Chapter Twelve

Still in possession of the scroll with the king's introduction of the messenger, August returned to Ironwood, with only Griffyn and Finlay at his side. Once more he was not prevented from riding directly through the gate nor from entering the keep itself. He shook his head at this, what he considered de Montfort's arrogance.

Finding Lord Aldric yet at the boards, Augustus was caused to wonder if the man sat anywhere else or engaged in any other activity. While platters surrounded him and his hand rested possessively on a pewter goblet at this hour, he was engaged in a lively conversation with two men while a robed man carrying leather-bound ledgers awaited his attention. None had been invited to sit at the table or enjoy wine with their lord.

With only a fleeting glance at the others, Augustus focused his gaze on Lord Aldric as he approached. The displeasure de Montfort tried to hide did not go unnoticed.

"Ah, MacKenzie, back so soon," the earl drawled, lifting the goblet to his mouth and taking a long sip, his narrow eyes shrewd as he watched Augustus over the rim of the cup. "Mayhap you came to give your sympathies to young Milton," he said when he set the cup down, "who most curiously fell upon a four-tined rake in the stables. Though not dead, in bad shape he is. Another moon will have to come ere the lad doesn't breathe through the holes in his chest."

"Tough break," Augustus said, feigning ignorance but not having to pretend that he didn't care. "Let us hope infection dinna claim him in the meantime." With little time to spare, he laid the scroll on the tabletop and pushed it toward de Montfort. "God is guid," Augustus said, "having me so near to ye when came the call to arms. A battle looms at Loudon Hill and King Robert requests our presence."

Having briefly perused the parchment, de Montfort raised a brow to Augustus. "It says nothing of the sort, my lord."

"Nae, but the messenger who brought it had plenty to say. We can manage twenty-five miles a day and arrive in time to ride under the king's banner in his time of need."

"Arrive where? And for what?"

"I've just said, at the king's side near Loudon Hill, to fight for right." He gave up no more than that, unwilling to mention Pembroke while he maintained a suspicion that de Montfort was not loyal to the Scottish crown.

Lord Aldric did not stutter with any swift resistance but stared steadily at Augustus, his mind quite obviously scratching and clawing for any justification to refuse.

Augustus staved off any possible excuse by saying, "Praise God ye keep yer army in guid stead, as ye said only this morning—ready to march at a moment's notice, ye said—and how provident that just now we are called to move. The king desires that I be accompanied by all the loyal supporters I can muster."

De Montfort knew damn well he was being challenged, that his loyalty was being questioned at this very moment. Little recourse Augustus had at the moment if de Montfort refused to follow, but by doing so Lord Aldric would effectively give away his true allegiance and repercussions would come, tomorrow or another day.

"We must make haste," Augustus urged when de Montfort hadn't yet decided upon his response.

"Yes, yes, of course," he finally said. He flicked his fingers at one of men in his audience. "Bring Blackwood to me."

Augustus frowned. "Blackwood is yer bailiff. Do ye nae mean to consult with the captain of yer army, to prepare for departure?"

De Montfort went still, and his expression turned icy. "Naturally," he contended, "and so I will. But first I must set to rights the affairs of my house if I'm to be absent for any length of time."

"I see. Do so quickly, my lord," Augustus suggested. "And let us convene at the bend in the loch in two hours' time."

De Montfort's jaw tightened, clearly displeased to be given instructions. Though they were equal in rank, Augustus rarely played at politics and was far below him in wealth and noble influence, and thus de Montfort would imagine himself superior. Likely, because of that wealth and the power it afforded him within their society, and in no small part due to his natural arrogance, de Montfort imagined himself superior to many.

Tight-lipped, Lord Aldric nodded. "Of course. Two hours. I look forward to the opportunity to be of assistance to the king."

With an astute grin, Augustus sketched a brief bow and turned, walking away, believing it had been no mistake that de Montfort hadn't mentioned the king by name.

Again out of doors and returned to their steeds, Augustus, Griffyn, and Finlay made short work of the distance between Ironwood and Sorcha's cottage. There, he found little evidence of the camp that had barely begun to take shape, all belongings and supplies removed from the tall grass. Men moved hurriedly, packing two wayns with what remained of their grain, bread, and ale stores while horses stood at the ready, laden with a warrior's gear.

He found Geddy just finishing his discussion with the MacKenzie surgeon, waving him off, telling him, "I'm nae much caring for what yer saying, Hamish. We're moving and yer going with us, and those what's nae healed should be loaded again into the hospital wagons. We're nae leaving anyone behind."

The captain turned at his laird's approach, squinting up at Augustus as the sun shone directly on him.

"What'd the auld hog say?"

Shrugging with indifference, Augustus advised, "Claims he'll meet us at the loch." His tone suggested he wasn't quite ready to believe it until he saw it. He paused and gave a short whistle, drawing the attention of many, but waving Angus forward from where he attended the shoe of his steed thirty yards away.

"And ye still mean to free the Oaf?" Geddy inquired. "Still believe that's necessary?"

"Aye, I do. At the very least, it will go far in convincing the lass that she must accompany us as well. She'll nae leave him, nae any more than he would her. De Montfort called first for Blackwood—nae his captain—so I imagine he might give orders regarding either one or both, Sorcha or Wycliffe."

"Might be," Geddy conceded.

Angus arrived, standing beside Geddy.

"Angus, I want ye and your unit, plus Griffyn and Finlay, to hold back, separate yourselves now from the army and head over to Ironwood unseen. As soon as de Montfort and his men leave, get in there and retrieve Wycliffe. I assume ye can take on Blackwood and the house guard without difficulty." At Angus's harrumph, which suggested he was offended that Augustus might have thought otherwise, Augustus continued, "If they dinna assemble and depart as de Montfort just assured me he would, we'll have nae choice but to abandon that plan until our return."

"Which might be too late," Geddy supposed, scratching at the bald spot in his crown.

"Aye, it might be, but the king's command takes precedence naturally, and we've little time to waste. If ye do recover him, ye'll have to ride like the wind to catch up, but keep Wycliffe out of sight of de Montfort's men. Disguise him if ye have to."

"Ye want us going in covertly," Angus inquired, "or dinna ye care if the earl kent it's us and what we're about?"

"I want Wycliffe out of the dungeon," Augustus stated, "and I dinna care how ye accomplish that. I'll lose nae sleep if Blackwood gets roughed up in a scuffle, I ken that much."

Griffyn grinned, rather sadistically, which bade Augustus caution him, "Dinna kill him."

"Mayhap only make him wish he were dead," Geddy suggested.

"But keep in mind the time, of which we've little to spare. I need ye rejoined before we reach the king." He turned to Geddy once more. "Ye have the ledger?"

"Aye, Mouse has it. All set. One hundred forty-six presently accounted for."

The ledger, as it was simply known, was a record kept in a worn and weathered leather-bound journal, where were written the names of all the men in his company, battles they'd participated in, acts of valor achieved, and details of injuries, large or small. Sadly, it also chronicled the deaths among his men, each loss marked with a heavy heart by the squire, a young lad called Mouse for his skittish demeanor and small stature.

Sadly, one hundred and forty-six meant that they'd lost more than sixty able-bodied fighters, all MacKenzie kin, in the last year since Robert Bruce had been crowned king.

Nodding, Augustus finally dismounted. "Have someone check his shoes," he said, handing off the reins to Finlay, "and make sure he's fed and watered." He headed toward Sorcha's house, calling over his shoulder, "Let's see how much trouble the lass will give me."

Geddy's chuckle followed him while Angus called out, "Give a yelp, laird, if she's too much for ye."

***

Inside the dimly lit cottage, Sorcha paced back and forth, wearing a light pattern on the packed-earth floor. The only source of light filtered in through the lone window, casting faint beams that barely illuminated the space. The door, closed tight against the outside world—the entire MacKenzie army camped outside her door—offered little relief from the oppressive atmosphere within.

Her mind whirled with a myriad of conflicting emotions. Anxiety gnawed at her gut as she fretted over Grimm's unjust arrest and his fate. She couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness, knowing he was locked away in a cold, dank dungeon. She felt trapped herself to some degree, but in no way could it compare to Grimm's circumstance. Still, disdain for the entire situation simmered beneath the surface of her grim-faced fa?ade, fueling her frustration. Frankly, the MacKenzie's encampment felt like an invasion of privacy—being hemmed in by the very people who claimed they wanted only to protect her—suffocating her with their sheer proximity. Oh, how she longed to erase all of today, all the last few weeks for that matter, to that time before the Rebel had come to Caol.

Contrary to this heartfelt wish and grappling for notice in the chaos of her thoughts, one memory persisted with stubborn insistence: the memory of Augustus MacKenzie's kiss. Naught but an hour old, it haunted her already, refusing to be banished to the far recesses of her mind, and this despite everything else that should engage her concern. Riled to anger with herself for allowing it to occupy so much space in her thoughts, Sorcha reminded herself that she was entertaining ideas of a man who represented everything she should detest. With each turn across the floor, Sorcha purposefully brought to mind his high-handedness, his pride, his overbearing manner, any or all of which should have negated the effects of that searing kiss.

A firm rap at her door startled her. She froze for a moment, supposing such a decisive knock could only belong to the Rebel. Further annoyed by the way her unfaithful pulse sped up at the idea, Sorcha yanked open the door and glared at him, for indeed Augustus MacKenzie had come calling.

He stepped inside, not waiting for her to invite him or back up out of his way, but rather forcing her to do so.

"Mother Mary and Joseph and their sweet babe, will you learn some manners," she cried.

He offered no apology for his actions, his tone curt as he delivered the news. "A summons has arrived from the king, and I am obliged to heed it," he informed her. "I will take my army away, quite a distance, and I fear there is nae choice but that ye should accompany us."

Driven by instinct and a deep-seated aversion to being commanded, Sorcha"s response was swift. "I refuse to comply. I will not."

"?Tis nae safe—"

"You cannot simply decide my fate—I am not a pawn in whatever game you play. I have a life here, responsibilities. Grimm is here!" she reminded him, her voice nearly shrill to match her upset. Her hands covered her cheeks, in awe of his audacity. "Here you are, once again, imposing your will without considering my perspective."

Tightly, Augustus admonished, "Put aside, just for a moment, your distrust of me. I vow to ye I have nae agenda but yer safety."

"But why? Why do you care?" A staggering kiss and his intent to have one night with her aside—that was all the consideration she merited in his mind, she was sure—why did he care? She was, essentially, a stranger to him.

He could not or would not answer, his mouth thinning with displeasure at her query.

"All very suspect," she decided.

"Nevertheless, Sorcha, ye canna stay here, and ye might like to ken—and ye would have, if ye listened rather than hastily reacted—that my men mean to release Grimm—Wycliffe—from Ironwood."

This caught her attention. Hope rose briskly and Sorcha stepped closer to him. She raised her hands and squeezed her fists with anxiety. "Will they? How will they make it happen? Do you plan to—oh, but it comes with a price, does it not? And now I owe you and what will you want? I daresay a kiss will not suffice, will it? The cost will be much steeper. Again, it leads me to believe that it was you who arranged to have Effie raise that hue and cry, to have Grimm arrested and removed from—"

Growling an unintelligible curse, Augustus clamped his hands on her arms and hauled her up against him, crashing his mouth down on hers. He kissed her fervently, thoroughly. And though it was different than his first kiss, this one wild and tainted with either anger or impatience, and somehow more spontaneous, her senses reeled all the same. Sorcha lost focus as Augustus held her close and moved his lips firmly over hers, again and again, each time kissing her more deeply than the last, and that before he entered her mouth with his tongue, teasing her with needful strokes until she was feverish and weak. Breathless and dizzy, she made no move to break away and gasp for air. Instead, she instinctively wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, clinging to him as if her very life came from him. The world spun around her, and she braced herself for the possibility of losing consciousness at any moment.

Augustus withdrew, abruptly, cruelly. The kiss broken, he stared down at her, angrily, as if he'd been forced to kiss her.

Sorcha recovered herself, to some small degree. She stammered a newly realized belief, "Y-you...you kissed me to silence me."

"Aye," he acknowledged tersely, "and when ye speak of things at which ye only guess—incredibly, ye have so many things wrong—I will let that be my response, as that seems to stifle your ridiculousness. I dinna have time, Sorcha. The king summons me and my army. We will depart Caol at once, and ye will accompany us, as ye canna stay in Caol. I canna promise that my men can make Wycliffe free, but I vow that by my orders they are set to try."

A question burned inside her. "But tell me why you concern yourself at all with me? I won't go anywhere with you until you answer," she proclaimed childishly.

"The king will wait on ye?" He challenged irritably.

"You are free to leave, to keep to your schedule."

"I have concern for naught but that a vulnerable lass should nae be terrorized. And ye ken the other truth, that I want ye, paid or nae I dinna care, but willing and eager, with as much zest as ye bring to our kiss ere it strikes ye wrongly that ye should nae be liking my kiss. I'm nae likely to have that if I return and find ye beaten, broken, or brutalized, am I right?"

Taken aback by his candid response, Sorcha could only nod.

"And the fact is ye do," he said.

"I do what?"

"Like my kiss," he replied, "and want more of them."

Her spine straightened with indignation. "You are...you're—"

"Aye, I ken what I am and what ye believe. Ye've made that clear. Now pack a bag—only bring the bare necessities—

"You're going to bring me to war? Where I might suffer a worse fate? Where I might very well be killed?"

His expression hardened dangerously. "Unless I am slain, Sorcha," he said tightly, "I vow that ye will live."

She had some suspicion that she'd offended him by suggesting otherwise.

Unabashedly, she let her eyes roam over his broad shoulders and thick arms, at his fierce expression and his strong hands. "You look like someone who might be hard to kill."

He surprised her by grinning—oh, the beauty of it!—and then by pecking her lips with a kiss. "Make yourself ready. We will depart within the hour." His suddenly lighter tone spoke volumes about his certainty that she would argue no more.

He would see that Grimm was freed! How could she say no?

She stared at him, her eyes drawn once more to the smattering of gray hair at his temples, deciding it suited him, complementing his authoritative nature, something that certainly did not come with youth. Still, it was a shame that she found him so bloody attractive. A man with his reputation should not be allowed to own eyes so magnificent, so mesmerizing.

Augustus didn't depart immediately, but she didn't sense he was only waiting on a formal acquiescence from her. For a man who'd mentioned the matter of time often in the last few minutes, he seemed suddenly as someone who had plenty of it, returning her gaze.

Blinking broke the spell, but only barely.

"Is there any chance," she began, a fresh concern harassing her, "I mean, Grimm won't be killed while they attempt to free him, will he? That won't happen, will it?"

"Angus and his unit will nae make an attempt if it seems unlikely to work in their favor, or too risky," he informed her, "but aye, even plans that seem tight can go awry. But then, Wycliffe dinna strike me as one to go down easy. I wager we'll see him soon."

Though she suspected he would be angry with the question, she had to ask, "And you swear to me, this is not some plot of your own making...?"

Augustus shook his head slowly, seemingly unoffended by her nervous question.

"If what you say is true, then I am being a shrew—an ungrateful one." A hint of pleading entered her gaze. "But please don't allow that to..." she paused and then started anew, attempting a conciliatory tone. "I apologize for my behavior. I am grateful for whatever aid you and your army can lend to Grimm and me." Nodding jerkily, having said that, she winced a bit and thought to warn him, "I cannot ride one of your monstrous war horses. If there is a mare available or mayhap a wagon," she said, "I would be more comfortable."

"Ye'll ride with me," he declared. "?Tis my vow to keep ye safe and that is best achieved with ye kept close."

A flutter of unease mixed with tingling anticipation. The idea of riding with him again, feeling the warmth of his body and the strength of his arms around her was as unsettling as it was enticing. Despite her concerns about the impending dangers of war and the attempt to free Grimm, she couldn't deny the allure of being so close to Augustus.

"I'll...make myself ready," she said after a moment, her voice oddly husky, which caused her to duck her gaze from Augustus.

She lifted her eyes again when she sensed movement and found that he'd pivoted and had left. For a fleeting moment, before he turned left outside the door, he was a perfect shadowy silhouette against the sunlight opening, his shoulders meeting both sides of the door frame at once.

Bemusedly, she tipped her head back and ran her fingers down the column of her neck, still heated after their exchange. Her gaze landed on one of the remaining holes in her roof.

She recalled that upon waking this morning, her only plans for the day, over which she'd been quite put out, had been to assist Grimm with repairing the thatch.

She prayed there were no more surprises waiting to be sprung on her today.

Putting off readying herself, Sorcha went first to tell the bees.