Chapter 19

Chapter 19

The great doors slammed open and Ciaran stormed out, his stormy eyes alight with fury, his jaw set in a hard line. Rabbie followed him quickly, knowing the lad would need counsel now more than ever. Ciaran didn't break stride, perhaps unaware or maybe uncaring of the fact he was being pursued. He'd always been like that; Rabbie remembered how purposeful Ciaran had been even as a boy, and now he'd grown to a man, it was only more defined.

When he turned a corner and started down a set of stone stairs, it soon became obvious to Rabbie where Ciaran was headed. Silently, he followed, and together the two of them paced into the group of disused old rooms which until only a short time ago had played host to their 'guest' from Clan McFerguson.

Ciaran turned when he reached the door, her door, and said, "Why did ye follow me?"

"Ye shouldn't be alone, lad," Rabbie told him, walking over to stand right by his side. "What ye're goin' through is tough. And ye looked upset."

"I'm not upset."

Rabbie didn't answer. He knew better than to argue; he simply folded his arms and waited.

Ciaran sighed and opened the door, walking inside and perching himself on the small bed. Rabbie followed, feeling a little odd as he did. The last time he'd been in this room, it had been to help Deirdre escape. None of them had heard any word about the girl since; the men Laird Brennan had sent after her had lost the tracks in the rain. Rabbie just hoped that he hadn't sent the poor girl—and his own daughter—to their deaths.

"He's an arse," Ciaran said bluntly. "He's stubborn, and daft, and thinks he's the king piece in chess when he's really less than a pawn. How does he not see that Bram's got such a tight hold on his leash?"

Rabbie stayed silent.

"And what he said—what he expects us tae do—it's preposterous. He'll get us all killed."

Rabbie sighed. He could see the sorrow and tiredness in Ciaran's eyes, see how the boy was struggling with all of this. It was a lot to ask of him, maybe too much. "Then what will ye do, lad?" he asked softly.

Indecision flashed on Ciaran's face for just a moment, only to be replaced with a grim stoicism. "What I have tae," he replied. Then, his voice softening, he asked, "How's yer wife? The bairns?"

"Aye, well enough. Me brother-in-law took ill suddenly and me wife had tae take the wee ones tae see him." It was their cover story, and Rabbie had said it so many times that it almost felt true. His wife and children had gone to stay with her brother, though he was not ill—and there they would stay, until all of this was resolved one way or another.

"And any word from Marjorie?" Ciaran asked. "Me father wants her tried for treason."

Rabbie shook his head. "Not a peep."

Ciaran nodded. He didn't meet Rabbie's eyes, but there was an undercurrent of deeper meaning in his tone as he asked quietly, "Why dae ye think she did it?"

Rabbie replied, "Why did she help Deirdre escape? Because, son, there's right and there's wrong in this world. Things get complicated, aye—but at the end of the day, that remains the same."

Ciaran smiled sadly. "Och, Rabbie," he said with a sigh. "If only I could believe it was that simple."

The war room was more full than Deirdre ever remembered it being, even in all these years of bloodshed. Allies from across the Highlands had arrived, though Deirdre could not help but notice that they were vastly outnumbered by spectators and financial backers. While, yes, the money would be handy, it would only go so far on the battlefield… and based on the representatives present today, that wouldn't be very far at all.

"...an attack on our own land. Our own land!" someone shouted. Many men mumbled in discontented agreement. "Bram is closer than ever, and his allies are numerous, through threats or gold may they be. If he attacks now, he may very well win."

"Not if ," James spoke up coolly, his calm, Lairdly voice demanding attention from everyone present in the room. Deirdre was impressed to see how they all went silent. She'd seen it before, but she was still awed by James's strength and power. "When. When he attacks, and it will be soon, we must be ready."

"But we don't have the manpower we need," an advisor objected. "Idealised speech or not, me Laird, the fact is that we need more allies, stronger allies—allies who may now be neutral or even turned against us. Look around ye."

James did so, a crease forming between his brows. "These men are givin' everythin' we have, and we're eternally grateful for it. But ye are not wrong. We didn't anticipate Bram movin' so boldly or so quickly, or managin' tae secure so many close-by allies, regardless of the methods he used."

'Brennan sided with him,' Deirdre heard someone whisper, and she pressed her lips together hard to prevent herself from reacting.

"And with the probable loss of McLeod's funding, we're even further behind than we were before," the advisor continued. Beside Deirdre, Aoife flinched, and Deirdre reached out and took her sister's hand. "Unless Miss Aoife is willin' tae reconsider…"

All eyes turned to Aoife, who blushed deeply, but shook her head. "I will not," she replied. Murmurs broke out around the room, but Deirdre squeezed Aoife's hand reassuringly. It may not be the best tactical move, but Aoife was doing the right thing. Deirdre was sure of it.

But Aoife still had a life to live. She still had love to discover. Deirdre, though…she'd had her chance. And that's what made it easy when she asked, "And what of me?"

A deadly silence fell.

"What do ye mean, Deirdre?" James asked quietly.

"Would perhaps Master McLeod consider me as his wife? I am not as pretty as me sister nor well-trained, but I am young, and I can bring much tae his table," Deirdre replied. It felt surreal to have those words drop from her lips, she who had always spoken so strongly against such things, but now it seemed they had no choice. Her clan needed her—and she was theirs.

"Deirdre!" Aoife exclaimed, the shock almost electrifying. "What are ye sayin'?!"

James and Blair exchanged surprised glances, then Blair said, "Are ye sure ye wish tae offer yerself?"

Deirdre nodded before she could allow herself to think about it. "I would make a fine wife, and his father a fine ally. It will not provide us more soldiers, but perhaps the funding would be enough tae help tip the scales in our favor."

"A noble offer," Lachlan noted, after glancing at James to make sure it was all right for him to speak, "But I don't think one which we will be able to leverage."

"And why not?"

"Firstly," Jocelyn answered, smoothly following her husband's words as though they were of one mind, "Master McLeod is still yet to arrive. It's likely he is delaying on purpose, or perhaps he does not intend to come at all; perhaps the news of the broken betrothal already reached him."

"And secondly, Merchant McLeod will see an offer of a 'replacement' daughter for his son as an insult," Lachlan continued. "I ken the man after a fashion; he will view it as a consolation prize at best. Please don't take offense, Deirdre."

"William wouldn't see it that way," Aoife whispered.

"Perhaps not," Blair agreed. "But would he accept yer sister as a replacement, regardless?"

There was a pause, then Aoife shook her head. "No. He is a good man, from the letters I have exchanged with him, and he would not be willing to deal in women the same way men deal in horses. I'm sorry, Deirdre, but I think that they are right. Your plan will not work."

Deirdre absorbed this information for a moment. She'd been hoping it would work; William McLeod was indeed a good man, and one young enough to be a fine husband, if Aoife's descriptions of him were anything to go by. She'd never love him, and he'd never love her, but she'd hoped they could find companionship in each other as they both did what they had to do for the sake of their families.

Well, never mind. She must press on.

"Another, then," she said clearly, her voice ringing around the hall. "Another suitor. I will wed whomever you choose, James; just arrange the meeting and we will proceed with the betrothal, the sooner the better."

James frowned deeply. "Ye have always recoiled at the very suggestion," he reminded her.

"Many things have changed," she replied quietly. "In a short time, everythin' has. I will do whatever I can to prevent it from changin' more for the worse. I am a woman. I am old enough. Let me marry."

"We've not much time tae arrange a suitor," Jocelyn said thoughtfully. "Maybe we can find another way…"

"What of the man from a few years ago?" Deirdre pressed. "What was his name…? Laird Dougall? Perhaps if I apologize, throw myself at his mercy…I will even beg if this is what I need tae do."

The look James and Blair exchanged was even more significant this time, and Deirdre knew that she had struck gold. Dirty, rotten, poisonous gold.

"Set up a meeting," she said quietly. "And tell him I wish tae discuss his suit."

And then she would let her heart close forever.

"You've been avoiding me."

Aoife yelped in surprise, but when she turned and saw Liam there with a tired half-smile on his face, she felt a strange mix of relief and fear. She wanted to see him, needed to see him, but he was right: she had been avoiding him. Ever since she'd realized the truth, that she loved him—and she did, purely and simply—she'd made sure not to spend time in his presence. Eventually she would, but until she'd had a chance to get used to her sister being back, and to talk to William, she didn't want to take the next step.

"I'm sorry, Liam, I have to go. Deirdre is upset, and…"

Liam sighed. "Have I done somethin' wrong, Aoife? Please, if I have, let me apologize. I'd never do anything to hurt ye, never. I?—"

"Ye've done nothin'," Aoife quickly assured him. "With Deirdre bein' back and me callin' off the engagement, though, it's all been very…it's been busy. I'd love tae just sit and play mancala with ye, Liam, I'd love it with all me heart, but there's just too much tae do."

William opened his mouth, but Aoife kept speaking. Since Deirdre's shock declaration in the meeting a few hours ago, she felt plagued with guilt,

She paused. "I heard Diarmid got hurt goin' tae fetch Deirdre's friend, and that ye were there as well. Ye're unharmed?"

"Aye." He walked closer to her, though didn't attempt to touch her in any way. "I wasn't hurt, don't worry. Is it true?"

Aoife longed to reach out and take his hand, but she stopped herself. "About Deirdre declarin' she'll wed? I didn't think it would have spread so quickly, but aye, it's true. She?—"

"Not about Deirdre. About ye," Liam interrupted. "Have ye really spurned yer betrothed?"

Aoife swallowed. The air around her suddenly felt very hot despite the seasonal chill, and her heart picked up speed in her chest. "I…I just…aye, I ended the betrothal, or will when I see him."

"Why?" Liam's gaze was intense, his question raw and open in a way that should have felt inappropriate coming from him, but somehow didn't. "Have ye lost yer love for him?"

"I think perhaps I loved what he represented," Aoife replied, the words bubbling out before she could stop them. "Not who he was. I'm sure he's a nice man, perhaps even a great one—and maybe one day I could have loved him—but things have changed. I have changed."

Liam moved closer, beyond the boundaries of propriety now, his body so close to hers she could feel the warmth between them. He reached out, trailing a finger down a loose lock of her hair. "How have ye changed?" he murmured.

Aoife didn't know how to explain it. Since Deirdre had left and come back again, the idea of love had changed shape in her mind—and since she'd accepted that was truly how she felt for Liam, not her betrothed, she'd realized she'd had the wrong idea all along. Her imagined adoration for the merchant's son had been wild and passionate, the grand romance of stories, the kind of love that spurred bards and could move mountains with its power.

But when she looked at Liam, she felt not overwhelming heat, but a gentle, steady warmth. He was a hearthflame, the burning, cheerful embers that could feed and nourish a family for generations, the kind of fire that meant home and safety and hope. She loved him not as a prince from a story, but as a man, a gentle, sweet soldier who had not courted her through formal means but earned her love through kindness and friendship.

Could she tell him so? She would, one day, she hoped. She'd tell him every word in her heart and soul and mind, every dream she had of their lives together, every moment she thought of him. Perhaps they'd have what Blair and James or Jocelyn and Lachlan had, a love so true it could overcome anything.

But she couldn't tell him now, not yet. Not when Deirdre had just signed her heart away and Bram moved closer.

"I've changed," she repeated in answer, quietly, and moved back. He dropped her strand of hair and let her go. "I'll talk with ye later, Liam."

She turned to go, but she'd only gotten a few steps down the corridor before Liam called, "Aoife, wait, there's somethin' I must tell ye?—"

Aoife interrupted him. It was her only choice, the only thing she could do to keep her sane. "Will ye do somethin' for me?"

His voice softened. "For ye? Anythin'. Everythin'. Name it."

"Go and find him. William. Take a few men and seek him out: the McLeod delegation should have long since arrived. Make sure he's alive and well, and bring him back tae the castle. James has the letters I wanted tae send him and the maps of his route; ask him for the latter and he'll point ye in the right direction."

A pause. Then Liam said, "I'll do what ye ask, of course I will, but first I must tell ye?—"

"Please go!" she interrupted, her voice raising a little. "My sister is waitin' for me, and I can't—I won't—please just go."

She didn't look at him, but heard it when he sighed, followed by heavy footsteps on the stone. Only once she was sure she was alone in the corridor again did Aoife allow herself to look up and breathe.

"One thing at a time," she reminded herself. "And for now, Deirdre needs me."

Deirdre sat by Marjorie's bedside. She'd visited the girl every day since that first time, but it was only now that she felt prepared to ask the question that had been clawing at her. "Did ye bring the herbs?"

"Herbs?" Marjorie asked. The young woman had all the color back in her cheeks, and she was regarding Deirdre with an intense curiosity. Nettie had declared her fit to join the rest of the servants in the official quarters later that day. "Which herbs?"

Deirdre frowned. "The…sleepin' herbs. They were in yer pack, with a note…" She hadn't asked Gracie about that yet, either. She wasn't sure she could bear it, no matter which way the answer went.

Marjorie frowned. "Sorry, I dinnae have a clue what ye mean," she admitted. She sighed and said, "Och, I hope me dad's all right. And me mammy and the bairns."

"They'll be fine," Deirdre assured her. "Ciaran wouldn't allow anythin' tae happen tae them."

Marjorie's eyes narrowed, but in thought rather than anger or disbelief. After a moment, she said, "Aye, ye're right there. At least, I hope so. I'm surprised that ye yerself still believe that, though, after everythin' he did tae ye and allowed tae be done tae ye."

Deirdre closed her eyes. How could she explain her thoughts and feelings to Marjorie when she didn't understand them herself? She was now sure that Ciaran had sent her the herbs, or perhaps that Rabbie had been sent with them to help her and he'd decided to instead aid her escape. Still, the possibilities and meanings behind even that simple action were endless.

Perhaps she'd never get her answer. Perhaps it was better that way.

"Two days hence I'm tae meet with Laird Dougall. He's tae be me suitor, and, if all goes well, soon he'll be me husband," Deirdre told her, deftly changing the topic and speaking with as neutral a tone as she could manage. "I was wonderin' if ye're feelin' well, if ye'd consent tae joinin' me friend Gracie as me attendant."

"Oh?"

Deirdre chose her next words carefully. "Laird Dougall is a challenging man," she explained. "The kind for whom it would be, well, prudent, to keep subtle company—women's company – alongside James."

Marjorie wrinkled her nose. "I see. And why would ye wed such a man?"

"Necessity." Deirdre knew how cold it sounded, but she didn't see the point in trying to disguise the somewhat mercenary truth of the matter. Men like Dougall, as Aoife had so aptly put it, saw women as little less than horses or livestock to be traded and controlled. If that was her fate, then so be it: let her choose her future and keep the silent advantage. "Will ye be with me?"

"Of course I will," Marjorie replied.

They spoke for a while longer, then Deirdre moved to go. Just as she got to the door, Marjorie spoke again.

"Do ye remember what I said tae ye?" Marjorie asked her. "That day when ye asked me about Ciaran?"

Deirdre didn't reply, but she did nod without turning around.

"He's not a monster," Marjorie said softly. "But he's nae hero either. He cannae afford tae be."

Deirdre nodded again and moved out of the room. Her eyes were dry and her heart felt cold and empty. Marjorie had been trying to be kind by warning her, but the words were irrelevant. Deirdre had already made up her mind to let Ciaran go and accept her fate. She didn't need a hero.

But that night, after she'd collected her tea from Nettie and sunk down into her pillows, she drifted off to sleep—and all she saw in her dreams was him .