Chapter 7

It seemed to Colleen that summer passed too quickly. Like most of those connected to the village of Aberkin, she was expected to help with the harvest. Upon reaching the fields, it surprised her to see Arran with his sleeves rolled up and a scythe in his hands, cutting down the golden wheat and barley with swift, expert strokes.

Three moons had come and gone since the braw Highland mercenary came to live in the village and train the men. Not only had he advised the elders to enter into negotiations with Torquil MacKenzie to protract the debate over taxes, but Arran had delivered the letter to Laird MacKenzie's castle himself. When he told his rapt audience in the tavern ale house that evening about what had happened, the mercenary was his usual abrupt, dismissive self. "The reason why I always slay everyone who takes up arms against me is so that there is no one left alive to carry tales aboot me appearance back to their liege laird. No one at the castle recognized me."

"So, the MacKenzie gave ye nay trouble, Arran?" Hamish had come to the ale house tap room to find out what Torquil MacKenzie's reply was. Like most of the male villagers old enough to hold a weapon, even the carpenter had been roped in to train with Arran. The village men had formed a strong bond with the mercenary, seeing their salvation and independence in the stern man. If they could hold off the MacKenzie soldiers long enough, hopefully the King would find a new laird for them by then. And when the new laird arrived, he would find a strong defensive force waiting to welcome him. Some of the younger village lads were even starting to consider soldiering as a full time occupation, they enjoyed the thought of combat so much.

"I didnae see MacKenzie," Arran shrugged. "The sentries took the letter inside and left me at the gate. The tower bell rang twice before they came back with a reply. It was just as we suspected; Torquil wants a truce as much as we do so he can train more soldiers. No laird can lose ten men and not have to recruit and train more. Torquil MacKenzie knows he miscalculated when he sent oot a troop of men to scour the countryside with nay backup. So, he agreed to the terms I proposed. No incursions or demands until spring."

Colleen had been in the hall, listening to Arran's report. She knew he had walked to MacKenzie castle on purpose, refusing to borrow any of the villagers' horses in case someone at the castle recognized the animal and earmarked the person for revenge. It was little things like that which made Colleen warm to Arran even more than she was already.

As the elders got up from the dais, preparing to congratulate themselves on a job well done, the mercenary stopped them. "A cautionary word before ye all descend to the ale house, gentlemen. When I asked the guards to get MacKenzie's agreement in writing, the request was refused. If the man is reluctant to swear an oath on the agreement, ye can bet yer life that he plans on breaking it. Ye can consider this a delay at best, and an outright deception at worst. I believe yer troubles will reappear once the MacKenzie villagers have reaped their own harvests."

"Dinnae be so pessimistic, Master!" the head counselor had exclaimed as he edged in the direction of the ale house, "perhaps ye dinnae understand how noblemen behave. Of course the MacKenzie will honor his promise."

Fortunately for Arran, most of the villagers agreed with the mercenary. Every evening, the village green was packed with men learning to shoot longbows or impale with a pole axe. After every session, the men would head for the duck pond and dive in, shouting and laughing as they planned imaginary strategies and unlikely battle scenarios while washing the sweat of training off their bodies.

Whenever she went to meet Isla at the market or went to visit Agnes, Colleen would sometimes see Arran standing by the edge of the pond, his wet shirt stuck to his back as he wiped water off his face. He had replaced his leather breeks with a borrowed Aberkin plaid, but the men always removed their plaids before swimming, relying on their linen smocks to cover their manliness. It was hard to miss Arran Sterling in every sense of the word: not only did he stand head and shoulders above all the men from the village, but his physique was riveting enough to draw the eye.

Colleen had not spoken to Arran since that damp summer evening he walked her back to the cottage. The way he treated her frustrated the healer so much. He teased her like a schoolgirl one moment and then acted so gallant the next that she was ready for him to sweep her off her feet! His strength was prodigious, his charm dangerous, and his mystery utterly compelling. By the time they had arrived at the cottage, Colleen's mind was in a whirl. But of one thing she was certain: she wanted the mercenary with the wolf bite scar on his brow more than she had ever wanted any man before.

"Will ye care to come inside?" Colleen had blurted out at the cottage door. They were so close. He had offered her his arm to assist her along the walk home, and the sensation of her fingers on the hard muscles under the soft wool of his coat had almost driven her to distraction. But instead of moving towards her after she said those words, he had stepped back. Colleen's hand had dropped to her side because she was too proud to reach out for him, to cling to him and beg him not to leave.

"I must return to Aberkin, Colleen," he leaned forward slightly as if she would have difficulty hearing his words of rejection. "And I must do it soon so that the villagers have nay reason to suspect yer virtue."

Her mouth had opened, ready to convince him that the villagers would do no such thing. He was lonely and she was alone. If he came inside the cottage it would solve both those problems. Why would he not stay with her for a wee while? Would the villagers really jump to the conclusion he was insinuating? It was not fair!

Arran must have been able to read her thoughts as if she had said them out aloud. "I want to stay and bide a while with ye, Colleen, but ye're not a woman for dalliances, are ye? And I would nae treat ye so."

"D–dalliance? I never said so—I mean, all I wanted was for ye…" her excuses sounded silly to her own ears. Of course she wanted him to come inside so the delightful conversation they had been having in his bedchamber at the tavern could be continued.

His mouth twisted into a rueful smile as he moved further away from her, edging toward the gate. "I want to linger here with ye, Maiden, I really do. But ye must stay in Aberkin and marry some sturdy village lad and I…I must leave when me job here is done."

And on those words, he had turned and tramped back down the lane, leaving Colleen with so many emotions whirling in her breast that she could hardly breathe. For a long moment, she had waited, hoping he would change his mind and come back. Only when his tall figure disappeared around the bend in the road did she allow herself to move.

Picking up a pottery mug from the small table, Colleen dashed it against the wall using all her force. She screamed. Her thoughts were in turmoil.

I hate meself for making it so obvious. He must think me a flutter-by wench because I made me intentions so marked. He turned me doon! Oh heavens, I am so unhappy.

Humiliated beyond all comprehension, Colleen had done the only thing she knew how to do. She ignored the mercenary the next time she saw him in the village, and had continued to do so every day after. It was a form of self-preservation. Colleen knew her pride could never survive another rejection. And if she was honest with herself, she did not know what it was that she wanted from Arran Sterling. A kiss? A warm embrace? Did she really want to experience that shivering sensation she got whenever he touched her or murmured his enchanting words in her ear, or did she want more? Where would that lead to, she wondered.

Every night, these questions would keep Colleen tossing and turning in her bed until Isla warned her sister that if she did not brew herself a calming posset to drink, she would have no choice but to start sleeping at Margaret MacMillan's permanently!

So, it was with mixed emotions that Colleen came to help with the village harvest. It was a pleasant stroll down to the valley where the fields were sowed and reaped, but she knew from past experience that the steep tramp back to the village and around the mountainside to the cottage would be exhausting.

Her belly had done a somersault when she saw Arran working in the fields, but after three months of looking at him from afar, Colleen had trained herself not to react. She tried not to be disappointed when three local village lads came jogging over to greet her. "Me name is to go in front of the guildhall for them to recognize me as a Master, Colleen," David told her proudly. She acknowledged his success with a smile. "Well done, David. Where will ye wander once ye are free to make a living?"

He looked proud and confident as he replied. "That all depends on the maiden I marry, Colleen. I must take me wife's opinion into the matter, dinnae ye agree?"

The other two lads jostled David aside as they pressed around Colleen, wanting to brag about their own achievements. Just as her heart seemed to flip over when she saw Arran scything in the field, Colleen's stomach dropped after hearing David's declaration. She knew he would come knocking on her door soon with a posy in his hands. Her mind was unsure what she would say to him when he did come.

"I–I think I'll go harvest with the womenfolk. I thank ye kindly, lads," Colleen began to back away from her admirers. David shouted after her. "I will see ye at the ale house in the tavern afterwards, Colleen. Come and wet yer whistle."

She nodded, waving a hand in a careless way so that no one could take it as a promise. Margaret and Isla were waiting for her when she joined them. Both had quizzing looks on their faces, but Colleen ignored them.

As work commenced, the two sisters spoke about a concoction Colleen had left stewing at the cottage: the Cunninghams were experimenting with nettles to see if the plant fibers could be spun into thread. So far, the test had been very successful and the weavers were using nettle thread to create a hardy homespun fabric for smocks, breeks, and trews.

It was always hard using the sickle to cut wheat at the beginning of September. Like all village women, Colleen had to concentrate to get back into the swing of things because her hands had forgotten the technique. She would cut enough wheat to fill her fist and then hand it to Isla for bundling. The sisters would chat as they worked, stopping occasionally to wipe the sweat off their faces.

"The nettles must be soaked for two weeks before retting," Colleen told her sister. Retting was when the pulp of the stem could be removed with rubbing, leaving only the fibers for spinning behind. "Any more than that and the fibers weaken. It's the harvesting of the nettles that I hate doing. I carry a pocketful o' dock leaves with me to help with the stings."

Isla did not reply. Colleen did not blame her sister. It was hot, laborious work bringing in the harvest every year, but it must be done before the fall rains set in. Her outfit had been chosen with mobility and coolth in mind. The light, calf-length brown linen skirt she wore gathered at her waist had no petticoat underneath it. Under her canvas bodice was a white lawn smock, perfect for hot summer days and nights. A straw bonnet covered her hair and provided protection from the sun's rays. She had tied it under her chin with a red silk ribbon, an incredibly expensive item of decoration she had saved up to buy when the fair came to visit the village. Before setting out that morning, she had plaited her hair into an intricate knot before throwing the heavy braid over her shoulder. As she always did in summer, Colleen wore wooden clogs with a modest elevation to keep her feet out of the mud if it rained or if she had to cross the burn.

"Me gloves help," Colleen continued. "But I must look to getting another pair made oot of leather that goes all the way to me elbows. Canvas is nae thick enough." Standing up abruptly to see why Isla was silent, Colleen said, "Cat got yer tongue, Sis?—"

The rest of her words were forgotten as the reason for Isla's silence became apparent. Arran had come over and was standing behind her. He was looking as devastatingly handsome as ever, with the end of his feileadh-mor hanging down the back of his legs and his bare chest glistening with sweat under the sun. Instead of smiling sweetly and asking him how he was doing, Colleen scowled. "I am not the enemy, Master Sterling! There is no need for ye to spy on me!"

His face remained impassive. If he had been expecting a gracious welcome from her he made no sign of it. "I am somewhat of an expert when it comes to leather, Maiden Colleen," his voice was gruff, almost accusing, "would ye like for me to accompany ye to the tanner's?"

Very aware of Margaret and Isla's pricked up ears, Colleen felt the blush seeping into her cheeks again. Hoping it was hidden by the sun's heat, Colleen laid her sickle in the basket, saying to her sister, "Would ye be so kind as to go on withoot me for a short while, Sister? I need to visit the well. I am parched."

Isla was bursting with questions about why Colleen was giving Arran a direct cut, but after one look at her sister's face, she bit them back. "Er…aye, Colleen. Nay problem."

As Colleen walked away, she could hear the two girls giggling and whispering together. She could also hear that Arran was following her. Leaving the fields behind, the mercenary came to walk beside her.

"It's been three months, Maiden Colleen. Are ye still angry with me?"

Feigning unconcern, Colleen gave a short laugh. "I? Angry? Dinnae be daft, Master! Ye caught me at a moment of weakness, that is all. And ye made such a great deal oot of a girl's plea to spend some time in conversation with ye that I regretted the impulse immediately. I only asked because I am interested in hearing aboot life ootside the village. What adventures ye have had and what interesting people ye have met."

"Then can we be friends?" She could hear the intensity of his request in the way he said it. Arran possessed a very direct quality, and Colleen knew she would have to grow used to his blunt manners if she ever wanted to have a natural alliance with him. Burying all thoughts of romance between them, Colleen smiled, nodding her head. "Aye, we can be friends, Master. Everyone in the village holds ye in such high regard that I must thank ye for staying here and helping us. The lads cannae stop talking aboot all the crafty techniques ye are teaching them to fight with spears and dirks."

They had reached the well by then and he reached over to winch up the bucket for her, saying, "Then friends we will be, Maiden. Would ye like to start?"

She had not been expecting his droll sense of humor to show itself so quickly. In an instant, Colleen felt as if the last three months of stony silence had never happened. She burst out laughing. "Aye, Master. I would like to start! But ye must continue, make sure of that!"

He grinned. "After so many days of darkling looks from ye, Colleen, ye cannae ken how happy I am to have left yer bad books and bask once more in yer good graces."

She could not allow him to think she was sulking because of his rejection of her. After they had both drunk some cold well water from the ladle, Colleen tempered her acceptance. "Remember, Master, it hinges on ye keeping me well amused with stories from yer past. If ye hold back, I'll ken."

He looked at her keenly. "Why are ye so fixed on hearing aboot that? As for me, I cannae abide men who bore on and on with moonshine tales concerning their past. It's always more cockfeathers than truth."

By now, they were walking back to the fields as if nothing had ever happened to break their relationship with one another. Arran had his head bent to listen to her and Colleen had her hand linked through his arm, just as they had done three months ago. When Isla saw her sister, she thought that she had never seen Colleen look so happy. As for the mercenary, that impenetrable expression he always kept on his face was gone. His eyes could be seen as blue; which was a miracle in itself because his brows were always drawn together in a scowl that hid them.

"I want to hear aboot yer travels, Master, because I have never been brave enough to travel further away from the village than Inverness. I envy ye."

He reached for her hand and held it. "Dinnae wish for a rootless existence, Colleen. It is a hard thing to endure." She saw pain flicker in his eyes and his formerly happy mood was gone.

"Master, I–I am sorry," she whispered, "and ye dinnae have to talk aboot it if ye would rather not." She gave his hand a squeeze, trying to convey her compassion for him—the lone wolf.

Shaking his head ruefully, the mercenary gave a hollow laugh. "Ha! I want me life to be of use to ye, Maiden, when I am no longer around to watch over ye. Will I see ye at the tavern later?"

Colleen did not let go of his hand as she looked up into his face and replied, "Aye, Master. I will be there for ye."