Chapter Eighteen

He could not say how long he tossed in his bed, but Sorcha's words kept running through his head, keeping him awake, despite a desperate desire to sleep and quiet the truth. Yet, the time had come that the truth could no longer be silenced, and the reckoning had been brought upon by a slip of a lass. He sat up, tossed his coverlet away, moved off the bed, and started to pace his room. His rapid footsteps back and forth matched the galloping thoughts in head, and each lap across the room brought the same question to mind. Was it possible there was no way to guard himself against Sorcha? She seemed to be slipping through cracks he could not see, had not even known were there.

Her intense gaze was imprinted on his brain. Her radiant smile warmed him when he thought of it, and he could picture clearly the way it curled up the tips of her lips. He tugged a hand through his hair and stilled, bringing his palm to his nose and inhaling. Her heather scent clung to him and hardened him with yearning once again. The physical desire that was drawing him to her wasn't even the most compelling thing. It was the way she had been with his children. It was her honesty, her loyalty for staying with him when he was sick, and her blunt analysis of his life, his grief, and his interaction with his children and Esmerelda.

He bent down, picked up his braies and considered Esmerelda. Everything pointed to change being needed when it came to her, but was Sorcha right? Had Esmerelda been purposely guiding him to linger in his grief? If so, to what purpose? He tugged on his braies, put on his plaid and sat. He needed to clear his head before he faced the day, Sorcha, and most importantly, his children.

Flashes of yesterday came to him. His children at supper talking and laughing exactly as he'd once imagined they would with him and Mariot. His children cuddled in bed with Sorcha between them weaving a bedtime story, eagerly asking her questions and giving her hugs. His vision blurred, and he blinked several times to clear it of the tears filling his eyes. He had imagined so many moments that would occur as a family with Hew, Beatie, and Mariot, and though none of them would ever happen, he had denied himself and his children all the moments of joy, love, and bonding that could fill their lives.

No more. Sorcha was right. He could not outrun grief. He had tried, and it blotted out all possibility of living until he let it in, felt it in his bones, and accepted it was now part of what made him who he was. But that didn't mean it was your life. That's what he had gotten wrong. He sat there and breathed slowly in and out, remembering all the times he had shared with Mariot from the day he'd met her to the last day he'd seen her alive, belly swollen with Hew and Beatie and a radiant smile on her face.

The sorrow and pain that had been with him for so long, that had wound its way through his body like a creeping vine, began to wither. He could breathe in a way he had not done in years. Sorcha was right about another thing. He had built a wall between himself and his children because he was afraid of losing them, but in keeping them at a distance, he had not really had them in his life as he ought to, and they had not had him in theirs.

He didn't know what would happen with Sorcha, but he knew there was a big part of him that hoped Calan would come back and tell him her betrothed was no good. Then he could in good conscience offer Sorcha a place here with his clan if she wished it, mayhap even in his home, his bed, his life, if they both wished it, and if the gods had such a fate in store for them. He no longer cared that he'd not gain the coin he needed for returning her to her brother. He'd find another way to fill his coffers, even if he had to constantly seek out tourneys in which to compete. And he was not going to allow another day to pass where he kept a distance between himself and the two people he loved most in the world. If he were to lose them now, he'd look back and see that there were precious few memories of them all together as a family, and that... that would kill him.

He stood and made his way quickly to Beatie's room to see if she wanted to break her fast with him and shoot her bow and arrow, before all the needs of the clan took over his day, but the only person in Beatie's room was one of the servants. "Where is Beatie?" he asked the lass who was fluffing his daughter's bed.

"She went down to the great hall with Lady Sorcha."

He nodded and quickly made his way out of his daughter's bedchamber and to the great hall, which he found teeming with clansmen and women. But the dais, where Beatie and Sorcha would have sat, was empty. He turned to exit the room before he was called to listen to someone's complaints or request, and he nearly knocked Hew over.

Hew glistened with sweat and a pink flush stained his cheeks. "Good morning, Da," he said, an uncertain look upon his face.

The solid hand of regret squeezed Alasdair's heart. He bent down and scooped up his son as he should have been doing all these years. "Good morning, Hew. Where are ye coming from?"

The boy's chest rose and fell in short, rapid breaths, no doubt from running. "The courtyard," Hew said, giving Alasdair a quick hug and then squirming as if wanting to be put down.

Alasdair was reluctant to let Hew go. Now that he'd lowered his guard, he wanted to soak up these moments with him. But he set him down and kneeled in front of him. "What are ye doing in the courtyard?"

"Learning bow and arrow with Beatie and Sorcha."

"Why are ye in here if the three of ye are training outside?"

"I'm getting provisions," Hew said, pride in his voice. Alasdair quirked an eyebrow, and Hew said, "We're all thirsty."

"From yer hard work?"

"From our laughing," Hew supplied.

Eagerness flowed through Alasdair. He wanted to see the three of them laughing like that in the courtyard during archery training. He helped Hew gather wine and water from the spring bucket and they headed outside. "I did nae ken ye were eager to learn bow and arrow, Hew."

"Oh, I was nae, Da, but Lady Sorcha is pretty," Hew said with a shrug.

"That she is, Son. That she is," Alasdair agreed and stopped short as the door opened and displayed Sorcha and Beatie in full view.

Sorcha stood behind Beatie and was obviously helping her adjust her hold on her bow and the alignment of her arrow. The sun filtered over Sorcha in such a way that her hair looked like dancing flames in the yellow-orange glow of the morning. A breeze caught the edge of her skirts and moved it at the edges so that he got glimpses of her ankles. Never had such innocent glimpses of snowy skin been so enticing. The now familiar heat Sorcha produced in him kindled to life immediately.

She turned her head toward them, and she smiled tentatively. He understood why. He'd acted like a petulant child the night before. With Beatie still looking ahead and Hew's head bowed to fiddle with the things he was carrying, Alasdair mouthed, I'm sorry.

The grin that instantly lit Sorcha's face was nothing short of a miraculous display of a giving heart. She winked and waved them over at the same time. Once he was standing in front of her, so close to the perfection of her flawless, delicate features, he found himself wondering if she was as perfect everywhere else. But now was not the time to wonder such things. Mayhap there would never be such a time.

"Da!" Beatie exclaimed before he could even greet her. "Look what Sorcha has taught me." Beatie raised her bow up just a bit, nocked her arrow, took a steadying breath, and released it. It flew toward the target a bit too far to the right, but it was a good shot, nevertheless.

She glanced up at him, grinning. "Did ye see that?"

"Aye," he replied, looking to his daughter and then to Sorcha, who was gazing with open fondness at her. The look of pride on her face made words catch in his throat for a moment. He could not believe that this woman would have such a stake in the success of a lass she just met. It spoke volumes about the depths of caring Sorcha held in her heart. He wanted to plunge into those depths and see how deep they went.

"Beatie," he started, "if ye'll move yer bow just a tad to the—"

"If ye dunnae mind me being so bold," Sorcha interrupted him with a questioning look. He gave a quick nod for her to continue. "If ye'll nae tell her exactly what to do to line the shot up but ask her how to line it up, she will have to figure it out on her own, and then she'll truly learn it."

"A verra good point," he said. He stepped close to his daughter, which also put him very near Sorcha. He was keenly aware of everything about her—her slow, measured breaths that he could just hear, her heather scent, her hair falling down to her waist—he had to concentrate and focus on Beatie. "Ye tell me what ye should be doing."

"I checked my grip," Beatie stared. "'Tis proper."

He glanced at her and could see it was. "All right. What else?"

"Sorcha said stand with my feet as wide as my shoulders."

"Aye, what else?"

"My weight even on both feet," she said, her voice a bit hesitant as if she was unsure.

"Aye," he encouraged, caught Sorcha's gaze and found her grinning encouragingly at him. "What else?"

"Face my head forward! I want to try to shoot again!"

"Go on then, lass," he said with a chuckle. He stood and backed up a step so he and Sorcha were shoulder to shoulder. They stood in silence for a moment simply watching Beatie together. She tried another shot, which still went too far to the right, and then she tried another and another. He leaned toward Sorcha, and her shoulder grazed his arm. The impact shot down to his hand and made his fingers curl. "How many times has she tried this shot?" he asked in a whisper.

Sorcha turned her head to his to answer, and her face was so near his, he could feel her heat. The desire to kiss her was so strong it nearly drove him to his knees. "At least a dozen," she whispered back.

He nodded and took in his daughter again. "Ye ken what it is?" he whispered to Sorcha as he watched Beatie again. Her frustration was obvious in her jerky rapid movements, the clenching of her jaw, and the pressed line of her lips.

"Oh, aye," Sorcha replied in a low tone. "I ken. I was trying nae to tell her so she'd learn it herself, but she's overly agitated now."

"What if we demonstrate to her the two things she's doing wrong," he suggested, glancing toward Sorcha.

Her eyes lit, and she nodded. "Beatie," she said. "Look at me." Beatie paused what she was doing and turned to look at Sorcha. Sorcha took out an arrow, raised her bow, nocked the arrow, and drew it back. "Watch me. My arm will nae move until the arrow meets the target." She released the arrow, and it flew to hit the center of the target.

"I dunnae understand!" Beatie wailed.

"I want to have a turn!" Hew cried out.

"Ye must wait patiently for yer turn, Hew," Sorcha said, to which Hew nodded immediately, making Alasdair chuckle. Hew had not been known for quick obedience in the past, but let a pretty lass request it, and his son was like an eager pup.

Alasdair stepped behind Sorcha, his chest brushing her back and her bottom grazing his upper thighs. Yearning coursed through him, but he dismissed it to concentrate on his daughter. He raised his finger to where Sorcha still held up her arm, and he traced the tip of his finger down the length of it. When she shivered beneath his touch, his concentration wavered.

Gritting his teeth, he said, "If ye keep yer arm in place until yer arrow meets the target, it helps ye to maintain complete focus. Try it." He stepped back because if he stayed that close to Sorcha any longer, he wasn't entirely certain that he could stop himself from kissing the back of her very inviting neck.

Beatie stood just in front of Sorcha, raised her bow, nocked her arrow, and released it, keeping her arm up as Sorcha had. Her arrow flew much straighter this time, and when she yelped in excitement and threw up her arms in happiness, he began to laugh, as did Sorcha.

"Did ye see?" Beatie exclaimed, withdrawing another arrow. Alasdair and Sorcha were still laughing as Beatie demanded again, "did ye see?" before swiveling toward them, arrow in hand and sharp end pointing toward Sorcha.

"Beatie!" Alasdair called the warning, but it was too late. The tip of her arrow slashed across Sorcha's thigh, cutting easily through the thin material of her skirt.

Sorcha cried out in surprise and stumbled backward into him. He caught her, steadied her, and turned her toward him, glancing down at the injury. Crimson already stained her skirt. Behind her, Beatie had started wailing, and though Sorcha had gone immediately pale, she straightened up, took a long, steadying breath, and said, "Ye dunnae need to cry, Beatie. 'Twas an accident, and I'm fine."

"Ye're a clot-heid, Beatie!" Hew bellowed.

"Hew!" Sorcha said, her tone sharp with reprimand. "An accident does nae make yer sister a clot-heid. Offer yer apologies, please."

"I'm sorry," Hew grumbled.

Alasdair stared in amazement. Sorcha managed to correct his children in a kind, yet effective way, much as he had always thought Mariot would have done, but quite different than Esmerelda's cruel reprimands. "Are ye certain ye are all right, lass?" he asked, his heart beating a steady tattoo of concern.

"Aye," she said with only a hint of a tremor in her voice. "'Tis nae anything a proper healing paste and a good gulp of wine kinnae fix."

"Can ye walk to the healing room?" he asked. "If nae, I can carry ye."

"Ach, nay. I can walk." She pulled away from him and he released her, but he could see the stain spreading on her skirt. "Mayhap we should tie off the wound?"

"Aye," she said, glancing around. "I dunnae have anything to—"

He quickly took off his plaid and kneeled in front of her to lift her skirt.

"What are ye doing?" she exclaimed.

"Locating the wound," he replied, though even as he slid his hand up her silken skin, he recognized instantly the danger in his actions. He'd wanted her before, and it grew to a ravenous yearning now. But when he revealed her wound, desire disappeared in place of concern. "God's blood," he grumbled at the slash on her leg.

"It looks much worse than it is, I assure ye."

He knew she was somewhat of a healer, so he nodded and wrapped his plaid tightly around her leg before knotting it off.

"I'm awfully sorry, Sorcha" Beatie whimpered.

"'Twas an accident, lass. Just remember nae to hold yer arrow out like that from now on. And if ye and Hew will go fetch some wine and bring it to the healing room, I'd be so verra grateful."

"I'll run all the way there!" Beatie exclaimed.

"I'll run faster," Hew offered.

"There's nae a need for that. Just meet us there," Sorcha said.

As Beatie walked away, Alasdair stepped to Sorcha's side. "Are ye certain ye can walk?"

"Aye," she said, but when she put her weight on the leg, he could see her clench her teeth, so he made a quick decision and scooped her off her feet and into his arms before she could protest.

She gasped. "What are ye doing?"

"I'm nae letting ye walk on that leg when ye're clearly in pain," he said, aware he liked the feeling of her nestled against his chest far too much. He started out of the courtyard and toward the stairs that led to the healing room.

"Well, ye must put me down before we enter the healing room," she said, sliding her arms around his neck. "I'd nae want yer healer thinking—"

"We dunnae currently have a healer," he interrupted, taking the stone stairs two at a time. He paused at the door to the healing room, shifted Sorcha to his left side to free his hand, and then opened the door.

"What happened to her?"

"I sent her away after my wife's death," he said, surprised by how he'd not even hesitated to tell the truth of it to Sorcha. He'd not spoken of it to anyone since that day. He waited a moment for grief to wash over him, but it didn't come.

"What have ye all been doing for a healer, then?" she asked.

"The neighboring clan, Clan Lamont, had a healer we often called upon," he said, setting her gently on her feet. He was loath to release her, but she pulled gently away and turned toward the shelf that held rows and rows of glass bottles and began to pluck them up, examine them, and put them back in their places.

"Ye said ‘called' upon. Ye dunnae any longer?"

"She passed recently," he said.

Sorcha took another bottle from the shelf, brought it close to her face, and then turned to him with the bottle still in her hand. "Are ye ready for another healer?" she asked.

Her words made him realize she'd known exactly why they did not have another healer here, and it was a relief rather than a discomfort to have someone understand so well without him having to say a word. "Ye're verra intuitive," he said.

She smiled slowly at him, and his chest tightened. "Thank ye. I suppose having to read my da's moods for so many years made me especially good at deducing things people dunnae say."

"I'm sorry ye had to do that," he said, meaning it.

She set the bottle down, and he glanced at it and arched his eyebrows at her. With a musical laugh, she said. "Lint. It will aid in stopping the flow of blood." She turned back toward the row of shelves so that her back was to him, and he found his gaze dropping low to the gentle swell of her hips. His fingers tingled to trace that swell. "I suppose I could be angry at the path my life took," she said, picking up bottles, examining them, and putting them back, "but I believe in fate, so there is little point in anger. This is the way my life was supposed to go, and there is a reason for it."

He stood there thinking about her words as she examined a few more bottles, and he tried to think of losing Mariot as how his life was supposed to go. He wasn't entirely certain he agreed, but he didn't have a rush of anger about it as typically would. "I dunnae ken if I believe in fate," he finally admitted.

Sorcha turned back to him with another bottle in her hand. "Do ye nae believe that fate brought yer wife into yer life?" she asked gently.

"Oh, aye, most definitely," he replied right away, then stilled, scowling at her. "Ye tricked me."

"Nay." She shook her head. "Ye are just bringing things into the light that ye had to keep in the dark before to protect yer heart."

"Protect my heart?" he asked, picking up the bottle she'd set down. He turned it over, trying to figure out what it was. "Animal grease?" he guessed.

She nodded and surprised him when she reached out and touched her fingertips to his chest. "When the pain is at its heaviest, we protect ourselves so our hearts will nae break. If we shelter ourselves from some of the pain, keep it in the dark, if ye will, then our hearts may get cracks, but we can mend them as we become stronger."

"And what have ye done to shelter yerself from pain?" he asked. The urge to know was nearly overwhelming.

She bit the edge of her lip and got a faraway look in her eyes for a moment. After a long pause, she brought her gaze to his and released her lip from the hold she'd had on it. "I told myself I would never wed."

Her words were very quiet, and she did not say more, but she didn't have to. He realized he understood what fears she'd kept in the dark. "There are men out there who would worship ye," he said, his words gruff to his own ears. "There are men who would treat ye as ye deserve."

Her eyes widened just a bit. "Men?"

He'd been thinking of himself, but he couldn't allow that—not yet anyway. "Mayhap yer betrothed. And if nae him, then..." He could not voice aloud what had entered his mind. Now wasn't the time, and there may never be a time, but if what she believed about fate was true, then it would be revealed to them both eventually. "What is the animal grease for?" he asked because he didn't want her to press for the truth he'd left in the dark.

"The animal grease will protect the wound from anything that might get in and cause an infection," she said, turning toward the shelf once more, but this time, she plucked a bottle off the shelf right way, turned back around, and wiggled it between them. "This is honey. It will help heal the wound."

"What do ye need me to do?" he asked.

"Well," she said, a blush stealing over her cheeks, "I normally dunnae have a weak stomach, but the prospect of looking at my own wound and then rubbing the necessary things on it does turn my stomach. If I direct ye, could ye do those things?"

"Aye, of course," he said.

He followed her as she moved toward the table on the far side of the room. When she tried to get onto the table, he set his hands on her hips and lifted her onto it. She was light and warm and soft, and he wanted to bury himself in her. Instead, he released her and went back for the two bottles she'd been unable to carry over. When he started back toward her, he paused as she raised her skirts to her upper thighs and delicately removed his blood-soaked plaid.

He quickened his pace to aid her, set the bottles down beside her, and took the plaid from her hands without asking. She released it without a word, so he figured her stomach had already turned queasy. "Does it hurt terribly?" he asked as he unwound the plaid as gently as he could.

"Nae terribly," she said, her tone reassuring. That she sought to make him feel better was yet another example of her selflessness. "'Tis mostly just a dull ache with an occasional bite of sharp pain."

He surveyed the wound, an angry red cut, and picked up the lint bottle, opened it, and asked, "Should I just blot the cut with the lint?"

"Nay. Set it on the wound, then we'll give it a bit to stop the bleeding."

He did as she instructed, then sat up, and was surprised to see her pallor was rather gray. "Are ye all right?"

"Aye," she said, but her voice sounded weak. "I feel hot."

He stood up and moved around her. He lifted her hair, twisted it into a knot, and began to fan her neck. She made a sound of bliss, and that sound, combined with staring at her lovely neck, awoke once more his desire for her, but it also awoke something else—the forgotten joy of doing such simple things for a woman he cared for.

The thought froze his hand in mid-fanning motion for a moment. He cared for her. He didn't know when or how it had happened, but it had. He stared at the back of her neck in shock. He cared for a woman he was supposed to let go. The irony of it made him grimace.

"That feels wonderful," she said, unaware of the storm she'd caused inside him.

He swallowed the hard knot of desire in his throat. "I hope it's helping."

"Aye," she said and then leaned her head back so that it rested on his chest, and her face was lifted to his. Her eyes were open at half mast, slits of kindness and warmth. Her ruby-red lips were parted invitingly, and it was an invitation he was unable to resist. He was made of flesh and bone, after all.

One touch of her lips to his was all he wanted. Or that's what he told himself. He leaned over her, waiting for her to protest, but desire burned in her own gaze and it fueled his need beyond anything he could possibly control.