded. "Go. Save her."

Lachlan nodded. There was no more time. Without another word, he secured the supplies to Stormcloud's harness, loosed him from the tree, and mounted. With only a glance back at his sister, who was already petting and mumbling to Lightning, he urged Stormcloud to move.

"Come, me lad," he told the horse. "We must beat the wind."

The horse whinnied, almost as if he understood, and at Lachlan's command they picked up the pace. Soon, they were flying through the countryside, the remnants of Whisperer's Rest far behind as they raced ahead.

They stopped only occasionally to look for tracks and other signs that Bram's men might have passed that way. There was no real way to know that he was even going to cross paths with them if he rode, but he knew he must not stop.

And so Lachlan flew through the night, his horse galloping at top speed. Only one thing was on his mind, only one thing kept him going.

"Just a wee bit longer, Jocelyn," he muttered, half to himself. "Just hang on a wee bit longer. I'm comin'."

He just prayed he wouldn't be too late.