Chapter Ten

"Still nae speaking to me?"

Sorcha whirled around, a bit unruffled by the presence of the man at the open door of her cottage. Actually, that was an understatement; she was, in fact, completely rattled and utterly discomposed by the totality of today's events, so much so that she'd yet to wrap her brain around all that had transpired.

But to Geddy, the MacKenzie captain who stood in her doorway now, she shook her head wearily.

"Pray pardon my rudeness, sir," she said. "I truly do understand why you behaved as you did."

She hadn't at first, had been too immersed in her rage at his manhandling of her to have reasoned it out.

"Needs must and all that," Geddy said sheepishly, "but lass, I do beg yer pardon."

She tried on a smile, and though she believed it was as drained as she was, she said, "I've greater concerns at the moment, as you mentioned. Consider yourself wholly exonerated."

They'd returned to her house only a quarter hour ago. Sorcha had gone directly inside, hoping to find some solace in the comfort of home, which sadly, she had not. Before that, while they'd ridden, Geddy had tried to explain himself upon their jaunt back to her cottage, telling her he didn't want Lord Aldric to believe they were ‘in collusion' and thus had to take the upper hand as he did. It only reminded Sorcha that sometimes she really hated being female.

"How long do you think your laird will be?" She asked. "I am fretfully anxious about Grimm."

Geddy chuckled, the sound craggy and slightly charming. "Yer man dinna speak, and my laird is nae kent as being chatty, lass. I dinna ken he'll be too long gone."

"Geddy, be honest with me," she appealed. "Is there any danger that Grimm might be...executed for what they say he's done?"

The lightness of his expression evaporated. He straightened away from where he'd leaned against the doorjamb and hooked his thumbs into his belt. "Now, ye dinna need to go there, lass, wringing yer mind with worry like that. We like to take things one moment, one calamity at a time."

Possibly he saw that these words did not offer her any relief. In fact, Sorcha's eyes widened at the use of calamity.

"We willna let it come to that," he was quick to aver, tipping forward a bit with his statement. "We're nae in the habit of standing passively while justice is perverted."

Which begged the query from Sorcha, which she asked with drawn brows, "But why do you care? Any of you." She waved her hand toward the front of her cottage, looking out the lone window beside the door. "Camped round my house, dozens of MacKenzies, as if sent by king to guard his kin, while I'm naught but a stranger, and Grimm more so." Clasping her hands, worrying her fingers at her waist, she lowered her eyes to the ground beneath her feet. "And when I've been...so horrid to all of you."

The MacKenzie captain pulled his hand away from his belt to scratch at his short white beard. "Dinna make excuses for what behaviors ye need to adapt, living as ye do, desiring safety and security. We"re nae here because of who ye are or how ye"ve treated us, lass," Geddy said, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity. "It"s about justice, plain and simple. We canna turn a blind eye to wrongdoing, nae matter who"s involved. Last week it was the victims of de Blair we fought for, this week it"s ye and the mute. Tomorrow, it could be anyone—could be de Montfort himself in need against a true enemy, and we"d be there just the same, ready to defend what"s right."

Sorcha nodded and said sheepishly, "That only makes me feel smaller, for how noble are your principles compared to how caustic I've been."

A knowing grin spread across Geddy's face as he met Sorcha's gaze. "At the same time, let's nae ignore the obvious, lass. The laird has a personal stake here, and he's made that clear to ye. He was nae about to let ye—"

"I did not ask for his help," Sorcha bristled. "I will not be beholden to—I won't consider myself in his debt," she avowed, her voice strained again.

"And he willna either," Geddy said lightly, unaffected by her vehemence, "and ye'll get to ken that about him." Geddy waved his hand. "That's enough of that. Remember," he advised, "more pressing matters to consider."

Sorcha nodded agreeably, calming a bit, and then showed a small wince. "Speaking of more pressing matters, Geddy, I'm sorry to say, I haven't either the means or the knowhow to feed an army. I suppose I might be able to—"

"Och, lass," he butt in, "we've been in the field for nigh on a year. We dinna require a supper laid out, are well-used to providing our own meals. Might be, we're hosting ye, preparing a nice stag on which to dine."

With some politeness settled between them, Geddy having graciously excused her prior behavior toward he and his fellow MacKenzies, Sorcha smiled at the very idea, unable to recall the last time she'd dined upon venison, or any meat of larger game. Her diet, and Grimm's as well, consisted mainly of nuts and grains, with the occasional rabbit or squirrel considered a treat, and the even rarer advent of fish a true feast in their eyes.

"Thank you, Geddy," she said.

The MacKenzie captain nodded and promptly tipped his ear toward the exterior of the house.

"Aye and here he comes now, the laird," he said.

In a flash, Sorcha rushed the door, which Geddy had vacated as he stepped outside.

Unable to disguise her disappointment, her shoulders dropped significantly when she saw only Augustus MacKenzie approaching. Grimm was not with him.

At the same time, she could not help but admire the way Augustus effortlessly commanded his horse or how he looked doing so. Mounted atop his towering destrier, he exuded an air of innate athleticism and masculinity, appearing entirely at ease, at home, in the saddle. Tall and proud, he sat the horse with confident ease, his broad shoulders squared and his back as straight as a lance. Muscles rippled beneath the fabric of his tunic, evidence of years of training and physical exertion. His grip on the reins was firm, comfortable, and yet his gaze was focused, scanning the horizon and all the flat acreage around Sorcha's cottage as he neared. As he drew closer, he passed his gaze over Geddy and other MacKenzies idling just outside before fixing his blue eyes directly on Sorcha.

Dismounting, he handed off the reins to a waiting lad, one who was possibly too old to be a page or squire but certainly was too young to be a knight and was not outfitted with a long sword.

"Ye got back all right," he said, merely as an opening to conversation as he passed Geddy, who promptly fell into step behind him on the approach to Sorcha in the doorway.

Stepping backward to allow them entry, Sorcha nodded and checked herself, for where her thoughts went.

His unexceptional comment brought to mind the differences between riding atop a horse with Geddy and sharing the saddle with Augustus MacKenzie. Each occasion seemed to exist in its own separate universe, with the emotions attached to it as disparate as night and day. Riding with Augustus had been a revelation—and this despite the fact that there was plenty at that time to have held her nervous awareness!—a reluctantly acknowledged rush of exhilaration and awareness that had nearly left her breathless. Though he was fierce and formidable, his imposing yet protective presence had ignited a fire within her, stirring desires she hadn't known she'd harbored.

In stark contrast, riding with Geddy had been a mundane affair, devoid of any spark of excitement, welcome or not. She had scarcely noticed his size or strength, her mind preoccupied with Grimm's predicament. There had been no heightened awareness of his person, nor his arm around her middle, no racing heartbeat or flushed cheeks, all of which were present during her short time in the saddle with Augustus.

Presently, inside her small home, she covered her cheeks with her hands, hoping her current blush went unnoticed. How can I behave so? She wondered, chastising herself internally for giving even a moment's thought to so inappropriate a desire as what she'd known in his close company.

"Grimm?" She asked when Augustus did not immediately launch into any explanation about what had happened and why Grimm was not with him but was busy taking stock of her home, the aesthetics being something to which she rarely gave consideration prior to this moment.

She looked around as well and saw what he saw.

His gaze swept over the single room, taking in the humbleness, the complete lack of extravagance. Sparsely furnished, the cottage provided only the essentials for daily living. A rough-hewn wooden table occupied the center, surrounded by two mismatched stools, one with three legs while the other had four. A small hearth nestled against one wall, its stone fa?ade blackened by the residue of countless fires. Above it, a simple iron kettle hung from a hook. Shelves lined the entirety of one wall, displaying a small array of clay pots and wooden utensils, and a wee stack of linens, that which she'd smuggled away from home three years ago. A narrow cot, barely raised off the ground, its bedding plain but clean, occupied one corner. Sorcha knew firsthand that it offered meager respite from the toils of a long day.

Certainly, it was a far cry from what she had known in life prior to leaving her family with Finn. Curious, that she'd never known cause to be embarrassed about it until this moment.

"Grimm?" She prompted again, when Augustus turned his piercing regard upon her, his look fathomable enough that she supposed he was trying to reconcile her, with this being her home.

"Aye, as ye ken—as de Montfort stated—he'll nae be released any time soon, nae until the court session—if he should prevail—or...nae at all."

"But you saw him," she pursued. "You would have seen it. In his eyes, in his countenance, in what I am sure what a righteous fury marring his face in response to such a false allegation, so you know, aye, that he did not commit this crime."

"He assured me he did nae. Said it was a lie."

"Naturally, but what can be done—?" she stopped abruptly. "What did you say?"

He wore a peculiar expression on his face, the usual intensity of his blue eyes softening almost dramatically as he stared at her, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"He assured you?" Sorcha repeated while the MacKenzie laird seemed to struggle with no small amount of indecision. "He said?" She asked and then held her breath.

Augustus nodded. "Aye, he spoke."

Sorcha's mouth fell open. In the confusion of feelings that ripped through her, her eyes watered. "Grimm spoke," she restated, testing out the sound of that, the very idea of it.

Into the awkward silence that followed, Augustus said, "He is nae Grimm, as ye ken. His name is Richard Wycliffe."

"Richard Wycliffe," she echoed breathlessly. "Oh."

Recognizing instantly that her foremost reaction, the most oppressive sentiment known in receipt of this knowledge was a pain in her heart, Sorcha spun around, putting her back to Augustus and Geddy, the MacKenzie captain a silent observer. She busied herself at the hearth, adding a block of bog peat to the barely smoldering fire. Crossing her arms over her chest, she let her gaze be transfixed by the morning's red coals, which came back to life.

"An Englishman," Augustus said next.

Though her eyes widened with shock, Sorcha barely moved otherwise.

Behind her, Geddy blew out a startled breath that vibrated his lips.

"An Englishman," she murmured. "I see." Of course it was too much, too overwhelming to dissect and accept all at once. Nodding jerkily, she whirled around. "Very good," she said without making eye contact with either man. "Thank you, my lord, for letting me know." She walked across the room and picked up a basket from behind the door, which contained a variety of small tools and a few small bundles of coiled hazel wood fibers, and walked outside.

Though she'd been advised the MacKenzie army would convene upon her cottage, and though she'd glimpsed some evidence of this over the last half hour through the open door, she was unprepared for the sight before her. Spread out before her like a crowd at market day, dozens and dozens of men of varying shapes, sizes, and age dotted the landscape in every direction, lads, men, and horses, their presence large. Some were engaged in tasks, building a fire pit, tending mounts, sharpening swords, while others milled about in small groups, subdued banter and the occasional chuckling filling the air. They all bore the unmistakable mark of warriors, their hardened expressions and steely gazes betraying a readiness for battle. Saturated with a surge of apprehension that was tinged with awe at the sight, Sorcha lowered her gaze from those that noticed her and proceeded around the side of the cottage.

Sweet Mother of God, she groused internally, terribly unnerved by this current circumstance, a lone female surrounded by the formidable army of the Rebel of Lochaber Forest. Worry and hurt over Grimm's predicament briefly faded, wondering at her own safety. Not long were emotions regarding Grimm and all things considered lost to her.

Richard Wycliffe, she reminded herself.

Ignoring the forgotten mess of trimmed and shaved straw that was littered all around the front stoop, Sorcha rounded the west side of the cottage, annoyed to find three MacKenzie soldiers—lads several years younger than herself, she presumed, by way of the downy fuzz about their cheeks and chins. Before they realized her presence, she saw that they were inspecting the stacked rows of skeps. While one of the lads swatted at the bees buzzing about, another was striking a long stick against the hives.

"Stop that," she cried, rushing forward. "Get away."

They jumped at her cry and stood erect, and guilt-ridden for their prying.

"I don't want you here," Sorcha said, moving to stand between the lads and the hives. "You've no right to trespass like this."

Their three gazes lifted over her head and one lad's face lost all color so that she was completely surprised to discover that Augustus Mackenzie must have followed her.

"Go on now," he said, his voice low but firm. "And dinna encroach again," he instructed his men.

Sorcha whirled at him as the lads quickly scurried away. "I don't want you here either. Not any of you. Go away. And take your army with you."

"That is nae a wise course of action at the moment," he remarked. He was not looking at her, but at the hives themselves, seemingly more curious about the set-up and the industry than he was perturbed by the bees buzzing all around them.

Attempting to simply ignore his presence and desperate to occupy her mind, Sorcha lifted the hackle from one of the hives and set it aside. Beneath, the skep was intact, with bees crawling in and out of the aperture located on the side. She wanted only to investigate whether or not the new queen she'd introduced days ago had been accepted by the hive. Familiar with the healthy sound of a hive, Sorcha sensed no agitation or loud buzzing, all good signs. Slowly tipping over the bell-shaped skep, she peered inside. Though she did not immediately locate the queen, she saw that she had eaten her way free of the brood comb, another positive milestone. Next, she recognized new eggs laid and a moment later, spotted the queen herself, crawling undisturbed over other bees.

Satisfied that the hive had accepted the queen she'd moved in three days ago, Sorcha replaced the skep in its position on the frame shelf Finn had lovingly made and covered it once more with the protective hackle.

When she turned around, she found Augustus MacKenzie perched lazily against the stump of a tree, his arms folded over his chest while his feet were crossed at the ankles. She frowned, though she could not say why it bothered her that he'd made himself so comfortable.

Long dead the tree had been when Finn had cut it down. There was really no reason to have done so, but the stump had since served as a handy counter of sorts, where she sometimes set down the basket she'd brought with her today. She couldn"t quite put her finger on why the sight of the MacKenzie lounging against Finn"s old stump unsettled her, but just as she was about to ask him to move, another of his soldiers popped up around the corner of the house, stifling her intent.

"Och, laird, there ye are," said the young man, who was as long of face as he was of limbs. "Are we expected to put up the tents?" He asked, his gaze darting back and forth between his laird and Sorcha.

"Aye, as ye see fit," Augustus answered indifferently.

"Aye, but we came soon as Peiter fetched us, laird, and left our camp as it was," the lad qualified.

He responded with a level of patience she hadn"t expected from him, leading her to wonder if it was solely for her benefit. "The camp should be moved here."

"Aye, laird, and that we'll do." With one last inquisitive glance at Sorcha, the lad bobbed his head a few times and took his leave.

Maintaining her silence, and with the basket hung over her arm, Sorcha returned to the front of the cottage, having to sidestep several men who'd gathered round Geddy near the door. Once inside, she closed the door, feeling oppressed by the presence of the MacKenzie army. She felt heavily the lack of peace, of privacy, and closing the door shut out sunshine and much daylight so that little solace was found inside. She busied herself tidying up, getting about needless tasks simply to evade the thoughts in her head but did not stay long indoors, quickly irritated by the feeling that she had little choice to seclude herself against the army that was making camp, dwarfing her tiny abode. Feeling suffocated by the four close walls and the unnatural dimness at this time of day, Sorcha threw open the door and exited the house once more.

The party just outside her door had wandered off. She saw Geddy nearby, examining the hoof of a huge destrier with a man just about his age, but recognized only a few other faces in the sea of them right in front of her. And though she could have chosen to stay nearby, focusing on the tangled thatch just outside her door, she longed to be unseen as she grappled with the events of the day and their consequences.

Sorcha retreated from the busyness around her cottage, her steps purposeful as she walked around the left corner of the cottage. She made her way through a dense copse of pine trees, their fragrant boughs brushing against her as she passed. The earth beneath her feet softened as she reached the narrow brook hidden beyond, its gentle babbling unfortunately failing to provide a soothing backdrop to her troubled thoughts.

Though she did not find peace, there was quiet, and yet this was soon enough intruded upon when she realized the presence of another, coming in her wake through the pines.

She was not surprised, somehow, to find Augustus MacKenzie stalking her.

"Am I to be allowed neither freedom nor privacy?" She asked tartly, her voice tinged with frustration.

She faced the narrow waterway and crossed her arms over her chest, unable to shake the unease that settled in her chest. She understood that what he was doing was noble, taking up the role of protector in light of Grimm's arrest, but she couldn't find it in her heart to be grateful, and neither could she shake the notion that this circumstance served Augustus far better than it benefitted her. His presence at the moment felt more like an intrusion, a furtherance of his own agenda, an unwelcome imposition at a most inopportune time.

Another consideration unsettled her further. Was it possible that she was more affected by Augustus than she cared to admit? Was she attracted to him, beguiled by his imposing presence even though she knew she shouldn't be? The very idea both intrigued and troubled her.

"?Tis nae a guid idea for ye to be alone at the moment," he said, closer to her than she'd thought but several feet behind her still. To his credit, he did sound very sorry to have to tell her this. "As ye put up with Grimm's presence, and what peace it offered, so now ye will have to bear the presence of the MacKenzies."

"But it's not the same," she countered, turning to face him. "You—and more so your men—are strangers. I know Grimm. He is my...he was my friend. I thought he was, at any rate. I thought I knew him." She clamped her lips until she thought to remind him, "I did not ask for your protection."

Augustus chose to address her remarks about Grimm—Richard, she needed to keep reminding herself.

"He dinna have a choice but to speak to me."

"But why...why did he never speak to me?" She finally wondered aloud the thought that had burned in her brain for the last half hour.

"I canna answer for him."

Sorcha narrowed her eyes at him. "But you suspect a reason or two?"

"I might, but that dinna make it truth. Ye take that up with him."

"Will I be able to? Will I be allowed such an opportunity? Or will he be tried and executed first?"

Rather than answer that, Augustus shrugged his broad shoulders and asked, "Ye had no idea? None at all?"

Sighing, Sorcha admitted, "I did sometimes suspect. They called him Oaf and made him out to be dull-witted, naught but a mindless hound keeping his mistress safe. Of course he wasn't that. From the start, when first we met, I saw the intelligence in his gaze. I guess he didn't speak because he didn't want to give away his origins, the dangerous truth of who he was." He hadn't trusted her, she thought sadly. "He's tortured and restless and frustrated with some untold reality, but when I sang he was never restless. I always believed—and mayhap I was only fooling myself—that he knew some measure of peace. Sometimes he would close his eyes and let down walls." However, they always returned, sometimes stronger and more obvious than before.

Made morose by all the day's events, Sorcha spied a raven flying overhead. She tilted her face up toward the sky and charted its course as it twisted and rolled and then dove with aplomb, disappearing into the trees on the opposite side of the brook, quite a distance away. Oh, to be so free, so removed from earth and man and all his human foibles!

Augustus's next words brought her back down to earth.

"Perchance Grimm's silence was his way of protecting you from the burden of his past," he suggested. "Some wounds are too deep for words, and silence becomes a sanctuary."

Sorcha stared at him incredulously, as if he'd spoken in another tongue. His words hung in the air, pregnant with sincerity but lost inside her untimely and inappropriate want to giggle. She could barely contain the laughter bubbling up in her chest, unable to prevent a short chuckle from erupting behind an unexpected smile.

In response, while Sorcha's lightheartedness grew, so too did Augustus MacKenzie's scowl.

"I'm not laughing at you," she was quick to say. "Well, I am, actually, but...ah, pray forgive me, but that was much more philosophical than expected, and..." she grinned anew, "delivered so...earnestly, like a knight in shining armor, wielding a sword of wisdom."

Realizing the MacKenzie found nothing amiss with his statement, certainly no cause for laughter—he contemplated her gravely, as if he'd never heard laughter before—Sorcha sobered swiftly. "He's allowed to have his secrets," she said in reference to Grimm. "We all are. He owes me nothing. I guess I thought we were friends. Maybe he isn't capable of trusting. Not everyone is."

"Are ye?" Augustus asked without hesitation.

She nodded. "I trust too easily, I fear."

He raised a brow at this.

"I was broken by loss, not by betrayal," she informed him. "I have no dark past and—the loss of Finn notwithstanding—no traumatic event that would made me skeptical of people's intentions."

"Do you ever think about returning home? To your family?"

She looked askance at him, wondering what he knew about her family, about her in general. He offered nothing by way of explanation. Shrugging, Sorcha replied, "Maybe that's my dark secret, that I have disappointed my family, that I would not be welcomed back with open arms. My father—well, perhaps my mother to a larger degree—they are...they are not merciful people."

"And this is preferable? Barely eking out a living, living in danger, rather than returning to the bosom of your family and what I might assume would be a greater society of security."

"I don't think...I'm not the same girl who ran away from them—from home. I'm not that person, and as it was, she barely fit in with their ideals."

"This life suits ye better?"

"It does. Certainly it did while Finn was alive."

"Did he wed ye?"

The question startled Sorcha. No one had ever asked her that.

She shook her head. Though she believed she owed no explanation to this man, in her own mind she defended the lack of formal vows, a defense honed over several years of self-justification. To her, the bond with Finn had transcended the need for a formal union sanctioned by society or church. Their love was pure, untainted by the constraints of marriage vows or legalities. They'd shared their lives, their hopes, and their dreams, and in each other's arms, they had found the truest form of love. She'd needed no more than that.

It was a long moment before she met the blue eyes of Augustus MacKenzie again, but she did not examine at length why his reaction to or opinion of this should concern her, save that she might assume what many would call her sinfulness, how she'd lived with Finn, might embolden this man's belief that she was available for purchase.

His eyes betrayed him. Sorcha recognized the burning within his gaze and knew he would kiss her.

And what more today?she wondered, shocked to discover that she had no wish to stop him.