Chapter Nineteen

They delayed their departure from Castle Wick until after the funeral rites, which included Teegan and Will Moray, the latter who had perished in the first siege though his remains had not been found. ?Twas a somber service amidst a drizzling rain conducted by Castle Wick's priest, who'd been found unarmed and praying yesterday in the keep's chapel. A godly man, he had not spoken ill of de Rathe and his tenure at Castle Wick, but he had expressed appreciation for the liberation of the castle and its people.

Fiona stood with the Roses, gathered inside the expansive bailey, along with the mac Cailens and as many of the de Graham and Merrick men that could squeeze into the large space. Fresh timber had been hastily fitted into the huge, thick gate, replacing the sections that had been destroyed. Scorched stone walls bore the blackened scars of the siege, and the ground was still churned and muddy from the passage of heavy boots and the individual fights that had taken place. The acrid scent of smoke and sweat lingered in the air, mingling with the faint smell of blood that no amount of rain could entirely erase. The sea of soldiers was liberally decorated with linen bandages, arms and legs wrapped tightly against wounds sustained in the battle. Faces showed weariness and pain, some pale from blood loss, others grimacing with each movement.

More than once, Fiona sought out Austin's grim visage. More than once, she thought his eyes had just left hers. His wide shoulders seemed tense, and there was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression whenever she looked his way. It was the slight shift in his stance, the way his jaw clenched and then relaxed, that made her believe he had been watching her.

Her heart ached, plain and simple. Twelve hours later, the wound he'd inflicted still felt raw and torn open. A dozen times since then, Fiona had told herself to move on, to take it as a bitter lesson learned—that a man might show you what he wanted you to see to have what he wanted. She cursed her own susceptibility, her willingness to be deceived, more than his cruel intentions. Convincing herself she was better for it, she believed it would make her a stronger leader, having been shown firsthand the dishonesty of a smooth-talking man. She vowed she would not be fooled again. She was and would be stronger and wiser for how Austin had broken her heart.

There was no tarrying when the funeral service was complete. De Graham began to issue orders to his men and Fiona instructed Fraser to gather their army while she bade farewell to Grace, who along with the Wolf had stood close to Austin and the Merricks during the solemn rite. She paid little attention to Sparrow, who'd been by her side during the ceremony, hardly able to stand still, and now darted off, not toward her horse but toward the Merricks. Toward the big man, Straun, Fiona presumed, vaguely puzzled by whatever that relationship might be.

Grace extended her hands toward Fiona as she approached, her smile warm and tinged with a bit of sadness.

Taking her hands, Fiona squeezed them gently. "I canna thank ye enough," she said, "for what ye've done for me."

Grace's smile expanded. "It was absolutely my pleasure. I am so glad to have met you."

"God willing," Fiona returned, "we'll meet again one day under kinder skies."

"Indeed. And know that you are always welcome at either the Carnoch Cross or at Belridge, if ever you have a need."

"Thank ye." She pumped her hands once more before releasing them.

"You'll want to make your farewell to—" She paused and turned, searching the crowd, presumably for Austin.

Fiona cringed as Grace called out to him, several yards away, in discussion with another Merrick man.

Austin hesitated, turning and meeting Fiona's eye, his expression unreadable. With measured steps, he approached, his features tight and his voice when he spoke devoid of the warmth Fiona had come to expect.

"Farewell, Fiona," he said, his tone stiff. "I wish ye Godspeed in wherever the winds and war take ye."

"And ye," she replied coolly, her own expression as guarded as his.

With a bare nod, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving behind an awkward silence in his wake.

"Oh," Grace said with a sudden bewilderment.

Fiona pasted on a brave smile when Grace's eyes snapped back to her, shaking her head to dismiss any idea that she expected a worthier farewell from Austin. "It's nae like that. He and I...we dinna..." she shrugged, not knowing quite how to explain that she'd been taken for a fool. "The Merricks and Roses have too long maintained a feud to..." she shrugged, the words sounding hollow to her ears.

Grace's brow furrowed further, upset on Fiona's behalf. She reached out, placing a comforting hand on Fiona's arm. "I'm sorry, Fiona. Truly. You deserve better than that. I thought he... well, it doesn't matter what I thought; obviously I was wrong." She paused and stared at the door of the keep, through which Austin had disappeared. "Still, I didn't take him for a fool."

Fiona nodded, her smile faltering but still in place. Meaning to project a tranquility she most certainly didn't feel, she said, "?Tis guid to ken these things early on about a person, is it nae?"

Grace tipped her head to the side, possibly seeing through Fiona's attempt to dismiss the affair as meaningless.

"?Twould have been better to have known these things at the beginning, I imagine," said Grace, with no small amount of chagrin for what she might believe of Austin's character now.

"Life dinna work like that," Fiona posited, her voice tinged with resignation, her heart heavy with the weight of disillusionment. She patted Grace's hand, grateful for the support but determined not to let her emotions show.

"God be with you, Fiona Rose," Grace offered, her smile returned.

"And ye, Grace Geddes. Take guid care."

Less than a quarter hour later, the giant de Graham army and the small Rose contingent set out from Castle Wick, heading south. They would march together for several days, until they reached Brechin, where Torsten would head to the west, into Montrose and to Lochlan Hall, and Fiona and the Roses would make for Oathlaw, where they were expected to intercept an English munitions train of wagons that was scheduled to pass through the area.

For most of the first day, the two armies remained for the most part separate and distinct. Ever observant, Fiona couldn't help but notice the air of discipline and efficiency surrounding Torsten de Graham and his men, but she also didn't miss an unmistakable chilliness that seemed to emanate from their ranks.

Sparrow had made the same observation and made mention of it when she sidled her roan mare next to Fiona's horse, falling in rhythm beside each other.

"An admirable commander, nae doubt, De Graham," Sparrow remarked, her tone as always sparked by what seemed a mild pique. "But shite, that man's got ice in his veins."

"Aye," Fiona replied, her brow furrowing in agreement. "I sensed in him that same attitude we've met so many times before, nae respect for my authority nor even my capability, merely because I'm a woman."

Sparrow nodded, her expression grave. "Aye and let ?im keep his icy distance. Dinna mean anything to me. But damn if I dinna pity whoever dwells now at Lochlan Hall."

Fiona nodded, her gaze fixed ahead on the winding road. "I wonder how he would treat a woman fighting to save herself?" She posed. "As opposed to a woman fighting by his side."

Sparrow snorted a bit. "Might better ask that at Lochlan Hall, and after he decimates it, if there be any females brave enough to stand in the face of his blood-sucking gaze."

Grinning at Sparrow's imaginative phrasing, Fiona narrowed her eyes as her gaze set on de Graham's stalwart figure, several rows ahead of her. Perhaps there was a certain authenticity in him, in his disregard for societal expectations and basic courtesies. Aside from barking out orders over the last two days, Fiona hadn't noticed that he spent any time in conversation with any person, his own men or his equals, other commanders. Certainly, he'd given her little thought or attention. Torsten de Graham seemed indifferent to the opinions of others, which she respected to some degree.

Cynically, Fiona imagined that Torsten de Graham would probably never pretend to be something he was not, or feign emotion toward a woman simply to have her naked beneath him. As soon as she had that unjust and worthless thought, she chastised herself that not all men should be judged by Austin's behavior, and that what Torsten de Graham did to entice women to his bed—if he did—was simply not her concern save that her recent experiences with Austin had left her more attuned to the complexities of human interaction, prompting her to consider such matters in a way she hadn't before.

She concluded her thoughts about de Graham by deciding that she didn't mind fighting alongside him, but truth was, she didn't believe he was a man she wanted to know or have to regularly interact with.

Late in the afternoon, the path led the armies to a particularly daunting obstacle, a wide river cutting through the landscape like a gash.

The river surged before them, its swift current speckled by the light rain that continued to fall. Rocks protruded from the water's surface like jagged teeth, threatening to catch unwary feet and topple even the strongest of horses. Across the way, promising safety and respite from the treacherous currents, the opposite bank beckoned from thirty yards away.

Columns of soldiers converged at the water's edge, their once neat formations blending into a single mass of humanity. They plunged into the icy waters, breaths catching at the shock of the cold. horses snorting and pawing at the rushing current. Fiona felt a shiver run down her spine as the chill of the river penetrated her clothing, the frigid water swirling around her legs. Despite her efforts to urge her horse forward, each step was met with stubborn resistance, the powerful current tugging relentlessly at their bodies. The horses strained against the force of the water, their muscles flexing with each step as they fought to maintain their footing in the tumultuous river. While the water deepened, rising to cover most of her thighs, Fiona kept her grip on the reins tight and her eyes fixed on the far bank, firmly urging her steed to power through.

There were a few mishaps but none serious and in a matter of thirty minutes, the entire combined force had crossed successfully. Oddly enough, and inexplicably to Fiona, beyond the river, Torsten de Graham's disciplined ranks and the Roses' more loosely organized contingent mingled together, the only distinguishable markers being the colorful plaids draped over their shoulders.

When the sun was low enough to cast long shadows over the rugged landscape, Fraser appeared at Fiona's side.

She turned to appraise him and his mood, considering it foul yet, but said nothing, only waited on him to speak since he'd sought her out.

"I'll say my peace now," he began, his voice low and without a hint of conciliatory grace. "Aye, it's nae any of my business, what ye do...in yer own life. Clearly, ye're nae a child. I kent that, and I ken I need to stop treating ye as if ye are." He paused, frowning at the distant horizon for a moment before continuing. "I ken it would happen one day. Ye've been searching for...whatever ye thought ye found in him, forever, since before ye were auld enough to wield a sword. Looking for a cure for yer loneliness. I dinna dwell on it too often, but aye, I imagined it would eventually catch up with ye, do ye harm, latching onto the first one to show ye affection, even if it were false." He shrugged in consideration. "But then, I dinna ken how ye should be expected to determine false from true, certainly for the way ye've been sheltered for so long, and some of that's my doing, I ken." Clearing his throat, he announced, "I did ye nae favors, lass. I see that now. Taught ye how to wield a sword and lead an army and I dinna let ye learn much about human nature, the ways of men."

Warmed by his effort to reconcile, Fiona's heart softened toward Fraser.

"That was...rather disjointed, Fraser," she was compelled to tell him, a soft grin curving her lips.

Fraser turned a heavy scowl onto her. "Aye, I dinna ken how to do this—apologize," he said gruffly.

"Is that what this is?"

"?Tis meant to be."

"And ye dinna want to flaunt it, that ye were right about him?"

"Nae, lass. Ye dinna need that, I'm guessin'," he replied, his tone softening with a touching concern. "First heartbreak's a bluidy lesson, lass," he grumbled, his brow furrowing yet again. "Ye pick yerself up, dust off the hurt, and keep marching forward. Ye canna let some lad tear ye down and keep ye there. Ye're stronger than that." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "And dinna let it turn yer heart to stone. Love's a battlefield, sure as any war, but it's worth the fight, even when it leaves ye scarred."

Fiona turned a startled expression on Fraser. Having known him all her life, more than a score of years, she'd never once had any idea that Fraser might have been in love. He'd been wed in his youth, but it had not been a happy union, Fiona was aware, but since then he had never taken up with anyone inside Dunraig's boundaries or since they'd been forced to move on from home.

Fraser turned his deep blue eyes onto her, and a dismissive shrug followed. "That's what I hear, at any rate."

Fiona's grin improved.

Fraser's last bit or consoling advice did little to soothe her.

"Sometimes, lass, people cross paths only to part ways—?tis nae meant to be."

She sighed and nodded, and her mood steadily deteriorated as the afternoon wore on.

By the time the armies halted for the day and began to set up camp, Fiona imagined that tears were inevitable. She fought hard against them, against the very idea of showing such weakness. The bustle of soldiers setting up tents, lighting fires, and preparing their evening meals surrounded her, but she felt utterly alone.

She couldn't bear it any longer. With a determined set to her jaw, she turned and walked briskly away from the camp, her footsteps heavy but purposeful. She moved past the perimeter guards, nodding curtly at their questioning looks but offering no explanation.

The woods beyond the camp were dark and dense, a welcome sanctuary. She pushed through the underbrush, branches snagging at her clothes and hair, until she found a small clearing. It was quiet here, the only sounds the distant murmur of the camp and the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze.

Fiona sank to the ground, leaning against the rough bark of an old oak tree. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she stared blankly into the gathering shadows. The tears she had fought so hard to suppress began to well up, blurring her vision.

She let them come.

Fairly quickly, silent sobs wracked her body, the pent-up sorrow and frustration of the past days pouring out in a torrent. She buried her face in her arms, allowing herself the rare indulgence of vulnerability. Here, in the solitude of the forest, there was no one to judge her, no one to see her pain.

Minutes passed, or perhaps hours. Time seemed to lose meaning as she gave in to her grief. The memories of Austin, the bitter sting of betrayal came crashing down around her.

She didn't blame Fraser, either for opening up the wound with his conversation or for failing to caution her or protect her. It was her own naivete that saw her now in this predicament, heartbroken and wrecked, and unlikely to trust the intentions of a man ever again, or at least for a very long time. After a while, she decided that she couldn't rightly blame Austin either; he'd never said anything to her that should have given her hope, had never promised her anything beyond the moment they shared. He had simply taken what was offered, without deceit or pretense. Perhaps that was his own form of honesty, however brutal it felt to her now.

It had all been in her head and heart.

Eventually, the tears slowed, her body exhausted from the outpouring of emotion. She took a shuddering breath, lifting her head to gaze at the stars beginning to peek through the canopy above.

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she stood slowly, her limbs stiff.

Taking one last deep breath, she steeled herself and began the walk back to camp, her steps slower but her heart a fraction lighter for having let the tears finally fall.

AUSTIN SPENT THE DAY at Castle Wick overseeing the cleanup and administration of the keep. He had been up since dawn and had begun his day with the funerals as had everyone else in residence. After that, he'd directed the repair of the damaged walls, organizing supplies, and dealing with the myriad issues that arose after the siege. His temper was frayed, and his patience had worn thin before the noon hour tolled. At one point, he'd seized the shovel from Finnegan's hand, his face twisted with disgust for the lad's simpering and complaining about how for every shovel full of dirt he dug out from the corner of the curtain wall, two more fell down from the earthen pile.

"And it'll keep falling, eejit, until ye remove it, and get to the stone underground." Austin had begun to dig himself, relentless in his pursuit of the buried wall, hollering at Finnegan to make himself scarce as he was apparently useless.

When the shovel had finally struck stone, Austin had tossed it down, perspiration soaking him as much as the rain. He'd hopped out of the hole and angrily commanded that the remaining soldiers apply more energy to their work rather than their grousing.

After that, he'd encountered Osgar, who had been tasked with organizing the armory. Osgar had been dragging his feet, seemingly more interested in chatting with the other men than in completing his work.

Austin's scarce hold on his patience had snapped.

"Osgar, what in blazes are ye doing?" he barked, striding over to the base of the tower, where the armory was housed. "Ye've been at it for hours and have made nae progress." He'd cut off Osgar's stammered apology, his voice cold and sharp. "If ye canna manage a simple task, perhaps ye dinna belong here. Finish the job, or I'll find someone who can."

Osgar's face paled, and he quickly turned back to his work, fear replacing his earlier nonchalance.

Austin was visited by and quickly buried a pang of guilt for his edginess and intolerance today, telling himself that discipline was necessary.

By the time he entered the hall for supper, his mood was foul. He scanned the room, noting the lively chatter and the clinking of cups, but his spirits were scarcely enlivened. Ruairi and Grace were seated at the high table, their conversation interrupted as he approached.

"Ye come to bite our heads off as well?" Ruairi asked, one thick brow raised.

Austin's lip curled, but he was given pause. "What the bluidy hell does that mean?" He asked as he took up an empty chair at Ruairi's side.

Ruairi shrugged, feigning innocence. "Storm of the siege may have passed, but apparently the thunder still rolls. Straun just departed, soon as he saw ye coming, said he was miserable enough and dinna want to look at yer puss."

"Bunch of whingeing women," Austin grumbled and then caught himself. "Nae offense, Grace."

Grace sat stiffly on the far side of Ruairi, neither amused by him nor gracious in the face of his terse apology, though her expression did seem to be a mix of sympathy and exasperation.

"None taken," she said softly. After a moment, in which Austin helped himself to a cup of wine from a fine pewter chalice, Grace suggested, "Mayhap you might consider what has befouled your mood. Or rather, thoughts of whom."

Austin's scowl deepened and he shook his head with some disgust, for Grace's presumption.

Even though there was a mountain of truth in her words.

"Aye, take a step back, cool yer head a bit," Ruairi suggested, his tone surprisingly gentle. "Folks are on edge enough without ye adding to it."

Austin looked away, staring at the fire in the hearth at the outer wall. He knew Ruairi was right, but anger and frustration still burned within him. "The work needs to be done and damn if I have to do it myself, to compensate for their suddenly sniveling and sluggish ways," he muttered defensively.

Grace leaned forward, her gaze intent. "Are you doing all that, working yourself to exhaustion and taking out your frustration on everyone around you because you cannot face what's really bothering you?"

He glared at her, but her steady gaze didn't waver. Again, she was right, of course. His thoughts were a tangled mess of regret and longing, and he had been lashing out to avoid dealing with it, his decision to let Fiona walk out of his life gnawing at him like an open wound.

Though he didn't respond to her bait, hoping she ceased antagonizing him, Grace was not done yet.

Boldly, she offered her opinion. "I'm of a mind that the heart should not be governed by or dictated to by any but the person owning it. I can't imagine allowing some ancient feud that hasn't anything to do with any living person, despite their names being attached to it, to be a reason to disavow love."

"Grace, I'm sure ye're quite reasonable," he replied through gritted teeth, "but dinna mind me saying ye have nae bluidy idea of what ye speak."

"Proceed with caution, my friend," Ruairi warned dangerously, for the tone Austin had taken with Grace.

Ignoring this, knowing he wouldn't overstep any bounds with Ruari's woman, Austin said tersely, "Ye speak as if my heart is—was—engaged. Clearly ye see that I have nae heart."

Silence settled for quite a moment until Grace's quiet voice broke it.

"I wish you luck," she surprised him by saying, "in your endeavor to convince yourself of that lie."

"And now ye cross a line, Grace," he snarled at her.

"Yes, I'm bold that way," she freely and proudly admitted. "It's a shame that you are not."

Austin lunged to his feet, knocking over the chair on which he'd sat. "Maybe yer right," he bit out. "Maybe I need some air."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the hall, the cool evening air hitting his face as he stepped outside. He needed to clear his head, to find a way to deal with the storm of emotions raging inside him. But for now, he would walk, letting the night and the quiet calm his troubled mind.

Fiona had called him a coward once, he recalled. Time and circumstances had proven since that he'd made the right call then, to throw down his sword. Was he acting a coward now? Choosing not to fight for her, for them, simply to avoid the expected fallout from any union between them?

As he'd been unable to do all day, he was now hard-pressed to resist thoughts and images of Fiona.

In his mind, he saw her naked, her hair a bright halo round her head as he settled between her thighs. He heard her laughter, that abandoned and girlish giggling she'd shared with Grace that had so easily bedeviled him. He heard her voice, a wee bit sultry and teasing, when he'd asked if she minded riding with him. But nae if ye're going to keep yer hands to yerself.

Saints howling was whispered in his ear, the memory of that occasion tightening his throat and clutching at his chest. He saw her disdain again, from when first they'd met, and reviewed other images, of her fighting, sleeping, smiling, in the throes of passion—everything.

Could he live without it, without ever seeing any of that—her!—ever again?