Chapter 15

Chapter 15

My darling William, Aoife wrote, then scribbled out the words. No. It would not do to give the man mixed messages, not now, not when she was doing such a thing as this. She had told Blair of her intentions to call off the engagement, and while she knew that it was a blow to James and the war effort, neither James nor Blair had attempted to dissuade her.

She couldn't help it. William had made it very clear in his letters that he had a romanticized idea of her in his heart, and their written flirtations had obviously created in his mind an ideal woman, an ideal wife, a lady—the kind of woman that Aoife once thought she could be. The kind of woman who Deirdre had always told her was not a full sum of who she was, while Aoife had refused to listen.

Well, Deirdre was gone now—but her words were truer than they'd ever been. Aoife was sure that her sister was not dead. She couldn't be, because Aoife knew that she would have felt it if Deirdre was gone from this world. But she was nowhere to be found nonetheless, and Aoife had no way of knowing when she'd ever see her again. Perhaps it would be never. The thought made the pen tremble in Aoife's hand, but she calmed herself, breathing as evenly as she could as she dipped her pen and began to write again.

Dear William, she wrote, and released another shaky breath. That was better. Not so formal as to be cold, but devoid of the usual affection their letters contained. Deirdre was not here, perhaps would never be here again, but Aoife longed to see her again. The youngest sister would be unbearable, perhaps complete with I told you so! when she learned what Aoife was doing. The thought made Aoife smile almost as much as it made her want to cry.

Time to finish writing. Time to say goodbye to the Aoife who had pushed her sister away, and welcome in the Aoife that Deirdre had always known she could be. Time to honor her beloved missing Deirdre in the best way she could—by at last honoring herself.

Dear William,

I will send this letter along with Laird and Lady McFerguson when they attend to meet with your father, and I am aware of the risk it carries within it. I know you will not forgive me, William, but I pray that you do not hate me enough that you will leave my family to suffer because of it. I do not ask that you still fund our endeavors, but perhaps you will retain enough affection in your heart to ask him to abstain his funding from either side of the war effort?

I am sure your father has already informed you that I wish to break the betrothal. You needn't fear shame from it; James has sworn to find you another fine bride from our allied clans, one who can better serve as the wife you deserve. That was never me, William, as much as I wanted it to be. I have written you many letters since the loss of my sister, but never have I sent one, for I knew that you could not comprehend my ravings. Perhaps I am mad, for what woman of sense would give up a marriage to a fine man like you?

I enclose those letters now with this one, half-finished and nonsensical as some may seem to you, in the hopes that you may one day understand. It is not that you were not good enough, nor that I thought myself better. It is not that there is any fault with you; you would have been the finest of husbands, if your letters and your father's recommendations hold any truths, as I'm sure they do. It is not even, as you might suspect, that I have fallen for another man. In fact, the love I do or do not feel in my heart for any man has little to do with this.

I agreed to this match in search of Barbour's "free liking, yearned over all other things"—the choice of freedom. And perhaps in time you could have been that. But losing Deirdre has made me realize that freedom does not mean fleeing from one set of duties to find another. It means having the choice to leave, and being true to yourself and your heart regardless.

I hope you are happy with your life, William McLeod. You deserve that and more. May you have a full life filled with a woman who loves you for you , not just an ideal you were supposed to be. May you be rich and happy. And may you live.

Yours,

Aoife McMillan

Tears were running down her face as she finished the letter. Everything in the letter was true, and it was as full an explanation as she could give. She needn't burden her soon-to-be ex betrothed with the information she'd fallen for another man. Her feelings for Liam were complex, but they were not the reason she had ultimately decided to reject the marriage. As she'd said in her letter, it had very little to do with love at all, except for her love for her sisters, and her love for herself.

She folded the letter neatly, bundling the other unfinished or unsent letters in with it as promised, then sealed the whole thing with a stamp. James would meet with the merchant McLeod within the week, and she'd send the missive with him. And perhaps, one day, she'd feel less guilty about it, when this was all over.

She wouldn't go running to Liam now, though part of her wanted to. She would wait until things were ended properly before she explored that possibility, if she ever did. And until then…until then, her thoughts and her heart would be with Deirdre, praying only that her sister returned home safely. Until then, nothing else mattered.

Deirdre followed the older guard—Rabbie, she remembered now—through the corridors of the keep until they reached a small, hidden passage behind a curtain. He ducked as he entered it, not looking back, and she only hesitated for a second before she followed. It was pitch black inside, and she found herself stumbling, hitting her knee hard enough when she fell that she swore.

"Are ye all right?" Rabbie asked, his voice quiet but not a whisper. She heard as he moved closer, then hands were gently helping her to her feet. "Sorry. I should have told ye it would get rocky. Hold on tae me arm until we come out the other side."

"Where are we? What are ye doin'?"

Rabbie was quiet for a moment as he led her around a few sharp corners and down some steps, for which she was eternally glad about holding his arm. She imagined tripping down these steep stone stairs in the dark and swallowed, wondering if she'd have broken her neck.

"It isnae right," he said eventually. "What the Laird is doin' tae ye, or how Ciaran brought ye here, or…any of it."

"What?"

"Ye've met me Marjorie, aye? She's the same age as ye are, or thereabouts. I just kept imaginin' her all locked up the way ye were, fated tae the same thing ye…well, it doesnae bear thinkin' about. I had tae act."

Deirdre digested this information for a moment as they kept moving. So this man was Marjorie's father? Was this something to do with why not only Ciaran but also Marjorie had stopped coming to her rooms these last few nights?

"Is Marjorie all right?"

"Aye." He stopped, and Deirdre heard him rummaging in his pockets. Was he looking for keys? "But she's gonnae be in some danger after all this, right enough. Me missus and the bairns as well. Och…"

The tell-tale sound of metal against wood, then a click, and Deirdre blinked as the darkness was pierced by dim light. It was dark outside, but compared to the inky blackness of the passage, the stars and the moon shone like the brightest flame. Rabbie kept a hold of her as they walked out into the night.

Deirdre felt dizzy as the outside air rushed her for the first time in what felt like forever. She breathed it, the Highland's night song making her heart swell. But she was still scared, confused, uncertain. "And Ciaran? Is Ciaran all right?"

Rabbie stopped again, this time to look over her shoulder. In the moonlight, she saw pure incredulity on his face. "The lad locks ye in a room for days, weeks, and ye want tae ken if he's all right?"

She knew how it sounded, and it was a little absurd when he put it like that, but she refused to let herself become embarrassed or color at the words. "He disappeared," she said quietly. "And I ken his father has a rotten temper."

The older man's face relaxed into a sympathetic, knowing smile. "Aye. Aye. Ciaran's fine, lass, I can promise ye that much. None of them ken ye've left the tower yet, and with all hope, they will not realize until ye're long gone."

They reached the stables soon after, and Deirdre's head was whirling. It was all happening so fast—this man was really helping her escape. She was really going to be free! Excitement warred with fear warred with caution. She'd trusted too easily before, and ended up here. What fresh hell awaited her?

But she couldn't turn this down. Not now. Not when home, her sisters, her whole family were so close.

A figure walked out of the stable leading two horses—a woman who Deirdre realized with a start was a very nervous-looking Marjorie. She didn't look comfortable with the horses, and it occurred to Deirdre that it was likely that Marjorie had probably never ridden a horse before.

"Take her with ye," Rabbie begged. "Please. She's old enough that she'll face the worst of the punishments, and they'll blame her first since she was interactin' with ye so often. It's all I ask of ye, Miss McMillan."

"Of course she can come," Deirdre said quickly, though privately she doubted Marjorie's ability to undertake the long journey. In truth, right now, she doubted her own ability. She was exhausted already, running only on adrenaline, and after three days of not eating properly, she wasn't sure she could guide both herself and an inexperienced traveler back home.

It doesn't matter. I have to try.

"What about ye?" she asked, turning back to Rabbie. "Yer wife and younger bairns?"

Rabbie shook his head. "The Laird will not be forgivin' when he realizes what I've done. Probably we'll flee too. But never mind that. Just get yerself and me Marjorie tae safety, and…"

Marjorie hurried forward to hug her father, and Deirdre turned to the horses. Despite how overwhelmed she felt, she let out a sudden cry of joy.

"Cider!" she exclaimed. The horse whinnied, obviously pleased to see her too, and Deirdre took a moment to pet his snout. "They looked after ye. I worried that…"

She thanked Rabbie, her emotions still all a jumble, and both she and Marjorie mounted their horses. Marjorie had a map, apparently, which they'd check after the sun rose—for now, it just mattered that they got as far as they could, as fast as they could.

"Be safe," Rabbie called after them, and their horses broke into a gallop. Deirdre hoped dearly that he would be safe, too, but she couldn't stop to return his wishes, couldn't slow down at all.

She urged Cider to pick up the pace, and the horse obeyed at the slightest touch, obviously as eager to run as she was to flee. Behind her, she heard Marjorie and the other horse pick up speed too, and they galloped away, the Brennan keep growing smaller and smaller in the mist.

Soon, they reached the windmill, the first sign that Deirdre had ever noted of the Brennan lands. She did not stop to gaze at it, did not even slow to remember how it had felt when she'd learned the truth about Ciaran. She did not stop at all.

Freedom was calling to the wolf cub—a cub no longer—and she was ready to answer.

"Is it true?" Laird Dougall demanded, his gray walrus mustache bristling as the words boomed from his lips. "Has the youngest sister indeed absconded?"

Blair forced a smile onto her face. Laird Dougall was an important potential ally, which was the only reason she allowed this horrible man anywhere near her home. As Blair, the woman, she would have sent him away the moment he had stepped foot inside—but as Blair, Lady of clan McFerguson, she had a duty to flatter him in hopes of re-securing his alliance.

"Young Miss McMillan has taken a journey," James replied, ever the smooth diplomat. "She will return soon, I am certain of it. You know young women and their wanderlust. Your own daughters are all around her age or older, are they not?"

"It isn't her wander lust that interests me," Dougall replied, with a wet laugh that made Blair clench her fists under the table. "Ye've asked that child tae marry for the clan's sake over and over, and she's refused, and now ye allow her tae roam free? She'll return with a bastard in her belly, and no decent man will take her. Does that not concern ye, Laird McFerguson?"

"Watch yer tongue," Blair said sharply. She could tolerate a lot, but she would not sit there and listen to direct slander of her missing sister. Fortunately, she knew that James would not expect her to. "I understand that Deirdre's rejection of yer suit must have been an offense, but I will not have ye disparagin' her sense and purity. Me sister will return and marry when she is ready."

"And while she waits, the war rages, and yer time runs out," Dougall told them contemptuously. "I commend yer respect for yer good lady wife and yer sisters by marriage, McFerguson, but ye must realize the precariousness of the situation ye find yerself in. Bram McMillan is powerful, and his allies are many—leftovers from his father's tyranny, and from the power of his uncle before him."

Blair flinched to hear this man so casually talk about her father, but managed to get it under control so that he didn't notice. "If ye acknowledge Bram's tyranny," she said quietly, "Then ye must acknowledge that he is a threat—not only tae us, but tae the whole of the Highlands. He's already attacked armies who are naught tae do with us as a show of power; Laird Brennan lost his son that way."

"Aye, and yer cousin was clever enough tae make it seem like ye instigated that fight, takin' Brennan out of the equation for this long. How goes yer alliance there, by-the-by?" Dougall asked. His watery eyes turned to her fully for just a moment, and Blair felt her skin crawling. She didn't answer, and he gave her a sardonic smile. "As I thought, then."

"The Brennans or indeed any other clan are little to do with this," James interrupted, his sharp tone brokering no room for argument. "We invited ye here tae talk of Clan Dougall and how we can bring ye tae our side."

"And why should me men fight or die for yers with no obligation?" Dougall argued. "McMillan has caused no harm yet tae me and mine. I offered allyship two years ago, ye ken—and it was thrown in me face."

"Deirdre was just a girl of sixteen when ye proposed marriage. Any lass would have balked in response," James replied. Blair admired his calm, convincing tone, even though she recognized the tight set of his jaw, the tell-tale sign he was growing aggravated. "Surely we can come tae some other deal?"

"And ye, Laird , allowed her tae balk!" Dougall slammed his hands on the table. "Ye youthful, willful men have no idea how tae lead. She was yer ward tae do with as ye pleased—and any sensible man would have sent her tae me and secured an alliance. What is the point in women if ye cannot use them? Any strong leader kens the importance of maintaining his power through marriage."

Blair recognized the second James lost his temper; her own self was vibrating with fury, but she knew better than to speak. Still, however angry he was, James remained composed.

"As it happens," he said coldly, "I am already married."

Behind them, Lachlan—ever present at James's side—let out a small laugh that he hastily disguised as a cough when eyes turned his way. Within a second, he was back to the serious Wraith again, stepping forward to intervene as Laird Dougall turned purple with rage.

"Are ye insultin' me, McFerguson?" Dougall demanded, his hand disappearing below the table line to his belt.

"Me Laird would never do such a thing," Lachlan said smoothly, his own hand very visibly resting on his dagger. "As I'm sure ye'd never disgrace yerself by drawin' weapons when ye're here as a guest."

It was Dougall's turn to balk now as he looked up and caught Lachlan's eye, shrinking back. Blair almost took pity on him; she would have, if he weren't so disgusting.

"Peace, Lachlan," James said, with a nod to his friend. "I'm sure Laird Dougall meant nothing by it. Now, me Laird, can we come to an agreement or not?"

As expected, the answer was no: Dougall had no interest in helping them without something in return. He left, Lachlan close behind as an escort, and only then did Blair let loose.

"Horrible old man!" she declared, angrily bringing her fist down on the table. "Is he blind? Does he not see the danger he's in? The danger we're all in?"

James touched her arm. "Me love, he's a shortsighted blowhard. But we must keep him on our side. The Dougall armies could turn the tide in our favor."

Blair groaned, covering her face with her hands. They were losing allies, and she knew it. The Dougalls would abstain until their disgusting laird got what he wanted—and with Deirdre gone, hopefully still alive somewhere but nowhere to be found, that would never happen. Not that Blair would ever consent to forcing her sister to wed.

"And McLeod?" she asked. "When will he be here?" They'd intended to travel to meet the merchant to deliver the bad news, but they'd been surprised when a message from him had arrived that very morning declaring he would send his son in a few days—which, of course, was the worst possible outcome.

"A week or so, if all goes well," James replied, though when Blair peeked at him through her fingers, she saw the grimace there. There was no way that this would go well . He hesitated for a moment and said, "Is…is Aoife quite set on her new course?"

Blair sighed. "She does not want to marry the merchant boy. How can I make her?"

"Ye can't. We can't. And we shouldn't either," James replied. He sighed and reached for her, pulling her into an embrace. "Don't worry. It'll work out. Deirdre will come home, McLeod will be generous, and the war will be over before ye ken it."

Blair turned into his chest and sighed. "Ye're tellin' me fairytales," she mumbled.

James said nothing. Blair didn't speak again, either. For just this moment, they sat together in the silence, the enormity of what was coming threatening to overwhelm them. The only shelter they had was each other, and they clung to that, their only safe harbor in an endless storm.

The end was coming, and Blair knew it. And there was no way to know if it would be a happy ending or, after all this, she still stood to lose everything.