Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“ M e lady! Me lady!”

A high-pitched, melodic voice thundered around Enya, the intensity of it startling her as she made her way to the drawing room. Worried that something was wrong, she turned around to see an older woman there, short and stout, with rosy cheeks and a warm smile that seemed to split her face in two. In her hands, she was holding a tray where she had piled all sorts of delicacies—fruit tarts, tea cakes, scones, and even a small pot of honey, all of it tipping precariously as she rushed towards Enya.

“I’m glad I found ye,” said the woman as she came to a halt in front of her, thrusting the tray into her hands. Enya barely managed to wrap her fingers around the handles and hold onto it, eyes wide with surprise at the generous, yet unexpected gift. “I wanted tae thank ye. Me husband told me everythin’ ye did fer him. We’re both so grateful.”

“Yer husband?” Enya asked in confusion.

“Samuel,” the woman said. “He told me that ye helped him when he fell from the roof. He says without ye, he doesnae ken what would have happened tae him.”

Realization dawned on Enya and she instinctively took a step back as if to flee before she could stop herself. She never liked it when the people she had helped or their loved ones came to thank her, not because she didn’t appreciate their gratitude, but rather because almost without fail, she had to come up with an excuse for the reason why healing took such a short time. Though she had a roster of excuses to use, whenever Enya was under pressure like this, it seemed that her mind stopped working almost immediately, leaving her with little choice other than to stammer and flee as quickly as she could.

“Ach, like I told him, he was lucky!” Enya said. “I didnae really dae anythin’, I only made sure he could stand an’ the men took him tae the healer. It is Skye ye should be thankin’, nae me.”

“Samuel says ye helped him,” the woman insisted and it was then that Enya knew she was not going to avoid this interaction, so instead of trying, she surrendered herself to the fact that she would have to come up with a plausible excuse if the woman questioned her. “I thanked Miss MacThomas, but I wished tae thank ye, as well. I’m afraid I dinnae have anythin’ else tae give ye, but I thought ye might enjoy some o’ this.”

With a warm smile, Enya carefully balanced the tray on one arm and reached for the woman’s hand, holding it securely in her grip. “Thank ye,” she said. “It is more than enough. I only did what anyone would have done.”

“Nae everyone is as kind as ye, me lady,” said the woman. “But we are all glad ye are here. Ye’ll be a wonderful Lady of the Clan.”

Enya’s smile froze on her lips, her blood running cold in her veins, but she tried her best not to show any of it, even as guilt gnawed at her insides, making it difficult to breathe. All this time, she had been deceiving not only Cillian, but everyone who was part of his clan and they were all under the impression that she would soon be wedded to him. No one there knew the truth. In fact, no one but her and Thora knew the truth, and her sister was so far away. Enya longed to speak with her, to have someone who could share this burden, but the situation would only become even more complicated if Thora made it to Jura before Enya managed to convince Cillian he didn’t want this marriage.

Everyone here thinks I will be the Lady o’ the Clan. This woman . . . she even brought me a gift.

What have I done?

From the moment she stepped foot in MacDonald Castle, Enya’s only concern had been to save her sister no matter what it took, so she had never given much thought to the fact that the people of Cillian’s clan could come to care about her. Now that she was confronted with this woman’s kindness and enthusiasm, she couldn’t help but be flooded with guilt at the thought of the deception she was weaving.

“Ye’re very kind,” said Enya, for lack of anything better to say. “I hope… I hope I can live up tae yer expectations.”

The words were like glass in her throat, painful to push out. Enya gave the woman a small, shaky smile and hoped it would be enough to convey just how moved she was by the gesture while at the same time hiding the inner turmoil that she seemed unable to escape. When they parted, the woman bidding her goodbye as she turned to leave, Enya was alone once again in the hallway, with that gargantuan tray in her hands.

She looked down at it. The tarts seemed particularly fresh, as though they had just been baked.

I have nae one to whom I can turn. I have nae one tae talk tae about this.

Even writing to Thora was not an option, not only because Enya didn’t know where, precisely, she was—whether she was still with Ava or if she had returned home or even if she had begun the journey to Jura—but also because she didn’t want to risk the letter falling into the wrong hands and exposing her entire plan. Cillian knew some of it, of course, as he had figured out on his own that Enya was trying to put an end to this marriage, but she didn’t know how he would react if he found out her true identity.

In the grander scheme of things, she supposed it didn’t really matter. He had been promised a MacLeod sister and Enya was one of them. It wasn’t as though he had met Thora before or that he had expressed any desire to be wedded to her. And yet, a deception was a deception, and Enya didn’t want to complicate things further by accidentally revealing she wasn’t his true betrothed.

With a weight on her body that had nothing to do with the heavy tray she was carrying, Enya continued on her way to the drawing room. She had no appetite for the feast the woman had prepared for her, but at the same time, she didn’t want any of it to go to waste, so when she passed by one of the guards, she offered him a treat and asked him to call the maids.

At least then, someone could appreciate all the hard work that went into baking all those sweets and Enya could let herself be absorbed into the maids’ conversation, talking idly about Yule decorations and lush fabrics and extravagant hunts—all things expected of a Lady of the Clan. All things she was once going to ruin on purpose, just to rile Cillian up, but which now she couldn’t help but take seriously.

The frost had seeped into every corner of the forest and though the ground held only patches of snow, as most of it was covered by the thick branches which domed the entire area, creating a protective canopy of twigs and leaves, every step of Cillian’s horse was uncertain, the mare slipping over the frozen soil. Cillian had never liked venturing too far from the castle in deep winter. They all knew the perils of even a short trip, the way one careless step could prove dangerous, or even fatal. That day, though, he had no choice but to gather some of his men and head out into the woods, looking for the party he had sent to scout for places that could be suitable for the celebratory hunt.

A report had come in not too long after they had departed—one of the men had escaped to rush back to the castle and ask for reinforcements as bandits had attacked the group. Upon hearing the news, Archibald and Duncan wanted to assemble a party of soldiers and go after them, but Cillian wanted to go there himself. It had been a long time since bandits had been spotted so close to the castle. Eradicating them was impossible; there was always a group of them somewhere in the far reaches of the forest, waiting for unsuspecting or weaker travelers, people who would be easy targets. This time, though, was different. Not only had they come too close to the castle, but they had attacked his soldiers. They had attacked men trained in battle, their skills honed day after day on the training grounds.

It could only mean that they were either just as skilled, if not more, or that they were in greater numbers, and both scenarios sounded unpleasant to Cillian.

“Ye should have taken Archibald,” Duncan grouched as he pulled his horse right up next to Cillian’s. “I will freeze tae death out here.”

“I trust Archibald tae dae the right thing if somethin’ happens tae me more than I trust ye,” Cillian teased, just to see the indignant look on Duncan’s face as he turned to look at him in mock offence. “What? It is true. Ye would drink the clan out o’ wine.”

“But then I would still have the ale,” Duncan countered.

“An’ ye would surely drink that, too.”

“If drinkin’ makes me unfit tae be a laird, then I never wish tae become one,” Duncan said and though Cillian was staring ahead, looking for any signs of his men, he could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Dae ye ken what I think?” Cillian asked, sparing his friend a quick glance. “I think ye should be quiet. The brigands could be anywhere.”

“Even a fight would be better than this, me friend,” Duncan said. “At least it will get the blood flowin’.”

Cillian gave no response. Duncan had always been talkative, especially whenever he sensed conflict was near. It was his way of calming himself, Cillian supposed, but it was certainly counterproductive when they were looking for any signs of another group—especially sounds.

Their group of six had been roaming the woods for a little over an hour if Cillian’s estimates were correct and yet there was still no sign of the men. He could only hope that meant they hadn’t reached them yet but for all he knew, the brigands could have taken them away or even killed them already. He didn’t know what kind of men they were up against. All he knew was that they were not like the usual bands of criminals who plagued places such as that.

As their group fell silent once more, Cillian strained his ears in case he could hear any sound that could point him to the right direction, but there was nothing but the breeze, barely stirring the air around them so deep in the forest, and the critters darting away from them when they came near, spooked by the sound of the horses’ hooves.

Cillian didn’t want to lose hope. He was confident he would find his men, or at least he wanted to believe he would. The thought of leaving them there filled the back of his throat with bile, bitter and unpleasant. If there was even a small chance they were still alive, he would do anything his power to find them.

It seemed like an eternity later when he heard a strange sound. Holding his hand up, he motioned to the rest of the party to stop and they all came to a halt behind him, all of them silent as they listened for whatever had made it.

He could have sworn he could hear men’s voices.

Gesturing at the others to follow his lead, Cillian jumped off his horse and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, preparing himself for battle. Perhaps those voices didn’t belong to bandits. Perhaps they were nothing but travelers, trying to cross the forest safely, but Cillian had no reason to risk falling blindly into a fight.

Stepping lightly, he slowly made his way to the source of the sound as his men fanned around him. Only Duncan remained close, as always, so he could jump in should anyone attempt to attack Cillian from a hidden position, and the two of them approached what seemed like a small clearing, just enough for a basic camp to be set up in its expanse.

The bandits were there and Cillian counted more than a dozen of them. He spotted his men, too, three of them tied up against the trunk of a large oak—two of them unconscious, while the other seemed dazed, looking at his surroundings with an empty gaze.

The fact that they were bound gave Cillian some hope. If there was need for rope, then it could only mean they were still alive.

At his signal, his men surrounded the clearing. Though they were outnumbered, they still had the element of surprise on their side, so Cillian hoped they could dispatch them quickly and cleanly, in a short and efficient fight that wouldn’t leave any of his men vulnerable.

In a synchronized attack, Cillian and his men all poured into the clearing, catching the brigands by surprise. Most of them were unprepared—some of them even unarmed—and Cillian didn’t hesitate before striking the first man in his path down, plunging his sword through his gut before he could even react to his presence. Around him, the clearing was tossed into chaos, the battle cries of his men mingling with the screams of the brigands as they tried to coordinate a counterattack, desperately searching for their weapons and trying to avoid the blades of their attackers.

Cillian quickly found his next target: a large man with wide shoulders and arms that resembled tree branches, thick with muscle. When their gazes met, the man closed the distance between them, swinging his sword in an arc that Cillian quickly stopped, deflecting the blow. There was strength behind the attack, though, and he could feel the impact as it reverberated through his arm, rattling the bones and the flesh there.

He must be their leader.

That was usually the case with brigands, Cillian thought; the biggest, the one with the most brute force was the one who led. In the end, they didn’t seem so organized or well-trained. The only reason why they had managed to subdue his men was that they vastly outnumbered them.

Their presence was still concerning, though. How could have so many men not been noticed by Cillian’s scouts? Were they new in the area? How had they gotten that close to the castle?

How many people have they attacked?

Surely, if they had been a problem for a while, he would have heard about it; if not from his own scouts, then from the people. Whoever those brigands were, they had to be new to the area and the only way for Cillian to find out was by keeping at least one of them—preferably a talkative one—alive.

That wouldn’t be the man he was about to fight, though. Something told Cillian he was not going to talk, no matter how much he tried to get the truth out of him.

Another swing of the man’s sword and Cillian jumped back, avoiding the blow. All around him, his men were engaged in their own fights, but he hardly had the time to spare to see if they were doing well. What he did have was faith in their abilities; some of them, he had trained himself, while others had been trained by Duncan and Archibald, who were both skilled with a blade. There was no doubt in his mind they would get out of there alive, even if the brigands outnumbered them over two to one.

After all, his men had already managed to kill or wound what seemed like half of them and the fight had only just begun.

With a grunt, Cillian threw himself at his opponent, delivering a swift attack that had him pirouetting to the side to avoid the sharp edge of his blade. He then attacked again furiously, giving the man no time to coordinate an attack of his own and instead forcing him to defend again and again, until there was nowhere for him to go and his back was pressed against the trunk of a large tree. Once Cillian had him cornered, it was only a matter of feinting to the right, just as the man had expected, and then switching his attack to strike him from the left, catching him by surprise.

Dragging the edge of his sword over the man’s chest, Cillian sliced a long, deep gash that instantly began to pour crimson, soaking the man’s tunic. His opponent could only stare at him in shock as he stood there, dazed, before finally crumpling to the ground, a pool of his blood quickly forming under his body as he took his last breaths.

“Cillian!”

Duncan’s voice cut through the shouts of the other men, but his warning didn’t come soon enough to spare Cillian from being struck. Though he moved just in time to avoid a fatal blow, the blade of one of the brigands cut through his tunic and then the flesh of his left shoulder, pain blossoming from the injured spot all the way through his torso.

It wasn’t too deep of a cut; Cillian could feel it, a little more than a surface wound, but it was enough to throw him off balance, making him hesitate and lose his coordination as he tried to put more distance between himself and his attacker. Tightening his grip on his sword, he tried to recover quickly, but as the initial shock of the injury wore off, the throbbing pain only increased in its intensity, forcing his left arm to hang uselessly by his side. Before he could formulate a plan, though, a blade was plunged through his opponent’s chest and Cillian looked up to see Duncan behind him, lips curled back in a snarl.

The man had been the last one standing, Cillian noticed when he looked around to find his men alive and well, with nothing but minor injuries. As two of them helped their captured fellow soldiers, the others rushed to help Cillian, but he waved them off. The others needed their help much more than he did.

“Are ye alright?” Duncan asked, placing a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine,” Cillian assured him. “Dinnae fash. Nay prisoners?”

“Nay. They are all dead.”

Cillian nodded. It was unfortunate, but there were other ways to find out who those men were and how they had travelled so far into his lands. For now, all he wanted to do was head back and rest, as the weariness settled heavy on his shoulders, his exhaustion catching up to him.

An’ maybe now I can find out what it is Thora did tae Samuel.