Chapter 13

I zzy looked back over her shoulder and waved at Oswin and Aiden as they disappeared into the distance. She was sad to be leaving. Here, in the monastery of Saint Bartholomew, she’d found a measure of peace, if only for so short a time. She’d felt safe, sheltered from the dangers and unpredictability of this time period. But now they were back out amongst it again, where there was no telling what hazards lay in wait around the next corner.

But, if she was honest with herself, she knew that this wasn’t the real cause of the way her heart seemed to be beating a little more rapidly or why her stomach kept churning.

No, the real cause of that was the big man sat beside her, so close that she could feel the hardness of his hip and thigh pressing against her, and feel the warmth radiating from him as though he was a hot coal.

How was she supposed to put up with this? It was torture.

She was mortified by what she’d done earlier. She’d kissed him! Kissed Magnus! What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking at all. She’d just acted on instinct, reacting to the sudden flush of relief and pleasure at seeing him come safely back to her.

How foolish. Now they were stuck together, squeezed into a space that was far too small for any semblance of propriety, reminded with every bump and jostle of the cart just how close they were .

She’d been attracted to Magnus from the very beginning. How could she not be? He was devastatingly good-looking with his tousled curls, stubbled jaw and body like a rugby player. Of course she was attracted to him. What woman wouldn’t be? But that was all it could be. Attraction, nothing more. He was from a different time for pity’s sake, and as soon as she was able, she would be returning to hers. It was crazy to feel like this. Totally crazy. And now, being stuck this close to him was excruciating.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His face was turned forward, gaze fixed on the road as they trundled along, a picture of indifference. But although he might look calm, his arm-muscles were taut and his hands, clasped together in his lap, were white-knuckled. Did he feel it too? Was she not just imagining the chemistry that crackled between them?

She really wanted to talk to him, but Sean MacTavish was crammed on her other side and the last thing she wanted was to have any kind of delicate conversation with the ruddy farmer listening in.

How long before they got to Torloch?

Luckily, MacTavish took it on himself to fill the awkward silence. He was a jovial companion, full of ribald jokes and outrageous stories, and as the countryside rolled by, kept up a constant tirade, unaware or uncaring of his companions’ reticence.

They did not move quickly. The mule pulled the cart with stoic determination, but fast it was not. Snaffles trotted along happily beside the cart, ranging out to either side now and then whenever a new and exciting scent caught his attention.

The afternoon wore on, Izzy and Magnus riding in silence, MacTavish regaling them with local gossip and tall tales, as they passed through a wide fertile valley dotted with crofts and grazing sheep. The weather began to turn and the sunlight to turn weak and hazy through a blanket of clouds that carpeted the sky. But it stayed dry, for which Izzy was thankful.

Magnus pulled his cloak tighter around him. He seemed to be deep in thought, his brows furrowed and mouth set in a grim line. His arm brushed against Izzy’s as he adjusted his sitting position, sending an unexpected jolt of awareness through her.

“Ah! Look, there it is!” said MacTavish suddenly, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents flowing between his two passengers. “Torloch! We’ll be there within the hour!”

Relief flooded through Izzy. All she could see of Torloch was a faint smudge on the horizon, but soon she would have some respite from this uncomfortable journey and a chance to straighten out her thoughts.

In fact, it took a little longer than an hour, and by the time they began passing into the outskirts of Torloch, the sun was almost touching the horizon. Like Hodwell, Torloch was a large settlement, almost a town, although she saw no monastery attached to this one. It hugged the shore of a large, still loch at the head of the valley, and as their road swung along the loch shore, Izzy spotted countless fishing boats bobbing on the waves, and men and women in the shallows, hauling in the day’s catch. Torloch was clearly a fishing town.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the place was bustling with activity. Fishmongers haggled over the price of fish in guttural voices, children ran wild in the narrow streets, their laughter catching in the wind, women in well-worn dresses hurried home clutching baskets of loaves or vegetables.

Finally, MacTavish pulled up outside a stout timber building that sat on an incline, its back to the bitter winds that blew in from the loch.

“Here we are!” he said. “Delivered safe and sound to Kearnan’s boarding house, just as I promised Abbot Oswin. And in time for supper, too!”

Magnus climbed down from the cart, making it lurch under his weight, and then held out his hand to help Izzy down. She took it, her small hand dwarfed in his, and stepped down onto solid ground. Magnus released her and turned to the farmer.

“My thanks, MacTavish.”

The farmer grinned. “Glad to be of service.” With that, he doffed his cap, clucked to his mule, and trundled off up the road towards his own croft.

Izzy looked up at Magnus. A quiet moment passed between them, filled only by the hushed murmur of the loch and the distant cries of the gulls.

“Magnus, listen—”

The door of the stout building swung open and a woman appeared in the doorway. She was middle-aged and sturdy, her hair escaping in wisps from a neatly tied bun at the nape of her neck .

“Ah! MacTavish has brought me guests from the monastery again, eh?” she called out to them, wiping her hands on her apron. “Are ye coming in or not? I’m just about to serve supper.” She looked at Snaffles and frowned. “Although yer hound will have to sleep in the stable. I dinna allow beasts in my dining room. Heb! Heb!” A lad came running from around the back of the building, quickly stuffing a piece of pie into his mouth.

“Aye, Ma?”

“See that our guests’ hound is fed and stabled for the night.”

Heb, a wiry lad with an unruly mop of hair, gulped down the last bite of his pie and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He nodded to his mother then looked at Snaffles. The hound barked happily in greeting, wagging his tail and immediately taking a liking to the lad.

Izzy wasn’t keen on the idea of letting Snaffles out of her sight—there was no telling what he might get up to—but Heb’s easy manner reassured her somewhat as he knelt and scratched Snaffles behind the ear.

“Want some pie, lad? Come on then.”

Snaffles woofed excitedly and without even so much as a backward glance at Izzy, followed Heb around the back of the building.

“I’m Mistress Kearnan,” the woman said, smiling at them both. “Welcome to my boarding house.”

She turned and led them inside, the door groaning as she pushed it open. The dim flicker of candlelight within revealed a large common room, with wooden furniture and floorboards scrubbed scrupulously clean. A fire burned in a hearth at one end and bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling gave off a sweet aroma.

As the door swung shut behind them, a man suddenly scraped back his chair and stood from a table. Izzy’s eyes widened as she recognized him. It was the sandy-haired archer who Magnus had been so keen to avoid in Hodwell. The man’s eyes flashed as he spotted them. Then he strode over, hooking his thumbs into his belt.

“Hello, Magnus,” he said.

Magnus stiffened, his broad shoulders pulling taut and his gaze narrowing. The friendly atmosphere in the inn seemed to recede, replaced by an electric tension.

“Emeric,” Magnus acknowledged curtly, his voice reverberating in the silence that had suddenly engulfed the inn.

Mistress Kearnan looked between the two men, seeming as confused as Izzy felt. These two men knew each other?

Emeric was tall, almost as tall as Magnus, but not as broad. His emerald eyes glinted with an indecipherable emotion as he ran them over Magnus.

“Ye have been avoiding me, my friend,” he said with a faint smile. “It’s lucky I’m not the sensitive type, otherwise I might start to take it personally.”

The two men stared at each other, and Izzy couldn’t quite decipher the expressions on their faces.

Magnus’s jaw clenched. “What are ye doing here, Emeric?” he growled.

“Isnae that obvious,” the archer replied, his voice equally low. “Looking for ye. Trying to stop ye doing something stupid.” His steely gaze flicked to Izzy. “Question is: have I gotten here in time? ”

“That’s none of yer concern.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to disagree on that point. Unfortunately, our commanders think it’s very much my concern.”

Izzy didn’t like the tension that crackled between them. It reminded her too much of the violence she’d seen in Hodwell. Fear tightened her stomach. Here were too men capable of savage ferocity if the situation called for it.

Then Emeric suddenly backed away a step and the tension eased. He turned to Izzy with a smile. “Seeing as my esteemed sword-brother seems to have forgotten his manners, I’ll make introductions. My name is Emeric MacKintosh, of the Order of the Osprey. Dinna let Magnus’s scowl fool ye: I’m actually one of his oldest friends. Pleased to make yer acquaintance.”

“Oh.” Izzy blinked in confusion. From the way Magnus had reacted back in Hodwell, she’d assumed Emeric was trouble, but now she discovered they were friends? Like Emeric said, she never would have guessed it from Magnus’s glower.

“Right,” she stammered. “I’m Isabelle. Izzy. Nice to meet you. Have you come to join Magnus’s mission?”

Emeric’s eyebrows rose. “Magnus’s mission? Nay, lass, I’ve not come to join him. I’ve come to drag him back to Dun Saith.” The archer’s green eyes fixed on Magnus and the two men glared at each other. “I dinna know what my friend has told ye,” Emeric continued, addressing Izzy but looking at Magnus. “But he isnae on any mission for the Order of the Osprey. My wife has a term for it. How does she put it? Oh, aye. Magnus has gone AWOL.”

“DRAG ME BACK TO DUN Saith?” Magnus growled. “Ye and whose army?”

He felt an unreasonable anger burning in the pit of his stomach at the sight of his sword-brother. His friend. Why had Emeric come here? Why couldn’t he just leave well alone?

Emeric sighed, passing a hand over his face. “I was hoping ye wouldnae make this difficult, my friend. There’s no need for things to get unpleasant.”

“I agree. So turn around, ride back to Dun Saith, and tell them ye couldnae find me.”

“And let ye drag the Order down with ye when ye get yerself arrested by the king’s men? This isnae our fight, Magnus.”

“Nay, but it’s mine !” Magnus snapped. He realized he’d curled his hands into fists at his sides and forced himself to relax. “Ye dinna understand—”

“I understand plenty,” Emeric cut in. He drew a steadying breath. “I havenae come here to argue. I’ve come to talk. Will ye hear me out? Havenae I earned at least that much for all the times I’ve saved yer sorry arse?”

Despite himself, Magnus felt a smile tug a corner of his mouth. Ah, it was good to see Emeric, despite the circumstances. And he was right. Listening to what he had to say was the least of what he owed the man.

He turned to Mistress Kearnan who was loitering nearby, no doubt listening to every word passing between him and Emeric. “Will ye show Isabelle to her room? ”

“What?” Isabelle said. “I don’t—”

“Go with Mistress Kearnan,” Magnus said. “She’ll see ye settled and comfortable.”

“Come, my dear,” Mistress Kearnan said. “I’ll have one of my lasses bring up water for a nice hot bath. How does that sound?”

Isabelle opened her mouth as though to argue, but the prospect of a hot bath seemed to sway her. “You’ll be right here?” she asked Magnus.

“Aye, lass. I’ll be right here. I’ll speak to ye later.”

She nodded and then followed Mistress Kearnan to the back of the room and through a door.

“Who is she?” Emeric asked, following the way Magnus’s gaze tracked Isabelle’s departure. “That accent. I swear she sounded like—”

“Do ye wish to talk or not?” Magnus snapped.

Emeric pressed his lips into a flat line. Then he indicated the table he’d vacated. “Shall we?”

Magnus preceded him to the bench, lowering his big frame down onto it carefully. Emeric slid onto the seat opposite. His bow, never far from Emeric’s hands, leaned against the wall. He didn’t speak but merely picked up the crude pottery jug that sat on the table and poured two cups of ale. He pushed one across the table to Magnus.

“Drink. Ye look like ye need it.”

Magnus grunted his thanks and then tipped back the cup and downed the ale in several long, deep, gulps. Aye, he needed it, and more besides.

Emeric took his ale cup in both hands and leaned back, his green gaze shrewd as he studied Magnus .

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“What’s this all about? What have ye gotten yerself into that ye would abandon the Order? And don’t give me any of that ‘it’s personal’ nonsense.”

Magnus rubbed his forehead in irritation. He was tired, dirty, and Emeric’s insistence was getting under his skin. His gaze roamed around the inn, the fire flickering at one end a welcome warmth against the chill outside.

“I’m...searching for something,” Magnus admitted.

“Searching for what?” Emeric prodded.

When Magnus didn’t answer immediately, Emeric sighed in frustration. “By all the gods, Magnus! Ye canna keep being stubborn.”

At this, Magnus slammed his cup down onto the table with a growl. “It’s not about being stubborn, Emeric! It’s about putting things right! Ye of all people should know what that means!”

Emeric’s eyes narrowed. “So I was right. This is about yer personal crusade.”

“So what if it is?” Magnus’s gaze met Emeric’s steadily. “It’s about fixing what I broke.”

Emeric let out another sigh, rubbing his forehead as he contemplated his friend. “And what is it ye think ye broke, Magnus?”

“Everything.” The words were barely audible, as if he had to pry them from his throat. A wave of silence swept over them. Even the background noise of the inn seemed to fade into the distance for that suspended moment .

“Ye canna undo the past, Magnus,” Emeric finally said in a low voice. “No matter how much ye wish ye could.”

“I know,” Magnus admitted, his hand clenching around his ale cup. “But I can try and make amends for it.”

Emeric studied him, his expression thoughtful. “Would ye risk everything for this? Everything ye’ve worked for? Everything we’ve worked for? If ye continue down this road, ye could lose everything, Magnus. The Order of the Osprey doesnae hold jurisdiction here. This doesnae involve the Disinherited or the Fae or any of the Order’s enemies. We have no right to intervene in a problem that is the province of the local laird and the king. And in my experience, they dinna take kindly to having their toes trodden on.”

“Which is why I left Dun Saith!” Magnus replied. “Which is why I am working alone!”

“Do ye think it’s that simple?” Emeric snapped back. “Ye are a warrior of the Order of the Osprey! That isnae a cloak ye can take off when it suits ye! Ye always act for the Order, no matter what ye do. It is who and what ye are. That is the vow ye took. That is the vow we all took!”

“I know,” Magnus said softly. He ran a hand across his face. God help him, he was so tired. Tired and a long, long way from home. Seeing Emeric had only made him realize how much he missed Dun Saith. He missed his sword-brothers. Emeric, Kai, Oskar and Conall were closer to him than kin and he hated that he’d left in the way he had. He hated doing this alone, without their support.

Yet what choice did he have? Like Emeric said, this was beyond the Order’s remit, a personal quest which he could not involve them in. Even so, had he told them, they would have come with him. They would have broken protocol, defied their commanders, and ridden out with him.

But this was not their fight. It was his, and he had to do it alone if he was ever to find a measure of peace.

“But this isnae about peace, is it?” Emeric said, as if reading his thoughts. “It’s about guilt.”

Magnus looked back at him sharply.

Emeric shrugged, raising his cup to his lips again. “A man doesnae go on a personal quest of penance unless he feels guilt. And I know ye, Magnus, remember?”

Magnus’s jaw clenched at that. “Aye, ye do,” he admitted, his voice a husky whisper. “Ye know me better than most.”

Emeric had been there through the battles and the triumphs, the losses and the hardships. They had shared blood, sweat, and tears, stood shoulder to shoulder against their enemies. Emeric knew him well enough to see past his walls, to the raw wounds that lay beneath.

“So what is it ye are looking for?” Emeric pressed. His tone was soft but relentless—it always was—pushing and prodding until Magnus had nowhere left to turn.

There was a long pause as Magnus looked into his ale cup, watching the way the flickering firelight danced on its frothy surface as though it held all the answers he sought.

“I’m looking for proof,” he finally said softly.

“Proof?” Emeric echoed, his brows furrowing in confusion.

“Of who is behind the attacks that have been taking place around here. If I’m right...” He swallowed before continuing. “If I’m right, then only the king can stop them. I will take my proof to him.”

Emeric frowned. “Ye are treading dangerous ground, my friend. If ye are wrong—”

“If I’m wrong, then I’ll face the consequences! But I canna sit by and do nothing when I...” He fell silent abruptly.

When I might be responsible for it all.

Memories of Morwenna and Able’s village flashed through his head. The stink of burning wood. The tortured moans of the injured. The twisted hatred on that villager—Drew’s—face as he’d kicked and punched Magnus. He pressed a hand to his ribs. They still ached, a relentless reminder of what he was fighting for.

Emeric stared at him for a few moments. “And have ye found anything that proves yer suspicions?”

Magnus shook his head. “Not yet. But I’m close. Very close.”

“Close isnae good enough, my friend. Yer activities are already arousing suspicion.” Emeric sighed, eyes narrowing with concern. “Lord McRae’s patrols have increased in the area. They’re asking questions, looking for a stranger matching yer description. Ye know what will happen if they find ye.”

Magnus ran a hand through his tangled hair. “I can look after myself.”

“Aye, of that I have no doubt. But what of Isabelle? Can ye protect her when McRae’s thugs catch up with ye? Would ye risk her for the sake of yer own crusade?”

Magnus fell silent, his fingers clenched tight around his ale cup. The mere thought of Isabelle in danger was like a burning dagger sliding into his gut. The cup broke in his hand, shattering into shards .

Emeric looked down at it and then up at Magnus’s face. “So I was right,” he said softly. “I saw the way ye looked at her earlier. She means something to ye.”

“Aye,” Magnus replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “She does.”

“Who is she?”

Magnus hesitated. “She...” he began, his voice faltering as he struggled to find the right words. “She’s someone who shouldnae be dragged into all of this. Someone who deserves better.”

He found himself reluctant to reveal any more. If he told anyone of Isabelle’s origins it would only put her in danger. Yet, if he couldn’t trust Emeric with the truth, who could he trust? He took a deep breath and began to speak, keeping his voice low so nobody would overhear. He told Emeric everything, of how he’d been tracking the outlaws in the Dragon’s Back, of how he’d met Irene MacAskill, of what she’d said to him, and then of how he’d bumped into Isabelle and Snaffles.

Emeric listened in silence, but as Magnus’s tale unfolded, his expression grew increasingly troubled. Finally, Magnus fell silent, glad to have gotten it off his chest at last.

Emeric glanced towards the door through which Isabelle had gone. “I knew it,” he muttered, half to himself. “As soon as I heard her speak, I knew there was something different about her. Her mannerisms, the way she talked. But a time-traveler? Here? What is Irene MacAskill up to this time?”

“Yer guess is as good as mine,” Magnus said.

“Magnus,” Emeric began, his voice low with warning. “If Irene and the Fae are involved, then this is bigger than we thought. It’s bigger than either of us. ”

“Ye think I dinna know that?” Magnus shot back, frustration gnawing at his edges. He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. “God help me, Emeric. I’m trying to keep her safe. But every decision I make... It feels like I’m navigating a bloody battlefield.”

Emeric’s expression softened. “That’s because ye are. It’s not just yer life at stake anymore.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table before him. “Give up this foolish quest, Magnus. Give it up before it consumes ye, before it swallows Isabelle up as well.”

Magnus stared at his friend. Part of him longed to do what Emeric said. Part of him longed to leave this place, to ride back to Dun Saith and turn this all over to the Order of the Osprey and let his commanders decide what to do next. But he couldn’t, no matter how much he wanted to. The weight of responsibility hung around his neck like an iron collar.

Choices and balance are everything , Irene MacAskill had told him.

The Lord forgave ye a long time ago. Now ye need to find a way to do the same , Abbot Oswin had said.

But his path had been chosen for him long ago, on the day that he’d done what he did and everything changed. And forgiveness? There was only one way he knew to earn that.

Yet Isabelle did not need to be swallowed by his darkness. He’d promised to keep her safe. He’d promised to see her safely home.

“Take Isabelle with ye,” Magnus said suddenly. “Take her back to Dun Saith and help her find a way home. It’s what I promised her. ”

Emeric frowned. “Ye can both come to Dun Saith—”

“I canna come with ye. I have to see this through.”

“But—”

“Please!” Magnus interrupted, his voice desperate. “Take her to Dun Saith. The Order will protect her. Promise me ye’ll keep her safe.”

Emeric watched him for a long moment, his gaze filled with understanding. He nodded finally, offering a small smile that held more sorrow than joy. “I promise,” he said solemnly, reaching across the table to grip Magnus’s hand tightly in his own.

Magnus nodded, a weight lifting off his shoulders. He knew that Isabelle would be in good hands with Emeric and the Order—away from him, away from danger.

The thought of being parted from her was like being punched in the gut. It hurt far more than his bruised ribs or split lip. He’d not had the chance to speak to her since she’d kissed him this afternoon—kissed him! All the way here he’d felt her presence burning against him like a candle flame, setting his senses on fire. The fact that he’d been able to do nothing about it with Sean MacTavish in attendance had almost driven him mad.

But it was better this way. Better that she go with Emeric. Better that she was away from him, where she could be safe. Better that she go home, get on with her life and forget him. Better for everyone.

Except him.

“And when were you planning on telling me this?” said a voice .

Magnus turned in his seat and saw that Isabelle was standing in the doorway. Her arms were crossed and her eyes flashed with anger. With a sinking feeling, he realized she’d overheard his conversation with Emeric.

“Were you going to tell me at all?” she snapped. “Or were you just planning on sending me packing like a piece of luggage?”

He climbed to his feet. “Isabelle, listen—”

“No, I don’t think I will,” she snapped. “I’ve heard plenty. I’m going to check on Snaffles.”

She spun and pushed through the boarding house’s back door, slamming it behind her.