Chapter 13

Inside the tent, Sorcha watched as Hugo carefully cut the cord with his dagger and tied it off with a strip he had cut from Isobel's underskirt. Then he handed the babe to Isobel and sought something to wipe his hands.

"Use my skirt, Hugo," Isobel said. "I'll have to throw these clothes away, anyway, as soon as I can get some to replace them."

He was about to do as she asked when he paused. "We'll need something to wrap the laddie in, my lady."

"Take all you need. I feel no more modesty where you are concerned, sir."

He grinned at her. "We'll hope Michael understands that lack."

"He will care for naught but the safety of his son," she said.

"He'll care for more than that," he said, slicing away a large piece of the cleanest part of her skirt for the babe. He handed it to Sorcha, then went to wipe his hands on the tent flap instead.

"Help me unfasten my bodice," Isobel said to her. "He wants to suckle and the sooner he can do that, the better, I think."

But Sorcha was watching Hugo, who still stood at the entrance to the tent, looking out, his body tense.

"Lass," he murmured without turning. "Fetch my sword, and quickly."

Without questioning him, she moved swiftly to obey, dragging the heavy weapon to him and shoving its hilt into his outstretched hand. He had not turned his attention from whatever was outside, nor did he do so now.

"What is it?" she demanded, keeping her voice low.

"Waldron," he said. "He said the battle would be swift, but they are still fighting. Yet he is right outside with sword in hand. I must deal with him before we can think about what to do next."

It occurred to her that if Waldron's men won the battle, she and the others would have no say in their fate. She reached out silently to squeeze Hugo's arm.

"Go help your sister with the babe," he commanded. "Do not come outside for any reason." Without looking back, he stepped out of the tent.

Sorcha moved to the entrance in time to see Adela race toward the two men from the woods.

Hugo saw Adela, too, his astonishment visible in the way his body stiffened as he glanced briefly toward her—for just one tiny second.

It was a second too long.

Waldron swung his heavy sword, and as Sorcha screamed, "Watch out!" Hugo flung up his own weapon to parry the thrust. Although his sword caught the tip of Waldron's, it only deflected it, so that the flat of Waldron's blade slid up and off it to strike Hugo's head a heavy blow.

Stunned, he stumbled and fell.

Waldron leaped to finish him, but Adela flung herself at Waldron, tugging his sword arm with both hands, crying, "My lord, look to the north! We must flee if you are to get safely away. You can achieve no victory if they catch you here."

"Adela," Sorcha shouted as she ran to the fallen Hugo. "Help me!"

"Help yourself," Adela cried. "This is all your fault, Sorcha. If Hugo dies, you will be responsible. And wearing those dreadful clothes, too! Come, sir," she added, catching Waldron's arm. "I'll go with you. Together, we can still achieve your most vital goal, but we must hurry or they'll be upon us. Many of your men are already laying down their weapons."

He looked north, saw the army spilling down the slope, and said calmly, "Go ahead of me, lass. You know where the horses are. I'll be behind you with my sword. We'll finish this another time," he shouted to the fallen Hugo as he followed her.

Sorcha rose to run after Adela, but a strong hand clamped onto her right ankle and jerked her back.

"We can't let her go with him," she cried, trying to pull her leg free of Hugo's grip. "She does not know what she is doing!"

"You cannot stop either of them, lass," he said. "He still has his sword, and he would not hesitate to use it."

"Then you go! Pick up your sword and run after him!" But even as she said the words, she saw the heavy bruise forming on his temple and wished she could take them back.

He looked ruefully at her as he released her and sat up with a grimace, putting a hand to the swiftly swelling lump on his head.

Silence fell around them with surprising abruptness.

Adela and Waldron had vanished into the woods, and on the battlefield the men had stopped fighting. Looking north, Sorcha saw the army of horsemen ride into the clearing under a familiar golden banner with a little-black-ship device.

"Mercy, that is his grace's banner!"

"Aye, and Hector's beside it," Hugo said. "Although he and the High Admiral promised men to follow me if I needed them, I did not expect so many."

"I wish they had come sooner," she said.

"You should be happy they came at all," he said, and a note in his voice reminded her that he might still believe he had cause to be displeased with her.

The thought that he might be angry with her after all that had happened brought a tightness to her throat that warned her she might cry any minute. She was certain the feeling was only a natural reaction to exhaustion and the many emotions that had assailed her over the past hours, but she did not want Hugo to see her cry.

She said gruffly, "I am glad I could be here, sir, and even gladder that you were. If you are going to lop my head off for that, go ahead."

"Look at me," he said.

Reluctantly, she did so, and saw a softer expression on his face than she had ever seen there before.

"I'm glad we were here, too," he said, getting to his feet with unusual awkwardness. "What Michael will say about it all, I don't want to imagine, but I'd not have wanted the lady Isobel to have to birth her child alone. And I'm thinking that's exactly what would have happened had you not been here."

"You thought he was going to kill them both, didn't you?"

"I don't know what he intended," he said. "He had his sword in his hand and was walking toward the tent with a look of purpose on his face. He may only have wanted to see what was keeping me, or mayhap to kill me before I could lay hand to my sword. But who is to say now what he would have done? If I had to guess, I'd say he would not have killed the bairn. He would think it the best hostage he could hold, and if Adela is now in league with him—"

"How dare you! She is not! She could not!" Sorcha said, automatically raising her hand. When he only looked at her and made no attempt to stop her, she lowered it again. She could not strike him. She was too afraid he might be right.

She bit her lip hard to stem the tears that welled into her eyes, but one trickled down her cheek. When she brushed it angrily away and turned back toward the tent, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Come here," he said gently, and when she shook her head, he cupped her other shoulder and pulled her closer. "Think of what we did today," he said in that same gentle, un-Hugo-like voice. "As men died here, a new one was born, lassie. Think of your nephew, fighting his way into this world. With battle raging around him, he squalled in its face."

She smiled at the image he painted, but her tears flowed freely nonetheless, and when he pulled her close she did not resist, leaning into his strength and letting the flood come, sobbing away the hours of tension. For just one moment, she would put Adela out of her head, let Hugo hold her, and try to imagine a world of peace where two people might meet properly, get to know each other in a normal fashion, and love each other in a more acceptable way. Then one of them would not have to marry a mad woman and restore her to respectability.

When she had no more tears to cry, she straightened reluctantly, then began at once to feel guilty about weeping all over him.

"If you ever tell anyone I did that," she growled, staring at his chest, "I'll poison your claret and dance on your grave."

"I'll not tell a soul," he promised.

She heard laughter in his voice, and when she looked up and saw that his eyes were twinkling, she wished she had not looked. Although the emotional storm had passed, her emotions did not seem to know it.

"It is not funny," she said. "And Adela did not run away with that villain. I warrant she was afraid, as you were, that he was going to kill the bairn."

"Perhaps," he said. Then in a more positive tone of voice, he added, "Do you know what they mean to call him?"

"Faith, sir, even if I did, I'd not say the name aloud until he has been properly baptized! Even for that, his father will write the name for the priest to say."

"Sakes, lass, I thought your father was the only superstitious Macleod."

"That's not superstition; it's Celtic tradition," she said. "A most important one, too, that goes back to a time long before Christianity came to the Isles. The naming ceremony is what legitimizes a child and guarantees its inheritance. We equate its name with its soul. We protect the soul in the meantime, though, so that if the worst happens the babe can still lie in hallowed ground. But we've left Isobel alone all this time without so much as a basin of water to cleanse the poor laddie!"

"You attend to her, and I'll find someone to fetch the water," he said.

She watched him go to be sure he was steady on his feet. Reassured by his grin and the jaunty way he slipped the sword back into its scabbard, she hurried into the tent to find Isobel contentedly nursing her son.

Isobel looked up from the contented baby and smiled. "Is he not perfect?"

"Aye, he is," Sorcha agreed. "But we must sanctify him before we leave this tent. Hugo is finding someone to fetch water. The battle is over," she added, "but Waldron fled with Adela."

Isobel frowned. "How did he get away from Hugo?"

"Adela distracted him, and Waldron tried to kill him. I would have run after them, but Hugo stopped me."

"I should hope so!" Isobel exclaimed. "I wonder how Waldron forced Adela to go with him. She must have seen that the battle was nearly over."

"I don't know," Sorcha said. "I think she heard the baby cry and saw Waldron with his sword out. She must have feared for your life and the baby's."

"If that is so, she ought to have left matters to Hugo," Isobel said. "I learned long ago to trust both him and Michael whenever they have a weapon in hand."

"Aye, perhaps, but Waldron knocked Hugo down."

"You said Adela distracted him."

"Not intentionally, and he should not have taken his eyes off Waldron," Sorcha said. "He will surely say that much himself."

"Aye, and so will Michael," Isobel said with a sigh. "Are you sure Hugo went to fetch water? I'm all sticky and so is my son."

Sorcha went to look and met Hugo at the entrance.

"They've brought our horses and supplies from where we left them on the ridge," he said, handing her a bundle of clothing. "So, you can put on a skirt again. I brought blankets and some clothing for you, too, my lady," he said to Isobel.

"Sakes, Hugo, do you carry a store of women's clothing with you?"

"Nay," he said with a chuckle. "But I did collect a couple of long shirts that will keep you decent along the way, since you'll be in a litter with the bairn, and otherwise modestly covered."

"You can have my skirt and bodice, Isobel," Sorcha said. "I shan't need them, for I see no reason to change just to ride from here to Roslin." She looked at Hugo and added airily, "It is not so far now, is it?"

"About ten miles," he said. "And it would serve you right if I let you wear those things. Recall that you will be meeting my aunt when we arrive, and consider whether you want to have to explain your idea of suitable dress to her."

"I cannot see how it concerns her," Sorcha said.

As if she had not spoken, he added gently, "Recall, too, that your father and the others will arrive on Monday, and that when the countess sees them, she will likely regale them all with a description of your attire, even if she approves of it."

Isobel said diplomatically, "A skirt or bodice that fits you will be too tight on me, Sorcha. I'm larger than usual, you know. Is that water you have there, Hugo? I hope there is enough for us to tidy ourselves, but Sorcha wants to sanctify my son first. Since you served as our midwife, you are the most proper person to do it."

" 'Twould be a great honor," he said. "What must I do?"

"First we'll clean him up," Sorcha said, pleased to see that Hugo had brought cloths for the purpose. "Then you sprinkle water on his forehead in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. We could have used spittle rather than fresh water. According to the common folk, it has more magical qualities than plain water and is guaranteed to protect newborn babies from mischievous fairies and evil creatures."

"We'll use water," he said, smiling at Isobel.

Sorcha cleaned the baby as thoroughly as she could under the circumstances, and he yelled lustily throughout the process. Although she was sure Hugo would have preferred to go to his men, he showed no sign of impatience as he watched her tend the bairn. Isobel, too, watched with a tender smile.

But at last the baby was tidy enough to suit them all, and she wrapped him in a blanket that Hugo had managed to find. Then, coaching him through the ritual of birth sanctification, she handed the bairn back to Isobel.

"I'll leave you now," Hugo said. "My lads and the others are seeing to the dead and injured, so they'll be a while yet. But as soon as you are ready, I mean for us to be on our way. The others can catch up with us easily enough."

Isobel said, "Have you someone you can send to meet his grace's cavalcade, Hugo? Michael will want to know of his son's arrival as soon as possible."

"Aye, sure," Hugo said. "I sent two men straightaway with the message."

"What if Waldron is lying in wait for us somewhere betwixt here and Roslin?" Sorcha asked. "Should we not wait until everyone is ready to go?"

"Waldron's forces are sadly depleted," Hugo said. "If he sent for men from Edgelaw, I'm sure our lads from Roslin have intercepted them. We'll take thirty men with us, which will be enough. Now, help your sister, lass, and don't forget to change your clothes. I don't want to see those leggings or that shirt ever again."

She did not reply, and when he had gone, Isobel said, "He is right, Sorcha. I don't know why you challenge him so, or why he allows it. I'd not have expected Hugo to suffer such impertinence lightly."

"He wields no authority over me," Sorcha said.

Isobel chuckled. "That would not weigh with him in the least, as I should think you must have learned before traveling a mile in his company."

Sorcha lifted her chin in response, but she would change her clothes, because she knew as well as Isobel apparently did that Hugo would not hesitate to change them for her if she continued to defy him. The thought made her smile.

They were ready when he returned for them, and he nodded approvingly when he saw Sorcha in her borrowed skirt and bodice. By then she had remembered that she had left her shift and the bodice under a rock, and hoped he would not recall that, but when he had seen Isobel and the bairn settled in the makeshift litter his men had created for them, he said casually that Sorcha was to ride with him.

"I'd rather ride beside Isobel," she said.

"She will sleep now, and the bairn likewise, so you'd only be bored," he said. "Besides, I want to talk with you."

"What if I don't want to talk to you?"

He gave her a look, and she decided silence would serve better than speech.

The men had prepared food they could all eat as they rode, and Sorcha realized she was hungry. She saw that Isobel had accepted a manchet loaf, some cheese, and an apple, and that she ate at least some of it before she fell asleep.

Her litter consisted of a blanket slung between two poles. One end of it was harnessed to one of the horses, and a man led the horse while two other men on foot carried the back of the litter, trading places every hour or so with two of the riders. In this way, they were able to travel almost as fast as they would have had Isobel been able to ride, and she and the baby were able to rest.

Reassured that her sister was as comfortable as they could make her, Sorcha found that she was looking forward to another conversation with Hugo.

To take the wind out of his sails, she spoke first, saying, "If you mean to scold me for leaving our camp as I did, I wish you would get it over with."

"I warrant you do," he replied equably. He said nothing further, and that not having been the reply she had wanted to hear, she scoured her imagination for something to say that might produce a more satisfactory one.

The best she could come up with was "Well, then?"

He gazed expressionlessly into the distance.

Looking behind them, she saw that his men had fallen back and guessed that he had told them to do so, doubtless expecting her to be fractious. But his silence was beginning to annoy her. If the man had something to say, he ought to say it and be done. A less welcome thought struck her. Mayhap she had annoyed him so much that he no longer cared enough about what she did to scold her for it.

Affecting a casual tone, she said, "As you have already agreed that it was a good thing I was there for Isobel, I expect you are no longer even angry, so we can talk about something else."

"Aye, sure, if you like."

"Is that all you're going to say?" she demanded indignantly.

He looked at her then, and his piercing gaze seemed to strike a chord deep inside, one that vibrated through her as if her blood had begun to hum. That look was discomfiting, to say the least, but even as she squirmed on her saddle, she assured herself that she would, under no circumstances, look away.

"Do you really want to know what I'm thinking?" he asked.

He held her gaze, and her voice seemed to have stuck somewhere in her throat, so she just nodded.

"I'm thinking it's a good thing you decided to put on that skirt before all these men and the others we left behind us saw you in those damnable leggings."

She swallowed, trying to think of a reply, and decided to see what he would say to the truth. "I thought, most likely, you would put it on for me if I defied you."

"I'm glad to hear that you were thinking clearly, for once," he said.

Nettled, she said, "You would have, would you not?"

"Aye, sure, I would," he agreed. "Moreover, I'd have had to do it in full view of everyone, lest someone accuse me of improper behavior toward you."

"And what, pray, could be more improper than forcing me to change my clothing in front of all your men?"

"A number of things," he said.

"Name one."

"Stripping off those damnable leggings and giving you the skelping you so richly deserve before that same audience," he answered promptly.

"That would be worse," she agreed, feeling her cheeks burn at the image his words brought to mind.

"Pax, lassie?"

"Aye," she said with welcome relief.

"In truth, you frightened me witless," he said quietly.

"You made me angry when you threatened to send me to your aunt whilst you went to find Adela. I was afraid you would get to her too late, and I knew you would follow me. But if we are to speak the truth, mayhap you should know that I had nearly changed my mind when they caught me. They must have been watching for someone to stray far enough for them to snatch." Truth or not, she would not tell him that Waldron's greeting to his men indicated that he had sent them to find her.

"I hope we can always speak the truth to each other, lass."

She forced a weak smile as she said, "There is no ‘we,' sir. Adela still needs you, so if you still believe in honor…" She let the word speak for itself.

"She is your sister," he said. "So we will see much of each other, even if she does agree that she and I should marry. But I do not believe she will. You heard her yourself. She urged him to flee. You want to think she feared he was going to harm the bairn, but I cannot agree. He is most persuasive, lass. I warrant he has persuaded her to his way of thinking about things."

"She wouldn't!" Sorcha exclaimed. "You do not know her as I do."

"No," he said. "That's true, and you are right to remind me of my duty."

For once, she did not want to hear that she was right. She felt a clenching sensation near where she suspected her heart lay, not to mention a sudden prickling of tears in her eyes. And she could think of nothing to say.

As the silence between them lengthened, Hugo glanced at her and saw that she had taken her lower lip firmly between her teeth. Her eyes swam with tears, making him want to kick himself for reminding her of what Adela had done.

He had not intended to take her to task at all, but it seemed as if the lass had only to open her mouth to stir some demon in him to correct her.

He could not count the times since she had walked into his life that he had wanted to throttle her or shake her or kiss her. And he certainly had had no intention of falling in love with her, but that was exactly what he had done.

The knowledge had struck him hard as he had watched her tending Isobel's baby. But he realized straightaway that he had suffered pangs of it long before that, and now he did not have the slightest idea what he was going to do about it.

Instinct had warned him from the first that the little skelpie stirred his senses as no other woman had ever done, although the first day she had stirred only a strong desire to put her across his knee. After all, for a significant part of his grace's installation day he had sported her handprint on his face for all to see. No one could blame him afterward for believing that the only reason she stirred his blood was that she could so easily ignite his fury.

To be sure, she was as beautiful as any of her sisters if not more so, and when she was angry, the way her eyes sparked flames one moment and turned stony gray the next fascinated him. Her temper was another matter, though. It had not escaped his notice that she had stood up to Waldron just as she did to him, so doubtless she lacked common sense or even a simple sense of self-preservation. But he could not deny that he had been proud of the way she had ignored the tension between them, and their weapons, and had demanded their help for Isobel.

In short, although he condemned her impulsive, defiant behavior and would continue to do so, he recognized in her not only a generous spirit but also a sense of honor and duty that he found wholly admirable. She was untrained and impetuous, but her belief in her duty to her family seemed instinctive and natural, rather than a product of any training, and so far she had managed to come through her adventures unscathed and undaunted. At least, she had until Adela had run away with Waldron, betraying all that Sorcha had tried to do for her.

Afterward, though, Sorcha had set Adela's treachery aside to devote her attention to Isobel's needs and those of her bairn. And Hugo had no doubt that had he not been there, had she and Isobel been all alone, Sorcha would have delivered the wee laddie by herself, calmly and with complete success.

Thinking of Isobel reminded him of yet another thing he liked about Sorcha. His cousin's lady, despite her airy charm and delicate femininity, had a habit of shading the truth when the whole seemed unpalatable to her. From all he had seen, Sorcha lacked that habit altogether. She said what she thought, and her tongue was even sharper than Isobel's could be, but Hugo preferred straight talk himself, and would not have had Michael's tolerance for Isobel's prevarications.

Glancing at Sorcha again, he saw that she had recovered her composure and decided he would do better not to apologize for reminding her of Adela's perfidy. Although she had defended her sister, she had not persuaded him that Adela had acted only to protect Isobel and the bairn, let alone Sorcha and himself as well. Adela had sounded too fervent, too concerned for Waldron's safety to have spared thought for anyone else's, including her own.

She had to know how dangerous his cousin was. Waldron was incapable of hiding that part of himself from others, especially from any woman he held under his control. With an army in view, as it had been, Adela had to have known that she need only hide long enough and her ordeal would end. The only possible conclusion was that she had gone with Waldron willingly.

Sorcha would recognize the truth soon enough, though. He had no need to convince her, and it would be kinder to let her come to it in her own good time.

Noting that she had herself in hand again, he casually mentioned Michael's undoubted delight when he learned that he had an heir, and his own intention to purchase Black Thunder from Hector if the man would allow it. Their conversation thus progressed until they were fully in charity with each other again.

She rode astride easily and liked a man's flat leather saddle, as her sisters did. Isobel had once told him that all eight of Macleod's daughters had ridden astride since childhood, with or without saddles.

He liked watching her but soon found himself imagining away the skirt and seeing her again in the damnable leggings. The way they outlined her smooth thighs and rounded calves, not to mention other rounded parts, stirred his imagination until he realized she was regarding him quizzically, and reined himself up short.

"What is it, lass?" he said. Hearing the gruffness of his tone, he cleared his throat, trying to banish the vision that still warmed his imagination and other things.

"I asked you how much farther it is to Roslin," she said, but the dimple below the left corner of her mouth winked at him, and her beautiful eyes danced.

The bubble of laughter in Sorcha's throat lingered even after Hugo had collected his wits. He looked around as if to orient himself and said they ought to reach the castle within the hour.

He had been gazing at her as if he had never seen her before, and the look in his eyes had warmed her through and through. Really, she thought, when he was being civil, he was a most amusing, informative companion.

That he admired the Sinclair brothers, afforded tremendous respect to the aunt he described unabashedly as terrifying, and loved Roslin Castle almost as much as his own home at Dunclathy was clear in every word he uttered in describing them.

He spoke of his sisters, showing respect for the eldest, Eliza, and warmth for the younger ones, Kate and Meg. He seemed scarcely to know them, though, and she felt sorry for that. Family was important. A man should know his sisters.

She envied him his travels though, for not only had he seen much more of Scotland than she had, but he had traveled to Paris, France, and to Spain and exotic countries that her aunt Euphemia and Ian Dubh, who was Cristina's father-by-marriage, had described to her in tales from their extensive studies. She suspected at one point that Hugo might have traveled even farther, but when he had seemed to misspeak, he deftly changed the subject, and she decided she must have imagined it.

When the baby wakened and squalled, they paused to rest while Isobel settled him to nurse, but when he had taken his fill, they rode on again.

Soon afterward, they entered dense woodland and followed a cart track until they came to an arched stone bridge across a tumbling river. On a high promontory beyond it, outlined against the blue sky and a few floating, puffy white clouds, stood the rounded towers and square southwest-corner keep of Roslin Castle.

The trail led back and forth up the hill until it came to a narrow land bridge, where the earth on both sides fell steeply away to the river thirty feet below. As their party made its way single file across to the entrance gates, Sorcha realized that the river North Esk flowed nearly all the way around the castle's steep promontory.

"Henry has begun to extend the wall and parts of the keep," Hugo said. "The work can be noisy, but with the bairn and Isobel needing rest, and Michael coming home, I'll have good reason to order a period of peace whilst we're all here."

The gates stood open, and when they rode into the flagstone-paved courtyard, a tall woman in a long sable-trimmed red kirtle, with gold lacing and a bejeweled, linked belt set low on her hips, swept gracefully down the stairs from the main entrance of the keep to meet them. The white veil she wore ruched back from her face flowed softly to her shoulders, over which she had flung a dark-green mantle against the late afternoon chill. Intricately plaited dark hair showed beneath the veil as it fluttered gently with her movements.

"You are about to meet my aunt," Hugo murmured. "Mind your manners."

Sorcha, more aware than she had thought she could be of her shabby attire, gave thanks to God that she was not wearing her leggings and saffron shirt.

She straightened on her saddle and held her head high.