Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The door to Deirdre's bedroom opened without anyone knocking, and she considered yelling at them for interrupting her privacy, but then she sighed. There was no point in doing that, was there? She had no privacy, not really. It was a plush prison, a prison made of love instead of fear—but she was still trapped.

"Gracie, I'm not in the mood," she said.

"I'm not Gracie," Blair's voice told her gently.

Deirdre turned quickly and saw all three of her sisters enter the room, each with a look of concern on their face. She sighed and looked down at the floor.

"I don't want to talk," she said. "Not unless ye're ready tae listen."

Though Jocelyn was trying to be subtle about it, because of the angle of Deirdre's gaze, she saw the second-oldest sister delivering a harmless but pointed kick to Aoife, who obviously took the point quickly.

"I shouldn't have been so harsh with ye, Deirdre," Aoife said, and Deirdre looked up, just in time to catch Aoife shooting Jocelyn a dirty look before pulling her attention back round. "But honestly, ye should ken better. Ye're the one who keeps scoldin' me about the seriousness of this war, and then ye go and make a fool of yerself in the war room!"

"It is serious," Blair said, "Deirdre is right about that. It would be foolish tae act like it wasn't. But that's why it's better tae leave it tae the people who have the power tae do somethin' about it, me wee roses. I ken ye're fierce and loyal, Deirdre, but James and Lachlan and the rest of the men of the clan have this under control."

"Ye and Jocelyn are just as involved as yer husbands," Deirdre argued.

"Aye, we are that," Jocelyn told her. "But that doesn't mean we enjoy it, particularly. It's our jobs tae shield the two of ye and the bairns, not yers. Just let us protect ye."

She'd obviously been trying to be reassuring, but her words made Deirdre's irritation flare again. "Us and the bairns!" Deirdre exclaimed. "As if I'm as helpless as Callum—more so, even! Even he's allowed a toy sword."

Blair frowned. "Ye ken that isn't what Jocelyn meant. That's not fair."

"It isn't fair!" Deirdre replied sharply. "Do ye not think I worry about the two of ye as well? Do ye not think it makes me angry that Blair had tae give up her childhood tae raise her wee sisters? That I don't ken that Jocelyn would rather be in a library than a war room? Aoife's betrothed and halfway out of the door, so she has her escape, but what of me? Am I naught but a bairn in yer eyes?"

"That is not why I accepted the betrothal!" Aoife interrupted hotly, pink spots of irritation appearing on her pretty cheeks. "Will ye stop treatin' me like some empty-headed doll? Just because, unlike ye, I don't want tae spend the rest of my life in this pointless fightin'—"

"Enough," Blair said tiredly. "Enough. Look, Deirdre, ye must promise me that ye will not go wanderin' without an escort again. We have enough tae worry about without thinkin' ye may be killed at any point."

Deirdre ground her teeth, frustration threatening to overwhelm her. "If I promise, will ye at least listen tae what I have tae say? It's important. They're sayin' that Brennan?—"

"We know the rumors about Brennan," Jocelyn told her quietly. "Lachlan receives such tips almost daily, that this Laird or that is meetin' with Bram, plottin' against us. Folk love tae gossip, and gossip they will. But we've checked them out, and Laird Brennan and his son both seem committed tae neutrality."

"Why do ye not take a word I say seriously?" Deirdre demanded. "Don't ye think that maybe, just maybe, if I brought it up, I might have had a reason? Don't ye think I've got a brain in me head, same as ye do?"

"Please try tae calm down," Blair urged her. "We're not yer enemies here, love."

"No, ye're not my enemies. Bram is our enemy," Deirdre told her. "And I want tae help overcome him at last. Please, Blair."

Blair sighed, closing her eyes for a moment, then said, "We've heard what ye have tae say. But more importantly, I need yer word ye will not leave again without an escort. It's not such a big deal. Please."

Deirdre frowned, folding her arms. She knew it would be easier to just promise, just get it over with, but she was tired of this. She'd spent her whole life, it felt like, being told where she could and could not go, being forced to behave in a certain way—and she'd had enough.

Blair shook her head. "Fine, then. Make it not a request frae yer sister, but an order frae the Lady of the clan. Deirdre McMillan, ye are not tae leave this castle without an escort under any circumstances, and not without first informin' Jocelyn or me, or James or Lachlan. Understood?"

"I—"

"Understood, Deirdre?"

Deirdre broke her gaze. She nodded sullenly. "Fine."

Blair let out a breath. "Thank ye."

They tried to engage her in conversation after that, but, in her despondence, Deirdre could barely bring herself to respond. One by one, her sisters left the room. Eventually, only Aoife was left, hesitating in the doorway.

"Deirdre," she said quietly, "Will ye not let this go? Will ye not let us go back tae how things were?"

"This is how things always were," Deirdre said quietly. "Just because the walls are friendlier, doesn't mean they're not still a prison."

Aoife opened her mouth as if to speak, then shook her head. "As ye want, sister," she said. She turned on her heel and left, too, and Deirdre was alone once more.

Deirdre waited until the door swung tight behind Aoife, then lay back on her bed and allowed her tears to finally fall.

Deirdre knew that she must be asleep, for she had no memory of entering the forest like this—no memory at all, in fact, of the woods and trees that surrounded her now. She stood alone in a billowing white gown, the only light around her emanating from a clearing ahead.

She took a few steps forward toward that clearing. As she approached, she heard growling and snarling, a terrifying, guttural, non-human argument that seemed to be unfolding ahead. Her every instinct screamed at her to run, but instead she continued forward toward that clearing.

When she entered, she saw them—four beautiful she-wolves, each with a distinctive coat, all with their hackles raised as they snarled at each other.

"No," she whispered, "This isn't right. Ye're not supposed tae be like this."

As she watched, one of the wolves turned her back and ran off into the forest, leaving the others behind. The largest of the wolves stopped growling then, letting out a plaintive, mournful howl, which the other soon joined. Only the smallest wolf still stood there, teeth bared, hair standing on end.

Then, behind the two larger wolves, a pair of glowing eyes appeared in the forest. Deirdre tried to shout out a warning, but it was too late. The monster jumped from the shadows, attacking the two large wolves before they could defend themselves. The largest wolf fell first, her cry guttering out into silence, and soon after the second was overcome.

The smallest wolf tried to get to them, perhaps to defend them, but something was blocking her way. She clawed at the invisible wall in the air, increasing desperation obvious in her scrabbling claws and the whimpers and cries that escaped from her muzzle. But then, just as the monster turned its eyes to the smallest wolf, a dark figure swooped down from the sky.

The large raven cawed loudly, its wings spread, and got between the wolf and the monster. Then, to Deirdre's surprise and horror, all three turned their eyes to her.

With malice in their eyes, they approached her as one, ready to attack.

Deirdre woke up, gasping and covered in sweat. The sun still streamed in through the window—she could not have slept for more than an hour or so, the lack of sleep from the night before obviously claiming her while she had been crying. Her heart was racing as her brain tried to comprehend the bizarre dream she'd just experienced.

For the first time in years, she thought of the old wise-woman, Agnes, who had been so much a part of both Blair and Jocelyn's search for freedom—as well as being the one whose prophecy had started all of this horror in the first place. She had spoken often of wolves and the sisters.

What would Agnes have to say about this dream? A lot, probably. She'd call it a portent, a message, a prophecy. The thought made Deirdre queasy as she imagined exactly what such a portent might mean.

She shook her head. It was nonsense. There was no magic, only the here and now. The dream had been caused by her lack of sleep and her sorrow, nothing more than that.

"This place is driving me mad," she mumbled to herself. She got off her bed and headed to her washbasin, splashing cool water on her face to try to clear her mind. "I can't stay here."

She knew she'd just promised. She knew that she was being foolish. She knew that the danger was very, very real. And yet, when she remembered Blair's disappointment, Jocelyn's tiredness, and Aoife's condescension, she felt like the wolf in her dream, her hackles raised, backed into a corner.

When they'd finally arrived at McFerguson Keep four years ago, Blair had promised them freedom and warmth, a home at last. And yet, now, it felt like the walls were suffocating her. She'd spent her whole life in different cages, and no matter how gilded this one was, it was still keeping her trapped.

Hardly thinking, she dressed herself in overwear and slipped on her shoes, hastily fixing the pins in her hair again. Let Blair be furious. Let Aoife be superior. It didn't matter, not now.

All she knew now was that she had to get out of there.

"That wee imp!" Aoife declared, watching as her sister, wrapped in a cloak, hurried out of a side exit of the keep. Deirdre had hidden her identity fairly well, but she could not fool Aoife, who could identify her baby sister with her eyes closed. "I should alert the guards immediately!"

"Consider me alerted," Liam told her with a grin. "Do ye want me tae go after her?"

The two of them sat at a small table in the lobby, playing a cup and stone game. Strictly speaking, Aoife wasn't supposed to be doing such things with the castle guards, but when Diarmid had stood and bid her to take over and Liam had entreated her to join, she couldn't help herself.

Aoife considered the question seriously for a moment, irritation prickling at her skin. Why did Deirdre have to be so willful? Could they not go the rest of the day without any further drama? Bad enough the younger sister had made such a scene in the war room earlier, never mind this now. How did she not understand that they were all just trying to protect her?

Not that Aoife didn't understand wanting to escape the burden of the castle. Aoife loved her sisters, her nieces and nephews, and her brothers-in-law. But she was tired of it all, tired of her life being a drama, constantly on edge awaiting the next attack, giving every moment to a pointless war that would end in nothing but sorrow for everyone. Though she'd never speak it out loud, she resented her father for starting all of this by following that stupid prophecy, even if he had been trying to protect them.

And a small part of her resented Deirdre, too. The older two had responsibilities as the wives of the Laird and of the Laird's tactician and strongest soldier respectively, she understood that. But Deirdre seemed so eager to throw what semblance of a life they had remaining away, to fight for a pointless cause, and seemed furious at Aoife for not being willing to do the same. Hadn't she given enough? Hadn't they all?

That was why she had jumped on the chance when Gregor MacLeod, William's father, had proposed the alliance. Blair and James had suggested that Aoife meet William first, but she didn't even care—she saw her chance, and she took it. She knew his sisters in passing, and that was good enough. Yes, it wasn't the romance of her dreams, but perhaps it could grow into it. Besides, in the stories, princesses met their true loves through such encounters all the time.

She smiled faintly to herself. Princesses! True love! She'd long since been a woman grown, but she could not help thinking of such things from time to time. She shook her head a little, looking down at her hands, which rested on the soft fabric of the dress she'd made for herself in the English style she loved rather than the home style preferred by her sisters. In the last years, her talent had grown, to the point where several ladies had requested clothing in her style. That would be a useful skill to have when she was the wife of a merchant.

"Lady Aoife?"

She looked up, startled from her reverie, to see Liam watching her with his head tilted curiously.

"Do ye want me tae go after yer sister?" he repeated.

"No," Aoife decided, hoping he hadn't noticed too much how her mind had wandered. She liked this guard, who was only a year or two older than she was, and even though she knew she didn't need to impress him, she wanted him to have a good image of her. "Let's finish our game, then we'll let the others ken we saw her leave. How much trouble can she possibly get intae before then?"

"As ye say, me Lady," Liam agreed.

She glanced up at him and found herself meeting his gaze. His eyes were a startling light blue, no flecks of green or brown in there at all, and as bright as the morning sky. His hair, loosely curled and worn slightly longer than most, was flaxen in colour and looked so soft she often had the mad urge to reach out and touch it. His short beard completed the look, and though he didn't quite match the image of the traditional Highland soldier, he reminded Aoife too strongly of something else—an illustration in one of her fairy tales of a prince at the bottom of a tower, waiting to free his princess.

Aoife caught herself in her thoughts and looked away sharply, embarrassed. What was she doing, thinking such things? She was a woman betrothed, and beyond that, this was a simple guard in the castle. Besides, she was sure that William, her soon-to-be husband who wrote such beautiful letters when they corresponded, would be thrice as handsome as this man ever could be.

"Are ye all right?" Liam asked her, genuine concern in his voice.

"Fine," she replied, turning back to the table but careful not to meet his eyes. She reached for the small collection of stones in one of the cups and moved them around the circle, dropping one stone in each cup all the way around. Her last stone dropped into an empty cup on her row opposite a full cup on his and she smiled. "Ah! I get tae take all these stones now, aye?"

He chuckled. "Aye. Ye're becomin' quite the mancala player, Lady Aoife. I'm beginnin' tae regret teachin' ye."

She opened her mouth, meaning to ask him how a simple soldier for hire had learned to play this foreign game, old as time though it may be, but what came out of her mouth was something quite different. "Ye dinnae need tae call me Lady , ye ken. It was mostly a jape when I said it before. Just Aoife is fine."

She looked up to see him staring at her, his mouth widening into a bright smile and those odd blue eyes sparkling like fresh morning rain.

"Aoife, then," he said softly. The air between them filled with static, and Aoife's breath caught in her throat. What was he going to say next? What was he going to do? Then he reached for his playing stones and moved them, landing in a way that let him collect ten of her pieces in one fell swoop.

"What!"

He laughed wickedly, winking at her. "Ye've a way tae go yet, Aoife. Ye'll need tae get up much earlier if ye want tae beat the likes of me."

"Rude!" she scolded, but she was laughing. Liam always made her laugh.

The game was over in short order after that. Liam took a moment to playfully gloat about his victory, then said, "Now, shall we go after yer sister?"

Aoife hesitated. She knew she had to inform someone, and she would, but…

"Just one more game," she said. "I think I have ye this time."

He gave her that impossible smile again. "Ye ken somethin'? I think ye just might."