Chapter Thirteen

The tunnel was dark, but at the end of it was a light brighter than any Alasdair had ever seen, and he was filled suddenly with the certainty that Mariot was just beyond that light, waiting for him. He walked toward it eagerly, but right when he was about to step into it, a soft but insistent voice resonated in his head.

Hew and Beatie need ye .

He paused at that. Hew. Beatie. An ache sprang up in his chest.

They have lost their mama, and I ken how much ye miss her, but they should nae have to endure losing ye, too.

The light parted, and there stood Mariot, ethereal in her beauty. He stepped a foot into the light toward her, but she held up her hand and shook her head. "'Tis nae yer time yet, Alasdair. The lass is right. Our bairns need ye. She needs ye."

"I dunnae even ken the lass. She's nae my responsibility."

I grew up with a horrid man for a da and my mama died when I was a wee lass. Ye dunnae want that for yer children. Ye must be there for them, and... and I ken ye love yer wife, but she dunnae need ye as yer children do.

"She's right, Alasdair. I dunnae need ye anymore. Let me go. Let yerself live."

He recoiled at that. "I was nae there for ye."

Mariot smiled slowly at him. "Ye were always there for me, Alasdair. Ye had others ye needed to be there for, too, and ye did nae ever fail. So dunnae fail Beatie and Hew now. Dunnae fail the lass Sorcha."

And I ken now the reasons ye are taking me to my family, and I forgive ye.

He smiled at those presumptuous words and glanced behind him. The tunnel was no longer dark. It was daylight, and he looked upon himself, lying on the ground in the woods near death. Kneeling in front of him was the flame-haired lass Sorcha and crouched beside her was Calan.

She took his hand in hers, and the warmth of her fingertips seeped into his skin as her fingers curled around the back of his hand with fretful pressure.

So fight. Fight for yer children, and yer clan, and, well, fight for me, because... because meeting ye has given me hope that I did nae ever expect to have, and if ye die, ye take that hope with ye .

He had two choices before him, past and present. One would be simple, the other fraught with complications and uncertainty, and both filled with loss. He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a roar.

Alasdair opened his eyes to daylight and Sorcha. She hovered above him, her hand clasping his to her chest, her hair swinging down on either side of her face in twin cascades of flame, her silver-blue eyes burning bright with relief. A sense of peace enveloped him, which he hadn't felt in a very long time.

"Ye're awake," she whispered, tears falling from her exquisite eyes down the delicate slope of her lovely cheeks.

With effort, he raised his hand to her cheek and brushed away the tears. His whole body was engulfed in tides of weariness, but it didn't matter. He had something to say. "Thank ye." He didn't know if it had been a fever dream or real, but she had beckoned him back to life, to his children, and he'd never forget that.

When he awoke again, shades of purple and myriad oranges and yellows had claimed the sky, but Sorcha was still there, crouched by the fire near him, holding a stick into it. He pushed himself to a sitting position, and he must have made a sound because she turned, her face alight with happiness. She stood and rushed to him, stick of cooked meat in hand. His stomach growled at the smell of roasted rabbit.

"Ye must stay awake this time and eat!"

"I intend to," he replied, his voice coming out like an old, creaky hinge. He frowned. It sounded like he hadn't used it in a long spell. "How long have I been asleep?" he asked as she brought a wine skin to his lips.

"A sennight. Now drink."

"A sennight?" he asked, but she scowled so fiercely and pressed the wine skin to his lips once more that he let the question go unanswered and took the drink he desperately wanted. The cool liquid slid down his dry, scratchy throat, offering relief. When he was finished drinking, he met her gaze. "Have ye been caring for the me this whole time?"

"Aye," she said, yawning, and that's when he noticed the dark smudges under her eyes.

"Have ye slept?"

"Oh, aye," she assured him. "Calan watched ye as well when he was nae hunting."

Alasdair looked around the campsite then, realizing he had not seen Calan since awakening. "Is Calan off hunting now?"

"Aye," she said, pulling a chunk of rabbit meat off the stick and holding it close to him. "Eat this. Ye must be famished. The only thing ye've eaten in a sennight is broth I made from a rabbit."

The woman was one surprise after the other. "Ye fed me broth?"

"Aye," she said. "'Twas the only thing I could get down ye and coax ye to swallow. I tried meat at first," she said, "but I could nae get ye to chew it in yer sleep."

He popped the piece of rabbit meat in his mouth and sighed with contentment. "Cooked to perfection."

She grinned at him and handed him another piece of meat. "Thank ye. I did all the cooking at my da's—I mean the man I called my da's—inn."

"It must be verra strange and exciting for ye," Alasdair said between bites, "to learn who yer really family is."

A sad look settled on her face that tightened his gut. "It would be more exciting if I did nae ken that my brother was searching for me simply to bring him a strong alliance." Her words had him considering his fever dream and what he should do going forth. He'd harbored a great deal of guilt about Sorcha's being forced to wed, and the fact that she had been caring for him so diligently only made his guilt heavier.

Soon, he'd be strong enough to travel again, and he would need to know what he was going to do with her by then. Before he could think more upon it, Calan came into sight.

His friend grinned at him and broke into a run, not stopping until he was leaning over him, laughing and clapping him on the shoulder. "'Tis good to see ye awake!"

Sorcha stood, and Alasdair had to suppress the keen desire to grab her hand to keep her by his side. "Now that ye seem to be faring well and Calan is here, I'll go wash," she said, glancing at him and Calan.

Alasdair studied her for a moment, taking in more than her beauty. Her hair hung down her back and over her shoulders in a tangled mess of waves. She had a smudge of dirt on her nose, her gown was soiled, and her hands were red and chapped. He nodded, wanting to ask her if she'd stayed by his side the entire time he was sick, but he didn't want to embarrass her or sound presumptuous. "Stay to the trail," he said, thinking on the adder that had bitten him.

"Dunnae fash yerself," she replied. "I've been bitten afore, and I dunnae have the reaction ye do."

That was good. Still. "Please stay to the trail," he said again.

She grinned at him, and the sight of her smile lighting her face tightened his chest. "Well, since ye said please," she said in a teasing tone.

He watched her as she turned and made her way to the trail, hips swaying in a way that stirred his desire. When she disappeared from view, he turned his focus to Calan to find his friend's gaze steady on her as well. Calan looked to him. "She did nae leave yer side but to relieve herself, and hardly that."

He was momentarily speechless. "The entire time?"

"Aye," Calan said, sitting beside him. "She could have fled, ye ken. I had to go hunt for food for us, and there were a dozen times she could have fled, but she stayed and cared for ye, barely sleeping."

"Aye," Alasdair said, an unexpected warmth filling him. "I saw her weariness." His thoughts turned in his head, and when he knew what he wanted to do, what he needed to do, he spoke. "I need ye to go to Laird Campbell's stronghold."

"I'm nae surprised," Calan said, grinning.

Alasdair frowned, unsure why what he was saying would make Calan grin. "I need ye to ascertain if he is a good man."

Calan frowned. "What for? Are ye nae wishing me to bargain for ye to keep the lass?"

"What?" Alasdair shook his head with a chuckle. "Nay. Dunnae be a clot-heid. I have nae awoken from my sickness and suddenly decided I wish to wed again. I'm nae changed." But the minute he said the words, he knew they were not the absolute truth. He was changed. Something in him had loosened a bit. He felt it. Like a door in his chest that had been slammed shut and locked was cracked open, but what that meant for the future, he didn't know.

What he did know was he could no longer simply take her to her brother's home without knowing who she'd be forced to wed. He had to ensure he was a good man.

"Ye're the clot-heid," Calan bit out.

"What do ye mean by that?" Alasdair demanded.

Calan stared at him for a long moment. "It dunnae matter," he finally said. "Ye'll nae hear me until ye're ready, and that may well nae ever happen. What do ye wish me to do at the Campbell stronghold?"

"Find out what sort of man Laird Campbell is and whether he's worthy of a lass like Sorcha."

"And if he's nae?" Calan asked. "What then?"

"Then I'll nae take her to her brother if she dunnae wish it."

"If Laird Stewart discovers ye have his sister, ye'd start a war with a powerful man for a lass that dunnae mean anything to ye."

"I owe her," Alasdair said simply.

Calan snorted. "I hope some reason filters into yer thick skull, but I'll nae hold my breath."