Chapter Twenty

Around midafternoon on the second day of marching, the de Grahams and Roses parted ways.

Before they did and though he'd deigned to speak to her but rarely, Torsten de Graham approached Fiona. Though she'd been ready to adjust some of her previously determined opinion about the cold man for his courtesy now, she rescinded such a kindness when he preceded not to wish her well or say something so kind as he might hope they would meet and fight together again, but to curtly instruct her on the best practices regarding setting an ambush, as she and the Roses would likely do on the morrow.

"When ye reach Oathlaw, ye'll want to position yer men strategically," he began, his voice cool and commanding. "First, set up an ambush point on the high ground to the east of the main road. The train will be heavily guarded, so ye'll need the advantage of elevation. Place yer archers there to rain arrows down upon them before they realize what's happening. Next," he said, ticking off his points on his fingers, "have a second group ready to strike from the north, hidden in the trees. Their task will be to cut off any attempt by the English to retreat or to bring in reinforcements. Make sure they're well-concealed and ready to move at a moment's notice." He straightened his middle finger to stand up with his forefinger and thumb. "Finally, keep a reserve force at the ready. They should be positioned to the west, prepared to swoop in and provide support wherever it's needed most, or to engage any flanking maneuvers the English might attempt. Timing and coordination will be crucial; ye'll need to strike quickly and—"

"I appreciate the instruction, Sir Torsten," Fiona cut in when she could stand it no more, "but I've led a few ambushes in my short tenure as commander." It took everything she had not to call his ‘instruction' unsolicited advice.

Torsten's eyes narrowed slightly, and he gave a curt nod, measuring her thoroughly. "Verra well," he said after a moment. "Safe travels to ye, Lady Fiona."

"And to ye, Sir Torsten," Fiona replied, her voice steady and dismissive.

She squirmed a bit in side, feeling bad that she was pleased to see the back of him.

Late last night, when Fiona had returned to camp and had passed a relatively pleasant hour around the Rose's camp fire, Sparrow had come bounding into the circle round the small blaze and had shared what she'd learned from an apparently chatty de Graham soldier with whom she'd gotten friendly.

"De Graham's nae only being sent to lay siege on Lochlan Hall," Sparrow had reported. She'd smiled wickedly in the telling. "Nae, he's been specifically ordered nae to slay the denizens but to cleave to the family, bringing them round to support Robert Bruce. The laird—a MacQueen, ye recall—is already on his way out, auld and infirm, they say. As rich as the Abbot of Arbroath, he is." She'd paused and smacked her hand over her mouth to stifle a burst of laughter that preceded her next revelation. "King Robert expects that one, coldest fish ye'll ever ken, to woo the MacQueen daughter—wed her and bed her—and bring to the fold her army, her fortress, and her gold. Shite, can ye imagine?" She paused again, her eyes brightening with excitement. "Och, and the best part, or thereabouts: the daughter is Raina—but that's nae her only name. They call her the Killer of Men. Three bridegrooms have come and gone, met their end once they attached their name to her. Three!"

"I still put my coin on de Graham," Keegan said with a smirk, "But I would nae mind bearing witness to the courtship."

"Christ," Sparrow blasphemed, grimacing with distaste. "Imagine that one coming at ye on yer wedding night."

God love ye, Raina MacQueen, Fiona thought charitably now as she watched Torsten de Graham and his army march west. Because I dinna ken that Torsten de Graham will.

The Roses continued on, having to take up duties de Graham's vast army had managed for the first leg of their journey, setting up moving patrols and sending out scouts and hunters while they moved.

After two days on horseback, their supplies and morale were dwindling, The weather was uncooperative as it hadn't stopped raining, and the wind sometimes kicked up a howling breeze. The atmosphere was heavy with dampness, the relentless drizzle turning the paths into muddy quagmires.

Despite the hardships and her own inner sorrow, Fiona was at least pleased that she and Fraser's camaraderie had been returned to what it had been before they'd quarreled.

Often, Sparrow rode beside Fiona, her eyes sparkling with mischief at one point when she spoke about the Merrick man, Straun. "He's wicked and wild, mayhap a bit touched in the head, but fascinating all the same. I would nae be sorry to see him again."

Fiona cast a wary glance at her friend. "Be careful what ye wish for, Sparrow. Fascination does nae a romance make."

Sparrow shrugged, ever practical and ambiguous. "Who said anything about romance?"

As the day wore on, the rain showed no signs of relenting. The persistent cold and wet conditions were not only beginning to annoy her army, but she could feel a chill settling deep in her bones, a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. By the time they made camp that evening, Fiona knew she was unwell. She felt chilled and then flushed, her movements slow and unsteady. Simply dismounting had taken more strength than she had at the moment. She tried to ignore the signs of a growing fever, but it was no use. Her body betrayed her, responding to the onset of illness creeping in.

Fraser noticed immediately when he collected the reins of her steed. "Ye look awful, lass," he said, his voice gruff with concern. "Ye need to rest."

Fiona nodded feebly, suddenly too weak to argue with him. She was lightheaded and beyond fatigued and was shivering constantly now. She was no good to her army in this state. Sparrow helped her change from her sodden garments into dry clothing while Keegan and Kieran set up her tent for her. Her head was spinning by the time she lay down, the fever's grip strengthening.

Within a very short period of time, she began to drift in and out of consciousness, the world around her a shadowy blur. In her fevered dreams, she saw Austin. His face was clear in her mind, his eyes smoky blue and resting tenderly upon her. She reached out to him, but he was always just out of reach, slipping away like mist through her fingers.

Fiona whined pathetically at her inability to touch him. She closed her eyes again, slipping back into her fevered dreams. This time, she was very small and at Dunraig, standing upon the battlements as she often had at twilight. A white shard of a moon hung low in the sky. She was chilled but didn't want to find her chamber yet, wanted instead to see her brothers and father when they returned from their hunt. She hadn't been allowed to go, she never was, but still she liked to watched them ride toward the keep, their silhouettes soft and hazy upon the horizon, sharper as they neared, her proud father and his sons. How magnificent they always looked, so tall and strapping in the saddle.

Austin was there again, not at Dunraig but at some unknown place, dark and damp though it was not the dungeon at Wick. Wherever they were, his presence was a comfort to her even in her delirium. She could hear his voice, feel the touch of his hand upon her forehead; even in her delirium, she recognized that she only dreamed. A cruel trick of her mind, bringing him to her in her weakest moments.

Tears fell, dribbling down her flushed cheeks, until she lost all consciousness.

THE RAIN SLOWED HIS progress, but he considered that it likely slowed that of the de Grahams and Roses as well. The withering grass was slick, the rivers swollen, and any incline or decline became a treacherous pass owing to the speed he wished to keep.

He found eventually the place where the de Grahams had ridden toward the southeast and the Roses had continued due south. Near Ardovie, they would begin to head west, was his best guess. When the rain pounded hard upon grass or rock or mud, ?twas difficult to keep up with the Rose's trail. An army of four hundred, such as de Graham's was, was much easier to track.

He didn't doubt he would come upon them, the Roses, but he would rather that it was sooner than later. A fearsome dread had gripped his heart. It hadn't come early, hadn't been what sent him after her. It had come on lately, in the last few hours. He'd been overwhelmed by a sense that he was too late. For what, he did not know, save what he imagined, that somehow the ambush had gone horribly wrong, that Fiona lay shivering in the rain, her life quietly drifting away.

The pain, wrought by the very horrendous idea, was monumental, worse than any physical ill he'd ever known. He slept only in short spells, once under an outcropping of rock and once within a shallow cave, both times only for a few hours.

It was late in the morning when he spotted the first Rose patrol, two tired men prowling on horseback atop a crag overlooking the glen of thistle and bracken through which he rode. Today's rain was light, hardly enough to dampen and disperse the patchy fog. He reined in and held his arms aloft, not interested in being taken down by a careless dart from a nervous man.

"Roses!" He called out. "Austin Merrick coming!"

A scratchy voice called down from the overlook point. "And wot fer?"

Of course he wouldn't explain himself to these two. "To confer with Fiona Rose," was all he said.

"Indisposed, she is," was returned, and not kindly, "and nae receiving visitors."

As if he would let these two decide the fate of himself and Fiona.

"Ye're in sight of my archers," he lied, hoping they wouldn't suspect he'd traveled alone. "I dinna ken ye want to die, making decisions ye've nae business making."

A moment passed, in which time Austin anguished over what indisposed could mean. They were still five miles outside of Oathlaw and by his understanding the English weren't expected until tomorrow or the next day.

One man disappeared, the sound of horse hooves making haste echoing down over the glen.

"Come up, then," said the remaining guard, "and take it up with the cap'n."

Great, Austin thought, clenching his jaw, unable to imagine a less likely welcome than from Fraser.

Save, mayhap, from Fiona.

Spurring his horse into motion once more, he rode through the glen and up an incline where the Rose man, whom he only vaguely recognized, waited for him.

"What do ye mean, indisposed?" He asked as the man led him away from the crag. "Was she injured?"

Perhaps the man sensed the concern in Austin's voice, since he answered promptly, "Nae, nae. Nae injured, but ill, down with a fever." He grimaced a bit. "Down hard, she is, nae coherent."

"Christ," Austin seethed, nudging his steed to greater speed.

At the camp itself, which was nestled tightly among the towering pines, the ground was a soggy carpet of pine needles and fallen leaves, saturated from days of relentless rain. The thick canopy overhead provided scant shelter, and droplets of water still dripped incessantly from the branches. Canvas tents, damp and heavy, were pitched close together, seeking what little cover the trees offered. The campfire struggled to stay alight, its smoke mingling with the misty air, offering scarce respite from the chill. Horses were tethered close, their coats slick with rain, while the muffled sounds of the forest and the persistent patter of rain created a cocoon of wet, earthy silence around the sodden encampment.

Several emerged from their tents as he approached to join Fraser who stood as sentinel between Austin and Fiona.

Fraser's manner showed no less than Austin expected, a vast displeasure underscored by a boiling anger.

"Unless ye bring news pertinent to the English's supply train," Fraser intoned in a deep growl, "ye've nae place here."

"That's nae for ye to decide." Austin said, dismounting swiftly and approaching the resolute captain. "Where is she?"

"It is my decision and ye can—"

"Where is she?" Austin snarled, getting up close to Fraser, close enough to see that the formidable captain's blue gaze was highlighted with worry. "How long the fever?"

Relenting, which sagged his broad shoulders a bit, Fraser said, "Since last night. Came fast and hard and she's barely been conscious since."

"What's being done?"

Fraser scowled at him. "What can be done?" He lifted his hands to indicate their position, encamped in the woods and miles from any burgh. "There's nae elderflower, nae feverfew. Found some willow bark," he said, "boiled it down, but we canna coax her to drink."

Austin glanced around, spying two large round tents, each about twelve feet in diameter, one of which most certainly must be Fiona's. Having never visited the Rose camp prior to the first siege or after the second, he was not familiar with its makeup.

"Here," Fraser said with a grudging nod, his tone curt, leading Austin toward one of the larger tents.

The flap of the tent was drawn tight against the relentless rain, a barrier against the damp chill that permeated the forest. Fraser paused, his hand hovering over the entrance, before pulling it aside with a reluctant gesture, revealing the dimly lit interior.

Inside, the tent was barely illuminated by a flickering lantern, crudely fashioned in a hollowed out clay vessel, with what he guessed was animal fat and a wick made of woven fabric. The spare light cast long shadows across the figures within, one of whom was Sparrow, seated cross-legged, who wore a sudden frown at recognizing Austin.

He ignored the bird, fixing his gaze on Fiona, who lay motionless upon a makeshift bed of furs and blankets, her slender form outlined by the soft glow. Her normally vibrant features were now pallid, her chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic breaths. Her hair was damp, stringy tendrils clinging to her forehead and neck. Her mouth was open, her lips quivering.

Austin's heart clenched at the sight of her, and he dropped to his knee at her side, overwhelmed by fright at her condition.

Sparrow helplessly lifted the linen cloth in her hand. Without questioning Austin's arrival, she said, "Trying to sweat it out and cool her down at the same time."

"Twists and turns, she does," Fraser said, a croak in his voice, "Tortured fever."

Austin's concern deepened, and he felt a surge of helplessness wash over him. He looked up at Sparrow, acknowledging her efforts with a grateful nod and taking the cloth from her.

Gently brushing damp strands of hair from her face, he murmured softly, "Hang on, Fiona." His voice was husky with emotion as he dipped the cloth in the cool water nearby and gently dabbed at her forehead, hoping to provide some relief from the fever's grip.

His gaze flickered as he addressed Fraser, his voice cutting through the solemn air of the tent.

"We have to do more. We canna rely solely on what ye have here," he began, his tone authoritative and painted with urgency. "Send out someone to seek help from a healer, who will ken how to treat such a fever. There must be one—someone—nearby."

"I'll go," Sparrow promptly volunteered, looking at Fraser for approval.

The big man nodded, his expression grim. "With yer brothers."

"And where's the willow bark?" Austin asked. "I'll get her to drink."

Sparrow swiveled at the waist, reaching behind her and bringing forth a wooden cup, which was two-thirds full.

"Most of that dribbled down her chin," she said apologetically as she got to her feet.

Austin nodded, accepting the cup. He said to Sparrow, "Go. Go now and be swift."

Sparrow darted out of tent, leaving Austin alone with Fraser and Fiona.

"Why have ye come?" Fraser wanted to know.

Focused on Fiona once more, on the frightening, deathly pallor of her skin, and with his back to Fraser, he answered simply, "I made a mistake... a grave error." Rage for his folly surged inside him and he fought it down. "But I'm here now and I'll nae leave her."

A huge sigh erupted from Fraser, but Austin could not say if it was infused with relief or resignation.

"What of the ambush?" He asked. "Ye can still make that happen. I'll stay with her."

A long moment of silence followed.

"I dinna trust ye," Fraser said finally.

"But she does," Austin assured her protector, laying the cloth once again on her brow. "Use yer rage in that ambush. Leave it to her," he suggested thickly, "to give me the grief I rightly deserve."

A moment later, he was aware of the tent flap being opened and closed with Fraser's departure.

"Ah, love," Austin whispered to Fiona, "come back to me."

Tears sprang to his eyes, as they hadn't since he was a small lad. He wanted more time with her, dreamed of sharing a life and family together, and envisioned growing old in her presence. Angry at the unfairness of it, for how he'd dismissed her, how he'd let her walk out of his life, he swiped the moisture from his cheeks.

Austin traced her fragile cheekbone and jaw with his finger, which then lingered over her lips. He bent his head and kissed her lips and her eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes clouded with fever and confusion.

She blinked dazedly, struggling to focus on his face, her gaze drifting.

"Fiona," Austin murmured.

Her lips parted, but no words emerged, only a faint whimper of discomfort. Austin's heart ached at the sight of her suffering, his fingers gentle as he laid them against her cheek.

"Ye'll be all right," he assured her, his voice a soothing murmur. "I'm here now. I'll nae let anything happen to ye."

Despite his reassurances, Fiona's eyes drifted shut once more, her breathing shallow and labored.

Though the sun did not shine, the rain finally abated late in the afternoon. Initially surprised to find that beneath the furs and wool plaids she wore only her shift and supposing there was not another or plenty of them, he discarded it completely. It allowed him to apply cool cloths to more of her flesh and made it easier to cool or warm her simply by adding or reducing blankets.

Austin struggled at first to make her drink the willow bark tea. Struggled until he used a firm voice, at which she whimpered miserably. However, with firm persuasion rather than gentle requests, he was able to coax her to ingest more than half the cup of tea.

A lad named Plum kept the tent in good supply of fresh cool water and the animal fat that kept the small fire lit and for several hours Austin kept the tent flap open, wanting fresh air to circulate rather than only the stale, thick air of sickness.

Fraser was here and gone, saying very little but obviously having accepted that Austin would do all that he could to see her brought out of her fever.

Sparrow and the twins returned, not with a healer, but at least with medicine, dried elderflowers found at a house isolated at the base of a mountain and occupied by an elderly couple, for which they traded one horse and saddle. Sparrow remained inside the tent for quite a while, her small face twisted with worry.

"We dinna have another Rose," she said at one point, while she sat again with her legs crossed beneath her, her eyes glassy as they stared at Fiona "If she dinna—"

"She will nae die," Austin said emphatically.

"But if she—"

"Cease," he ordered tersely, wringing out the cloth. Folding it in half and then quarters, he laid it over Fiona's forehead once again. "What has Fraser decided about the ambush?" He asked, hoping to occupy Sparrow with some other topic.

"He's got patrols out, nae sign of them yet," Sparrow answered. "He wishes we were closer." She chewed on her lip for a moment. "His heart's nae in it."

No sooner had she replied than Fraser himself entered the tent. He paused a moment, taking stock of Fiona's condition, possibly not needing Sparrow's wan statement of "Nae change," to make an assessment.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating that Sparrow should leave. The lass lunged to her feet and departed quickly.

Fraser did not speak immediately but stared for a while at Fiona before he rested a probing gaze onto Austin.

Believing he understood what troubled him now, Austin said, "Ye need to accept this and get used to seeing my face. Dinna matter how much ye hate it—the idea of it or my face," he clarified. "From this day forward, we'll nae be parted."

Fraser hadn't moved and there was no reaction in his divine but stony countenance.

"Unless she—"

"Jesus Christus," Austin gritted through his teeth. "What's with ye Roses? Doom and gloom, all of ye. She will nae fall to this fever. I'll nae allow it. Take yer army off to Oathlaw tonight, man, and ready yerselves for the ambush. Bluidy hell, think of what might be available in those wayns—weapons, victuals, possibly medicine. Shite, bring back a wayn if ye can. She'll nae be riding immediately." When that seemed not to move the man, Austin sighed. And though he was loath to prove himself to anyone, he knew that he must. "Ye're the closest thing she has to a father, and always have been, I ken," he said, revealing what Fiona had said to him. "I can only imagine how difficult it must be, watching her fall in love, finding another who fulfills her in ways that shift yer role in her life. It's a pain every loving father endures, I would guess. Mayhap it will hurt for some time," he said, shrugging a bit, "but ken that I care for her deeply and will strive to be worthy of her."

Fraser's eyes narrowed as the words sank in. He shifted his weight, the massive frame that often reminded Austin of an image of God towering over him. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken thoughts. When Fraser finally spoke, his voice was gruff, edged with the vulnerability of a father figure struggling with the inevitable changes time brings.

"Ye've a way with words, lad, but words alone dinna prove anything." His tone was harsh, but there was a noticeable strain, a hint of weariness that betrayed the depth of his feelings for Fiona. "Ye speak of love—hers—but nae yer own."

"When I speak of love for the first time, it will be to her," Austin declared assertively.

Love.

Aye, love.

Known by the acute pain he'd experienced when the Roses had departed Wick and now, by the powerful fear that gripped him at the thought of losing her, both of which confirmed his deepest feelings.

ALL WAS QUIET AND STILL around her. The rain had finally stopped, and she imagined it was dawn's early light creeping through the canvas of the tent. She wasn't completely insensible. She had some idea that she'd been ill, that a fever had raged through her.

She took stock of herself, understanding that she was clammy and weighted down, mayhap cocooned inside many plaids and furs.

Blinking, her eyelids heavy and sluggish, she glanced around, fighting hard to keep her eyes open, and saw that Austin Merrick was here with her, inside the tent.

"Och," she murmured, "still dreaming."

"Nae, love," was whispered tenderly. "Nae dream."

He laid his hand against her forehead.

And oh, how beautiful was her dream, to see his face so clearly, to feel so distinctly the roughness of his calloused palm and the gorgeous warmth of his flesh against her skin.

"Why ye?" She asked, her voice rusty from disuse.

"Why me...what?"

She gathered her thoughts, which threatened to scatter. "?Tis torture enough, the pain, the cold, the shivering. But why do ye visit my dreams and torment me further? Away," she whispered, her eyes drifting closed again. "Away with ye."

"I will nae, love," he declared.