Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Blair stared out of the window into the darkness of the night, her thoughts troubled. How could it be that, after everything they'd been through, she'd allowed this to happen? It had been four full days now since her little sister was lost to her—four days since she'd failed. She was supposed to be the oldest sister, the protector, the de facto Lady of two different clans. But here she sat in a stone tower, her youngest sister lost, maybe dead, with nothing to show for it.

Don't blame yourself, James told her over and over again, but even her love could never truly understand the agony tearing Blair apart right now. Her whole life, her entire being, had been dedicated to her sisters since the day she was born. When her children came along, she of course had expanded her heart, but her responsibility to those girls had never faded. She'd sworn to her father and mother that she'd protect them. And she had failed.

Where was her little Deirdre? Was she even alive? Blair had no way of knowing. She believed in her heart that the girl must live—surely she would know, would feel it, if one of her sisters was truly lost—but she had no earthly idea where she could have gone.

Did Bram have her? Had her wicked cousin succeeded at last after all these years? It was likely, horrifyingly so. But Blair knew that there was something a little off about that theory. She knew Bram, knew how much of his evil heart was based in grandstanding and performance. Her cousin would not be subtle in his victory. Had he successfully captured or killed Deirdre, Bram would have no doubt sent a messenger to gloat and bargain already.

Unless…unless the messenger simply hadn't arrived yet. It was possible. And agonizing.

All Blair could do was wait.

"Mammy?"

Blair turned her tired eyes to the door of the study to see Callum's little frame outlined within it by the flickering candlelight. She beckoned for him to enter, glad for the darkness that would be hiding the sorrow on her face. "What is it, me wee petal?" she said. "Should ye not be in yer rooms at such a time? Good bairns need their sleep."

"I'm not that wee anymore," Callum told her proudly. He clambered up onto her knee without asking, and she made sure there was enough room for him to do so, then wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Ye'll always be wee enough tae need yer mammy's hugs, though. Did ye have a bad dream?"

Callum shook his head. He seemed reluctant to share why he'd come looking for her, so she asked a different question.

"Where's yer daddy? Did he not check in on ye?"

"He did, but I pretended tae be sleepin'," Callum confessed. "I ken that Daddy's busy, and I didn't want him tae be worried. But then I came tae look for ye."

"And why would Daddy be worried?" Blair asked softly. Her chest ached; she remembered when Deirdre was small and would sit on her lap in the exact same way. Oh, Deirdre, be safe.

Callum hesitated a moment longer. "Well," he said at last, all in a rush. "I like bein' a big lad and havin' me own room, I do. But, ye ken, when it gets really dark sometimes…I worry about Stuart, in that nursery. Is he big enough tae look after our cousins all by himself?"

Blair found herself smiling fondly. She remembered, years ago, a very similar thought in her head. Jocelyn had protected the younger girls just as fiercely as Blair had in the three years they'd been forced apart, and Blair had known she would—but she'd spent all those years worrying anyway, longing to see them all, to make sure they were all right.

"Stuart's doin' a grand job," Blair promised him.

"Even with wee Faith?" Callum asked anxiously. "She's just a tiny thing. Maybe he needs help."

Blair had worried endlessly over little Deirdre, too, when she was just a child. She remembered wondering how anything so small could ever survive in this big wide world, and she remembered swearing to herself she'd do anything to make sure the girl had the best life ever.

I failed ye, Deirdre. I'm so sorry.

"Tell ye what," she said out loud, determined not to let any of her sorrow show in her voice. She wanted her children and her niece and nephew to have the carefree, peaceful childhood they deserved, far from the truth of war and danger and missing family members as much as possible. "How about, just for this one night, ye sleep in the nursery again?"

Callum sounded doubtful. "Am I not too big?"

"Ye're a very big boy," Blair assured him. "But that's why ye're checkin' in with them, aye? Because ye're the eldest, and ye want tae make sure they're safe?"

And, if ye're anythin' like yer mammy, because ye need them as much as they need ye, Blair added silently.

Encouraged by the logic, Callum agreed, and allowed Blair to walk him to the nursery. She saw him tucked in, said goodnight again to Stuart and to Jocelyn's children, then left, closing the door behind her.

Blair loved being a mother, an aunt, a sister. She'd been able to solve Callum's problem so simply, given him happiness and driven away the darkness as much as she was able to.

Now, all she needed to do was find a way to do the same for her missing sister. She would not give up. She couldn't.

Flooded with determination, she set off down the hallway toward the Laird's rooms to find her husband. It was time to find a new solution.

Dear William,

I'm writing because…

Aoife frowned, then crumpled up the paper in her hand, tossing it to the side. She dipped her pen and tried again.

Beloved,

I…

No, no, that was much worse. The thought of calling him beloved made her cringe deep in her soul. That wasn't right, though: yes, she had never met him, but he was to be her husband in a matter of months. Surely using endearments shouldn't be this hard.

Aoife sighed, dipping her pen again. She needed comfort from beyond her family, and the man who would soon be her life partner was the one she wanted to be there for her. It would take some time for him to get the message and reply, but knowing he knew and cared for her problems would make it better.

William,

My sister has gone missing. I am feeling ever so dreadful, and…

She sighed. No, this wouldn't work. She'd never send this letter, because the man who would eventually receive it would never understand. Perhaps after they were married things would be different, but for now, how could she expect him to comprehend her pain? How could she hope for comfort when he didn't even know her?

Aoife continued to write, knowing full well that this letter would never be sent.

… and I wonder how you would react if you were here. Are you the man I have always dreamed of, who would dash in and save her? Would you hold me close and comfort me while I wept? Would you recite poetry to me, perhaps, to soothe me in my time of pain?

Deirdre just wanted freedom, just as I do. She just looked in a different way than I. I see that now, though it may be too late. How did Barbour say it?

'Ah, freedom is a noble thing!

Freedom makes man to have liking!

Freedom all solace to man gives:

He lives at ease that freely lives!'

Where is the liking, the choice, that Barbour speaks of? Is it, my dear William, a true freedom if I should marry you, a stranger? Or am I trading one prison for another? Perhaps my Deirdre had more sense than I, and now I fear I'll never see her again.

You may offer me true freedom, my erstwhile betrothed. I know not. But I do know I would give it all up in a moment to have my sister back. I would live here forever, fight in their war, never love if that's what it took. Just so long as I could see my sister again.

That would be my liking. That would be my choice.

Can you give her back to me, William? Or have I lost everything forever?

Aoife sniffled, only realizing she had started to cry as droplets of water fell on her paper. She took a shaky breath and folded the letter, placing it in her drawer and closing the desk.

She didn't even know what William looked like. She'd always imagined him as her long-awaited prince, but now when she tried to picture him, nothing truly came to mind. Aoife gave up and lay on her bed, closing her eyes.

When she did, the only image she could conjure was a soft embrace and eyes as blue as the morning sky.

Early in the morning on the fifth day, Deirdre and Ciaran crossed the boundaries onto the lands belonging to Clan Brennan. Deirdre had never been here, but she recognized the Brennan Windforge, the great windmill that marked the boundary, from descriptions given by visitors and travelling merchants. It sat upon a heather-strewn hill, and altogether was a towering structure, its wooden blades creaking as they caught the Highland winds that blew strong even in summer, and Deirdre found herself feeling strangely intimidated as they traveled into its shadow.

"It's so large," she whispered.

Ciaran heard her and nodded, his eyes on the windmill and a strange expression on his face. It was odd to see him not smiling all of a sudden. The last few days had been endless laughter, kisses, and smiles, and Deirdre never remembered having so much fun in all of her life. He'd never gone further than kissing her, though both of them had wanted to; he told her that he respected her too much for such things, which just made her more sure that spending her time with him was the right choice.

But now…what was that look on his face? She was intimidated by the Windforge, but Ciaran, who was from these lands, had surely spied it many times. Why was his expression suddenly troubled?

"Is everythin' all right?" she asked.

He didn't answer. He turned his horse to follow the path to a small building at the foot of the windmill's hill, and Deirdre followed, uneasy. She trusted Ciaran, but she wasn't sure what was going on, and she wished he would explain.

Perhaps it is strange for him to be home, after traveling for so long, she reasoned. Maybe he was nervous to see his family after what must have been months, maybe even years. She knew that she would be, if she were in his shoes. She would be nervous enough to see them again after just two weeks or so.

They passed a small building, and Ciaran held out his hand for her to stop. She did so, and two men exited the building. They were big, burly types, each in the clan colors of Brennan, each carrying the aura of being the kind of men that one did not cross. Deirdre tensed, glancing to Ciaran.

"Get off the horse," he said. He slid off his own, then helped her down. His expression was even harder now, a mask compared to what she had grown so used to and so fond of. "Ye'll be ridin' with me the rest of the way."

"What?" Deirdre asked in alarm as the men drew closer. "What about Cider? What?—"

For a moment, Ciaran's expression softened. "Cider will be safe. I'll make sure of it. We'll bring him with us, and he'll have a grand time in the stable with the other horses."

That simply served to confuse her more. "What are ye talkin' about? Why wouldn't I?—?"

But then the burly men reached them, and her words were interrupted as one of them roughly grabbed her arm.

"Ow! Let go of me!"

The man ignored her, holding her firmly in place and looking her up and down. With a horrible sinking feeling, she realized he seemed vaguely familiar. He'd been at James's keep once as a bodyguard for an emissary of Laird Brennan. He looked her up and down and said, "Aye, this is her. He'll be right pleased."

The other man smiled, showing a few missing teeth. "Wonderful work, Master Ciaran," he said. "I'll send a runner ahead tae inform yer father of yer success."

"Master Ciaran? What?" Deirdre exclaimed. "Ciaran, what is goin' on?"

Ciaran was staring at the turning blades that sliced through the morning air, but this time he answered her, without looking back. "Do ye ken why the Windforge is so renowned, Deirdre? Why it's come tae be a symbol of these lands? When me great-grandfather built it, he was told he should make the thing smaller, divide the resources, not make such a statement, ye understand. But me grandfather didn't listen."

The man holding Deirdre squeezed her arm so tightly she yelped, then spun her to face the other man, grabbing her so that she couldn't move. The other man proceeded to systematically pat her down, his hands searching too closely for her comfort. Feeling violated by the search, she shrieked, "Let go!"

Ciaran kept speaking, his voice trance-like, almost as if he didn't notice what was going on. "He understood that the wheel must always be turnin' if we're tae have our daily bread. That it's necessary tae crush our finest grains tae bring food tae our hungry and health tae our weak. And that sometimes, sacrifice is needed, even if at first others don't understand its worth. Aye, the village would lose stone and wood for a while, but the magnificent end result would make it all worth it."

"Nae weapons," the man declared, stepping back to avoid a hard kick that Deirdre aimed at his face. "I suppose this one's no' as smart as the other sister."

Both men laughed at that, and Deirdre felt sick to her stomach. Weapons? Why would they think she had weapons? What was happening?

Ciaran turned to face her at last. "He taught me father that lesson when he was just a lad at his knee. And me father taught me and me brother the same lesson in turn. Me brother—oh, a quick learner he was! He kent when and how tae do what needed tae be done, nae matter the price or his personal feelin's. And now he's gone, it's me turn tae live up tae that."

"Ye…ye told me ye didnae have any brothers or sisters."

"I said I was the only survivin' child," Ciaran corrected. His voice was cold as winter. "I told ye many things that ye didnae hear, it seems."

"Ye're gonnae be a welcome guest. Master Ciaran's father will be thrilled tae see ye," one of the burly men told her, then laughed loudly before dragging her to Ciaran's horse and half-pushing her onto the back.

"And yer father will be pleased tae at last welcome ye home with open arms," the other man told Ciaran, much more respectfully.

"Ciaran!" Deirdre exclaimed as he got onto the horse behind her, his arms around her more like a trap than a caress all of a sudden. "Please, I don't understand any of this."

"It doesnae matter who's in charge, Deirdre," he whispered, his voice close to her ear. He flicked the reins, and the horse started to move. She saw one of the men clamber onto Cider and follow from behind. "No matter what, the Windforge keeps turnin'. And I needed tae prove tae me father that I'd be enough tae keep things goin' after he was gone."

Dread flooded Deirdre as she understood at last how little she knew about any of this before committing to it. How reckless she had really been.

"Ciaran," she whispered, "Who are ye? Who are ye really?"

"Me name is Ciaran, as I told ye." He flicked the reins again, and the horse responded, speeding up as they raced deeper into the clan's lands. "Ciaran Brennan. I am the second-born and now only son of Alasdair Brennan, Laird of this Clan. And we're off tae see me father."