Chapter Six

Sorcha inhaled a long breath and chose her next words with calculated care. "I have only ever kenned men whose only use for a woman is how the lass can benefit them, but mayhap," she said, giving a delicate shrug of her shoulders, "I'm wrong." I'm nae. "Mayhap," she continued, rather pleased with how earnest she sounded. She added in a nice, convincing thread of weariness and cast her gaze downward to portray an overtaxed, uncertain lass. Honestly, she wanted to glare at both men. Alasdair had seemed nice enough, but more the fool was she. A nice man would not take a lass against her will. Nice men did not exist.

"Mayhap my birth family is nae as horrid as I was led to believe," she went on. "I'm so verra tired, and it's all a shock, having ye appear and say ye were here to take me back to my family, and then, b-b-being snatched by ye."

The distraught tone in her voice was not a complete act. The name the man had told her was hers was resounding through her head again. Margaret. Margaret. Margaret . Why had her mother not told her what her real name was before she died? Had she not known it? Sorcha squeezed her eyes shut on a wave of nausea, and when she opened them again, Alasdair and Calan were exchanging a look of concern. She had to swallow a sudden bubble of hysterical laughter. She'd set out to convince them she was distraught, but by the gods, she was. She had to get back to her sister, but she also wanted to get back to her father and demand answers. If what these men said was true, why had her mother and father kept her with them if they knew she came from a good family?

She'd asked her father about her mother's confession after she died, and he'd confirmed she was not his by blood, but he'd vowed they had no knowledge of who she really was. Was that true? She had to know, because if it wasn't true, if they had known who she was, the mother she'd loved had deceived her and lied to her, and yet—she swallowed the rising nausea down—and yet, she knew her mother had loved her. The woman had treated her with care and kindness all her life. So why would she have kept the truth of who she was from her on her deathbed?

Sorcha could feel Alasdair and Calan staring at her, but she did not care. She pressed her fingertips to her pounding temples. Why had her father kept the truth from her all these years if he knew it as well? Had he actually loved her in his own twisted way and feared losing her? Ridiculous hope rose. She had longed to be loved by that man for so many years, and she had thought she had finally shed that yearning, yet here she stood willing to take some twisted shard of hurtful love. For what gain? She would never stay with him now, and yet, to think he had possibly loved her in some way, well, that was a comfort of sorts. She was disgusted at her weakness, and she didn't want to care whether her father had known the truth or not, yet she had to know.

"Margaret," Alasdair said, setting a hand to her elbow. She shook it off.

"Sorcha," she said, her voice cracking. "My name is Sorcha."

"Yer name is Margaret, lass," he said, his tone suddenly gentle. Not only did a wave of nausea wash over her again, but it was so strong this time that the ground under her seemed to tilt. When Alasdair gripped her elbow, she did not shake him off for fear she might actually fall to the ground. Her name was Margaret. Margaret Stewart . If the man was to be believed, then she was not Sorcha, she was Margaret.

She squeezed her eyes shut once more, but in her head there was a very clear picture of her as a young lass sitting by her mother as she lay dying. She clearly recalled the shock her mother's words of warning had caused, but Sorcha's grief over losing her mother had consumed her and pushed aside any thoughts of who she might be. She'd not questioned it ever again, not even in the worst of times with her father. Was it a purposeful betrayal of the worst sort or a twisted grasp to keep her with him? She had to have the answer.

"Margaret," Alasdair said, squeezing her elbow.

It took all her strength to shrug him off and open her eyes. A gaze full of concern met hers. She was not such a fool as to believe this man held any true worry for her. That hysterical laughter threatened to erupt again, forcing her to swallow multiple times to keep it down, but in its place a question popped out. "How do ye ken I'm Margaret Stewart?" He opened his mouth to answer, but fear washed over her, and she shook her head. "Dunnae answer."

Understanding seemed to fill his eyes. "We'll set ye up a shelter, and ye can rest while we make camp and forage for food."

"That would be much appreciated," she said, careful to keep her relief out of her voice.

"When ye've had some rest and some food in yer belly, mayhap then ye'll let me tell ye what I ken of yer family. Then ye'll see ye are going to a better place."

There was an inherent strength in his face. A dangerous kind, she decided. One that made her want to believe and trust him, but she knew better. She didn't even trust her father, but she was still like a dog, longing for any scrap of love. So she simply nodded and gave him the words she suspected he was searching for. "Mayhap ye're right," she said, because though she wanted to be convincing, she found it was the best she could offer.

"Come," he said and held out his hand to her.

The gesture surprised and confused her, but to keep up the charade, she took his hand. A jolt coursed immediately through her fingertips at the contact of his warm skin on hers. Long, solid fingers curled around her hand, and it was surprisingly comforting. He walked ahead of her a step with his arm extended, and she trailed behind him, finding she could not tear her gaze away. He had the purposeful strides of a man who was used to getting much done. She wondered for a moment what being laird of a clan must be like, but then she pushed the question away. It served no good to wonder about him.

He stopped in front of a rock and released her hand. But then his palm came to her elbow to guide her, she realized with shock, to sit down. He was a contradiction. He'd taken her against her will, but she had the feeling he had justified it because he'd decided he was delivering her to a better life. If she coupled that with the concern he was showing for her comfort, it made it difficult to fear him or even despise him. However, she didn't need either emotion to escape, and she needed to do that for certain.

He silently waited for her to get situated and as he turned on his heel with a nod, she found herself watching him move about in front of her, building a shelter where she could sleep. As he fastened plaids to trees and sticks to create a makeshift roof and walls, her mind wandered to fantasies she'd not indulged in for ages. There had been a time when her mother was still alive, that she would fantasize about a handsome warrior coming through the village when she was a properly grown lass, falling in love with her, and sweeping her away to his castle to live happily ever after. But as the years had gone by and all the men she'd encountered had shown themselves to be pigs, she'd understood why her mother had warned her repeatedly never to wed a man and give him power over her, and she'd come to believe the only person she could count on to rescue her was herself. If she had met this man in another circumstance—no. It was foolish to allow such thoughts.

"What are ye shaking yer head at?"

Alasdair's voice broke her musings. She looked up from the ground and found him directly in front of her. Her body reacted in the strangest way again with warmth sweeping through her. She followed his long, well-defined legs up his body to his hips, where her gaze stuttered, then stalled. He had at some point removed his tunic and plaid, so that all he wore were his braies, which clung to his hips.

She inched her gaze over his hip bones to his carved abdomen and up further over his broad chest to his face. He held a torch, which flickered in the cool breeze, shadows dancing on his skin. She blinked, feeling the heat of his intense stare, though in the growing darkness, it was hard to read his expression. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "There was a pesky bug around me," she lied.

His eyebrows hitched up, and she held her breath, thinking he might call her a liar, but instead, he nodded and motioned over his shoulder. "Supper is ready."

She inhaled, smelling roasting meat. She'd been lost in the past for longer than she'd realized. "Rabbit?"

He nodded. "Aye. And a hunk of bread and wine. Come," he said, offering his hand to help her up.

"Ye're verra polite for someone who took me against my will," she said, taking his hand. Immediately, she was struck with that same tingling sensation when his skin met hers.

"I'm nae a bad person, Margaret."

"Sorcha," she corrected. She didn't care for how much she liked the feel of her hand in his, so she tugged hers away.

"Yer name is Margaret," he replied in the same gentle tone as before.

"So ye say," she grumbled, taking a seat around the fire on one of the logs Alasdair and Calan must have situated there.

He took his seat opposite her, leaving the one nearest her for Calan, who joined them before she was settled. She felt awkward about taking a stick of meat she'd not even helped hunt or prepare, so when Alasdair retrieved a stick from the fire and handed it to her, she took it gratefully.

"Would ye like me to tell ye what I ken of yer family?" he asked as he handed a wine skin to her.

She took that gratefully as well. She was parched from their travels. She wanted to say it didn't matter what he knew because she would return home to her sister, no matter what he told her. Yet, she found herself wanting to know.

She had, as a lass, dreamed at times that her mother had been wrong about her true family, and that somewhere out there her real mother and father were searching for her. But no one had come, and she didn't care for the hope bubbling inside her. It was as foolish as the hope that her father had loved her in a way, twisted or not.

Something in her voice must have betrayed her curiosity because Alasdair said, "Yer father was laird of the Stewart clan, as I told ye."

Was, she thought. So, he is dead. She did not care. He'd been a bad, evil person. Hadn't he? She did not care. She did not care, and yet, there was a part of her that did. She wanted to destroy that weak spot. "I dunnae care," she said, but devil take it, her voice wobbled.

"Yer mama was Isabel Stewart."

Despite trying to steel herself from feeling any emotion, a lump formed in her throat. She turned her mother's name over in her mind. Isabel Stewart. Isabel . Sorcha raised a trembling hand to her head. Had her red hair come from her mother? She blinked at the unexpected and unwanted sting of tears behind her lids and willed them away, but while she could control her physical reaction, she could not tamp down her mental one. She blinked again. Had she gotten the unusual color of her eyes from her mother or her father? She'd never allowed herself to consider such things, and she didn't know why she was allowing it now. It was foolhardy.

"I dunnae care," she said again, trying to add more force to her voice this time, but when a sympathetic look crossed Alasdair's face, she understood she'd failed.

"Yer mama and papa were killed when their home was attacked."

"By whom?" she asked, cursing herself for the question that had slipped out. It meant a part of her did indeed care, despite her not wanting to care at all.

"By John of Islay, the former Lord of the Isles, and yer da's once closest ally and friend."

"Well," she said, thinking of what Martha had told her, and despite now knowing her words and intentions were questionable, it was all Sorcha had to cling to, false or not. She felt she was drowning in a stormy sea. "He must have done something evil to this John of Islay, just as he did to me."

"Are ye an ill-informed fool?" Calan demanded, drawing her attention to him for a moment. He was glaring at her.

"Calan," Alasdair snapped. "Curb yer tongue. Margaret is ill-informed of politics because the man whose house she lived in neglected to speak of such things with her."

"I told ye my name is Sorcha!" she snapped, as embarrassment washed over her. It was true that she knew precious little about the political goings on in Scotland. She knew who the king was, but beyond that, she did not know much else.

"Yer name, whether ye choose to use it or nae, is Margaret," Alasdair said and the patience in his tone annoyed her.

"I will nae ever be Margaret Stewart!" she said, knowing she sounded like a petulant child.

To her surprise, he nodded, and a long moment passed before he spoke. "It is hard," he finally said, "to let go of things we knew, even if they do not serve us." She didn't like that he sounded as if he understood her pain, and she tensed, expecting him to prod her more. Instead, he said, "John of Islay was plotting to overthrow the King of Scotland with the English king and some other Scottish lords. I imagine yer da uncovered the plot. Yer da had always been verra loyal to the king, but John was clever. I do believe John must have feared yer da would tell the king of the plot to overthrow him, so he went on the offensive and accused yer da of treason. He stormed yer da's castle, yer home, under this pretense. When the battle was over, yer parents were dead, and ye and both yer older brothers were missing."

"How do ye come by this information?" she asked, feeling that bubble of hope she'd been trying to repress getting bigger. Did she have brothers who were alive? She was afraid to even consider it, let alone ask.

"Everyone kens of John of Islay's betrayal," Calan answered. "The King of England was recently desperate for aid from our king, and to get the help he required, he finally gave the names of the Scottish lords who had planned to betray our king's father when he reigned. John of Islay was one of the betrayers named, and it became known then that he had also betrayed yer da."

Her heartbeat quickened, despite trying to breathe evenly to keep it steady. She curled her fingers toward her palms as her emotions lapped up against her insides like storm waves. She feared they'd overtake the boundaries she was trying to maintain.

"My cousin Ollie is a mercenary," Alasdair said, his head tilting more toward her to look her fully in the face. Shadows played across his chiseled features, and her pulse quickened yet more, but this time, she instinctually understood it was attraction to this man that was doing it. Apparently, her foolish body had overruled her more sensible head.

"Yer eldest brother, Ross, who is now laird of the Stewart clan," he said, "enlisted mercenaries to help find ye."

Hope didn't just bubble up, it filled her, but so did more questions. "Ye said my brothers and I were missing?"

"Aye." Alasdair nodded. "Stewart just recently returned to claim his rightful spot as laird of the clan. He'd apparently been taken into hiding the night of the attack by your da's right hand, Bran, who ferreted yer brother to the Northern Watch. Do ye ken what the Northern Watch is?"

"Aye," she said, her mind turning with all Alasdair was saying. If this was all true, what did it change for her? What it didn't change was the fact that Ada was her sister, and she had to return to the only home she'd ever known to protect her. She was the only person Ada could rely on. "They give safe passage through the woods around their stronghold, and they serve the king as his wishes."

"Aye," Alasdair said with a nod. "Yer brother, I'm assuming, came out of hiding when it was discovered that yer da was nae a traitor after all. I dunnae ken for certain how it all occurred, and what I do ken, I only ken because Ollie was at a meeting of mercenaries yer brother called to search for ye."

"Why search for me now? After all these years?"

She did not miss the quick look that Alasdair and Calan exchanged. "Yer brother did nae ken who he was, just as ye did nae, and he did nae ken of ye or yer other brother, Graeme."

Two brothers. I have two brothers .

If this was all true, she could not simply accept it, and yet, what if it were true? What if she did have a brother, a laird no less, looking for her because he wanted to bring her back into the fold of the family she'd been ripped from. She pictured for a moment a large great hall with a crackling fire. There were chairs circled around the fire where she and her brothers, and mayhap their wives if they had them, would talk after dinner each night. There was a space in that great hall that was cleared every night for dancing.

"Lass?"

She blinked, realizing she'd been lost in a ridiculous fantasy, and her face heated when she met Alasdair's gaze once more. Rather than explain she'd been recalling the dream that used to see her through hard times with her da, she asked, "Was Graeme hidden away as well?"

Both Calan and Alasdair nodded. "Aye," Alasdair said, "as far as we ken, but we only ken what Ollie learned when he was called to the meeting with yer eldest brother. I imagine," he added, taking a swig from his wine skin, "that when Ross learned who he was, and about ye and yer brother, he started searching for ye, and since he has been unable to find ye, he called in mercenaries to aid him."

"And what will ye get for delivering me to this family?" she demanded. She was not so naive to think he was doing this out of the goodness of his heart. No man's heart was that pure.

He stared at her for a long moment that seemed to stretch and stretch, and he finally said, "Coin, lass. I will get coin."

He was uncomfortable with the fact that he was delivering her somewhere for money, for gain for him. She could hear it in his tight tone. But she was confused. Did it mean he had more of a conscience than most men? Did it mean he was possibly a good man who had to do this deed for some reason? She had the clot-heided urge to tell him it was all right, but of course, it wasn't. He was forcing her somewhere against her will, so she bit her tongue. He abruptly stood and turned away from her, tugging a hand through his hair, and she watched as he strode toward the woods, toward darkness.

He was almost at the edge of the woods when Calan called out to him. "Where are ye going?"

"To clear my head," Alasdair snapped but did not turn around or stop.

Calan made a derisive noise, and when Alasdair was gone, she once more looked to his friend, who had resumed eating and drinking but was staring at her with accusing eyes. She glared back, but Calan only narrowed his eyes upon her.

"What?" she demanded. "I suppose," she said slowly, trying to order her own tumbling thoughts and guilt filling her head, "ye believe I should feel relieved that yer laird feels remorse for taking coin to force me somewhere I dunnae wish to go." When Calan did not respond and simply kept staring with his lips pressed into a thin line, it kindled her temper. "Ye kinnae lay blame at my feet for yer laird doing a harmful and selfish deed and profiting from it!"

Calan threw his half-eaten stick of meat into the fire and leaned on his elbows to glare at her more. "How is it harmful to ye to be returned to yer rightful family?"

She opened her mouth to remind him of her sister, but he waved a hand at her. "Alasdair would nae have taken ye from the life ye had, nae matter how much he needs the coin, if he did nae believe he was delivering ye to a better life. As far as I can see, ye've been neglected, abused, misused, and from what I hear, yer da will nae allow ye to leave even to wed because he wants to continue using ye as his free servant. Why would ye want to stay with him?"

"I dunnae know," she replied. "I had plans to open an apothecary shop."

Calan's jaw fell open. "A shop? Alone? Live alone?" When she nodded, he looked aghast. "Devil take it, lass, who will protect ye from unwanted attention? Who will watch over ye should ye fall ill? Do ye nae want bairns?"

She once had, but she'd given up the dream. Was she being ridiculous? Mayhap, she could go home and help Ada, then travel to her birth family and get to know them. Nothing said she had to stay.

"Ye'll be living in a great stronghold," Calan went on, "and ye'll nae ever want for anything. And ye'll have people to care for ye should ye need them." She nibbled on her lip and imagined the scene around the fire in the great hall with her brothers and their wives again. "And ye'll be a great lady, wed as ye will be to Laird Campbell," he added, taking a long swig from the wine skin he'd just picked up.

"Wed?" she repeated, trying not to sound as appalled as she felt. He was lucky she had not screamed it. He winced and regret crossed his face, and she knew in order to get any more information from him, she'd have to convince him that the prospect of a forced marriage to a stranger was pleasing to her.

"Wed to a great laird!" she exclaimed, nearly gagging on each word. "How wonderful!" How horrid . "I never imagined yer laird was trying to do me such a service." She'd imagined it, but then she had begun to question if she was being too jaded, if she was being too harsh, if mayhap Alasdair was a rare thing known as an honest man. Ha!

Calan smiled. "Aye," he said. "'Tis why yer brother wishes so desperately to bring ye home. Ye were apparently betrothed to Laird Campbell as a bairn, and when it was discovered ye may well be alive, he agreed to honor the betrothal. So, when ye are wed to Laird Campbell, yer clan will become one of the strongest and greatest in the Highlands."

Tears burned behind her eyelids. She was a fool. A fool for believing for one moment she was wanted simply out of love and not to be used as a commodity for the gain of a man. And she was an even greater fool for allowing herself to feel even a breath of compassion for Alasdair. She would escape him, and she would return home to aid her sister and confront her father, and discover once and for all if there was or had ever been any love for her in that man.